Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun rises slow and warm over Haneul-ri, the kind of town that doesn’t so much wake up as it stretches gently into the day. Morning light spills over the rolling hills, golden with summer crops, and onto the rooftops of neat homes with tiled eaves and drying herbs hanging in the windows. Roosters crow, tractors hum to life, and somewhere, a neighbour is already sweeping their front step.

Jungwon is up before any of that.

He moves quietly through his family home, slippers soft against the creaky wooden floor. In the dim blue light of dawn, he readies cup of barley tea and sets it gently on the table. He doesn’t wake his grandmother just yet. She’s been sleeping lighter these days, but he wants her to rest a little longer.

Out on the farm, the air is still cool. He carries crates of peaches and occasional vegetables—lettuce, perilla leaves, cherry tomatoes—to the delivery truck that comes twice a week. His body knows this rhythm better than any alarm clock: up before the sun, load the truck, return to wash up, eat breakfast with halmeoni and head to the hospital by 7:30 a.m. sharp.

On the way into town, he stops at the Kim family bakery. The bell chimes above his head, and the smell of red bean and butter rolls over him like a wave.

“Morning, Wonnie!” Sunoo grins from behind the counter, flour on his nose.

“Morning,” Jungwon says, smiling into his scarf. “Did you sleep at all?”

“No, but I made your favourite,” Sunoo beams, holding up a fresh milk bread roll. “Free. You look like you need it.”

Jungwon protests, as he always does. Sunoo ignores him, as he always does.

By the time Jungwon walks up the hill toward the hospital, the town is coming alive. Aunties wave from their shops, kids in uniforms zip by on bikes, and old men playing baduk under the gingko trees nod in greeting.

“Doctor Yang!”

“Morning, Jungwon-ah!”

He bows politely each time, tucks his hands into his pockets and walks with a quiet steadiness that makes the whole town feel safe.

They love him here.

Not just because he’s a good doctor, not just because he’s polite and beautiful and always remembers your dog’s name—but because he stayed.

He could’ve gone anywhere. Seoul National. Top of his class. They all watched him grow up, a tiny brilliant boy in hand-me-down sweaters, who took care of his grandmother while studying for his med school entrance exam. They whispered about his scholarship like it was something holy. He was their golden child.

And when his parents died, and then his grandmother got sick, and the call came from home as he began his residency at one of the best hospitals in the country…

He returned. Stayed.

No one asked him to. But he did.

That’s why the town looks at him with something tender, something a little like guilt. He doesn’t seem to carry any bitterness. He smiles. He works. He picks up after his grandmother at the market and stitches up scraped knees and brings his patients homemade juice. But they all wonder, in the quiet moments, what would’ve happened if Jungwon had been born somewhere else.

At the hospital, he changes into his coat and checks the board. Five attendings, twelve nurses, and only six residents—including him. That’s Haneul-ri General. Bare-bones and overworked. He reviews charts, helps with an elderly patient’s bloodwork, assists on a minor procedure, and gently explains to a worried mother that her baby’s fever is just teething.

Hours pass. He doesn’t get a proper lunch. He never does.

Back home after sunset, the air smells like fresh soil and his grandmother’s soup simmering on the stove. She scolds him gently when he comes in with dirt on his collar, sits him down, and insists he eat with her even if it’s late.

“You’re getting skinnier again,” she mutters, ladling him an extra portion.

Jungwon smiles, eyes soft. “I’m just tired, Halmeoni. That’s all.”

After dinner, he washes the dishes. She tries to help, but her hands shake more than they used to. When she steps outside to check on the drying herbs, he quietly finishes the rest of the chores she left half-done.

Later, as she sits down to watch an old drama rerun with a blanket on her lap, she speaks up without looking at him.

“You should post an ad.”

He glances up from folding laundry. “For what?”

“For help,” she says simply. “The farm. It’s too much.”

“I can manage.”

“You’re falling asleep standing up. You’re going to start overnight shifts soon. I see it. You work all day at the hospital, then come home and run around until the moon is up. That’s not living, aegi-ah.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he tries.

“I already figured it out,” she says, sharp in the way only grandmothers can be. “Make an ad. Just for a little while.”

He doesn’t argue. Not really. He can’t. Not when her eyes look so tired. That night, after she’s gone to bed, he pulls out his laptop and types it out:

HELP WANTED: Temporary Farmhand

• Private farm
  
  
• Housing available
  
  
• Basic field work
  
  
• Must like early mornings, elderly and getting muddy
  
  
• Pay negotiable**
  Contact: Yang Jungwon
  [local number]
  
  

He prints five copies. Pins them on town bulletin boards, the clinic, the bakery, the airport.

It’s more for her than anything else. No one will take it, he’s sure. Everyone already has their own homes, their own fields. The pay isn’t much (another deterrent Jungwon attempts to have in place) , and the room isn’t fancy. He tapes the last flyer at the bus stop and stares at it for a long moment.

It flaps a little in the breeze, lonely-looking.

Still, something about it settles a small knot in his chest.

Maybe, just maybe…someone will come.

The lights are blinding.

Cameras flash—too many, too often—white-hot bursts that paint Riki’s vision in bursts of blue and black. He doesn’t blink anymore. His face smiles without effort now, just another practiced tic in a routine that runs on caffeine and compulsion.

A staff member calls his name. He turns, nods. He’s herded into a new room. New mic. New questions. The same ones, always.

“What’s next for Enhypen?”
“Any plans for a solo debut?”
“You’re the group’s main dancer—how do you stay so sharp?”

He answers like he's supposed to. Funny, charming, a little distant. The words blur. He wants to talk about movement. How dance used to make him feel like water, like flying, like he was sixteen in a studio at midnight with nothing but his own heartbeat for company. But all they want is content.

By the time they wrap, it's almost midnight. He’s been up since five. He forgets how many schedules they've done. His manager hands him a vitamin drink and a pat on the back. “Last push, Riki. Contract talks next month. Let’s finish strong.”

He nods, but doesn’t speak.

Back at the dorms, it’s quiet. The older members are sprawled across the living room like they’ve been dropped from the sky.

Sunghoon has a face mask on, flipping channels. 

Jay is passed out under a blanket, still half in costume.

Heeseung is hunched over his laptop, composing, always composing.

Riki slides into the kitchen and stares into the fridge like it might answer something. Empty. Or maybe he just is.

“Hyung,” he says suddenly, to no one in particular. “Do you ever want to just…leave?”

Sunghoon doesn’t look away from the screen. “Every damn day.”

Heeseung snorts. “I want to fly to Jeju and pretend I sell lattes for a living.”

“Jeju?” Jay mumbles, surfacing. “I vote Bali. Or Fiji. Somewhere with bad Wi-Fi.”

“Somewhere no one knows us,” Riki says quietly.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Heeseung stretches with a groan, and the moment’s gone. “We’ll figure it out after contract renewal. It’s just a few weeks. They promised us time off.”

But the promise doesn’t mean much.

The next morning, Riki wakes up before the others. His heart is beating weird again. Like it’s running ahead of him. The same anxiety that’s been creeping in for months—years, maybe. The life he lives is a dream, and he’s grateful, he is. But sometimes he wakes up and forgets who he’s supposed to be that day.

He stares at himself in the mirror for a long time. His face looks older than it should. Sharp cheekbones, tired eyes. Makeup scrubbed off but exhaustion baked in.

He scrolls through his phone. Opens a flight app. His thumb hovers. He types in random letters. A list of rural cities appears. One catches his eye. A name he's never seen. No tourist spots. Just…land. Fields. Silence.

His fingers move before his brain does.

Booked. One-way. Leaves tomorrow.

He spends the day moving quietly. Packs two duffles. Deletes social media. Swaps SIM cards. Takes the spare phone his manager gave him and leaves a message:

“I’ll be back in a couple weeks. I just need a break. Please don’t come looking.”

Then he types into the group chat:

“Don’t freak out. I’m safe. I love you guys. I just need to breathe. Tell fans I’m resting. I’ll be back before comeback season.”

Jay’s reply is instant:

Wtf does that mean??

Sunghoon:

Are you running off to Bali without us???

Heeseung:

Be safe, Riki. Seriously. Text us.

He leaves his phone on silent.

At the airport, no one recognises him. Ball cap low, hoodie drawn tight. It feels like a miracle.

As the plane lifts into the air, he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. There’s no one asking him to dance. No cameras. No makeup chair. No lights.

Just a name: Riki Nishimura
Just a place: Haneul-ri

He doesn’t know where he’s going, not really.

But for the first time in years, he doesn’t feel like he’s performing.

The first thing Riki notices when he steps off the plane is that there is no gate. No bustling hallway, no neon-lit signs. Just…tarmac. Flat. Silent. A breeze that smells like soil and sky.

The second thing he notices: he is the only passenger under sixty years old, and definitely the only one dragging two Prada duffel bags and wearing a mask and sunglasses like he’s hiding from paparazzi.

A staff member—one of maybe three visible people working this microscopic airport—eyeballs him with the suspicion usually reserved for shady salesmen or badly-disguised celebrities.

“Are you…lost?” the woman asks, her accent thick with countryside comfort. She looks down at her clipboard, then back at him. “There’s no return flight for another nine days.”

Riki’s smile twitches. “No, uh…I’m staying here.”

The woman blinks. “In Haneul-ri?”

He nods. Realises, for the first time, he has no idea what that entails. “Is there…like, a hotel?”

She squints. “No.”

A pause.

“Oh.”

The full weight of his stupidity crashes down on him like a cymbal. He really just booked a flight to Nowhere, South Korea, without a plan. No lodging, no contacts, no schedule, no privacy protections in place, not even a toothbrush he didn’t swipe from the dorm.

He drags his bags into the tiny waiting area of the terminal. The walls are yellowed with age. A single vending machine hums in the corner. The bench beneath him creaks as he slumps down, staring at the ceiling like it might spit out a solution.

He considers living here for the next week. Maybe they’ll let him pay rent to sleep under the fluorescent lights. He could become a cryptid. Airport Boy. Haneul-ri’s mysterious ghost of Gate 1.

A group of old men playing janggi by the entrance eye him like a curiosity.

“You look like a city boy,” one of them calls, grinning. “Or a model.”

Riki chuckles weakly. “Something like that.”

And then—just as he’s spiraling, just as he’s about to google how to pitch a tent behind a vending machine —his eyes land on the bulletin board across the room.

There, tacked between a missing cat notice and a flyer for piano lessons, is a modest ad printed in neat black ink:

TEMPORARY FARM HELP NEEDED.
Housing provided. Pay negotiable**.
Prefer someone responsible, strong, willing to learn.
Contact: Yang Jungwon, 010-**-**

Riki stares. Reads it three times.

His heart does a weird little jolt.

He grew up on a farm. In a quiet Japanese village. Long before stylists and dance practices and 4 a.m. call times, there were muddy boots and crates of vegetables and his grandfather’s voice yelling from across the field. He could do that again. Just for a little while.

He pulls out his phone—thank God for pocket Wi-Fi—and texts the number.

“hi, is this the number for the farm help job?”

The response is immediate.

“Sorry who is this?”

Riki types quickly.

“i’m riki. i saw the ad at the airport. wondering if the job’s still available?”

A pause.

Then:

“Is this a prank? Sunoo, this isn’t funny.”

Riki blinks.

“sorry who’s sunoo. i’m riki, just arrived in town today and saw the ad. is this still available? housing included?”

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears.

Appears again.

Disappears.

He stares at the screen for a full three minutes before it returns with:

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, it’s still available. Meet me at the town café at 8:30 tonight? We can discuss. Thanks.”

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Okay. Step one: don’t be homeless. Complete.

Now all he has to do is figure out how to get to a café in a town he doesn't know, with no taxis in sight, and a duffel bag filled with more skincare than practicality.

He looks up. The old men are still watching him.

“…Anyone know where the town café is?”

They exchange glances.

One of them cackles. “Down the road, city boy. Past the church, before the cow statue. If you hit the rice field, you’ve gone too far.”

He’s fairly sure he passed that same cow statue twice.

Actually—no— definitely three times. The third time, it was wearing a different hat. Someone must’ve changed it.

Riki sighs, adjusts the straps on his two Prada duffels, and continues trudging down the dirt-lined road. The sun is generous here, soft and golden like honey. The sky stretches endlessly above him, not boxed in by buildings or billboards. It’s absurdly peaceful. So peaceful, in fact, that his own shoes sound obnoxious against the silence.

Every head he passes turns. Not in recognition—thank God—but more like curiosity. Who is this six-foot boy wearing cargo pants that cost more than their monthly rent, dragging two matching obnoxiously large bags through a town that barely has a shopping mall?

A group of middle schoolers on bikes whisper behind their hands and giggle. An elderly man watering his lawn waves politely but never breaks his suspicious stare.

Riki eventually peels off his sunglasses and lowers his mask, realising that it’s not who they think he is—it’s what . He looks like a misplaced fashion week model.

After twenty minutes of fruitless wandering (and being barked at by three separate dogs), he decides to duck into a little bakery on the corner. The sign reads “Kim’s Sweets,” the lettering hand-painted and slightly chipped. Inside, it smells like vanilla and toasted flour and something almost nostalgic—like his grandmother’s kitchen.

There’s only one person behind the counter: a cheery-faced boy with hazel eyes and the kind of smile that looks permanently etched into his cheeks.

“You’re new here,” the boy says immediately, leaning forward on his elbows.

Riki blinks. “Is it that obvious?”

The boy grins. “Yep. What’s your name, new boy?”

“Ni—” Riki catches himself. Stage reflex. “...Riki.”

“Well, welcome, Riki. I’m Sunoo.” He offers a hand over the glass counter, his nails painted a pastel yellow. “The café’s down the street, just a couple stores down. You won’t miss it.”

“Oh, thank God,” Riki exhales. “I thought I was going to die out there and become cow statue number four.”

Sunoo snorts. “You probably passed it. Twice.”

“Probably.”

They share a laugh, and something loosens in Riki’s chest. It’s been a long time since he met someone who didn’t immediately ask for a photo or say ‘my sister loves you.’

“But with all due respect,” Sunoo adds, squinting at Riki’s outfit, “what’s with the getup?”

Riki glances down at himself. Streetwear. Chunky sneakers. Loud, showy. A far cry from the boots-and-dust uniform this town seems to live by.

“I…” 

I’m a burnt-out idol running away from my life and desperately hoping no one finds me until I figure out who I am again.

“I got a little tired of city life,” he says instead, sheepish. “Kinda impulsively booked a flight here.”

Sunoo’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “Well. You’ve definitely come to the right place. No city here.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” Riki’s smile grows shy. “I just…forgot to check if I’d have anywhere to stay.”

Sunoo stifles a laugh. “Rough.”

“But I saw this ad,” Riki continues, fishing out the flyer. “Farm help. It said they provide accommodations? Do you know anything about it?”

Sunoo peers at the paper, then tilts his head. His expression flickers, and then—he laughs .

“Oh my God. Jungwonie’s ad? You’re going to meet Jungwon?”

“...I guess?” Riki says slowly. “Is that bad?”

Sunoo waves him off, still chuckling. “No, no. Just. You’ll see. He’s—” he presses his lips together, like he’s biting back something fond. “He’s…very responsible. Very neat. Very farm-boy-meets-Harvard.”

Riki raises an eyebrow. “That’s specific.”

“I’ve known him since we were babies. You’ll be fine. You’re probably the most excitement he’s had since the new rice cooker broke.” Sunoo nudges a bag of castella toward him. “Here. On the house. Consider it a welcome gift.”

Riki takes the bag gratefully, though he’s still reeling. “What does that mean— ‘you’ll see’ ?”

Sunoo just winks. “Have fun tonight, Riki.”

Riki is laughed out of the bakery, castella in hand, still wondering what exactly he signed up for and who this Jungwon is.

Who is this Jungwon?

And more importantly… is he going to take one look at Riki and send him packing?

Riki’s been sitting in the far corner booth for approximately an hour and fifty minutes.

He’s sipped the same lukewarm iced tea for the past one hour and thirty.

The tiny bell above the café door hasn’t chimed since he came in.

Outside, the sign still reads:
“Open 11:00am – 9:30pm”

Inside, the atmosphere has shifted from cozy to…politely suspicious.

“Auntie, are you sure I can’t help you clean or something?” Riki offers with a half-laugh, the kind born from secondhand embarrassment.

The café ahjumma doesn’t answer right away. She’s been wiping down the same spotless counter for twenty minutes now, and while she’s sweet, her gaze keeps flicking toward him like he’s a stray animal that followed her in from the rain. Pitying, unsure, mildly inconvenienced.

Behind her, a small boy—probably seven or eight—sits with his chin in his palm, scrawling something in a workbook. He throws Riki the occasional side-eye like you are the reason I’m not watching Pororo right now .

Riki glances at the wall clock. 8:40PM.

“Maybe he forgot,” he mutters under his breath.

“Are you sure you’re not lost, boy?” the ahjumma finally asks, there’s a hint of exasperation in her tone.

“No, auntie,” Riki says, folding his hands like he’s at confession. “I’m meeting someone.”

“May I ask who?”

Riki opens his mouth—

Ding.

The front door swings open.

All three heads snap toward it. The little boy straightens. The ahjumma’s face brightens like a sunrise.

“Oh, Jungwonie! You must be the person this boy’s waiting for!”

Jungwonie?

Riki turns toward the door—and promptly forgets how to breathe.

Standing in the doorway, panting slightly as if he’s jogged the last few blocks, is a boy—no, a man?—in slate-blue scrubs. His hair is wind-tousled and pushed back from his forehead, damp at the temples. There’s a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, and the faint smell of antiseptic clings to him in waves of clean linen and eucalyptus.

But none of that matters.

Because Jungwon— this Jungwon—is quite literally the most beautiful person Riki has ever seen.

Not flashy, not magazine-polished. Just quietly, devastatingly beautiful. His eyes scan the room, flick past Riki, flick back . His brows twitch with surprise, then settle into something unreadable.

The little boy bolts out from behind the counter and wraps himself around Jungwon’s legs like a koala. Jungwon pats his head, distracted.

“Auntie,” he greets, bowing slightly. “Sorry, I got stuck at the hospital. Mr. Bae’s kid came in with a fever—turned out to be strep.”

“You work too hard, dear,” she says with fond concern, ushering him toward the booth. “Go on, that boy’s been waiting like a little puppy. He even offered to clean.”

Riki wants the ground to swallow him.

Jungwon approaches. Up close, he’s even worse—his features fine-cut and expressive, like someone drew him with a gentle hand. But his expression is wary, confused.

“Riki?”

Riki stands too fast and bumps the table. “Yeah. That’s me. Sorry—I probably should’ve texted again, I thought maybe you weren’t coming, I didn’t mean to—uh, take the whole place hostage or anything—”

Jungwon’s mouth quirks before sombering. He pauses, and just stares.

Riki sits a little straighter, tries to discreetly tug his oversized designer hoodie down over the waistband of his cargo pants. It doesn’t help that one of his Prada duffel bags is literally taking up the booth seat beside him like a judgmental silent companion.

Jungwon’s eyes flicker to it. Then to Riki’s other bag on the floor. Then up to his rings, earrings, the faint glimmer of whatever absurdly expensive necklace is peeking out beneath his hoodie.

He blinks once. Then again. Slowly.

Riki clears his throat. “So…the job.”

Jungwon leans back in his seat like he’s still deciding whether to bolt. “…Right,” he says finally, voice soft and slightly rough from the cold outside. “I just need some help around my family farm. It’s…mostly me and my grandmother. She’s getting older. And I’m getting busier.”

“Alright,” Riki says immediately, nodding. “Sounds good.”

Too quickly.

Jungwon’s sweet, round face shifts into a subtle frown, lips pressed thin. “The pay is bad,” he says bluntly. “Like— bad. Close to nothing. And it’ll be hard work.”

“I don’t care about the pay,” Riki replies with equal bluntness. “I grew up on a farm, actually. In Japan. I’ve done worse.”

Jungwon doesn’t look impressed. If anything, he squints at him harder, eyes narrowing like a suspicious cat, his nose scrunching faintly.

Riki tries not to smile. He’s cute. He’s literally so suspicious it’s cute. Focus, you idiot.

“You’ll get your own room,” Jungwon says. “But it’s a futon on the floor. We all do that here. It’s probably not like Seoul.”

So he can tell he’s from the city. Riki flushes, scratching the back of his neck.

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m not picky.”

Jungwon doesn’t believe him. It’s so obvious it’s almost funny. His eyes sweep over Riki again, slower this time, as if trying to detect any signs of an elaborate con. “This is a real job,” he says. “Waking up before dawn. Working until sundown. No free lunch breaks and no assistants carrying your bag.”

“I’m good with waking up early,” Riki says with a shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. Riki lived with 4 a.m. call times into makeup chairs, sleeping at 2 a.m. from dance practice for almost half his life. He’s definitely been through worse.

Jungwon falters for just a beat. There’s a flicker of curiosity before he tamps it down again.

“You’ll be working with the elderly. My grandmother, mostly. She’s…well, she’s kind. But she’s proud. She won’t ask for help unless she really needs it. You might have to take care of her sometimes.”

Riki brightens. “Old people love me.”

Still, Jungwon doesn’t look convinced.

“I mean it,” Riki says, holding both hands up, palms out. “Look—how about you just give me a couple days to prove myself. If I’m bad at it, if I slack off or mess up or complain even once—you can kick me out.”

Jungwon tilts his head, regarding him for a moment. His eyes, those big expressive things, soften just slightly. His mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite want to smile.

“I wouldn’t kick you to the streets,” he says finally, in a voice so gentle Riki almost misses the warning that follows. “But I am stronger than I look, alright? If you try anything out of line, I will make you regret it.”

Riki tries not to coo.

“I believe you,” he says seriously, then grins. “So…am I hired?”

Jungwon exhales, as if still unsure whether this is a good idea—but he stands up anyway, slinging his canvas tote back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, jerking his chin toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s go to the farm.”

Riki grabs his bags, barely restraining the stupid smile forming on his face.

This was probably the weirdest job interview of his life.

The sky has already deepened into indigo by the time they step out of the café. Jungwon’s strides are unhurried, hands tucked into his pants pockets, his body familiar with every curve of the quiet street. Riki follows a step behind, dragging his bags with a grunt, one slung over his shoulder and the other stubbornly bumping along the ground behind him. His wrist is starting to cramp.

The streets are hushed, just the faint hum of cicadas and the occasional passing scooter. But the further they walk, the more Riki starts to notice: this town breathes . Lanterns sway gently outside old storefronts, warm light spilling through bakery windows and onto cobblestone. There’s laughter echoing from behind fences. A woman hangs laundry under a porch light and calls out, “Jungwon-ah!” like she’s known him since he was born.

“Evening, Auntie,” Jungwon calls back, bowing slightly.

“Who’s the tall one behind you?” she adds with narrowed eyes, examining Riki like he might’ve come to steal a chicken.

Jungwon glances over his shoulder. “He’s just helping out at the farm.”

“Hmph,” she mutters, not quite convinced.

And it’s like that the whole walk—little kids on bikes shouting “Doctor Jungwon!” and weaving circles around his legs, wrinkled grandpas giving him finger-hearts across porches, teens behind convenience stores whispering as Riki passes, eyeing him with suspicion.

One little girl actually runs up, grabs Jungwon’s hand and beams. “I drew you in art class today!”

“Oh yeah?” Jungwon says, crouching slightly to smile at her. “Do I look handsome in it?”

She nods enthusiastically, then frowns at Riki. “Who’s he?”

“He’s my helper,” Jungwon explains gently.

Her eyes narrow. “Is he nice?”

“I think so,” Jungwon says, glancing back at Riki. “We’ll find out.”

She doesn’t look impressed. “Okay. Tell me if he’s mean.”

“Got it, boss.” Riki’s lips twitch.

Jungwon just shakes his head fondly as they keep walking. “Don’t take it personally. You’re new.”

“I noticed,” Riki mutters, but it’s with amusement, not bitterness.

It’s…refreshing. Watching Jungwon move through the town like someone stitched into the fabric of it—beloved, woven deep, held close. Riki, used to screaming fans and cameras shoved in his face, realises no one here knows who he is. No one cares.

And it feels good. Like breathing after holding your breath too long.

They turn off the main road, the gravel crunching underfoot, up a small hill and then they’re there.

The house isn’t what Riki expected. It’s bigger than the others they passed—two stories, maybe three if you count the attic with its tiny square window. Simple, but lovingly kept. A little herb garden in pots near the front door. Chipped stairs painted green. The farm stretches behind it, dark outlines of neat rows of vegetables, then a huge orchard, coloured with fruit. 

“Big place,” Riki murmurs, catching his breath.

“Too big for two people,” Jungwon says quietly.

The front door creaks open before they can knock, and a soft voice calls, “Is that you, Jungwon-ah?”

A tiny old woman appears on the porch, wrapped in a floral cardigan, hair snow-white and braided down her back. Her face lights up the second she sees him. “My precious boy,” she coos, cupping his cheeks in both hands. “You’re later than usual. Dinner’s keeping warm on the stove.”

“Sorry, Halmeoni,” Jungwon says, voice going soft in a way Riki hasn’t heard yet. “I had to meet someone.”

He steps aside. Riki straightens instinctively, suddenly aware of the dust on his pants, the exhaustion in his limbs, the way his hoodie is slightly sweat-damp along the back.

“This is Riki,” Jungwon says. “He’s…going to help out around the farm.”

Her eyes lift to Riki. For a moment she says nothing—just peers at him like she’s reading his entire soul through his hoodie strings.

Then she breaks into a grin.

“Oh,” she says, delighted. “You’re tall. ” She reaches up and pats his arm like he’s a prized cow. “Strong-looking, too. You’ll be good for the orchard.”

Riki laughs. “I hope so, ma’am.”

“Call me Halmeoni,” she says, already ushering them inside. “We’ll see if you last the week.”

Jungwon glances at him as they enter, lips twitching. “That’s her way of saying welcome.”

“I gathered,” Riki grins.

The door shuts behind them with a click, and Riki takes his first step into what already feels like an entirely different world.

The room Jungwon leads him to is on the second floor, just off the narrow hallway that creaks with every step. There’s a simple curtain hung on a wooden rod hung over the door. Riki steps through, and his first impression is quiet .

The walls are pale, maybe once white but now tinted with time. There’s a futon neatly folded in the corner, a low shelf with a few extra blankets and towels stacked carefully, a small window that frames the stretch of farmland like a painting, and an old desk with a chipped corner and a chair that probably groans if you lean back too far.

“It’s really not much,” Jungwon says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Riki turns slowly, taking it all in. It’s the first place in years that doesn’t smell like hairspray and stage lights. Just wood, and dust, and a little lemon from the cleaner someone must’ve used that morning.

“It’s perfect,” he says quietly.

Jungwon smiles, soft and a little surprised. “Well...alright. Feel free to join us for dinner after you freshen up or something.”

He disappears down the stairs, and Riki finally exhales, dropping his bags with a thunk. He unzips one, then the other, rifling through layers of branded streetwear, monochrome hoodies, fitted rehearsal tanks, a sparkly jacket he wore once for a press event. His life in Seoul looks loud now, all these clothes screaming “Look at me” in a town that barely raises its voice.

He finally settles on the quietest thing he has: a faded graphic tee from a friend’s old dance studio and a pair of grey sweatpants with cyberpunk print swirling across the legs. Still probably too loud. But better.

He pads down barefoot, the scent of dinner guiding him like a trail of warm light. The dining room is small but full—of warmth, of life. Halmeoni is setting down a final plate of kimchi pancakes, her thin shoulders bent, her expression serene. The table’s already set with a spread that makes Riki’s stomach ache: golden curry, soft tofu side dishes, a bowl of perfectly fluffed rice, a tiny dish of jangjorim with quail eggs, greens dressed with sesame oil.

He hasn’t eaten like this in so long .

Halmoni looks up and smiles, eyes crinkling. “It is good that you are here.”

Riki’s startled by the way she says it. Not like a polite welcome, but like an assurance. Like something fated.

“When I asked Jungwonie to put up that ad, I thought he was fibbing when he said he did it. But you came.” She looks him over, eyes sparkling. “You look like a strong boy. Handsome, too.”

He flushes and bows slightly. “Ah...thank you, Halmeoni.”

She gestures to a spot at the table and hands him a bowl. He takes it with a quiet “Thank you,” and as he scoops curry over rice and lifts the first bite to his mouth, something folds inside him.

It tastes like home. Not the apartment in Seoul with its too-white walls and stocked fridge full of prepackaged meals. Not the dressing rooms and green rooms, the sound of staff shuffling by with coffee orders. But something older, deeper.

He blinks. Doesn’t speak for a while. Just eats.

Halmeoni watches him quietly, then asks, “So, where did you come from?”

“Seoul,” Riki says. “But I was born in Japan.”

“Ohhh,” she hums. “A traveler. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Just a year younger than Jungwonie,” she says fondly. “What did you do before you came here?”

He hesitates, swallowing his rice a little too quickly. “I…performed.”

Her face brightens. “Oh! Like music? Dance?”

“A little of both,” he says carefully. “I did that for a while.”

She lights up. “That’s funny. Jungwonie wanted to be a performer once too. When he was little. Even went to Seoul for it. Stayed for over a year, something about training—before he came back home.”

Riki lifts his eyes. “Really?”

“Mmhm,” she nods. “But he came back. Said he missed the land too much. Or maybe just me.” She chuckles. “That boy’s been through more than he should’ve.”

Before Riki can ask more, there’s the sound of hurried steps on the stairs and a door swinging shut.

Jungwon appears, towel slung over his shoulders, damp hair curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing an oversized plain T-shirt and cotton shorts, skin still warm and flushed from the shower. He pauses when he sees Riki seated, then snorts.

“Do you have any farm-appropriate clothes?” he asks, grabbing a bowl and chopsticks. “I’d hate to see your designer stuff get muddy.”

Riki groans. “I don’t. But I don’t care if they get muddy.”

“Nonsense,” Halmeoni cuts in. “You’re much too tall to fit into Jungwonie’s clothes, but you’ll fit his father’s. I’ll get some for you tomorrow, Riki-dear.”

Riki nods sheepishly. “Thank you.”

Jungwon doesn’t say anything for a moment, just scoops some rice into his bowl. But his eyes…they’ve gone quieter. A little darker.

“This is a big house,” Riki says after a beat. “Was it always just the two of you?”

It’s Halmeoni who opens her mouth, but Jungwon answers first.

“They died,” he says simply. “Two years ago. Accident.”

The words are tossed out like nothing. Casual. Too casual.

“Oh,” Riki says, quietly.

There’s a pause. Even Halmoni’s hands still for a second.

Riki looks down at his bowl. He’s good at this part—pretending he didn’t hear the grief behind someone’s voice. He’s had to do it for years. But tonight, the food is too warm, the air too still, and Jungwon’s voice too flat.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That must’ve been really hard.”

Jungwon shrugs. “It was.”

And then he eats.

And Riki doesn’t press. Just picks up his chopsticks again, feeling like he’s stepped into a house full of things unspoken—but not unkind. Just waiting.

Waiting for someone to stay long enough to hear.

Riki had just offered to help with the dishes when Halmeoni waved him off, rolling up her sleeves with a firm smile.

“No, no. You’ve worked hard today, traveling and settling in. Go. Aegi-ah, take him out. Show him the fields.”

Jungwon, halfway through stacking bowls, frowned. “Halmeoni, I can do the dishes. You cooked—”

“You can shoo ,” she said, surprisingly spry as she elbowed her grandson out of the way, the force of it making Riki stifle a laugh. “I didn’t raise you to argue with your elders. Go.”

Jungwon looked personally offended but relented with a muttered, “She’s been like this since I was five,” as he handed the last dish over and rubbed his shoulder. “You’d think arthritis would slow her down.”

“ I heard that! ” came a sharp voice from the kitchen.

Outside, the air was soft with the scent of earth and something fruity—lemongrass maybe, or a neighbour’s soap drifting over the fence. The sun was just beginning to tuck itself away, throwing long shadows across the tilled soil.

Jungwon led him down the path that curved behind the house, gesturing vaguely at the vast, neatly sectioned fields. “So...this is the main vegetable plot. Tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, perilla, squash—Halmeoni rotates them depending on the season.”

Riki nodded, hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

“You’ll probably be helping with weeding, watering, moving compost, and harvesting. And uh—” Jungwon glanced over. “You’ll also need to remind Halmeoni to take breaks.”

“She’ll listen to me?” Riki asked doubtfully.

“No,” Jungwon admitted. “She probably won’t. But she likes compliments and warm tea, so that might help.”

He gestured toward a shaded section with some low wooden benches. “She says she doesn’t need help, but she has arthritis. Her joints swell easily, especially if she’s been standing too long or if the sun’s too strong. She’s had synovial inflammation before, and her cartilage degeneration is—uh—sorry.”

He winced, cheeks puffing out slightly as he trailed off.

Riki tilted his head. “So...basically, make sure she doesn’t overwork herself, keep her out of the sun, and bribe her with tea?”

Jungwon huffed. “Yes. But also—let her feel like she’s helping. She hates feeling useless.”

“That runs in the family,” Riki muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Riki grinned, wide and trouble-making, and Jungwon squinted at him suspiciously, cheeks still puffed like a pouting chipmunk.

Riki had to physically restrain himself from pinching one.

“She’s the heart of this place,” Jungwon said, voice softening. “Even when I’m gone all day, she makes sure it keeps going. I try to come back for lunch when I can, but lately things at the hospital have been hectic. She promises she’s not doing too much, and I have a few neighbours checking in on her but…”

He trailed off, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“You’re worried,” Riki said.

Jungwon looked like he wanted to deny it but couldn’t. “Yeah.”

Riki nudged his shoulder lightly. “That’s why I’m here, right?”

There was a beat. The crickets had started up in the background. Fireflies blinked faintly over the fields.

Jungwon glanced at him, a little conflicted but touched. And then he nodded.

“Also,” Riki added, quieter now. “I wanted to say…I’m sorry. About your parents.”

Jungwon blinked, caught off guard.

Riki looked away, not wanting to make it too heavy. “You mentioned it earlier. I know it’s not really my business, but…still. I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Jungwon didn’t say anything. Then his voice came, soft and even. “It’s okay. You didn’t say anything wrong.”

Another pause. Then: “It was a long time ago. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still...catch up sometimes.”

Riki nodded, not pressing.

They stood there in the fading light, quiet between them for the first time all day—not awkward, just settled.

Then Jungwon cleared his throat. “Alright, enough of that. Come on. I’ll show you the chicken coop. You should know who not to trust. Then the orchard.”

“Chickens?” Riki perked up.

“One of them tried to bite my ankle last week.”

“That’s so funny.”

“It wasn’t.”

Riki laughed as he followed after him, watching the way Jungwon’s hands moved as he pointed things out, the soft slope of his shoulders as he talked, the way dusk caught in the strands of his still-damp hair.

Maybe the work would be hard. Maybe the clothes he packed were ridiculous. Maybe he’d be covered in mud by tomorrow morning.

But this already felt like something real.

Something he could stay for.

The rows of peach trees looked like something out of a postcard, glowing faintly in the evening light. Their leaves rustled lazily in the breeze, and the air carried their scent in the faintest trace—sweet, sharp, grounding.

Jungwon ran his hand along one of the lower branches as he walked. “Second-year resident,” he said, almost offhanded. “I specialise in internal medicine. Or, I’m supposed to. Mostly I just do everything.”

Riki blinked. “You’re a doctor?”

“Well, technically not yet. But yeah. Kinda.” Jungwon shrugged. “It’s not that impressive. There’s only six residents in the whole hospital. About five attendings. We’re always overworked, understaffed. I’m lucky if I get a lunch break these days.”

“That...sounds like hell.”

“Mm. You get used to it.” Jungwon tilted his head thoughtfully. “Sort of.”

He led Riki down another winding dirt path, past a shed and a row of trellises tangled with vines. The land kept going and going—bigger than Riki expected. He whistled low. “You weren’t kidding about the farm being a lot. This is...massive.”

“It’s been in our family forever. Mainly peaches, but we rotate things. Tangerines sometimes. We make jams, dried fruit, some wines. Halmeoni has connections with grocers and cafes in the city. The business side does alright.”

“So that explains the house.”

Jungwon nodded. “After my parents passed, some people tried to buy the land. Developers. Investors. They knew she was alone with a kid and thought she’d give it up.”

Riki glanced at him, quietly taking that in.

“She almost did,” Jungwon said softly. “She was going to sell it to be closer to me in Seoul. She would’ve left everything. But I saw it—the way she looked at this place. This town. It’s her home. She would’ve given it up for me, and I couldn’t let that happen. She’s spent her whole life giving things up.”

He looked out at the trees again, gaze far-off, like he wasn’t just remembering—he was still there.

And just like that, Riki saw it.

The boy beneath the doctor’s coat. The weight on shoulders that weren’t quite broad enough to carry it. A grandson who had been loved so deeply he didn’t know how not to protect that love back.

“You’re kind of incredible,” Riki said, without thinking.

Jungwon blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Riki said quickly, suddenly shy. “Just, um. You’re a good grandson. That’s all.”

Jungwon flushed and turned his head. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re making it weird.”

Riki grinned. “Fine, fine. I take it back. You’re a mediocre grandson.”

Jungwon scoffed.

The silence that followed was lighter. The kind that didn’t need to be filled—but of course, Jungwon still tried.

“Anyway, enough about me. Why are you here, city boy?”

Riki stiffened slightly but smiled. “I just…got tired of city life. Decided to take a break. Start over somewhere quiet.”

Jungwon hummed like he understood. “What did you do before this? Halmeoni said you’re a year younger than me, so—fresh grad? Or…”

Riki’s brain scrambled.

“Uh—no, I didn’t go to university. I kinda work…freelance. As a performer.”

There was a beat. Jungwon frowned just slightly, curious. Riki’s panic flared. Oh God. He thinks I’m a stripper.

“I mean, like, in the entertainment industry. Concerts. Performances. That kind of stuff,” he added hastily.

“Oh,” Jungwon said, nodding slowly. “Cool.”

Was that better? It didn’t feel better.

Riki scrambled to redirect. “Your grandmother said you wanted to be an performer too? That you went to Seoul for a bit when you were younger. She said you missed her too much.”

He meant to tease, and to his delight, it worked—Jungwon’s ears turned pink.

“Oh, that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I was thirteen or fourteen? I only went because my dad was working there. I had a place to stay. It wasn’t…really my thing.”

Riki tilted his head. “So you came back because…?”

The light in Jungwon’s eyes dimmed.

“It just wasn’t for me,” he said, voice flat. “The industry. That life.”

Riki caught the signal. He let it go.

They finished the tour in quiet companionship, walking back toward the house as the sky darkened into a blanket of stars. When they stepped inside, Riki found a small stack of neatly folded clothes left in his room—simple, soft cotton shirts and pants that looked like they’d last through a hundred harvests.

He smiled.

That night, lying on the futon on the floor, he stared at the wooden beams above him and listened to the sound of crickets outside. The air smelled like peaches and earth and laundry detergent.

He still didn’t know how long he’d stay.

He didn’t know what this life would become.

But maybe, just maybe… it was exactly what he needed.

The first thing Riki became aware of was breath . Soft, warm, strangely close. The second thing was eyes . Big, brown, blinking down at him.

“Riki,” a voice whispered.

Then, less gently: “Riki. Wake up. You need to feed the chickens.”

His eyelids fluttered open.

And for one confusing, unfiltered second, he forgot he was in rural nowhere-Korea, starting his Eat-Pray-Love recovery arc, and thought maybe he had died and gone to heaven. Because hovering inches from his face was Jungwon, scrubbed clean, hair already parted and neat, dressed like the dawn itself in the same slate-blue scrubs and a tidy jacket.

“Wh—”

“Come on, I have to leave soon.”

It was 5:30 in the goddamn morning .

Riki sat up groggily, the futon half-wrapped around his legs like a burrito, his shirt sticking to his back. “You’re already dressed,” he croaked, blinking at Jungwon like he was a celestial being sent to shame him.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “Of course I’m dressed. We’ve got stuff to do.”

We? Riki stared as Jungwon turned toward the door.

“Keep it down. Halmeoni’s still sleeping,” he said over his shoulder.

Riki staggered to his feet in a frantic mess of limbs and half-choked grumbles, fumbling into a shirt and the loose pants Halmeoni had left for him the night before. He made it halfway across the room before tripping on his own sock and nearly face-planting into the floor.

He braced for impact—

—and then Jungwon caught him.

It wasn’t dramatic or anything. Jungwon just…reached out and caught him, steady as anything. Like this was normal. Like he expected it.

Riki stared up at him, half-draped over his arm, dazed. “You’re really strong,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

“I carry bags of peaches bigger than you. Come on.”

The early morning chill was surprisingly pleasant. The sky was pale with sunrise, and dew clung to everything like the world had been freshly washed. As they walked, Jungwon rattled off a repeat list of everything he’d shown Riki yesterday:

“Feed the chickens first—measured scoop in the red bin. Water gets refilled from the pump. Then Halmeoni will probably want to make breakfast. After that, you check the garden—there’s new seedlings. If you’re not sure, just ask the neighbour auntie. She’s nosy but she knows everything.”

“You already told me all this,” Riki said, yawning.

“I’m telling you again.”

Jungwon moved like a man on a schedule, crisp and focused, every word like a checklist he was mentally ticking off. He handed Riki a notebook.

“In case you forget.”

“Do you do this every morning?” Riki asked, squinting. “Like. Wake up, do farm chores, and then go heal people for twelve hours?”

Jungwon blinked. “...Yeah.”

“Then come home and make sure your grandmother eats and takes her meds?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re telling me what to do?”

Jungwon looked at him sideways. “Do you want to poison the chickens?”

“Fair point.”

They finished the walk-through just as the horizon burned gold and the scent of cooking rice floated from the kitchen window. Riki was still rubbing his eyes when Halmeoni stepped out onto the porch, dressed in a cardigan and soft slippers, her smile sleepy but warm.

“Jungwon-ah,” she called. “Come eat before you run off again.”

“I’ve got ten minutes,” Jungwon said, already sliding his shoes off.

Breakfast was simple—eggs, steamed rice, and doenjang soup—and Riki ate with the kind of stunned reverence usually reserved for Michelin-starred restaurants. Halmeoni fussed over him the whole time, placing an extra spoonful of side dishes into his bowl like he hadn’t just tripped over his own sock ten minutes ago.

When Jungwon stood to leave, it was in a flurry—jacket on, tote slung, notebook half-stuffed into his bag.

“Remember to check the compost bin,” he called back.

“I will.”

“And don’t forget the seedling tray labels—yesterday’s batch had aphids.”

“Got it.”

“And please don’t try to be helpful and weed the herb patch—you don’t know what’s what yet.”

“I won’t , okay?” Riki stood at the door, grinning now.

Jungwon paused. Then turned to him, eyes softer, just a little tired. “Thanks for being here.”

Riki’s heart thudded once, hard.

Then Jungwon was gone, the gate swinging shut behind him.

And just like that, Riki’s first real day on the farm began.

He took a deep breath.

Then he turned, looked at the chicken coop—

And immediately got chased by a very aggressive rooster.

Riki learned three things before 10 a.m.

One: Roosters were little demons in feathered coats.

Two: Halmeoni would laugh at him—but she’d also rub ointment on his shin when he fell running from said rooster.

Three: Despite the chaos, he actually…liked this.

After the chicken debacle, the rest of the morning passed in an oddly peaceful rhythm. Riki followed the instructions Jungwon had left—half from memory, half from the chicken-smeared notebook—and surprised himself with how much he got done. He watered the seedlings (carefully, not overdoing it), picked a few ripe peaches from the orchard, and even figured out how to work the compost lid without spilling the entire thing on his shoes. Only once did he forget to latch a fence gate properly and ended up herding three chickens with a broom while muttering profanities in two languages.

Halmeoni came outside at some point, shielding her eyes from the sun, and burst into laughter at the sight of him—sweaty, flustered, and negotiating with a particularly fat hen like they were striking a trade agreement.

“You’re doing well,” she said kindly, handing him a small towel and a glass of cool barley tea. “Much better than Jungwonie on his first day. He cried when he saw the compost bin.”

Riki snorted into the tea. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

She winked.

By noon, the sun was high, and Halmeoni insisted he come inside for lunch. The house smelled amazing—like garlic and doenjang and something comforting he couldn’t name. She served him a warm bowl of soybean stew with potatoes and radish, grilled mackerel, and two kinds of kimchi.

Riki nearly teared up. It had been so long since he’d eaten food like this. Food that tasted like someone made it just for you.

“I forgot what real food tasted like,” he mumbled around a mouthful.

Halmeoni patted his arm. “You city boys, always eating out of paper boxes. Stay here long enough, I’ll make you fat and happy.”

He believed her.

The afternoon was quieter. Riki helped wash the dishes, then went to sweep the front yard while Halmeoni rested. The sun had softened a little, casting gold onto the porch as he walked around, exploring parts of the house he hadn’t seen yesterday.

There were little signs of Jungwon everywhere—neatly stacked books by the entryway, a white coat folded over the couch arm, a phone charger looped carefully on the nightstand. Riki paused outside a small sitting room, where a few framed pictures were perched on a low cabinet.

He stepped closer.

One picture caught his eye: Jungwon, a little younger, wearing a pressed suit and holding a scroll. His parents stood beside him, proud smiles on their faces, matching dimples, and Halmeoni, beaming in her floral dress, her arm looped through his.

Riki leaned closer to read the plaque on the photo frame.

Seoul National University – Summa Cum Laude.

His eyebrows shot up. “Holy sh—”

“You found his graduation photo?”

Riki jumped, nearly knocking over the frame.

Halmeoni had come up behind him, quiet as a ghost. She smiled fondly at the photo, her fingers brushing the edge.

“Jungwonie was always so smart,” she said, her voice thick with pride. “Scholarships, awards, even an offer from one of those shiny hospitals in Seoul. He was supposed to move in with his father there for residency—start a new life.”

Riki glanced sideways, sensing the shift in her tone.

“Until the accident?” he asked gently.

Halmeoni sighed. It was a tired, weathered sound. “Yes. Car crash only two years ago. Wonie just graduated. Just started his residency in Seoul’s best hospital. He dropped out immediately, came back here, said he just needed time to figure things out.”

She shook her head, almost fondly exasperated.

“I know he says it’s because of me, and maybe it is. But sometimes I wonder if he’s just too used to holding things together. Always the responsible one. Always thinking about everyone else first.”

Riki didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.

Because suddenly, he could see it so clearly.

Jungwon, brilliant and gentle and burdened. Coming back to a small town when he could’ve gone anywhere. Staying because he couldn’t bear to see his grandmother alone. Shouldering grief on top of work, on top of responsibility, on top of all the dreams he might’ve once had.

What a boy, Riki thought.

What a boy to fall for.

“Don’t get too taken with him,” Halmeoni said, a little too casually.

Riki blinked. “W-What?”

“He’s too busy to date,” she added, already walking back toward the kitchen. “And he doesn’t need another distraction.”

Riki flushed scarlet, staring after her.

Was he that obvious?

By the time dusk settled over the farm, the sky painted in soft purples and tangerine streaks, Riki had cleaned up, showered, and was sitting on the porch steps with a fresh glass of barley tea, hair still damp, hands pleasantly sore.

And then—

The gate creaked.

Jungwon stepped inside, visibly tired, his hospital bag slung low on one shoulder, scrub pants dusted with something Riki hoped wasn’t blood.

He paused when he saw Riki.

“You survived,” he said flatly.

Riki raised his glass in salute. “I did more than survive. I wrangled three chickens, watered a greenhouse, ate the best meal of my life, and made your grandmother laugh twice.”

A small, proud smile flickered over Jungwon’s lips. He came to sit beside him, letting out a long sigh as he leaned back against the step.

“You did good, city boy,” he murmured, voice low from fatigue.

Riki peeked sideways at him. His profile glowed in the fading light, soft and unreadable.

“I saw your graduation photo,” Riki said, careful, light.

Jungwon didn’t look at him, but his shoulders went still.

“You’re really something,” Riki added softly.

For a moment, Jungwon didn’t say anything.

Then he glanced over, cheeks pink.

“You stink like chicken.”

Riki burst out laughing.

Dinner was a loud, cozy affair that night. Halmeoni had made kimchi pancakes—crispy on the edges, warm and tangy in the center—along with spicy radish soup and a grilled eggplant dish that Riki practically inhaled.

“Slow down,” Jungwon murmured, nudging him with a chopstick. “You’re going to choke.”

“I didn’t eat anything this good even when I was rich,” Riki mumbled through a bite.

“Rich?” Halmeoni perked up from across the table. “Were you rich, Riki-ya?”

Riki froze.

Jungwon gave him a look. “ City rich, ” he said quickly. “Which just means he probably spent ten dollars on coffee every day.”

Halmeoni cackled.

They all laughed. For a few minutes, the table buzzed with warm clinks of metal and small talk, the sun dipping low outside, bathing the kitchen in golden tones. Riki couldn’t remember the last time dinner felt like this.

Then, Halmeoni struck.

“You know,” she said casually, placing another pancake on Riki’s plate, “since Riki’s doing such a good job, maybe you can start sleeping in, Jungwon-ah.”

Jungwon blinked. “What?”

“He’s young, strong. Wakes up on time. Listens better than you did when you first started.”

“I—Halmeoni.”

“Really! You can rest a little in the mornings now. Riki can take over feeding the chickens. Maybe even help with deliveries next week?”

Riki swallowed the bite in his mouth and nodded eagerly. “I mean, yeah, I don’t mind—”

“Don’t get too attached,” Jungwon interrupted, voice suddenly a little tight. He didn’t look up from his rice. “Riki’s only here for two weeks.”

The chopsticks in Riki’s hand stilled.

Right.

He had said that. He’d meant it too—back in Seoul, where things had felt unbearable and he’d needed an escape. Just two weeks to breathe. To reset.

But now, under the kitchen light, with Halmeoni praising him and Jungwon sitting across the table in his rumpled scrubs and faint dark circles, two weeks suddenly didn’t feel long enough.

“Oh,” Halmeoni said, clearly disappointed. “Only two weeks?”

Riki tried to smile. “I…yeah, that’s the plan.”

“But you said you work…what was it? Free? For free something?”

“ Freelance, ” Jungwon corrected dryly.

“Yes, that! Doesn’t that mean you can stay longer?” She looked between them hopefully.

Riki hesitated. “Technically…I could. But I didn’t really plan for more than—”

“Halmeoni,” Jungwon cut in again, gently but firmly. “He’s only been here a day.”

She sighed dramatically, waving a hand. “Fine, fine. I’m just saying. It would be nice to have another set of hands around here. Especially if mine are getting older every day.”

“Your hands are stronger than mine,” Jungwon muttered under his breath.

“I heard that,” she snapped back.

Riki laughed, tension breaking for a moment. But part of him still felt off-balance—like the mood had shifted in a way he couldn’t name. He caught Jungwon’s eyes across the table, and something passed between them. Something unreadable.

He looked away first.

After dinner, Halmeoni excused herself early, claiming a TV drama and some chestnut tea. Jungwon and Riki stayed behind to clean up, the kitchen quiet but not uncomfortable.

“She really likes you,” Jungwon said, rinsing a plate.

“I like her too.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, Riki asked, “Did it bother you?”

Jungwon glanced over.

“When she said I could take over your mornings,” Riki clarified. “You looked…annoyed.”

Jungwon wiped his hands on a towel, setting a plate in the rack. “No. Just…” He hesitated. “I think she forgets what it’s like when people leave.”

Riki’s chest tightened.

“I told her you’d only be here for two weeks because I didn’t want her to get her hopes up,” Jungwon said simply. “People don’t usually want to stay here. Especially not city boys.”

Riki didn’t know what to say to that. Not yet.

So instead, he reached for the last dish, gently bumping Jungwon’s shoulder with his own.

“Well,” he said quietly, “two weeks isn’t over yet.”

And neither of them replied.

But they both felt it.

The soft, unspoken maybe blooming in the silence.

The soft chime of a Jungwon-shaped alarm clock never went off that morning.

Because by the time he padded down the hallway, rubbing his eyes and tightening the strings of his hoodie, Riki’s futon was already empty.

Jungwon blinked, then squinted out the window, where the grey-blue dawn was just beginning to stretch across the fields.

There. In the mist, a tall figure moved through the crops—watering can in hand, sleeves rolled up, dark hair damp with dew.

Jungwon frowned, slipped on his boots, and made his way out.

Riki turned when he heard the footsteps. He was mid-pour, crouched over a row of greens, when he spotted Jungwon looking vaguely scandalised in the morning light.

“I went to your room to wake you up,” Jungwon called.

“I woke up a little earlier today,” Riki replied, brushing dirt off his knees. “Thought I’d get a head start.”

Jungwon crossed his arms, lips twitching into something unimpressed. “If this is you trying to prove I don’t need to wake up early, it won’t work. You’ll be gone in two weeks. Then I’ll have to get back into my routine.”

“I’m not saying you have to wake up late,” Riki said, grinning. “I’m just saying you could have a more relaxed morning. Wake up whenever you want. I’ll be here.”

That stopped Jungwon. He stared at Riki for a beat too long.

Then—barely, just barely—a dimple peeked through his cheek.

He turned on his heel and marched back toward the house without another word.

But Riki saw the smile.

The day rolled on gently after that.

Riki was stronger than most people expected—used to dawns and physical strain, though his muscles ached in new ways. He fumbled a little less with the chickens, managed not to spill the feed bucket this time (a small miracle). He checked the coop locks twice. Even found an egg without stepping on it.

Halmeoni joined him later in the garden. She handed him a thermos of barley tea and a sweet red bean bun wrapped in cloth.

“Boy like you needs good food,” she said, then watched as he chugged the tea like it was his last drink on Earth. “ Aigo , slow down! You’ll scare the chickens again.”

They laughed.

Later, she told him stories while he helped hang herbs to dry: about her younger days, the boy Jungwon used to be, how he once cried when his watermelon seedlings were eaten by a deer (“He held a funeral , Riki-ya, a funeral —even wrote a song”), and the way he used to beg to sleep in her room during thunderstorms.

“I tell him now, don’t you think I know you’re still scared of lightning? You think I don’t hear you creeping into the kitchen during storms?” She giggled into her hand. “ Aigoo , my Jungwonie…always so smart, but still my baby.”

Riki’s heart twisted gently.

He helped with dinner prep that night, making sure Halmeoni didn’t carry anything heavier than a pot of kimchi stew. He even sliced the radish—badly, but with great concentration.

When Jungwon returned in the evening, scrub top wrinkled, eyes tired, Riki was already helping set the table.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “Did you threaten her into letting you help?”

“Halmeoni said I was better than you at peeling garlic.”

“I did one bad peel when I was nine,” Jungwon muttered, but he sat anyway, watching the two of them with something soft in his eyes.

Dinner was slow and delicious. The windows fogged from the heat of the soup. The three of them talked about small things—the weather, the neighbour’s wandering goat, a new shipment of jam jars.

Later, when Riki lay down on his futon, body sore but full, the house already quiet save for the hum of cicadas outside the window, he stared at the ceiling and thought—

He liked it here.

He liked waking up early and working until his shirt clung to his back.

He liked Halmeoni’s stories and the earthy smell of her kitchen.

He liked the way Jungwon’s dimple appeared when he pretended not to care.

Two weeks had sounded like forever when he first got here.

Now, it didn’t feel like enough.

The days passed like a warm blur—morning light spilling over the fields, the faint clatter of metal buckets, the whisper of dew on grass.

Every sunrise now found Riki already outside, sleeves rolled up, face turned toward the sky as if asking what kind of day it would be. Every morning, Jungwon found him there, paused at the threshold of the house with his mug of barley tea, gaze soft and—more often than not—amused.

“You know,” Riki called one morning, not bothering to turn around as he lifted a watering can over the tomatoes. “If you stare any longer, I’ll think you’re falling for me.”

Jungwon snorted into his cup, a scandalised sound muffled by steam.

“You wish,” he muttered before turning on his heel and disappearing back inside, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

Riki worked the land with steadier hands now, sharing lazy jokes with Halmeoni in the shade of the porch when the heat climbed too high. He always shooed her inside with an exaggerated groan and a dramatic plea—“Halmeoni, please, I’m starving! You wouldn’t make me finish all this without snacks, would you?”—and she’d tut and swat his arm but disappear into the kitchen all the same.

And in the evenings, there was dinner—warm and homey, the kind that stuck to his ribs. Jungwon arrived home looking exhausted but still beautiful in that faintly surreal way that Riki never got used to. He’d always insist he could help—“Let me wash the dishes at least,” or “I can take over tomorrow’s watering”—but the work was already done. Riki always made sure of that.

He liked the look on Jungwon’s face when he found everything in order. The quiet, pleased surprise. The tug of a smile. The way his shoulders eased just enough to let him breathe .

One humid afternoon, Halmeoni pulled Riki aside.

“You’re coming with me,” she said, already grabbing her woven bag.

“To the market?” Riki asked, blinking.

“To town,” she corrected, looping her arm through his. “They should meet the boy who’s turned my garden into gold.”

They walked slowly, matching her pace. She pointed out every tree and turn, every path that split into another field, and by the time they reached the edge of the town, it felt like he’d stepped into a postcard: tidy stalls, flower boxes overflowing, the faint hum of afternoon gossip.

“ Halmeoni! ” called one of the vendors, waving.

Halmeoni greeted them all like old friends—and introduced Riki like family.

“This is Riki. He’s staying with us.”

The compliments hit differently out here. There was no flash, no pretense. Just warm, wrinkled hands and voices full of life.

“What a tall, strong boy. He must be good help.”

“Handsome young man—have you modeled before? You’ve got the jaw for it.”

And his favourite, from a trio of elderly women selling garlic bundles:

“Are you Doctor Jungwon’s boyfriend? The new one who showed up a few days ago?”

Riki nearly dropped the jar of jam he was carrying.

“ Aigoo , no need to be shy!” they laughed, and Halmeoni just smirked like she wasn’t going to correct them.

It only got worse—or better—when they passed the Kim’s Bakery. A warm smell of red bean and butter drifted out as Sunoo burst through the curtain, cheeks already pink from the oven’s heat.

“ Halmeoni! ” he cried, throwing his arms around her like she was his own. She pinched his cheek, kissed his forehead, and cooed that he’d lost weight even though he clearly hadn’t.

Then his eyes flicked to Riki.

“So,” he said, lips curling, “I see Jungwon let you stay.”

Riki raised a brow. “He didn’t have a choice.”

Sunoo just laughed. “Good. About time someone shook him up.”

They returned home with Riki’s arms full—bottles of sesame oil and rice cakes and fresh produce, some gifted, some insisted upon. Halmeoni bustled back into the kitchen while Riki watched the horizon, the fields glowing gold in the late afternoon light.

This town.

These people.

This home.

There was something about it all that gripped him by the chest and refused to let go.

And it wasn’t just the soft-spoken doctor with tired eyes and too much on his shoulders.

It was the feeling of being seen . Of being wanted, not as a product or a celebrity, but as a person who could carry groceries and pull weeds and make an old woman laugh.

For the first time in a long time, Riki didn’t feel like he was running away.

He felt like he might be on his way to something .

Jungwon looked more exhausted than usual when he walked through the front door, still wearing his scrubs, collar crooked and eyes soft with the kind of fatigue that clings to you after twelve hours on your feet.

But he still smiled—just a little—when Riki met him at the door with a cold barley tea.

They sat down for dinner like they always did now, the three of them around the small, slightly wobbly table, with the cicadas humming faintly through the open window and Halmeoni’s stew making the whole kitchen smell like comfort.

Jungwon reached for a slice of radish kimchi, paused, and then said, “Someone in the hospital told me something interesting today.”

Riki, mid-bite into a rice cake, raised his brows.

“They asked,” Jungwon continued, tone deceptively casual, “if my boyfriend was going to pick me up after my shift.”

Riki nearly dies. The soft rice cake turned traitor in his throat as he coughed, choked and slapped at his own chest while Halmeoni quickly handed him a glass of water, laughing the whole time.

“Oh, my poor Riki,” she said, patting his back affectionately. “Just the aunties saying things, Jungwonie. You two are such handsome boys, they must’ve just assumed.”

Jungwon made a strangled noise of protest.

“This town hasn’t had any news since Sunoo and Jake got engaged, and now with Jake off in Seoul, they’re just waiting to see you find someone, my aegi.”

Riki wiped his mouth, still red-faced and breathless. Jungwon was pink too, eyes fixed on his bowl, ears giving him away.

“ Halmeoni, ” he muttered, voice tight, “I don’t have time for someone. And I am most certainly not dating our five-day houseguest.”

“Mhm,” Halmeoni said, stirring the soup, lips twitching. “But you could be.”

Riki looked down at his bowl, pretending not to hear that part.

Later that night, the house quiet and Halmeoni already tucked in, Riki wandered down the hall and paused outside the little office room Jungwon had claimed as his study.

The door was open, the light low and golden, and there was Jungwon—curled slightly in his chair, a notebook open in his lap. His brows were drawn together as he scribbled something, lips pressed together in focus. Riki never really knew what Jungwon was working on—was it for the farm? The hospital? Some secret plan to take over the world?

“Hey,” Riki said softly, leaning against the doorframe.

Jungwon glanced up, startled. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Riki rubbed at his neck, suddenly unsure of how to start. “I, uh…I was thinking.”

Jungwon closed his notebook slightly, giving Riki his full attention.

“I don’t have any gigs lined up next week,” 

(That was a lie. His manager would probably have an aneurysm if he knew.) 

“And I didn’t book a ticket back to Seoul yet anyway.” 

(That was true.) 

“So I figured…maybe I’d stay an extra week or two. If that’s okay with you.”  Riki said, voice more careful than usual. 

Jungwon blinked. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” he said.

Riki tried to sound nonchalant, even as his heart tripped. “I mean, only if it’s not a bother. I can help more around the farm. Get the chores down so you don’t have to keep repeating them every day.”

Jungwon’s lips twitched. “You mean I won’t have to do the full chore lecture every morning at dawn anymore?”

“No promises,” Riki grinned. “Maybe I just like hearing your voice first thing.”

Jungwon looked away so fast Riki almost laughed. But then, after a pause, he nodded—quiet and warm.

“Yeah,” Jungwon said. “I think…that’d be okay.”

And maybe it was just the light, or maybe it was something else entirely, but his voice sounded a little steadier than before. A little less tired.

Riki lingered at the doorway a moment longer before heading back down the hall, heart a little lighter, something inside him stretching out quietly like a root testing soil.

He hadn’t planned to stay.

But now?

Now he wasn’t so sure he wanted to leave.

The morning begins like all the others—cool mist still clinging to the fields, birds calling out lazily into the sky, the air fresh with dew and promise.

Riki’s already waist-deep in watering duty when he hears the porch door creak open. He doesn’t look up immediately—he already knows who it is.

But he does look when he hears it: the soft sound of a sleepy smile.

Jungwon, framed by the doorway, holding a mug of coffee, watching him with half-lidded eyes and a crinkle at the corners of his lips.

“Don’t expect me to loosen up just because you’re staying longer,” Jungwon calls, voice scratchy with sleep.

Riki shields his eyes with a hand. Grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But internally? God, he’s beautiful.

There’s something about seeing Jungwon in the mornings like this—unguarded, a little ruffled, the dawn still clinging to him like stardust. Riki’s heart clenches, just a little.

Halmeoni was the most thrilled about his extended stay. She clapped her hands and laughed like she’d planned this all along—which, honestly, maybe she had.

She hums through breakfast, refilling Riki’s bowl more times than he can count, before finally shooing him out of the house.

“You’re staying now, boy! Then you should learn to find your way around without this old woman holding your hand,” she declared after breakfast, waving him off with a packed snack and a playful pat on the back. “Half-day off! But be back for dinner!”

Riki does just that. He wanders.

The sun’s warm but not unbearable, the clouds drifting like daydreams. People on the street recognise him as the boy with Doctor Jungwon or Yang Halmeoni’s new helper , a few wave, more than a few chat. He gets handed a cup of sliced watermelon from an old man by the corner store. A jar of kimchi from someone’s grandmother. A few other aunties hand him skewers of rice cakes and meat while gossiping like he’s their honorary nephew.

It’s…nice.

Sweet.

So much quieter than Seoul. Gentler.

Eventually, he finds himself wandering back to the little bakery near the middle of town.

The bell over the door jingles. The smell hits him first: cinnamon, sugar, a hint of sweet red bean. The front counter is manned by a girl who bears an uncanny resemblance to Sunoo—longer hair, sharper eyes, but the same smile.

She greets him warmly just as Sunoo appeared from the back, face dusted in flour, hair wild, and eyes already sparkling with mischief.

“Well, well,” Sunoo teases, leaning on the counter. “If it isn’t the newest resident of Yang Household. How has it been?”

Riki snorts. “Eventful.”

Sunoo beams. “Tell me everything.”

And he does . At least the funny parts. Chickens, chores, near-death rice cake experience.

But what Riki gets in return is far more valuable.

Through the lens of Sunoo—the town’s sparkle, Jungwon’s best friend-slash-honorary sibling since birth—Riki learns more about the boy who’s slowly, irrevocably invading his thoughts.

“Jungwon was always brilliant,” Sunoo said fondly, chin propped on his palm. “Like, scarily brilliant. Everyone loved him—teachers, neighbours, even the old uncles who don’t like anyone .”

He waved a hand dramatically. “And listen, I know he’s pretty now, in that brooding countryside doctor way, but growing up? He was dazzling. His eyes were huge. I used to tell people he looked like a Miyazaki character.”

Riki hummed absentmindedly.

Sunoo’s eyes sparkled. “So you agree, Jungwon’s pretty.”

Riki spluttered . Sunoo looked like he’d just won the lottery.

Then he sobered, eyes drifting to the window. “We always thought he’d be the first to leave, you know? Stay with his dad in Seoul. His mom would stay here, take care of Halmeoni. It was…a plan.”

He hesitated. “Did he tell you he got scouted? Middle school during his first trip to Seoul with his dad. SM Entertainment. Came all the way out here just to convince his family.”

Riki blinked. “ SM? ”

“Yup. Came back a year later, said it wasn’t for him.” Sunoo paused. “He doesn’t talk about it much. I don’t think it’s a sore spot—just…a path he turned away from.”

Riki reeled. Jungwon, the shy, sleepy boy in muddy boots, nearly became a trainee at one of the most prestigious companies in the industry? If things had gone differently…

Would they have met on stage? Would they have stood side-by-side in makeup and lights instead of dusty porches and peach trees?

Sunoo was still speaking, voice gentler now.

“Then came Seoul National. That was supposed to be his second shot. He killed it, obviously. Full-ride and all. Graduated with top marks, got into one of the best hospitals. We were all so proud.”

A pause. Riki felt the turn in his voice.

“He barely stayed a month before the accident. Dropped everything. Came back here.” Sunoo looked down. “And this time…I think it’s for good.”

Riki nodded slowly. That familiar expression—soft, sorrowful—was starting to make sense now. People spoke of Jungwon with pride, but also with a quiet ache. Like he was something precious that the world hadn’t handled right.

They shifted topics after that, to his fiancé, Jake, and the bakery, how Jake was in Seoul for work temporarily but he’d return soon, and how Sunoo wasn’t planning to get married yet, but the sparkle in his eyes said otherwise.

The way he talked about this town, about its people, about Jungwon—it was clear.

This place was stitched together by affection. The kind that lasts a lifetime.

And Riki was beginning to understand why it had kept Jungwon, despite everything he’d once dreamed of.

He leaves the shop with fresh bread tucked under his arm, the scent of sugar clinging to his sleeves and the weight of Sunoo’s stories lingering in his chest.

This town is starting to feel like something else entirely.

Not just a place to escape to.

But something that might be worth staying for.

The house is quiet when Riki returns from town, the sun just beginning to sink behind the trees. He walks in with two bags looped around his wrists—one heavy with warm, spicy tteokgalbi from that one stall Halmeoni mentioned liking, the other filled with Sunoo’s bread, herbal candies, and a small embroidered pouch he found at a gift kiosk. A useless thing, but pretty. Something about it reminded him of her.

“I used my own money,” he says quickly, placing them on the kitchen counter as she walks in from the garden, wiping her hands on her apron. “Not, like, the house stuff.”

Halmeoni squints at him. “You didn’t have to get me anything, dear,” she chastises, but the corners of her eyes crinkle with warmth as she peeks into the bags. “Aish…these are my favourite.”

Riki just shrugs, suddenly shy. His ears are pink.

They prepare dinner together, laughter soft and domestic, and the table is set by eight. Then eight-thirty. Then nine.

And still, no Jungwon.

Halmeoni sits at the table, untouched chopsticks beside her. Her fingers twist in her lap. “There must’ve been a late case,” she murmurs. “These things happen. But I hate not knowing he’ll get back safe. The roads, they get so dark this time.”

She pauses. Then adds, like it’s been waiting in her chest all day, “Last time, he got home past midnight. Didn’t eat dinner. He already skips lunch.”

The worry coats her voice like damp wool, heavy and clinging.

Riki shifts in his seat. Something about it—her hunched shoulders, the faraway look in her eyes—makes his chest ache. The picture is too easy to imagine: a tiny house in a quiet field, a grandmother waiting at the table for her grandson who might not come home till hours later, exhausted and pale.

“I could go,” he hears himself say. “I’ll check at the hospital.”

She blinks. Then brightens all at once. “ What a wonderful idea, Riki! ”

She’s on her feet before he can take it back, already wrapping up banchan and rice in metal containers, slipping them into a cloth bundle. Then she presses a flashlight into his hand and, just before he steps out, tugs him into a hug that smells like herbs and warm earth.

“You’re good for us,” she whispers into his shoulder. “It’s good that you are here.”

The road is darker than he expected.

He walks carefully, flashlight flicking over dirt paths and tall grasses. The wind is cold against his ears. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

By the time he reaches the hospital, the lights in the lobby glow like a lighthouse.

He pokes his head in, unsure. “Uh—Doctor Yang? Is he…?”

A tired-looking nurse offers him a kind smile. “Still in surgery, I believe. With Doctor Jung. They’ll be out in a bit.”

So he waits.

The hospital seats are hard, and the plastic container on his lap is warm against his knees. An hour ticks by. The nurses shift. People come and go.

Then—finally—a door swings open.

Jungwon steps out slowly, peeling off a cap, scrubs wrinkled, his hair damp with sweat. He looks like he’s aged a year in the hours since morning—shoulders low, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

He spots Riki almost immediately, and stops.

“…Riki?”

Riki stands. Holds up the food like a peace offering. “Halmeoni got worried,” he says. “She said you hadn’t eaten. Sent me.”

Jungwon blinks. There’s a flicker of something unreadable across his face. His voice, when it comes, is quiet.

“You…walked all the way here?”

Riki nods. “She gave me a flashlight.”

Silence. Then,

“I’m not hungry.”

But he doesn’t walk away.

Instead, he sways a little where he stands, then lets out a slow sigh and gestures with a nod of his chin. “There’s a break room. Come on.”

The room is small. Dimly lit. Jungwon collapses into a chair like he might never get back up.

Riki unpacks the food quietly. Halmeoni’s neat banchan laid out one by one.

He doesn’t push.

Eventually, Jungwon picks up a pair of chopsticks. Takes a bite. And then another.

“…She always makes too much,” he says softly, mouth full.

“She worries,” Riki murmurs.

Jungwon swallows. “I know.”

He doesn’t look up, but there’s something fragile in his voice when he adds, “It’s not supposed to be like this. She shouldn’t have to wait up like that. I told her before if I'm back later than normal, to just go to sleep.”

“She said you’re always late,” Riki says gently.

That gets a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

Riki stares at him—at the curve of his shoulders, the tired cut of his jaw, the way his fingers tremble just slightly over the chopsticks.

“You do a lot,” he says.

Jungwon exhales. “I want to do more.”

“You can’t if you burn yourself out.”

That startles him. Jungwon looks up for the first time—and Riki holds his gaze.

“She says you skip lunch,” Riki says. “And you were going to skip dinner too.”

Jungwon swallows. Then, very quietly, “It’s fine.”

“No it’s not.”

It hangs between them, heavy. Soft.

The light overhead flickers slightly, like it’s listening.

And Jungwon—tired, brilliant, overworked Jungwon—finally leans back. His eyes flutter closed.

“Thanks for coming.”

Riki nods. “I’ll wait for you to head home.”

Jungwon doesn’t argue. Just lets Riki pack the containers again, following him down the hallway slowly, steps in sync.

The flashlight beams ahead as they step into the night.

And behind them, the hospital grows smaller, until all that’s left is the sound of gravel and two sets of footsteps, walking home.

The walk home is slow, but in a comforting way.

Crickets chirp softly in the grass. The night air is cool and clean, and the stars are sharp above them, unmarred by city haze. Jungwon walks a step behind at first, but when Riki glances back, the doctor has drifted to his side, steps quiet, shoulders heavy with fatigue.

Riki watches him from the corner of his eye—his scrubs wrinkled, his arms full of bags from the hospital. Without a word, Riki steps in, fingers brushing Jungwon’s wrist as he carefully takes the weight from him.

“Riki—”

“I got it,” Riki says.

Jungwon frowns. “You’re done more labour today.”

“You walked out of surgery looking like you’d collapse. I think I can carry two bags.”

Jungwon opens his mouth to argue, but Riki just raises an eyebrow.

The frown fades. Jungwon lets out a tiny, defeated exhale and slinks back to his place beside him, a slouch in his frame now that the weight is gone.

“...Thanks,” he mutters.

Riki doesn’t say anything, just keeps the flashlight steady.

They walk for a while in silence. Then Riki, a little hesitant, offers, “You should stop skipping meals.”

“I eat,” Jungwon replies too quickly. “I eat from the hospital vending machine.”

Riki makes a face so offended you’d think Jungwon admitted to chewing on gravel.

“That doesn’t count.”

Jungwon chuckles under his breath. “I like the egg sandwiches.”

“They’re cold and sad. I checked.”

Jungwon shrugs. “So am I.”

Riki bumps his shoulder lightly. “Not funny.”

But Jungwon smiles at the ground. “...I’ll try to eat better.”

By the time they reach the farmhouse, the porch light is on. The front door creaks open even before they can knock.

Halmeoni steps out, arms crossed, mouth pursed.

“Oh finally! Wonie, you scared me half to death. What kind of boy doesn’t even call? What if something happened? You know how dark the roads get—”

“I’m sorry, Halmeoni—”

“Don’t ‘Halmeoni’ me. You nearly gave me a heart attack. Did you at least eat?”

“I did,” Jungwon says softly. “Riki brought the dinner.”

That disarms her instantly. Her eyes flicker to Riki, then back to Jungwon.

Then she sighs. “Come here, you silly boy.”

She pulls Jungwon into a hug so tight he almost stumbles.

Riki watches it happen—the way Jungwon’s arms come up slowly, then wrap around her back. How he sinks into her warmth, just for a second, like a child who’s just barely made it home from a storm. He doesn’t say anything. Just closes his eyes.

It’s only a few moments. But Riki feels like he’s witnessing something sacred.

When Halmeoni finally lets go, she cups Jungwon’s face like she used to when he was probably ten years old. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. Let people help, aegi.”

Jungwon nods, barely.

“Now go shower, you smell like surgery.”

She heads inside to reheat the tea. Jungwon stays on the porch, blinking into the night.

Riki hands back the bags. Jungwon takes them slowly, careful now.

“Thank you,” he says again. “For everything tonight.”

Riki shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

But it’s not. They both know it’s not.

Inside, the lights are warm and yellow. The table is still half set. The walls smell like barley tea and mugwort balm.

Riki watches Jungwon disappear down the hallway, still quiet, still a little pink in the ears from being hugged so hard.

And in that stillness, Riki realises—this home, this family, this fierce, aching love between two people holding each other up the best they can—it’s rare. It's real.

And somehow, by chance, he’s been allowed into it.

Even just for a moment.

He presses a palm against the doorframe before stepping inside, grounding himself, as if to say:

I’m here. I won’t take it for granted.

It’s strange, seeing Jungwon in the house when the sun is still high.

Not in scrubs. Not rushing out the door with a half-bitten piece of toast. But here, in soft linen and a sun hat, sleeves rolled up, barefoot on the wood floors, sipping barley tea with the window open.

Riki watches from the porch as Jungwon steps into the fields, eyes already scanning the rows of squash and spring onions like he’s doing rounds at the hospital.

“Don’t even think about it,” Riki calls, hopping off the last step and jogging over.

Jungwon turns. “About what?”

“Working.”

“This is my house. My farm.”

Riki stops beside him. “This is my job. Your job is to save lives.”

Jungwon pouts, hands on hips. “We don’t even pay you.”

“You pay me in housing. And Halmeoni’s banchan. That cabbage radish kimchi yesterday? Worth at least a full paycheck.”

Jungwon huffs, a tiny laugh curling at the end. His cheeks are already going pink, from either the sun or Riki’s audacity. “You’re ridiculous.”

Riki leans in, grinning. “Try me. I’ll carry you back to the house right now .”

Jungwon takes a half-step back. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

They stare at each other for a long beat—then Jungwon turns on his heel.

“I’m going to pack the delivery boxes,” he says.

Riki watches him go, still smiling.

Lunch is a feast—or maybe it just feels that way because they all sit down to eat it together. Halmeoni piles rice into everyone’s bowls with a hum, and Jungwon looks relaxed in a way Riki hasn’t seen before, sleeves still dusted in flour from sorting produce, but hands finally idle.

They talk. They laugh. Jungwon even teases Halmeoni gently about using too much garlic in the kimchi stew.

And then, the deliveries.

The old truck smells like grass and peaches. Riki hops in beside Jungwon, arms loaded with crates. He insists on carrying them all. Jungwon tries, half-heartedly, to argue. But eventually, he sighs and lets him.

At every stop—be it the corner store, the tofu house, the elderly ajusshi’s flower stall—there’s always the same script.

“Oh, Jungwonie! And who is this?”

“Just a friend,” Jungwon says too quickly.

“He’s working on the farm this month,” Halmeoni had explained days ago.

But now?

“Such a handsome pair,” they whisper, eyes twinkling. “Like a drama!”

Riki bows politely. Jungwon flushes so pink his ears look sunburnt.

“Th-They’re just saying things,” Jungwon mutters to Riki between stops.

“Sure they are,” Riki replies, fighting a grin. “No one thinks we look good together.”

Jungwon glares. “Don’t tease me.”

Riki pretends to zip his mouth shut, still smiling.

They end at the bakery.

Sunoo is already waiting inside, elbow-deep in dough, hair tied up in a scarf.

“Look what the dog dragged in,” he sings.

Jungwon rolls his eyes. “Nice to see you too.”

“Brought your boyfriend again?”

“Sunoo,” Jungwon hisses.

Riki nearly drops a tray of radishes.

Sunoo just smirks. “Kidding. Kind of. Hi Riki.”

“Hi.”

They banter. Loudly. Ruthlessly. And suddenly, Jungwon is not the overworked doctor or the quiet grandson. He’s a menace. Fast-talking, sharp-eyed, matching Sunoo quip for quip like they’ve been doing this since birth.

And Riki sees it.

This is the Jungwon the town knows. The one they all adore. Not just the brilliant one, not just the boy who gave everything up to return. But the kid who used to get in trouble for stealing melon bread and making Sunoo take the fall. The boy who once almost became a trainee and instead came back home.

The boy who doesn’t laugh often—but when he does, it’s loud .

Riki watches him from behind a crate of yams, heart thudding hard for no reason at all.

And maybe Sunoo sees it, because he raises one flour-coated eyebrow at him and mouths “You’re in trouble.”

Riki looks away, cheeks warm.

Yeah.

He is.

Dinner is at a tiny dakgalbi place tucked between a stationery store and a clinic, the kind of family-run restaurant that doesn’t have a website but has fed the same town for generations. The windows fog with heat, and the sizzle of chicken and rice cakes fills the room, spicy smoke curling up into the amber light fixtures above.

Riki’s never eaten outside of the Yang house since arriving. Halmeoni had practically pushed them out.

"I’m tired of cooking for you two, go eat out for once! Take a break!"

And so here they are.

Just the two of them, across a small table sticky from use, metal chopsticks in hand, bowls of pickled radish clinking as they're refilled without being asked. Jungwon sits across from him, bathed in the soft warmth of the restaurant lights, his face pink from the heat, from the spice, from laughing.

God, he’s pretty like this. Soft. Real. Young.

They eat until they’re full, picking bits of cheese-crusted rice from the edges of the pan, laughing when Riki almost knocks over the water pitcher trying to demonstrate his now-somewhat-confident chicken coop routine.

It feels like a date.

Riki thinks that before he can stop himself. Like a real date. One he never got to have during his idol years, when everything was controlled and choreographed down to the angle of his smile.

He watches Jungwon now, slouched a little, comfortable, reaching to refill his own water.

And maybe that’s why—because the moment feels safe, real—he finally asks:

“Sunoo told me,” Riki starts slowly, carefully. “That you were scouted. By SM.”

Jungwon’s hand stills for a second, mid-pour. Then continues like nothing happened. “Oh, that. Yeah. That was nothing. Just over a year.”

“A year at SM is...kind of everything,” Riki says. “That’s huge.”

Jungwon smiles at that, but Riki sees it clearly now—it’s the smile people give when they don’t want to talk. Polite. Tight. Hollow.

“Not really,” Jungwon murmurs.

Silence settles for a beat. Riki lowers his chopsticks, heart pounding in his throat. He knows this feeling. He’s been on the other end of it before—when someone asks too much, too soon.

But this time, he can’t help it.

“Why did you leave?” he asks. “Like...really leave?”

Jungwon looks up at him.

And for a moment, Riki thinks he won’t answer.

But then Jungwon leans back in his seat, eyes flicking toward the steam-fogged window beside them. He exhales slowly.

“I just…” He folds his napkin in his lap. “It wasn’t for me. The people. The lifestyle. The industry.”

And Riki gets it. God, does he get it.

He wants to say me too . Wants to say I was there . Wants to tell Jungwon about the rehearsal rooms with no clocks, the company reps with kind voices and cruel eyes, the months of liquid diets and blackout curtains.

But instead, he says carefully, “I’ve worked with idols. Collaborated on stuff. I think...I know what you mean.”

Jungwon looks over at him, then smiles—genuinely this time, if only for a second. “Yeah? Sucks, huh?”

Riki laughs once, dry. “Stuffy. Exhausting.”

That makes Jungwon giggle. Really giggle, like it surprised him. He looks down again, fiddling with the corner of his placemat.

Then, quieter. “One of my trainee friends collapsed. Stroke. He was fifteen.”

Riki freezes.

Jungwon keeps talking. Voice level. Like he’s telling a story he’s practiced in his head too many times. “He just...broke. The diets, the schedules, the stress. And the next day, the company cut him. No apology. No visit. Just—”

A snap of fingers.

“Gone.”

Riki’s stomach knots. He’s seen versions of this story. Too many. Friends passed out during filming. Someone crying in the bathroom at 3AM, still wired from coffee and painkillers and hope.

“I couldn’t stay,” Jungwon says, barely above a whisper now. “Not when I realised that’s how they’d treat me too. That I was just...disposable.”

Silence again. But this one feels different. Heavier. Shared.

And Riki, breath tight in his chest, nods.

“I’m glad you left,” he says, voice low. Honest.

Jungwon looks up.

“I mean it,” Riki adds. “You were right to leave.”

Jungwon stares at him for a long second. His eyes aren’t glassy—but they’re close. Like they’re holding something back. Something old. Something raw.

“Thanks,” he finally says, just that. Quiet, but sincere.

They finish the meal in a kind of companionable quiet. The dakgalbi sizzles to a crisp at the bottom of the pan. The world outside glows orange with early evening light. And for the first time since he arrived in this town, Riki thinks—

Maybe he's not just visiting.

Maybe he’s exactly where he needs to be.

The road home winds gently past fields still heavy with the scent of the day—soil, water, faint smoke from somewhere nearby. The crickets are loud this time of year. The stars are even louder.

Jungwon doesn’t say much as they walk, hands tucked in the pockets of his cardigan, the sleeves pulled down a little too long. The silence between them feels different now—after dinner, after that story. Not awkward. Just...full.

They pass a slope where the fields open up wide, and both of them pause.

Above them, the sky stretches clear and vast, pinpricked with stars. The kind of view Riki never saw in Seoul, not even from dorm rooftops or van windows at 3AM. It’s the kind of night that feels like it’s been waiting just for them.

“They’re really bright out here,” Riki murmurs.

Jungwon tips his chin up. “Mm. Halmeoni says it’s because the sky’s less lonely here.”

Riki huffs a soft laugh. “That’s kinda beautiful.”

They stand in silence for a moment longer, just listening to the wind in the rice stalks, the chirping. Then Riki says, almost without meaning to:

“I used to come out like this with my grandparents. We had a little farm back in Japan.”

Jungwon turns toward him, curious.

“My parents ran a dance studio,” Riki goes on, eyes somewhere far away now. “So me and my sisters spent weekends out at the farm. It was small, messy. The barn smelled like hell. But it was...warm, y’know?”

Jungwon smiles, soft. “You’re the middle kid?”

“Yeah,” Riki says, laughing. “Older sister, younger sister. Both terrifying.”

Jungwon laughs too. “Figures.”

“I miss them a lot,” Riki admits, more quietly now. “I moved to Korea really young. Spent a lot of birthdays away. Holidays. Calls with bad reception. Even now I still forget how tall my little sister’s gotten.”

His throat tightens. He swallows around it.

Jungwon glances over, gentle in that quiet way he always is when people say hard things. “That must’ve been hard.”

Riki shrugs, like it’s fine. Like it doesn’t ache in his chest sometimes when he dreams. “It was. But it also gave me everything. My chance.”

Jungwon’s eyes flicker. “So that’s how you got into the industry?”

Riki pauses. The gravel underfoot crunches once as he shifts his weight.

“You’re a dancer?” Jungwon asks, head tilted, open and curious and utterly trusting.

And Riki nods. He smiles, small and tight. “Yeah. I’m a dancer.”

It’s not a lie. Not really.

But it’s not the whole truth either.

Jungwon doesn’t press. Maybe he feels the shift. Or maybe he’s just too kind to ask for more.

They start walking again. Their shoulders bump once, and neither pulls away.

Riki looks up at the stars once more, breathing in the cold air, the silence, the strange, golden stillness of it all.

How strange, he thinks. To feel like you’re getting closer to someone just by walking beside them in the dark.

How terrifying, too.

And still—he doesn’t want the night to end.

By the time they reach the house, it’s late enough for the crickets to have calmed and the breeze to have cooled. The porch light is still on, casting a warm amber halo over the step where Halmeoni left a pair of slippers and a thermos of barley tea. A note in her looping handwriting is tucked underneath: “Drink something warm before bed, boys.”

They tiptoe in like kids home past curfew, though there’s no one left awake to scold them.

The house smells like comfort—ginger, laundry soap, the faint memory of dinner. Jungwon disappears into the bathroom to shower, and Riki lingers in the kitchen, pouring two mugs of tea. He finds himself adjusting the crooked dish towel on the rack, fiddling with the placement of the chopsticks on the drying mat.

When Jungwon returns—damp hair pushed back, fresh shirt clinging a little too loosely to his collarbones—he looks more like a boy than a doctor. Tired, pink around the eyes, but softer somehow, more grounded.

He flops onto the couch without much ceremony, sighing like his soul just left his body. “I might actually die tonight.”

“Not allowed,” Riki says, handing him a mug. “You’re literally the only doctor in the house.”

Jungwon takes it with both hands. Their fingers brush.

They sit like that for a while, the quiet broken only by sips of tea and the occasional creak of the old floorboards settling.

Jungwon’s head eventually starts to tilt sideways, just a bit, just enough to knock gently against Riki’s shoulder. Riki doesn’t move.

“You’re tired,” he says softly.

Jungwon hums without opening his eyes. “Mm. ‘m always tired.”

Riki looks down at him—at the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the way his lips are parted just slightly, breath slow and even. It occurs to Riki, as he sits there with a boy who fell asleep against him and a cup of lukewarm tea in his hand, that this might be the most peaceful he’s felt in years.

He should get up. Nudge Jungwon awake. Offer to help him to bed.

Instead, he reaches for the throw blanket folded at the edge of the couch and drapes it over both of them. Jungwon stirs a little, but doesn’t wake.

Outside, the wind rustles the fields.

Inside, Riki closes his eyes, lets his head rest against Jungwon’s, and—for once—doesn’t try to plan what comes next.

Chapter Text

A soft click breaks the morning stillness. Then another.

Riki stirs first. His eyes blink open groggily to the sight of golden sunlight streaming through the curtains and a very smug Halmeoni aiming her old point-and-shoot camera at the two of them curled up on the living room couch.

Jungwon’s still asleep—his cheek pressed against Riki’s shoulder, the blanket bunched around them like a shared cocoon. Another click . This time, the shutter sound startles Jungwon awake.

He jerks upright, eyes wide and hair sticking out in every direction. “What time is it?! Oh my god, I slept in—!”

Halmeoni laughs, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Relax, aegi. You’ve got plenty of time for your shift. I already set your alarm a little later after I saw you two snoring away like a pair of kittens.”

Riki blinks blearily. “You reset the alarm?”

“And left you barley tea on the porch, don’t act like I’m not looking out for you too, farm boy.” She pats him on the head as she walks by. “The chickens will live if they get fed an hour later. They told me so.”

Jungwon groans and flops backward against the couch again, hands over his face. “She took pictures , oh my god.”

“She takes evidence ,” Riki mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re both adorable,” she says over her shoulder, already disappearing into the kitchen. “And I’m printing this one for the fridge.”

They scramble to get ready, still pink-cheeked, bumping into each other in the narrow hallway, trying not to laugh when their eyes meet in the mirror. Riki pulls his hoodie over his head to hide his hair sticking up in all directions, while Jungwon sighs at his reflection and mutters something about brushing before ward rounds.

Halmeoni plates them a quick breakfast, smiling quietly to herself the whole time. They eat fast, then go their separate ways—Jungwon in scrubs, Riki in boots.

Later, at lunchtime.

Riki shows up at the hospital entrance with a Tupperware bag slung over one arm and a wide, expectant smile.

The receptionist blinks. “Oh—you’re the Yang boy.”

He snorts. “I’ll take it.”

When Jungwon finally emerges, there’s sweat on his brow and weariness in his shoulders, but the second he sees Riki waiting near the reception benches with a packed meal and a bottle of barley tea, his entire face softens.

“You didn’t have to come,” Jungwon says, sitting down beside him.

“You say that like I wasn’t bribed by your halmeoni,” Riki replies, handing him the lunch box. “But also, you were probably going to skip lunch again, so.”

Jungwon opens the lid. Still warm. His stomach growls audibly. Riki grins.

“You know,” Jungwon says between bites, “you’re dangerously close to becoming part of the daily routine.”

Riki leans back against the bench, looking at dull waiting room and tired patients. “Good.”

Jungwon glances at him.

Riki smiles. “I don’t mind staying a little longer.”

The second week passes in a blur of soil under his nails, sun on his shoulders, and the steady heartbeat of routine.

Wake up. Water the crops. Feed the chickens, who now cluck excitedly at the sound of his footsteps like he's one of them. Re-weed the rows with music playing softly in his ears. Lunch with Halmeoni—warm, balanced, always fussed over. Pack extra for Jungwon. Walk into town. Deliver it.

Sometimes Jungwon meets him outside the hospital doors, sometimes Riki sneaks past the front desk like a mischievous courier. Every time, Jungwon takes the lunchbox with that same look—equal parts gratitude and guilt.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jungwon murmurs once.

“I know,” Riki replies, handing over the metal chopsticks. “I want to.”

Something shifted after that night on the couch. Neither of them names it, but Riki feels it. The softening. The lingering. The way Jungwon’s eyes hold his for just a moment longer, like he’s memorising something precious.

The farm becomes second nature. The smell of earth. The aching satisfaction in his back. The quiet conversations with Halmeoni while chopping scallions, her humming as she cooks, stories about Jungwon’s childhood slipping out like folklore.

Sunoo joins them for dinner one evening, plopping down with a sly grin and immediately zeroing in on Riki and Jungwon.

“This is so cute,” he says, unprompted, poking at his rice bowl. “Like I’m interrupting something scandalous.”

“We’re just eating,” Jungwon says, a little too fast.

Sunoo snorts, kicking Riki’s shin under the table. “Sure, baby.”

Riki laughs, cheeks warm, not really denying anything. And maybe that’s the problem. Or maybe that’s the gift.

By the end of the second week, Riki knows the town like the back of his hand—the back alleys of the market, the old shopkeepers who greet him like an old friend, the shortcut past the persimmon trees that cuts ten minutes off the walk to the west ridge.

He delivers baskets of vegetables to the tofu shop ahjumma and gets free yubu in return. He helps an old man carry his paint cans home and gets invited to tea with gossip and stories from the Korean War.

He learns the real names behind the town nicknames. Finds out the florist used to be in a punk band. Realises Halmeoni is more feared than the mayor when she’s angry.

And at the end of every day—without fail—he walks back up the little gravel path to the farmhouse. Dinner. Laughter. Sometimes music from the old speaker in the kitchen.

Jungwon sits beside him, their shoulders brushing more often than not.

And Riki doesn’t want to leave.

Not now.
Not when it’s starting to feel like he’s part of something.
Like this could be home, too.

Jungwon’s day off feels like a holiday. Halmeoni, in a surprising act of mercy, waves a hand at Riki after the morning deliveries and tells him, “Go on, spend the rest of the day with our aegi. You’ve earned it.”

So he does.

They pack a simple lunch—kimbap, a thermos of yujacha, leftover eggplant jeon—and head up the trail that winds behind the farmhouse. The air is clean, crisp with the kind of brightness only country skies can manage. Riki follows Jungwon’s lead, watching the way his hair catches the sunlight, how he points out old trees and stone markers like he's introducing Riki to old friends.

“The Jangs live just over that ridge. They grow mostly grapes,” Jungwon explains. “And the Lee farm’s further out, that’s where we get the radishes. You’ll know them by their dogs—they bark louder than they bite.”

They stop at each neighbouring farm, exchanging greetings and small talk, bowing to elders, accepting small gifts—two persimmons, a bag of sesame leaves, fresh eggs from someone’s daughter-in-law.

At one point, they sit by a shallow stream, shoes off, feet in the cool water. Riki leans back on his hands, eyes half-closed, the sound of cicadas and running water lulling him into the kind of peace he hasn’t known in years.

“You come out here a lot?” Riki asks.

Jungwon nods. “Before med school…all the time. Halmeoni would say, ‘Get out of the house, go touch some dirt.’ She hated seeing me study myself sick.”

Riki chuckles. “You definitely give off ‘studied himself sick’ energy.”

“Excuse you,” Jungwon says, bumping his knee. “I was charming and balanced.”

Riki laughs, a full sound, and for a second, their eyes meet, and the air goes still. Something soft, something tentative.

Jungwon looks away first. But his smile lingers.

Later, as they walk back with their bounty of produce, the sun dipping low over the hills, Jungwon says quietly, “Thanks…for being here.”

Riki turns to look at him. “Where else would I be?”

Jungwon doesn’t answer right away. Then, “I don’t know. Somewhere bigger. Louder. You don’t seem like the kind of person who stays long in a town like this.”

“I didn’t think I was,” Riki admits.

The stars are out, lazily scattered across the navy sky, the moon slung low above the fields like it’s watching them. Cicadas hum, somewhere far but near enough to stitch the silence between stories.

Jungwon’s still laughing, a soft breathless kind of laugh that makes Riki’s heart stupidly trip. His eyes are crinkled, hand briefly brushing against Riki’s arm as they walk down the dirt path back toward the house.

He’s halfway through a story, voice animated.

“—and Heeseung hyung, for whatever godforsaken reason, decides the best place to dump leftover ramyeon broth is down the toilet. Like, the whole thing. Noodles, soup, egg bits and all.”

Jungwon, walking beside him, snorts. “Please no.”

“Oh yeah. And it clogs. Like completely. Sunghoon almost moved out. He threatened to call a plumber and the police.”

Jungwon breaks into giggles, his voice high and clear in the quiet of the countryside. “Your friends are weird.”

“They’re idiots,” Riki agrees fondly.

Jungwon casts him a curious glance. “Do you all work together? As dancers?”

Riki falters.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, eyes flicking away. “We all work together.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough for Jungwon to notice the shift—the slight tension in Riki’s jaw, the guarded edge that always creeps in when they graze too close to what Riki does for a living.

“You always get like this,” Jungwon says softly.

Riki blinks. “Like what?”

“All jumpy whenever someone asks about your job.” Jungwon tilts his head. “Is this where you finally admit you’re a stripper?”

Riki chokes .

“Wha—no! No, I’m not a—what kind of—” he splutters, fully scandalised.

Jungwon shrugs, playing it cool, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I don’t know. Entertainment industry? Dance background? Odd hours? Questionable working conditions?”

Riki’s face burns . “I said I’ve collaborated with idols! Idols can’t just go around working with—!”

He cuts himself off, watching Jungwon throw his head back and laugh, truly laugh, free and unfiltered. It’s so rare to see him like this, open and carefree. His laughter echoes in the night air, bouncing off the hills and into Riki’s ribs. It’s the prettiest thing Riki’s heard all day. All week.

“You’re the worst,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

Jungwon’s about to say something more when he stumbles over a jagged patch of the road. His sandal catches on a rock and his balance tips forward with a startled yelp.

Without thinking, Riki reaches out—hands finding Jungwon’s waist, arms tightening instinctively as he pulls him in, steadying him against his chest.

“Woah—careful,” he breathes.

They freeze.

Jungwon blinks up at him, wide-eyed. The space between them is gone. Riki can feel the shallow rise and fall of Jungwon’s breath against his own. There’s a faint scent of fabric softener and herbal shampoo. His hair’s a little tousled from the wind. His mouth, slightly parted in surprise.

Riki’s heart thunders.

He thinks: So, so pretty.

Jungwon stares back, equally stunned—but he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t laugh. Just looks. Like he’s seeing Riki properly for the first time.

Neither of them says a word.

The cicadas sing. The sky stretches on above them.

They’re so close. Jungwon’s lashes are long. His lips parted slightly. His cheeks flushed from the walk—or maybe from this. Riki doesn’t know. Can’t ask.

He could lean in. He could . Just a few centimeters and—

Jungwon blinks, clears his throat, and takes a step back.

“Thanks,” he says, voice a little hoarse.

Riki nods, says nothing.

They keep walking. But the space between them feels charged now—like the static before a summer storm.

Then Jungwon’s voice cuts the quiet, a whisper barely laced with laughter “So. Not a stripper.”

Riki lets out an explosive sound, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and nudges his shoulder “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

Jungwon grins, cheeks pink, but his voice is gentle when he says, “Probably not.”

“You’re really hard to read sometimes, you know,” Jungwon says after a pause. “You act like you’ve seen a hundred cities, but sometimes you look like a kid seeing the sky for the first time.”

Riki’s throat tightens. “That’s because I— I don’t think I ever looked at the sky properly before this town.”

Jungwon glances sideways at him, surprised by the honesty. His eyes soften.

They reach the front gate. The porch light is on. Halmeoni’s silhouette can be seen through the rice paper window, already setting out cups for tea.

Before they go in, Jungwon stops and says quietly, “If you ever want to talk about it. Whatever your job actually is.”

Riki looks at him, at the concern hidden behind the teasing. “I know,” he says, smiling faintly. “I think…I’m getting there.”

And they step into the warmth of the house, stars still glimmering above, their laughter still clinging to the road behind them like the faintest trail of moonlight.

The week unfolds with a comforting rhythm—familiar routines now tinged with a newfound tenderness,

Each lunchtime delivery to the hospital becomes a cherished ritual. The nurses, ever observant, exchange knowing looks and gentle teasing as Riki arrives, lunchbox in hand. Jungwon, ever the professional, accepts the meal with a grateful nod before disappearing back into the hospital's depths, leaving behind a trail of whispered giggles and speculative glances.

Evenings at the Yang household are warm and inviting. Dinners shared with Halmeoni and Jungwon are filled with laughter and stories. When Riki instinctively places an extra piece of meat on Jungwon's plate, Halmeoni's eyes twinkle with silent approval, her smile a quiet testament to the bond blossoming between the two young men.

Midweek brings a shift.

Jungwon is late. The clock ticks past 9 PM again, and concern etches itself back onto Halmeoni's face. Riki, already on his feet, makes his way to the hospital, settling into the waiting area with a quiet determination.

The night receptionist offers a sympathetic glance.

"It's a tough case tonight. Doctor Yang may not come out till much later."

"It's okay. I can wait," Riki replies, his voice steady.

She nods, a silent acknowledgment of his resolve.

Hours pass. The hospital's hum continues, a backdrop to Riki's vigil.

Near midnight, Jungwon emerges. Exhaustion clings to him, his eyes dull and shoulders heavy. He spots Riki, surprise flickering before he silently joins him, accepting the now-cold meal without a word.

Riki doesn't press. He simply places a reassuring hand on Jungwon's knee, offering silent support as the doctor eats.

After the meal, they pack up, Riki carrying Jungwon's things as they head out into the night.

The walk home is quiet until Jungwon speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"We lost her. The patient. Halmeoni Lee."

Silence stretches between them.

"We've lost people before. I mean, I'm a doctor. We literally have classes for this in med school. It's just—"

Riki reaches out, intertwining their fingers.

"It doesn't make it any easier," he offers.

Jungwon looks at him, eyes filled with sorrow and fatigue.

"Yeah."

They walk the rest of the way home hand in hand, a silent testament to shared burdens and unspoken understanding.

As they reach the house, the porch light casts a warm glow, guiding them home.

In the quiet of the night, amidst the cicadas' song and the stars overhead, a bond strengthens—a connection forged through shared experiences, silent support, and the unspoken promise of being there for one another.

The morning air is cool, still kissed by dew, and the sky is barely awake—soft pinks and silvers stretched across the horizon. Riki’s hands are caked in dirt, sleeves rolled up, sweat starting to gather at his temples as he works the fields like he’s done every morning for the past three weeks.

Jungwon stands on the porch, as usual, mug of barley tea in hand, quiet as the morning itself. His hair is damp from a shower, skin still flushed from sleep. There’s something peaceful about the way he watches—arms loose at his sides, gaze steady, face unreadable.

Riki straightens, brushes his hands off on his pants, and approaches slowly. The air between them shifts, charged and soft.

"You okay?" Riki asks gently.

Jungwon takes a sip of tea. His voice is calm, almost amused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

"You had a late night last night.”

Jungwon shrugs, the corner of his mouth tilting upward—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. “So did you. And you’re still here.”

Riki doesn’t respond right away. The words sit between them, heavy, edged. You’re still here —not just in the field, not just in this house—but in his life.

It wasn’t supposed to be this long.

Two weeks. That was the deal. A quiet escape, a place to catch his breath. But now, it’s stretching into three. And soon, four. The days blur—chickens, soil, midday sun, dinners with Halmeoni, lunchboxes with cold barley tea. Jungwon’s sleepy smiles, Halmeoni’s knowing eyes, the hush of nightfall, the sound of Jungwon’s laughter threading through the kitchen.

And still, Riki hasn’t told him.

Hasn’t told him about the stages, the photoshoots, the millions of followers. The double life he’s left hanging in Seoul like a coat he doesn’t want to put back on. He doesn’t even know if Jungwon watches idols anymore. Or if he’d be mad. Hurt. Or worse—distant.

Riki stands in front of him now, caught somewhere between the version of himself that belongs to cameras and lights—and this one, the one he’s grown into here. The version with dirt under his fingernails and a sleepy farm town rhythm in his chest.

He looks at Jungwon, at those clear, beautiful eyes that look back at him like he’s someone worth waiting for.

Riki doesn’t have the answers. Doesn’t know how long this can last. How long before someone recognises him at the market. Before Seoul calls. Before this ends.

But he knows this:

He wants to stay.

He wants to stay for as long as he can.

He wants to stay until Jungwon knows everything .

And maybe—just maybe—still wants him anyway.

So he just says quietly, “Yeah. I’m still here.” And Jungwon smiles like it’s enough. Like maybe, for now, it is.

On Jungwon’s next day off, the day had felt perfect—almost too perfect.

From the warm morning sun that filtered through the kitchen window to Halmeoni’s all-too-cheerful announcement of her mysteriously aching knees ( "you two young ones go, I’ll stay home and rest my poor bones" )—Riki had sensed something was brewing. A plan. A gentle, grandmother-shaped push.

Still, he didn’t resist.

He and Jungwon walked into town, side by side, brushing shoulders, sharing bites of toast wrapped in parchment and still warm from the kitchen. The café auntie cooed over them like they were her sons, bringing out extra slices of cake, throwing in "for my favourite boys" like it was a spell she’d cast a dozen times.

And then— that comment.

“I’m so glad you found such a handsome boyfriend, Jungwonie. He seems like a good one!”

Jungwon nearly choked on his water. Riki turned red from his ears down . They both mumbled denials, flustered and dazed, but neither exactly ran from it. And for the rest of the day, the words hung in the air like something waiting to come true.

They visited Jungwon’s childhood school, the library where he spent summers buried in books, the rice store his mom used to bring him to before it moved away. When they reached Sunoo’s bakery, it was warm and sweet-smelling, and Sunoo was already leaning over the counter like he’d been waiting for gossip.

“Jake’s back tomorrow! We must have dinner—double date!”

“We’re not dating, Sun,” Jungwon said, not quite looking at Riki. His voice was soft. The words didn’t sting.

They walked into the golden spill of evening, market lights starting to glow around them. Riki kept stealing glances at Jungwon, whose arms occasionally brushed his—whose fingers could be laced with his if he only reached out.

And then it happened.

That voice on the radio, so casual, so cruel:

“That was No Doubt by global K-pop sensation Enhypen, folks—”

Everything inside Riki stilled. His blood ran cold, his limbs stiffened. The vendor kept chatting, the street hummed with conversation, but the world tilted sharply under him.

“—members set to discuss contract renewal by the end of the month, with member Ni-ki currently on hiatus—”

His name. Ni-ki . Like a bullet to the gut.

He looked around sharply. Did anyone hear? Did anyone look up? Did anyone see him for who he really was?

But Jungwon was there, sweet and radiant and painfully oblivious, reading through the menu of the dessert shop they stopped by, smiling wide.

“What’s wrong, Riki? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

He tried to smile back. His chest ached. “I—I just remembered I’m really allergic to mangoes. Yeah.”

Jungwon frowned, concerned. “Then let’s get Oreo bingsu, yeah? I’ll make sure there’s no cross-contamination. Come on.”

And just like that, he was turning, trusting, leading Riki into the shop like nothing had happened.

Like Riki wasn’t lying through his teeth.

He followed silently, the echo of the radio ringing in his head, the walls of his perfect little life starting to crack.

How long can this last?

He doesn’t know.

But it doesn’t feel like much longer.

 The rest of the evening rolls on like the hiccup at the market never happened. The radio fades into memory, tucked away somewhere in Riki’s mind where things he can’t deal with just yet tend to go.

The walk back is slow and quiet, the sky painted a soft navy, cicadas singing in the rice fields again. No stars yet—just the heavy, humming warmth of a summer night settling in.

When they get home, they leave the yakgwa they bought earlier in the kitchen, still in its little wax-paper bag. They move through the rhythm of the evening in near silence—changing into pajamas, brushing their teeth side by side. Jungwon hums tunelessly as he washes up, and Riki watches the mirror fog up between them.

They’re just about to head into their rooms when Jungwon turns.

“So...tomorrow. Dinner, yeah?”

“With Jake?”

“And Sunoo.”

“Yeah, I’m down to go.”

“You don’t have to,” Jungwon says, voice lighter now, but something shy flickers in his eyes.

“I want to. Sunoo invited me too, you know,” Riki teases.

Jungwon ducks his head, biting his bottom lip. The hallway lamp spills golden light over him, and Riki sees the faint pink dusting his cheeks.

“Yeah...double date. Sunoo’s just like that sometimes...”

Riki laughs softly. He’s halfway through his door when Jungwon speaks again, quieter this time.

“Riki.”

He turns. Jungwon is still standing there, small and warm in the hallway, hands twisted into the sleeves of his sleep shirt.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jungwon says, barely above a whisper. “Even if…even if you’re just staying for a little while.”

Riki’s breath catches. His chest feels tight, like something inside it is expanding too fast to contain. The moment stretches between them—fragile, suspended—like a thread of spider silk trembling in the dark.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” he replies, and every word is true. “Even if it’s just…for now.”

They look at each other in the hush that follows, something unspoken flaring between them. Something that feels like longing, like wanting more time.

Then Jungwon steps forward.

Just a step. Just enough.

He presses a soft kiss to Riki’s cheek—quick, barely-there, but it sends a tremor through him.

“Good night, Riki,” Jungwon mumbles, already pulling back, already fleeing.

He disappears into his room and shuts the door with a quiet thud .

Riki stands in the hallway, still frozen, hand lifted slightly like he could catch the kiss midair. His heart is thudding so hard he can hear it in his ears.

Later, lying in bed, he stares up at the ceiling, fingers grazing the spot on his cheek where Jungwon kissed him.

Luck, he thinks, lips parting on a breathless laugh.

Or…

something more.

Riki wakes at 5:07 AM. The same time he has since the day he arrived. The sky is barely turning blue, and the early summer breeze lifts through the fields as he starts the morning’s work. It’s meditative now, almost comforting—the soil, the rhythm, the quiet.

What’s not comforting is the way his face still burns every time he remembers the kiss from the night before. Just the cheek, but still.

He checks the house window around 7:30. No movement.

At 8:12, still nothing.

At 9:00, Jungwon finally stumbles into the kitchen. His hair is a sleepy mess, his pyjammas falling off one shoulder.

“Oh, you’re up,” Riki says, voice a little higher than normal.

Jungwon grunts and rubs his eyes. “Shut up. I never get two days off in a row.”

Halmeoni’s already at the stove, and she coos at the sight of him. “Aigoo, you look like you just rolled out of a pile of laundry. Come, come. Eat.”

Jungwon slides into the chair across from Riki. For one long, horrible second, their eyes meet—and then Jungwon snaps his gaze away like he’s been electrocuted.

Riki tries to take a sip of tea to hide the fact that his whole neck feels like it’s been sunburned.

Halmeoni doesn’t comment, but she’s humming a trot tune under her breath that sounds suspiciously knowing.

Later, out in the fields, they return to some semblance of normal—if “normal” includes sudden bashful silences every time their hands so much as graze.

“Wipe your sweat,” Riki mutters, gesturing to Jungwon’s forehead.

“I am wiping it,” Jungwon huffs, jabbing at it with his sleeve.

“You’re just smearing dirt on your face.”

“Do you want me to leave and never come back?”

Riki rolls his eyes, takes the towel slung over his shoulder, and gently presses it to Jungwon’s forehead.

Jungwon goes still. Like, statue-still.

The towel lingers a second too long before Riki pulls away. Jungwon’s face is so red Riki half expects steam to rise off it.

Neither of them mentions it. They go back to work, cheeks pink, shoulders brushing more often than necessary.

They wave goodbye to Halmeoni around 6:30, who all but shoos them out the door with a suspicious glimmer in her eyes.

Jungwon’s dressed a little nicer tonight—a crisp shirt and jeans. Riki had tried to match the vibe, but he still feels like he’s about to meet the parents.

He’s excited. Nervous, but excited. Another best friend. The mysterious Jake, the one who stole Sunoo’s heart. Someone important to Jungwon.

When they arrive at the cozy little restaurant, Sunoo spots them instantly and waves them over.

“Wonie!!” he exclaims, pulling Jungwon into a dramatic hug. “I’ve missed your stupid face.”

“You saw me yesterday hyung” Jungwon laughs, hugging him back.

Then Sunoo turns. “Jake, this is—”

But Jake’s already moved, sweeping Jungwon into a warm hug. “Wonie!”

And then Jake’s eyes land on Riki. And they widen.

No—explode.

Riki’s heart skips three beats. He knows that look. The oh-my-god-I-just-spotted-a-celebrity-in-the-wild look.

“Nice to meet you, Jake!” Riki blurts. “Actually—I, uh—really need to go to the bathroom. Maybe you could show me where it is?”

He grabs Jake’s outstretched hand and yanks him toward the back.

They push through the curtain and into the narrow hallway behind the kitchen. Riki spins around and slaps a hand over Jake’s mouth before the older boy can make a sound.

“Please,” he hisses. “Do not say a single word right now.”

Jake lets out a muffled “Mmhf!?” behind his palm.

Riki slowly lowers his hand. Jake blinks.

Then—“ Holy shit, ” Jake breathes. “You’re Ni-ki from Enhypen.”

“Yeah. I mean. Kinda. I’m Riki here.”

“The news said you were on hiatus.”

“Yeah…” Riki rubs his neck. “That’s…true.”

“Does anyone here know? Does your label know? Does Sunoo know?? ”

“No. No. And no. No one knows I’m here. No one even recognises me. I didn’t think I’d get away with it this long, but—please.” His voice drops. “Please don’t say anything.”

Jake stares at him, mouth ajar. If Riki didn’t feel like throwing up, he would've laughed.

“That’s—how is that even possible, you’re literally—”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Riki mutters. “But here, I’m just Riki. I’m whoever Sunoo said I was. I’m begging you, don’t blow this.”

Jake runs a hand through his hair, blinking like he’s trying to reboot. “Does Jungwon know?”

Riki hesitates. And then he shakes his head. “No.”

“You have to tell him.”

“I will. I’m going to. I just… need time. Just a little more.”

Jake exhales hard, looking conflicted. His gaze softens slightly.

“…He really doesn’t know?”

“No,” Riki says. “And I really, really don’t want him to find out from someone else.”

Jake watches him for a long beat. And then he nods.

“Okay fine, I’ll keep quiet. But you have to tell him soon. You can’t just keep pretending. Jungwon’s my best friend too—he’s not dumb. And he doesn’t deserve to be blindsided later.”

Riki exhales like he’s been holding his breath for three days. “Thank you. Seriously.”

Jake shakes his head, still dazed. “This is insane. I’m never letting Sunoo live this down.”

Riki groans. “Please do not tell Sunoo either.”

“Bro,” Jake says, opening the curtain again, “ that I cannot promise.”

 To give credit where credit is due, Jake is a fantastic actor.

If Riki weren’t still sweating from the hallway showdown, he might’ve even believed the wide, clueless grin Jake puts on as they return to the table.

As they slide back into the booth, Sunoo does a dramatic double-take.

“Excuse me,” he quips, “did you two fall in?”

“Bathroom emergency,” Jake says smoothly. “Handled like a pro.”

“Glad you bonded,” Sunoo says brightly, resting his chin on Jake’s shoulder.

Jungwon raises a suspicious brow but lets it go. He’s already sipping from his water, and he doesn’t seem to notice the way Riki is suddenly much quieter, shoulders just a little too stiff.

They talk about growing up in town, the way Sunoo used to collect stickers of K-pop idols in middle school and tape them to Jake’s notebooks before they were dating.

“How did that work?” Riki asks, grinning.

Jake shrugs. “I thought he just liked borrowing my stationery.”

“I thought I was being so subtle,” Sunoo sighs. “You’re lucky I was persistent.”

“Lucky?” Jungwon snorts. “Jake, he had to chase you down for, like, two years.”

“I was shy!” Jake protests.

“You were oblivious,” Jungwon mutters. “And then I had to be their permanent third wheel.”

“Oh, hush,” Sunoo coos, leaning forward with a grin. “Well, you clearly have another wheel now, baby. We’re a full functioning car.”

Jungwon sputters. Riki nearly chokes on his water.

Jake coughs violently into his elbow.

Sunoo beams, smug.

Dinner goes on—filled with laughter, teasing, good food, and the warmth of old friends reunited. Jake is careful. He asks no suspicious questions, lets Riki steer clear of anything that might raise eyebrows. Riki is grateful, but he’s also distracted.

Because every time Jungwon smiles at him, every time their knees bump under the table, every time he laughs like Riki is just Riki and nothing more—he feels a little more like he’s running out of time.

And he probably is.

Maybe tonight was the warning shot.

Outside the restaurant, the evening breeze is cooler now, brushing through the trees lining the sidewalk. Sunoo and Jake wrap around Jungwon in a tight hug.

“Come over more,” he hears Sunoo whisper. “We miss you.”

“I’ll try,” Jungwon says, voice soft.

Jake claps his back fondly, then turns to Riki with a raised brow and a smile that’s almost too nice.

He pulls Riki into a hug. Lowers his voice.

“Tell him,” he murmurs near Riki’s ear. “And you owe me. Big time.”

Riki groans under his breath. “I know.”

Jake leans back with a wink and says loudly, “Hope to see you again, Riki!”

“Yeah,” Riki says, suddenly shy. “Me too.”

The walk back is long enough for the silence to settle gently between them. Comfortable. The cicadas are quieter now, the night breathing slow.

Their hands brush. Again.

This time, Riki swears he sees sparks shoot up the length of his arm.

Jungwon laughs quietly, still staring forward. “They’re really good together, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Riki says, voice low. “You’ve known them forever?”

“Since kindergarten. Sunoo and I grew up together, Jake moved here from Australia when I was like six. They were inseparable.”

Riki listens to the fondness in Jungwon’s voice. The nostalgia.

“And now,” Jungwon says with a sigh, “they’re getting married next year. Can you believe it? Time really flies.”

“Yeah,” Riki says. “It really does.”

Riki is quiet for a moment. Then “And you?”

Jungwon glances sideways. “Me?”

Riki hums, and begs his voice not to tremble. “Did you ever…date? Or think about getting married?”

His heart hammers against his ribs.

Jungwon’s not looking at him. He’s watching the road, like he hasn’t just asked something enormous. Like he didn’t just pull the whole thread.

“I…” Riki clears his throat. “I never really had the time to think about it. With…life and everything.”

“Same,” Jungwon says, almost to himself. “School. The accident. Residency. The farm. There wasn’t space to want anything else.”

They walk a few more steps.

“But…” Jungwon adds, voice quieter now, “yeah. Someday. I think I’d like to be married. Maybe even adopt some kids. Give Halmeoni more family. It’d be nice.”

Riki looks over, and Jungwon’s face is turned just enough for the moonlight to catch the edge of his cheek.

He looks soft. Hopeful.

“Yeah,” Riki says. “Same.”

Their hands brush again.

Neither pulls away.

The rest of the walk is silent.

But it’s not empty.

It’s full of things neither of them knows how to say. Not yet.

The next day moves like all the others. Morning sun over the hills, the earthy scent of overturned soil, cicadas humming low as Riki works the field with slow, practiced rhythm.

Jungwon, unexpectedly, joins them during lunch, having finished errands with Halmeoni in town. They bicker again, this time over how deeply he should be digging the furrows. Jungwon’s hair sticks to his forehead. Riki presses a cool towel to it without thinking. Jungwon flinches, freezes, then relaxes into the touch, face flushed.

They don’t say anything about it.

When the sun begins to fall, they eat dinner with Halmeoni under the porch light—a little later given Jungwon’s overtime for the lunch break. The stars are just beginning to peek out.

It’s almost too easy to forget.

That Riki’s supposed to leave.

That it’s his last week. Or…so he says .

Maybe another week wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe he could stay until the first frost. Just to see what the trees look like when they turn gold. Just until Halmeoni finishes pickling the fall kimchi. Just until Jungwon stops looking away whenever their hands brush.

Just until...

The phone is cold in his hands.

He hasn’t touched it since that first night. It had buzzed for hours back then, messages pouring in faster than he could delete them. He turned it off and buried it at the bottom of his bag. Became Riki instead of Ni-ki .

Now, for some reason—maybe guilt, maybe restlessness, maybe the quiet hum of cicadas outside his window—he turns it back on.

It takes a second. The screen flickers.

And then—

Buzz.

Buzz buzz buzz.

The notifications come like a flood.

Messages. Missed calls. Emails. Voice memos. Notifications from the group chat. Photos. Panic.

“Dude where ARE you???”

“Okay, we told them you went back to Japan. No worries bro we got your back. But like. Reply sometime??”

“You said a couple weeks, dude. It’s been almost a month.”

“Are you dead? Manager-nim is like freaking out, it’s kinda hilarious ngl.”

“They called your parents. They said they haven’t seen you either. Everyone’s kinda losing it.”

“Just tell us where you’re at, man. Sunghoon’s been nervous all week.”

“Company put you on hiatus or something???”

“Jay’s been eating his feelings. I think he’s gone through 3 loaves of bread .”

And finally—

“Ni-ki. Tell us where you are right now. Before we send someone looking.”

Riki stares at the screen.

His heart is pounding. Too loud.

It’s not that he didn’t expect this.

It’s that he almost forgot.

Almost believed the world would pause with him. That if he stayed quiet long enough, if he disappeared softly enough, no one would come tugging at the thread.

But they have.

He exhales. Shoves the phone face-down into his blanket.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaks—probably Jungwon heading to bed late, as usual. The soft click of a door closing follows.

Riki closes his eyes.

He wants to stay.

But the world is starting to notice he’s missing.

And it’s not going to stay quiet much longer.

The sky is overcast. A soft, pale grey light drapes over the fields. The air feels still.

Jungwon is at the hospital today, back in his doctor’s white coat, probably scribbling prescriptions or coaxing tiny children to stop crying long enough to check their ears. He’d left early, barely having time to smile at Riki as he waved goodbye over breakfast. 

Riki works the morning half-heartedly, fixing the netting over the peppers, helping sweep the porch. Halmeoni watches him from her seat on the low stoop, folding perilla leaves into bundles. She doesn’t say much.

It’s nearly lunchtime when she speaks.

“Riki dear,” she says softly, barely above the rustle of leaves. “Is everything okay?”

Riki pauses, halfway through hanging a basket to dry. The words are warm, familiar. They should soothe him.

Instead, something inside him splinters.

He lowers the basket.

“I…” His voice is hoarse. “Halmeoni, I’ve…I’m stuck. And I don’t know what to do.”

Halmeoni blinks up at him, wise eyes narrowed slightly from the sun. “Oh, poor thing. What is it?”

Riki sits next to her. The wood is warm beneath him, and it creaks gently under his weight. He stares out at the field. The tomatoes are coming in now. A few of them hang, round and red, beneath the leaves.

“I lied,” he says, almost a whisper. “I lied. And it’s bad now. And I can’t fix it. Or at least…I think it’s too late to fix things.”

Halmeoni doesn’t ask what the lie was.

She just nods slowly. Turns her gaze out to the same field.

“There are lies that grow like weeds,” she says eventually. “The longer they stay, the harder they are to pull up.”

Riki swallows.

“And then,” she continues, “there are lies that look like flowers. Pretty. Harmless. Until you realise they’ve bloomed in the wrong garden.”

Riki’s hands are clenched in his lap.

“I didn’t mean to lie. Not at first. But then Jungwon was just—he was so kind. And this place was so quiet. I didn’t know I could feel peace like this again.”

“And now?”

“Now I feel like I’m going to lose it all if I tell the truth. But if I don’t—” He laughs bitterly. “—I might lose it anyway.”

Halmeoni hums.

There’s a silence between them, as steady and deep as the soil.

“You remind me of Jungwon,” she says gently. “He’s like that too. Thinks he has to hold the whole world together with both hands. Even if it’s breaking him.”

Riki turns to her. Her expression is soft, but knowing. Not pushing, not prying. Just…open.

She pats his knee.

“You don’t have to tell me your secrets, dear. But don’t let them poison what’s still blooming.”

Her hand is warm. Steady.

“And if Jungwon’s as good as I believe he is,” she adds, “then it’s not too late. Not yet.”

Riki doesn’t answer.

But his throat feels tight, and something wet stings the corners of his eyes.

He nods once.

Just once.

That night, Riki sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his old phone like it’s a bomb.

The house is quiet. Halmeoni’s retired in her room to rest. Jungwon’s not home yet—he said something about stopping by Sunoo’s after his shift. That gives Riki maybe an hour.

He doesn’t know why it feels like now or never.

His thumb hovers over the contact list. His stomach twists.

He scrolls.

Past his manager’s name. Past the dozens of missed calls from unknown Seoul numbers. Past Sunghoon, Heeseung, even the group chat that now has a thousand unread messages.

He stops at Jay.

Jay who always called last, not first. Who didn’t spam. Who waited. Who once found him in a Seoul convenience store bathroom having a quiet panic attack and just sat on the floor next to him until he could breathe again.

If anyone deserves to know he’s not dead, it’s Jay.

He hits call.

It rings once.

Twice.

Three ti—

“...You better not be a damn hallucination,” comes Jay’s voice, low and rough, like it hasn’t seen sleep in days. “You better not be—”

“It’s me,” Riki says softly, throat tightening. “Hey.”

There’s a long silence.

Then, quiet, disbelieving, “Holy fuck, Riki.”

More silence. A door creaks on the other side. A chair scrapes.

“Are you safe?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine. Just…not ready to come back yet.”

Jay lets out a breath. A familiar one—half relief, half restrained fury. “You dropped off the face of the Earth for almost a month, dude. They called your parents. The company’s losing it. Sunghoon’s been stress-watching dramas. I think I caught Heeseung hyung praying the other day.”

“I’m sorry,” Riki whispers.

“No, don’t—” Jay cuts himself off. Then exhales again. “I mean. You’re alive. I’m mad, yeah, but I’m glad. Just…what the hell happened?”

“I just…snapped,” Riki admits. “I got on a plane and left. I couldn’t do it anymore. Not the schedule, not the cameras, not even being myself. I had to stop. Just…stop.”

Jay is quiet for a long time.

Then, gently, “Where are you?”

“I can’t say. Not yet.”

“Riki—”

“There’s this guy,” Riki blurts, before he can talk himself out of it. “And a house. And a town so small they still hang laundry outside and sell sweet potatoes off trucks. I’m…working on a farm.”

Jay makes a choked sound. “You? Farming?”

“Shut up,” Riki mutters, but his lips twitch. He feels like crying.

Jay laughs faintly. But there’s tension under it, like he’s not sure whether to be amused or afraid. “So why’d you call?”

Riki swallows. “Because…because I don’t know what to do.”

Jay sighs. The sound is soft, older than their years. 

“You have to come back, Rik.”

“I—”

“Listen. They’re literally about to send P.I.s to look for you. So unless you want paparazzi and half the Korean press storming your little sweet-potato town, you have to come back. Contract renewal talks begin next week, Riki. You can’t miss it. Even if…”

He pauses.

“Even if you don’t want to renew it.”

The weight of it slams into Riki. That unspoken possibility. That everything might end.

Nine years of blood, sweat, and performance. Eleven years with Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung. Almost half his life.

“I met someone.”

There’s a short pause.

Jay’s voice is wary now. “O…okay?”

“He lives in the town. He gave me a place to stay. He gave me the job on the farm, I take care of his grandma too. He’s great, hyung. He’s a doctor. Did you know he used to be a trainee at SM? Isn’t that crazy? He graduated SNU and he’s so pretty and so—he’s everything.”

Riki’s voice cracks.

“He’s everything.”

Jay is silent. Then, carefully, “Rik…what are you trying to say?”

“I think I’m in love.”

It echoes, even after he’s said it. The finality of it. The truth of it.

Jay doesn’t respond right away.

Then, slowly “And he doesn’t know you’re famous.”

“I never told him,” Riki admits. “I didn’t think it’d matter. I didn’t think I’d stay this long. And now I think about him when I wake up and when I go to sleep and—I never told him.”

Jay sighs. Long and low.

“Riki…he’s going to find out. If not from you, he’ll find out when HYBE literally prints out newspaper articles about your vanishing act. You need to tell him. Then you need to come back. Before it’s too late.”

Riki closes his eyes.

He already knows Jay’s right. He knew before he dialed.

But the words still hurt.

And somewhere in his heart, Jungwon’s voice whispers: “Even if you’re just staying for a little while.”

He bites his lip. Hard.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll tell him.”

“You sure?”

“No,” Riki says. “But I’ll try.”

It’s a perfect morning.

The air is warm, the fields are gold, and Jungwon is sitting on the porch, barefoot with a chipped teacup in his hand, eyes half-lidded from sleep. His bedhead is still tousled, his scrub top loose over a t-shirt, and he’s smiling. At him.

Riki almost drops the hoe he’s holding.

He thinks: I want this.

He thinks: I could do this forever.

The sun casts a gentle light over the fields, and for a moment, Riki feels like he’s floating in a dream he never wants to wake from. He watches Jungwon sip his tea, one hand lazily patting the stray cat curled by his foot, and he aches.

He aches.

And he decides.

I’ll tell him now.

He wipes his palms on his pants, heart pounding, and starts walking up the slope, toward the porch, toward him . Toward the truth, the terrifying, beautiful truth that’s burning in his chest.

But just as he opens his mouth—

Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

Jungwon startles. He pulls out the hospital pager from his pocket, squints at the message, then sighs. “Emergency. Damn. I guess I’m skipping breakfast.”

“No—wait—” Riki blurts, but it’s too late.

“I’ll eat something at the hospital,” Jungwon calls, already hurrying inside. “Tell Halmeoni I left early!”

In a blur of sky-blue scrubs, a toothbrush in his mouth, and a clumsy wave goodbye, Jungwon vanishes.

And with him, Riki’s moment.

 Riki can’t stop fidgeting for the rest of the day. The weight in his chest hasn’t lifted. His limbs feel stiff. His throat is dry. Every second he doesn’t tell Jungwon feels like a countdown ticking louder in his ear.

He follows Halmeoni through the market, baskets in hand. She’s arguing about beef ribs with Madam Jang like she’s preparing for war.

“You want how much for short rib? I could raise and marry a cow for that price!”

“Your grandson’s rich, he can afford it!”

“He’s a doctor, not a chaebol!”

As the two women bicker, Riki zones out, eyes sweeping the town square. People are buying vegetables, someone’s playing trot music on a speaker, and—

Then it happens.

A burst of noise—giddy, high-pitched voices. Kids run through the market, breathless and wide-eyed.

“There’s a new plane at the airport!”

“It’s so tiny and shiny! Like a spy jet!”

“It looks rich!!”

Riki’s heart stops.

He knows. He knows before he turns around.

“Halmeoni,” he says quickly, trying to keep his voice level. “I think I left—uh, the—rice cooker on. I should go—”

“Riki!”

Four figures are moving through the market now, cutting through the crowd like a storm front. His manager. Jay. Heeseung. Sunghoon.

They look exhausted. Sweaty. Desperate.

Jay sees him first and his expression softens, lips mouthing I’m sorry.

Sunghoon looks two seconds from tackling him with a hug.

Heeseung’s got his hands on his hips like someone’s trying not to cry.

And his manager—oh god.

His manager is marching straight toward him, face red with fury.

“Nishimura Riki,” he bellows. “You are in BIG trouble!”

Heads turn. Market stalls go quiet. A chicken squawks somewhere.

Riki freezes.

And just like that, the illusion shatters.

Everything he built here—quiet mornings, whispered secrets, shy nudges in the orchard—it all comes crashing down in the middle of the produce lane.

Halmeoni turns to him, blinking in confusion.

“Riki dear,” she says. “What is going on?”

Riki stares at the people from his other life, here in the one he wasn’t ready to leave.

He can’t move.

He’s been caught.

The silence doesn’t last long.

“Are you kidding me?” Riki’s manager roars, loud enough to send a flock of pigeons scattering from the eaves.

Riki flinches.

His manager storms forward, winded from the heat and the chaos, but riding on pure fury. “Never— never —in my entire career have I had an idol who disappears on his entire team for a whole month leading up to contract renewals!”

People freeze mid-step. Market chatter dies down. A nearby butcher stops slicing pork belly.

“What the hell was that, Riki? You ghosted us! We thought you were dead! HYBE was about to send out a damn Amber Alert before Jay finally got you on the phone!”

More murmuring. More eyes.

“I—” Riki starts, throat dry, but his manager cuts him off.

“You left without a word. A single text, no location. Nothing. What about your fans? What about your team? You didn’t log into Weverse, you didn’t respond to a single message. You know how many trucks got sent to our building? How many hashtags were trending with your name? People crying. People screaming. People— worried. ”

Ahjumma jaws are dropping. A little boy drops his sweet potato skewer. The tension is thick, disbelief rippling through the market like a heatwave.

And still, his manager isn’t done.

“You’re Ni-ki from Enhypen . One of the most famous idols in Korea. You think you can just vanish into thin air? You think this is a joke ?”

Riki feels like he’s shrinking under the weight of it all. He knows he deserves this. But not here. Not in the middle of the market. Not in front of—

“Excuse me, young man, ” comes a firm, scratchy voice from behind Riki.

His eyes widen.

Halmeoni.

Little, 80-year-old, cardigan-wearing, cane-holding Halmeoni, barely past his elbow in height, who’d been clutching a bag of bean sprouts and still-warm dumplings, now steps forward like a general before battle.

“That,” she says clearly, pointing at his manager, “is no way to speak in a market.”

“Halmeoni—” Riki whispers, mortified.

“No way to speak to a child,” she adds, eyes narrowing.

“He’s not a child,” his manager snaps. “He’s a 24-year-old adult who makes twenty times my salary and should know how much chaos his disappearing act caused!”

“I see,” Halmeoni sniffs, adjusting her hat. “So that’s how you speak to a child. And this is how you speak to elders?”

His manager blinks.

Halmeoni squares her shoulders.

The ahjummas in the back murmur a proud tsk tsk , nodding in support. Someone mutters “good for her” and a bag of tofu is slammed down in solidarity.

Riki doesn’t know whether to cry, bow in shame, or laugh out of sheer panic. His manager looks like he’s about to explode and combust all at once.

But Riki knows—his manager isn’t bad . He’s just angry. Hurt. So was everyone.

His manager falters. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Do you shout at all your clients in public? Or just this one?”

“Halmeoni…” Riki mutters, eyes stinging. “It’s okay.”

But it’s not.

She looks up at him then. And her eyes—God, her eyes—are full of such quiet, unshakeable love.

And that breaks him more than any yelling ever could.

Because she doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t judge. Just protects .

He wants to fall on his knees and apologise to her. To the whole town. To himself.

He was only supposed to stay a week. Maybe two.

But he got caught up. Got too used to the quiet. To mornings on the porch, to calloused hands in dirt. He’d gotten swept up in the rhythm of Jungwon’s laughter, in the weight of peaches in his hand, in tea on the porch and calluses on his palms. 

Oh god. Jungwon.

He’s still at the hospital. Still smiling, probably. Still trusting him. And he has no idea this entire disaster is happening in the center of town.

He looks at his manager again.

He’s quieter now. Still mad, but tired. His eyes flick to the people watching, then back to him.

“Ni-ki,” he says, gentler, “you are getting your stuff. Now. The jet is waiting to take you back to Seoul.”

“I can’t,” Riki says, throat tight. “I—just—please. I need to do something first.”

“No,” his manager says, still trying to rein it in, but edged with desperation. “No, Riki. Not before the press catches on that the entire goddamn group and I are standing in a rural market next to bags of rice. We’re leaving. Now.”

“I can’t,” Riki says. “Please—”

“You can, and you will. ”

Riki looks around, chest heaving.

The market’s still watching. His members are behind him now—Jay looks heartbroken. Sunghoon’s biting his lip like he wants to say something but can’t. Heeseung looks halfway ready to grab his bags for him.

Halmeoni’s hand touches his elbow.

“My dear,” she says quietly. “Do what you need to do.”

His throat burns.

“I’m sorry,” Riki whispers to her. “I’m so sorry, Halmeoni. I didn’t mean for it to end like this.”

She nods, as if she already knew it would.

He bows his head to her, tears pricking his lashes, and helps her slowly home—walking behind her like a shameful grandson.

He doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t deserve this town. 

His members follow, quiet. His manager sighs behind them, muttering into his phone about calling the driver.

Riki doesn’t look back at the market.

He’s too afraid that when he does, everything that mattered will already be gone.

This is what people mean when they say the walk of shame .

Riki keeps his eyes down as he follows Halmeoni back through the village, shoulders hunched. He can feel the stares still lingering from the townspeople as they pass— the whispers that followed. The shame is clinging to his skin, hot and humiliating.

Halmeoni doesn’t say much. She just loops her arm through his, frail hand steady against his forearm. She walks slowly, like always, but every step feels like it drags him deeper into regret.

“I’m sorry,” Riki chokes out, again and again, barely louder than a whisper.

She pats his arm gently. “I know, my dear. I know.”

The house feels different when they arrive. His sanctuary, his dream, now filled with harsh reality.

His manager and members stand awkwardly in the living room. Jay gives him a look — part sympathy, part told you so . Heeseung and Sunghoon hover like mannequins in their too-polished jackets, completely out of place among the old fans and hanging herbs.

Halmeoni doesn’t let them sit still. She’s fussing around Riki, trying to help him pack, tsking over how much he didn’t touch during his stay.

“You brought this here?” she mutters, holding up a designer hoodie like it’s a mystery.

“I just…I thought I'd need it.”

“You were working barefoot in a t-shirt. Aish.” She moves to the kitchen, mumbling. “Take the jam, at least. And the wine. Wait, I’ll pack some kimchi.”

She glares at the manager on her way past. The manager, who clearly wasn’t prepared to be bullied by an eighty-year-old woman with flower-print house slippers, raises his hands in surrender.

Riki can’t even smile. He’s trying not to cry. He can’t believe this is how it ends — the peaceful mornings, the tea on the porch, the rustle of crops under a sky too wide to be real. All of it slipping away because he couldn’t tell the truth when he had the chance.

And worst of all—

He didn’t even get to say goodbye to—

The front door creaks open.

“Halmeoni? Who are all these people?” A breathless voice calls out. “The hospital said something happened in the market—”

Riki freezes.

He turns—

And there he is.

Jungwon.

Still in scrubs, lanyard around his neck, hair mussed from what must’ve been a run straight from the hospital in the middle of his shift. There’s a faint flush to his cheeks, and his eyes land on the room, blinking at the polished strangers, the open duffle, the jam jars on the table.

Riki’s heart clenches at the sight of him.

He’s never looked more beautiful.

He’s never felt so far away.

The confusion clears in Jungwon’s eyes when he sees him. Their gazes lock, and Riki can feel the walls closing in.

“Why don’t you two talk in Riki’s room,” Halmeoni says gently, breaking the silence. “Just for a little while.”

She ushers them along, throwing one last dagger-glare at the manager, who mimes zipping his lips like a scolded child.

Jungwon doesn’t say anything. Just gestures for Riki to lead the way.

They walk slowly down the hall, the air thick with unsaid things.

Riki’s hands shake as he opens the door.

The room is exactly how he left it.

Unmade futon on the floor. Empty tea cup by the window.

Everything soft. Everything still.

He turns. Jungwon stands just inside the threshold.

“…You want to tell me what’s going on?” Jungwon asks, voice low.

Riki swallows.

“I was going to tell you,” he says. “I swear, I was.”

Jungwon doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

So Riki steps closer.

And finally, finally—

“I’m not… just a runaway farmhand.”

He readies himself to let it all out. One breath at a time.

“You’re an idol,” Jungwon says.

He says it like it’s the weather. Like it’s something that was always true.

Riki’s head snaps up so fast he nearly knocks over the lamp. “What?”

“You’re an idol, aren’t you?” Jungwon says, arms crossed loosely. He nods toward the living room. “Those guys out there. They’re your members. You’re in that—what is it—HYBE boygroup? Enhypen?”

Riki’s brain short-circuits.

It actually sputters and dies.

“How do you—?”

“I searched you up. Your first night here.”

“What?”

“You were going to live with us, be alone with my grandmother,” Jungwon says matter-of-factly. “You think I wasn’t going to check if you had a criminal record or something?”

Riki’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

He's stunned into complete, blinking silence.

“You knew?” he finally breathes. “This whole time?”

“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.” Jungwon shrugs, simple and soft.

The guilt hits like a landslide.

All this time. He was so scared. So worried he’d be treated differently. He never once stopped to think that Jungwon might’ve seen him all along—and chose not to say a word.

“I’m sorry,” is all Riki can manage.

Jungwon’s expression shifts. Sadder now. Softer. Like this is already goodbye.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “You stayed longer than the first two weeks. You helped the house. You helped Halmeoni. Unpaid, too. I should be thanking you.”

Riki flinches. The politeness in Jungwon’s voice is killing him.

It’s the kind of kindness that means goodbye.

“Must’ve been a steep fall from idol life, huh?” Jungwon says, smiling faintly, like the idea is funny. “The chickens. The peaches. The crops…”

He trails off. Jungwon smiles, but his eyes betray him. 

They're glossy. They're tired. They’re breaking.

Riki wants to scream. He wants to say: I’d trade every stage for one more morning on the porch with you. But all that comes out is a breath.

Jungwon nods, like he’s made peace with it. “Time to go back to Seoul, yeah? I guess…I’ll see you on the internet. Or the radio or something.”

He raises a hand in a little mock salute, and Riki’s heart shatters clean through. Jungwon’s saying it like it doesn’t hurt. Like it won’t rip him apart when the door finally closes.

“Jungwon—”

“Riki, please.” Jungwon’s voice trembles. His smile breaks.

Riki sees it now—he sees how hard Jungwon has been trying to stay composed, to stay kind, to protect something. Himself. Maybe both of them.

His eyes are shining.

His lips are trembling.

He’s about to fall apart.

Riki stares at him, stunned by how heartbreak looks so beautiful on someone who’s always been so strong.

Riki wants to kiss him. He’s wanted to kiss him for weeks now—ever since that night in the hall, the sweet imprint of Jungwon’s kiss pressed to his cheek like a secret.

“Jungwon, I—”

He’s ready. Finally. To say it.

You changed me. You saved me. I love you.

But Jungwon stops him again, voice breaking now.

“Please, Rik. Don’t.” He steps back. Like it’ll hurt less if there’s space between them.

“Just go,” he whispers. “Go back to Seoul. I’ve given up too many dreams there to do it again now.”

Riki doesn’t breathe.

He doesn’t speak.

He just stands there, crying quietly as Jungwon turns away.

And in the silence that follows—

It’s just two boys. 

And the things they didn’t say. 

And the time they never had.

The sun has barely tilted past noon when Riki stands by the porch with his Prada duffels, the familiar weight of his life in glossy fabric and worn straps. Another bag sits at his feet — one Halmeoni insisted he bring. Jam, wine, dried peaches, her kimchi packed into Tupperware. “Seoul food is tasteless,” she’d grumbled as she zipped it up.

His manager waits near the car, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jay hovers nearby, quiet, carrying one of the bags with him like a peace offering.

Riki turns to Halmeoni, his throat already tight.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of it.

Halmeoni’s eyes, warm and dry despite everything, crinkle as she cups his cheek.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, dear,” she says. “It’s not your fault. You were good here. Good for us. Good for him.”

Riki bites back a sob.

He doesn’t want to leave.

He can’t .

He glances up at the staircase, hope flickering weakly in his chest.

Jungwon doesn’t come down.

“I—I should—” he starts, but Halmeoni reaches for his wrist gently.

“He’s just…he’s going to take some time,” she says softly. “He feels left alone again. He’ll be okay, Riki aegi. I’ll take care of him. You will both be okay. ”

Left alone again.

Riki’s heart gives out at those words.

The ache in his chest isn’t metaphorical — it hurts , sharp and deep like something’s splintered open inside.

He takes a step toward the stairs. Just one. Just in case. But—

A cough behind him.

Jay. Holding the duffel carefully. His eyes are soft. Sad.

“The jet, Rik,” he says gently.

Right.

The jet. Seoul.

The world that never really stopped spinning, even when he tried to pause it here.

Riki turns back to Halmeoni. He hugs her like he might fall apart otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I loved it here. I love the farm. I love you. I love—”

The last words choke up in his throat.

I love him.

But he can’t say it. Not like this.

Halmeoni pats his back, firm and comforting.

“We know, aegi. We love you too.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Down the porch steps. Into the car. Away from the closest thing he’s felt to home since he was a child in Japan.

As the car pulls away, Riki doesn’t look back.

Not because he doesn’t want to — but because he knows if he sees that farmhouse again, he’ll run.

He’ll run, and never stop.

The jet lands at Incheon under a sunset too pink, too pretty for how hollow he feels.

Everything after that moves fast. Too fast.

The van. The drive. The flashing lights of a city he used to love. The elevator back up to the dorms that still smell like laundry and face toner and someone's protein powder.

Sunghoon claps him on the back like it’s all fine again. Jay won’t stop watching him. Heeseung tries to make him laugh with dumb impressions and ramen. The company rep drops by. “Welcome back,” she says with a stiff smile and a folder full of damage control.

It’s like everyone is trying to pretend a month didn’t just split his life in two.

He should be grateful. He should be relieved.

But he isn’t.

The lights are too bright. The bedsheets too stiff. The voices around him too loud, too not Jungwon.

That first night back, he doesn’t sleep. He just stares up at the ceiling, one arm draped over his eyes, remembering:

The sound of chickens early in the morning.

Jungwon’s voice calling for him across the yard.

Halmeoni’s soft humming in the kitchen.

The way the stars looked in that town — like they were actually reachable, like they were just for him.

He thinks about the peach trees. The porch. The way Jungwon’s hands moved when he tied his apron.

The laugh. The mock salute.

The tears they never got to dry on each other’s cheeks.

He thinks about what he should have said.

The next morning, the stylist scolds him softly for his disappearing act and the puffiness under his eyes.

They’re back in full swing.

Dance practice. Vocal lessons. Content filming. A sudden apology Weverse with a carefully rehearsed script and a few rehearsed tears.

He says, “I was not feeling well.”

He doesn’t say, “I fell in love with someone who made me want to stay still.”

Fans flood the comments. Some are mad. Most are just glad he’s back.

But Riki doesn’t feel back .

He feels like a ghost wearing his own skin.

Every now and then, he reaches for his phone and almost types:

“Are you okay?”

“Did Halmeoni finish the plum wine?”

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry I left without saying—”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

But he never sends them.

Instead, he scrolls. Watches an old fancam of their Music Bank debut. Plays a song they recorded last spring. Eyes blank. Movements mechanical.

The stage lights hit his skin again like they always have, but they don’t warm him. 

He wonders if Jungwon is watching from that little house.

If he’s still mad. If he misses him too. If he feels it, this emptiness stretching across the miles between them.

One night, alone on the dorm balcony, Riki cries. Silently, stupidly, painfully.

Not for the fame. Not for the pressure. Not for himself.

But for the one person he let go of too soon.

For the quiet boy in scrubs, holding the stethoscope to Riki’s chest that one night in the garden and joking, “You have a heartbeat after all, city boy.”

He wants to scream. Wants to go back.

But the cameras are on again. The contract is signed.

And Seoul doesn’t wait.

The house is quiet again.

Too quiet.

The floors creak differently without Riki’s boots. The chickens don’t respond the same to Jungwon’s voice—like they, too, are wondering where the boy who used to sneak them grain between chores has gone. Even the air smells different.

Less like peaches. More like absence.

Jungwon doesn’t let it get to him. He wakes up at 5:30 again. Feeds the animals, checks the crops, eats breakfast with Halmeoni, slings his tote and heads to the hospital.

Halmeoni doesn’t mention Riki much. Just hums in the kitchen, quietly, like she’s waiting for a sound that won’t come back. Sometimes she sets out a third spoon by accident. Sometimes she corrects herself. Sometimes she doesn’t.

Jungwon throws himself into his work. He’s a doctor after all. He’s someone people rely on. He has no time to fall apart over a boy who never even told him the truth. Who stole his heart and took it with him back to Seoul.

So he doesn’t. He doesn’t fall apart.

He says:

“Yes, the fever’s down now.”

“No, she needs more antibiotics.”

“Yes, he was an idol. I knew.”

“No, he wasn’t my boyfriend.”

Jungwon throws himself into work. Picks up extra shifts, staying longer in the orchard. Spends hours of his day off fixing the broken wheelbarrow even though the new one is perfectly functional.

He’s always good. He has to be.

He survived the worst already, didn’t he?

Dream of being an idol turned to ash. Parents gone too soon.

Prestigious residency abandoned. Seoul left behind.

He rebuilt. He always rebuilds.

He’ll move on from this too.

From him .

That boy with warm hands and a city accent, who brought too many clothes and not enough self-awareness. That boy who smiled at Halmeoni like she was precious, who chased chickens, who looked so lost and yet so sure when he sat waiting for Jungwon to finish another late shift and held his hands through the darkness.

Jungwon will forget him.

He thinks he’s doing a good job. He really does. Until—

It'd been exactly seven days. A full week since Riki left with his Prada bags and his beautiful face and his stupid, stupid ability to make silence feel like presence.

Jungwon’s doing laundry. Halmeoni’s already gone to bed. The night’s cool, soft. The kind of quiet that used to feel peaceful, but now feels just... empty .

He’s folding shirts.

The pile is almost done.

Then he sees it.

A graphic tee—slightly oversized, a little faded. Jungwon remembers it immediately. Riki’s first night. That moment when he sat at the dining table, confused, dramatic and entirely out of place, this shirt clinging to his frame, eyes wide with the fear of a city boy out of water.

Jungwon picks it up.

It smells like detergent. Like the sun. But if he presses his nose just right, if he closes his eyes, he swears—faint peaches. Woody musk.

The smell of Riki’s moisturiser. Of sleep-heavy mornings. Of something warm curled on the couch reading manga aloud like a little kid.

And then—

His eyes burn. His throat tightens. He presses his face to the shirt like it might fill the ache in his chest if he just breathes deeply enough.

And for the first time in a week, Jungwon breaks.

He cries. Quietly. Deeply.

Like he’s been holding his breath since the moment Riki left.

It’s the ugly kind. The gasping, knees-on-the-tiled-floor kind. His sobs echo off the laundry walls, hands clutching that stupid, expensive, too-fancy-for-this-town shirt.

Jungwon lets his heart bleed out, until his throat is raw and his eyes ache. Until the silence wraps around him again—not peaceful this time, just cold.

Just alone .

The mirrors are all too clean here.

In the practice room, in the dorm, in the building elevator—every surface is a reminder. Of who Riki is supposed to be. Who the world expects him to be.

He moves like a ghost through it all.

The contract talks begin a week after they land.

The usual: performance clauses, digital content expectations, another world tour that may or may not happen. Brand deals lined up in neat bullet points. The lawyer keeps saying phrases like “image optimisation” and “growth strategy.”

Riki zones out somewhere between “renewal incentive” and “fan retention rate.”

Jay elbows him under the table. Soft. Worried.

He nods. Pretends he heard something. Agrees to something. He doesn’t care.

None of it matters. Not the numbers. Not the percentage splits. Not even the reassurance that the company’s been talking to Dior again.

Riki’s heart isn’t here.

The members try.

They cook for him. Jungwon—no, not Jungwon—Heeseung throws a blanket over him one night when he falls asleep on the couch.

Sunghoon doesn’t say much, but keeps sitting near him, playing mobile games on mute like his presence might be enough to hold Riki together.

Jay watches him like he’s trying to figure out if this is grief or burnout or both.

Even their fans notice something.

“Ni-ki seems so quiet lately 🥺 is he okay??”

“He doesn’t smile like before…”

“I miss his chaotic energy 🐣 come back soon, Riki!”

Riki tries to smile. For them. For the cameras. For his career.

But it’s like trying to breathe underwater.

Because somewhere in a quiet corner of South Korea, a boy with calloused hands and sleepy eyes is probably falling asleep in the same bed Riki used to crawl into after morning chores. Probably still folding towels, eating spicy noodles in that chipped blue bowl. Living.

And Riki—

He left all of himself there.

He dances because he’s told to. He performs because it’s scheduled.

But the spark is gone.

It was never fame that mattered. It was never the applause or the headlines. It was peace. It was belonging. It was barefoot mornings and late-night giggles in the orchard.

It was him .

The dorm is dark except for the soft flicker of the TV on mute. Someone left a drama playing. Forgotten background noise.

Riki sits cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over his knuckles, a half-eaten convenience store sandwich sweating on the coffee table. He looks awful. He knows it. The dark circles under his eyes have long become part of his face.

He stares blankly at the floor.

Jay, Heeseung, and Sunghoon sit around him, silent. They don’t push. Not anymore. They just wait. Until finally—

“I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

The sentence cracks something in the room. Not loud. But final.

Riki doesn’t look up. “I don’t think I want to renew.”

Jay closes his eyes. Not surprised. Just sad.

Sunghoon is the first to speak, voice gentle. “You’re sure?”

Riki nods. Barely.

Heeseung leans back on his palms. “You’re not just tired?”

Riki lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m always tired. That’s not new. But this…this is different. I feel like I’m going through the motions. Like I’m watching someone else live my life. I don’t feel anything anymore.”

Silence again.

He adds, quieter, “I left the best thing I ever had in that town. I didn’t even get to say goodbye properly. I left him . And ever since, I feel like I’ve been hollow. Like someone cracked me open and all the light just…spilled out.”

Jay sighs. “Rik.”

“I’m not saying I want to quit everything. I just…I can’t keep living like this. Performing like I’m still passionate when I’m not. Giving nothing to people who want everything. I love the fans. I love you guys. But it’s not enough anymore.”

Heeseung’s voice is calm. Steady. “You were fifteen when you debuted with us.”

Riki finally lifts his eyes.

“You were too young to decide for yourself then. Heck, we all were. But you’re twenty-four now.”

He looks at the others. Jay nods.

“If you think there’s nothing more left,” Heeseung continues, “you should trust yourself.”

“You’re not disappointing anyone,” Sunghoon says quietly. “Not us. Not even the fans, not really. They’ll understand, the real ones. And if they don’t—well. They never really knew you anyway.”

Riki breathes out. His throat is tight. His chest is tight. But something unclenches in his gut.

“You sure you’re okay if I go?”

“We were never going to do this forever,” Jay says. “What matters is that we do it right. And leaving when you know it’s time—that’s doing it right.”

Heeseung’s smile is sad, fond. “We’ll always be your hyungs, no matter where you go.”

Riki’s eyesight goes blurry.

“Even if it’s back to some dusty farm in the middle of nowhere?” he tries to joke.

Jay chuckles. “Especially if it’s back to that dusty farm.”

“Just—tell him properly this time,” Sunghoon says, half-grinning. “Don’t pull a K-drama and disappear in the middle of a market.”

Riki wipes at his face with his sleeve, laughing through a sniffle. “No promises.”

That night, Riki lays awake. It’s strange sitting in his room. The shelves still hold his old manga, his dance trophies. The bed feels too small, like it belongs to another boy. A ghost version of him who once dreamed with everything in his chest.

Riki sits on the floor with his knees pulled up, phone in hand, heart thudding in his throat.

He taps Call .

His mother picks up on the second ring. “Riki?”

Her voice cracks, and already, tears threaten to climb up his throat.

“Hi, mom.”

There’s a shuffle. His dad comes onto the line too. “Son.”

A long silence.

And then Riki breaks.

He tells them everything. From the beginning. How he’d been so exhausted, how he left without telling anyone, how he found a farm in a small town with peaches and chickens and a grandmother with sharp eyes and a soft touch. How he met someone.

How he fell in love.

With a life that was quiet. With a boy with a dimpled smile and exhausted eyes. With Jungwon .

There are tears. From both sides of the call. But not the kind Riki had feared.

His mother says gently, “You’ve always chased life with your whole heart, Riki. You don’t have to apologise for finding another dream.”

His father: “We were scared. But we’re proud of you. We love you.”

And Riki sobs. Finally, truly sobs. All that pressure from the years, the weight of being perfect, being strong, being something worthy—shaking loose from his shoulders.

The following week in their company building, somewhere in a meeting room, the mood is tense. Legal reps, managers, stylists. Everyone is here. Riki sits with Jay, Heeseung, Sunghoon. Their final meeting.

The company is trying— really trying. Offering adjustments, breaks, alternate roles, solo projects.

But Riki’s voice is clear. Steady.

“I’ve given you everything I could,” he says. “I’m thankful. But I don’t have any more to give.”

Jay places a hand on his back.

Sunghoon surprises them all, “I’m not renewing either.”

Heads turn.

“I’ve always wanted to try acting. Modeling. Something…different. It’s time.”

Shock. Then ripples of acceptance. The end of an era.

Heeseung and Jay nod quietly, already having had their own conversations. They'll likely go solo or form a duo, maybe write, maybe produce. They’re steady like that. The kind of people who will always find rhythm.

The four of them sit on the dorm rooftop at night, one last time. Convenience store ramen, beer, and sky above.

No cameras. No schedules. No noise.

Just the quiet of friends who’ve grown up together. Lived every version of themselves together.

“I’m scared,” Riki admits.

“Good,” Heeseung says. “That means you care.”

They toast—plastic cups clinking.

“To new dreams,” Sunghoon says.

“To old ones too,” Jay adds.

They all look at Riki.

He closes his eyes. “To finding your way back home.”

Jungwon gasps on a sob, curls in on himself. His fingers clench the hem of Riki’s shirt, still carrying that peachy-wood scent. His chest hurts. His shoulders shake.

He tries to be quiet.

But Halmeoni always knows.

She doesn’t call his name, doesn’t knock. She just appears—gentle steps, warm presence—and kneels beside him.

“Oh, aegi…”

That’s all it takes.

Jungwon folds into her, like a child. Like the teenager who came home from Seoul at fourteen, all sunken eyes and broken dreams. Like the boy who buried his parents too early. The boy who left all his dreams in the big city at the drop of a hat because he couldn’t leave her behind.

She cradles him, strokes his hair. And he cries— really cries—he just can’t stop.

“I thought,” he chokes out, “maybe this time—he’d stay. I thought he’d stay.”

Halmeoni’s voice is soft, full of knowing. “Oh, he wanted to. You know he did.”

Jungwon shakes his head furiously. “If he wanted to, he’d be here.”

His throat clenches. His whole body heaves.

“I love him,” he says, and the words sound like glass breaking. “I love him. So much. I was so stupid. I knew what this was. I knew , and I still—I still—”

Halmeoni holds him tighter. “You’re not stupid,” she whispers. “You’re in love.”

He buries his face in her shoulder.

And in that quiet laundry room, Jungwon finally lets himself feel it all—the loss, the hope, the dizzying, beautiful love that came and went like summer rain.

 The morning sun filters softly through the curtains, casting gentle light across the quiet room. Jungwon wakes slowly, still wrapped in the heaviness of yesterday’s tears. He doesn’t reach for his usual scrubs or the hospital lanyard. Instead, he slips on Riki’s faded graphic tee. He knows he shouldn’t, but it feels like a small comfort, a thread to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s unraveling. The sleeves fall over his elbows. He breathes in. Still smells like him. Faint peach, earth, something warm and careless. His throat aches.

Halmeoni is bustling about the kitchen, humming quietly as she prepares breakfast. She doesn’t ask why Jungwon is wearing the shirt, doesn’t push for explanations. She just makes sure there’s plenty of tea, warm rice porridge, and a small bowl of peaches on the table.

Jungwon sits with her, letting the slow rhythm of the morning wash over him. He allows himself to grieve — not just for Riki, but for the “what ifs,” the silent spaces between the words they never said, the dreams left tangled in that peach farm.

The doorbell rings mid-afternoon. He hears the voices before the knock.

“ You knock. ”

“ You have longer arms— ”

“I’m not gonna—”

“ He’s your best friend! ”

“He was yours first!”

He opens the door before the fight escalates.

Jake and Sunoo stand there holding a paper bag of fresh bread and awkward sympathy. Jake lifts the bag like it’s an offering. Sunoo dives forward first, wrapping him up tight.

“I’m sorry,” Sunoo mumbles into his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Jungwon lies.

Jake hugs him next. His arms are firmer, steadier. “You don’t have to be.”

They settle on the porch, breaking bread between them. Sunoo pinches his cheeks lightly. “Still cute, even when love-sick and tragic.”

“Sunoo,” Jake warns.

“What? It’s true. Also, we brought honey butter.”

Jungwon smiles, small but real.

They don’t talk about Riki much. Just enough.

They talk about the hospital instead, about the town gossip, about the drama of Madam Jang’s stolen kimchi fridge.

They talk about everything except the part of Jungwon’s heart that’s missing.

He’ll be okay.

Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

But someday.

When night rolls around, the house is quiet again.

Not the comforting kind of quiet, not the kind that settles in after dinner and laughter and chores well done. This silence is hollow. Like the spaces where someone used to sit. Used to smile.

Jungwon leans against Halmeoni’s doorframe. The hall light cuts a soft edge around his figure—tousled hair, Riki’s old shirt still draped on him like borrowed time.

Halmeoni looks up from her worn book, already setting it aside.

“You okay, aegi?” she asks gently.

Jungwon doesn’t answer. He walks in, sits cross-legged beside her bed like he did as a kid when he had bad dreams. He rests his cheek against her quilt. The cotton smells like detergent and ginger balm. His voice is small when it finally comes out.

“He’s not coming back, Halmeoni.”

She doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“He’s never coming back. He’s literally famous. You know that? Like…millions of people. Adoring fans. Chasing him through airports. Chanting his name every night.”

His breath hiccups.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. That he’d stay? For a peach farm? For me?”

Halmeoni strokes his hair, slow and steady. Like she did when he broke his arm falling from the persimmon tree. Or the night his parents died.

“You never know, aegi,” she says softly. “And even if that’s true…he was good for us. Good for you. ”

Jungwon shakes his head, tears already burning again. “Was it the help? Or was it just him, Halmeoni? I haven’t slept like that in years. I haven’t laughed like that in years. Not since…”

He chokes.

“I don’t know how to stop crying. He left and I just—”

“I know.” Halmeoni pulls him closer, one hand still in his hair, the other gently rubbing his back.

“You’ve always been so stubborn. Doing everything yourself. You get that from me,” she chuckles softly. “But now you know…we need help sometimes. You needed it. Not just for the work, but for the light. ”

Jungwon’s tears fall freely now, silently.

“If you have to take something from this,” she says, “let yourself learn. Let yourself lean, too.”

Jungwon lets out a quiet, almost-laugh. It cracks in the middle.

“Post an ad again?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

Halmeoni hums. “Maybe in a bit. When you’re better at letting people into this house.”

Jungwon wipes his eyes, trying to laugh again. “I let one in and look what happened.”

She smiles, warm and wise. “Yes. Look what happened.”

They sit there in silence again. But this time, it’s not so hollow.

It's full of pain—but also full of love.

Jungwon closes his eyes, resting his head against her shoulder. “Thank you, Halmeoni. For always being my home.”

She hugs him close, a steady warmth in the quiet night. “Always, aegi. Always.”

The sky is soft with early spring clouds, the air fresh with the scent of tilled soil and blooming grass. A couple weeks pass. Jungwon smooths the slightly crinkled piece of paper on the corkboard, pressing each corner down with practiced fingers. He steps back, looks at it once.

"Farmhand Needed – Family Orchard & Home"
Early Morning and evening shifts, room and board available.
Must work well with elders and animals, be okay with getting muddy.
Kind hands, good heart preferred.
Proper wages paid.
– Contact: Yang Jungwon, 010-**-**

It’s a small act, a quiet one. But to Jungwon, it feels like taking a deep breath after holding one for too long.

He visits the other boards after. The one at the market, the hospital entrance, the train station near the edge of town. He even makes the hike to the little airport, leaving the flier near the bulletin wall beside a faded tourist map and “welcome to Haneul-ri” pamphlets. When he leaves, it’s with a strange flutter in his chest. Not hope—not quite. But maybe something adjacent.

Jungwon lies in bed, Riki’s old graphic tee loose on his frame. He thumbs through his phone in the dark, caught in that soft silence between exhaustion and sleep.

He doesn’t mean to, but somehow, he ends up on Riki’s page again. A fancam from a show in Osaka. Riki dances like the stage is fire and his bones are made of light. The audience chants his name like a hymn. He looks so...far away.

Then he switches to a Weverse clip. Riki’s face is close to the camera, a cheeky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’s got a silly headband on. Heeseung’s voice is teasing in the background. Riki’s eyes flash toward the screen and for a brief second—Jungwon could swear he’s looking right at him.

He presses the screen to pause.

He knows it’s foolish. Riki is famous, unreachable, already slipping into the shape of a memory.

Still, Jungwon clutches the phone to his chest. Burrows deeper under his sheets, into the shirt that still holds the echo of Riki’s peachy-and-cedar scent. And tells himself:

“Move forward. Not on. Just forward.”

He falls asleep like that. Grieving gently. Healing slowly.

Growing, like he always does.

Riki stands in the corridor of the dorm he once called home—a place where every scuffed tile and faded poster holds a memory of late-night rehearsals, shared laughter, and dreams once too big to contain. Now, as he prepares for his departure, the corridors echo the ghost of his past.

He walks slowly by the dance studios, the towering glass windows of the company building, the staff’s familiar smiles, all a bittersweet reminder of a world he’s tried so hard to leave behind. In one last round of farewells, he stops at the reception desk where he exchanges quiet, understanding nods with the staff. His manager appears and—after a long, sincere look—offers an apologetic smile. “Take care, Riki,” the manager says, voice low but filled with gentle understanding, waving him off as if to say that sometimes, the hardest goodbyes are the ones that set you free.

Later that evening, in the dimly lit common room, the remaining members gather for one final proper night together. There is an unspoken sadness and camaraderie in the air—of a family that shared the same stage, the same struggle, for too many years. Jay, Heeseung, and Sunghoon exchange teasing glances and heartfelt hugs. Their laughter is both buoyant and heavy, a mix of celebration for what they had and a mourning for its inevitable end. “You always had our back, Riki,” one of them murmurs amid a group hug. They make promises they know may never be kept, or only remembered in whispered social media posts and nostalgic interviews.

In that intimate hour, as the neon lights from the dorm’s window glow soft and warm, Riki closes his eyes for a moment. He thinks back to the farm—the quiet mornings with Jungwon, Halmeoni’s gentle guidance, the love that was as unexpected as it was fierce. His heart feels both heavy and oddly light, as if those memories have given him the strength he’s been searching for.

The next morning, with a backpack slung over his shoulder containing only a few precious belongings, the same Prada duffels packed long ago and a suitcase containing the rest of his old life, Riki steps out into the Seoul air. For the first time in a long while, he feels direction. Though tomorrow the news will drop that ENHYPEN is disbanding—with two members parting ways with HYBE—today, he is simply Riki. No glitz. No stage lights. Just an honest boy with his heart in his hands, determined to carve out a future that is truly his, even if it means leaving behind everything he once was.

As he boards the flight—a familiar routine from over two months ago—he glances back one last time. Not in regret, but in gratitude. The memories in the dorms, the echo of dancing steps, and the kindness of those who made him feel at home—all carried like a secret treasure. And with that, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and allows himself to step into the next chapter.

He is going home. And perhaps, someday, he will find a reason to come back.

The moment the plane touches down, Riki feels it—an ache, a spark, a deep breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The airport is small, familiar, washed in a warm afternoon light that feels gentler than Seoul’s ever did.

As he steps through the automatic doors, dragging his suitcases behind him, the same front desk staff auntie from months ago looks up from her terminal. Her eyes widen. There’s a pause, a beat, and then—

“You’re back?” she says, voice lilting with surprise, Korean lightly tinged with her regional accent.

Riki bows, sheepish but smiling, heart too full to speak. He nods, eyes warm, voice quiet. “Yes, ma’am.”

She beams, covering her mouth with both hands like she’s watching a drama unfold in real life. “Aigo...you really came back. Jungwonie will—” she cuts herself off, but her eyes say the rest. She knows. Of course she does. Everyone always did.

Riki offers a bow again, but his gaze is already sliding away—toward the doors, toward the hills just beyond, the road that snakes through persimmon groves and up to the little house with the chickens and old shoes by the door. His pulse stumbles.

But then, something tugs at the corner of his vision.

The bulletin board.

It’s the same corkboard from before, just more crowded now. He moves toward it slowly, as if he’s not sure the ground beneath him is real. His eyes scan past community events, the same missing cat flyer, a church bazaar—and then stop, breath catching.

Farmhand Needed – Family Orchard & Home
Early morning and evening shifts, room and board available.
Must work well with elders and animals, be okay with getting muddy.
Kind hands, good heart preferred.
Proper wages paid.
Interest contact: Yang Jungwon 010-**-**

His hand trembles as he pulls the flyer from the board, reading it once, twice. The corners of his mouth twitch upward. And then the laugh escapes him—a short, stunned, soft little laugh that breaks off halfway into something wetter, more fragile.

He wipes his eyes quickly, turns, and bows once more to the airport auntie, who watches him like she’s seen a miracle. “Go,” she mouths, eyes shining.

And so he does.

With duffels slung over his shoulder, suitcase wheels bumping along the gravel again, Riki sets off down the same road he arrived on two months ago. But this time, his heart isn’t uncertain. It isn’t searching. It’s leading.

He’s not running anymore.

He’s going home.

The wheels of Riki’s suitcase creak as they roll over familiar cracks in the pavement, the kind of imperfections he once tripped over—lost, uncertain, far from home. Now they feel like trail markers. Like breadcrumbs leading him back.

He passes the cow statue— that ridiculous cow statue—sitting in the same crooked stance on the corner of the roundabout. He chuckles under his breath. God, he wandered this exact spot in confused little loops for half an hour that first day, Prada bag slung too high, Seoul still clinging to his posture. Now it’s just another part of the route. Another landmark he’s memorised.

A trio of elderly women outside the rice shop spot him and nearly drop their parasols.

“Our idol Riki!” one gasps.

“You’ve come back?” another grins, eyes crinkling.

“Famous boy, you like our little town so much, huh?” a third teases, nudging her friend with a wink.

Riki bows, cheeks flushing as he ducks his head. “I missed it.”

The ahjummas giggle like schoolgirls. One hands him a steamed bun, still warm. Another waves her fan at him like it’s a royal welcome. Everyone knows. Of course they do. In this town, secrets are more like borrowed jackets—passed around until someone returns them

And then—

He sees her.

Halmeoni. Sitting on a little bench beside Madam Lee in front of the rice cake shop, sunhat perched on her head, sipping barley tea like she has all the time in the world.

She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t look surprised.

She smiles. Wide and knowing. Like she always knew.

“You look tired, aegi,” she says gently, reaching up with both hands to cup his face.

The heat behind Riki’s eyes breaks instantly. He leans into her touch, eyes stinging, lower lip wobbling.

“I missed you, Halmeoni,” he says, his voice catching.

“So have I. We all have. This town missed its celebrity.”

Riki blinks hard, overwhelmed, but halmeoni just pats his cheek. “It’s his day off,” she says. “Go home, aegi. Go see him.”

And it’s a blessing. A green light. Her permission.

Riki grips the handle of his suitcase tighter. Nods. His chest is a chaos of fear and love and hope.

Even if it’s just to stand in front of that little house again.

Even if Jungwon slams the door in his face. Screamed, hated.

Even if all he can say is “I missed you. I’m sorry. I’m still yours.”

He’s going.

Because whatever happens next, he needs to go home.

Riki tightens his grip on the handle of his suitcase.

He walks the final stretch slowly, as if the earth beneath him might shift if he moves too fast. Past the alleyway where he dropped an entire basket of peaches. Past the crooked mailbox with the hand-painted numbers. Past the low stone wall where he once sat with a carton of strawberry milk, watching the sun set behind the hills.

Up the incline.

To the end of the road.

To the farmhouse.

The paint is still a little chipped on the shutters. The flowers out front are blooming again—marigolds and cosmos, stubborn things that weather anything. It looks exactly the same.

It looks like home.

Riki swallows hard and pushes open the gate. His legs move on instinct, like they remember before his brain does. Up the path. Up the steps. Through the door he once leaned against with dirt-stained hands and a heart full of quiet hope.

There’s movement from inside.

Footsteps. A clatter. A voice calls out—Jungwon’s voice.

“Halmeoni? You said you couldn’t be back till after lunch, I—”

He rounds the corner, drying his hands on a towel. Stops mid-sentence. Mid-breath.

Jungwon stands in the hallway, frozen.

He’s thinner than before. His face is more angular, his eyes ringed with the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights. But he's still achingly beautiful. Still glowing in a way that cuts Riki open.

And he’s wearing Riki’s shirt. That old graphic tee Riki thought he'd lost in Seoul. It hangs too loose on him, half-swallowing his frame over a pair of cotton shorts.

He thinks Jungwon’s never looked more heartbreakingly perfect.

Jungwon blinks, once, then again—like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing. His brow furrows. He looks confused. Scared. Hollowed out.

Like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

The silence stretches between them, tense and unbearable. Riki’s hands begin to shake. He lets go of the suitcase handle and fumbles for something—anything.

He pulls the flyer from his coat pocket and holds it out awkwardly.

“I saw this ad,” he says, voice hoarse. “About farm help? Was wondering if it’s still available.”

It’s a breath from the past—just like the first time. Just like the café. Jungwon in scrubs, barreling through a door, straight into Riki’s chest. Into his soul.

Jungwon doesn’t move.

“…You’re here,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Riki nods. His throat aches too much to answer. His chin dips in a small, trembling motion.

He takes one step forward. Then another.

Jungwon stays still—like the moment is glass, and any sudden motion will shatter it.

Riki stops just a foot away.

Close enough to see how tired Jungwon’s eyes are. How red-rimmed. Close enough to see the way his chest rises and falls like he’s holding in everything—grief, love, rage, hope.

Jungwon’s voice is smaller this time. Raw.

“Why…?”

There’s something in Riki’s chest that breaks at the sound of it. He wants to pour everything out—to tell him everything he rehearsed on the flight, everything he wrote and rewrote in his head, everything he feels—

But he can’t.

All he says is, “I needed to…” He swallows. “I needed to come home.”

A beat.

Jungwon’s expression fractures.

“You idiot,” he breathes. And it’s not gentle. It’s choked. Furious. Crumbling.

“You complete idiot—”

And then he’s flying at Riki.

Not with grace, but with fury and pain and all the months of silence. His fists hit Riki’s shoulder, his chest, shoving him, hitting him again and again, messy and erratic.

“I hate you,” Jungwon sobs. “You left! I—I thought you’d never—”

“I know,” Riki whispers, arms slack, tears burning down his cheeks. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“You came,” Jungwon gasps, “and you settled in, you made it feel like you’d stay—”

Riki’s heart screams. I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay more than anything.

“—and you left. You left us. You left Halmeoni. You left—”

The sentence breaks off.

You left me.

Unspoken. But Riki hears it like a scream.

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t try to excuse it. He stands there and takes every blow like he deserves it. Because he does.

“I hate you,” Jungwon says again, but it’s broken now. Empty of venom. His fists weaken, fall to Riki’s chest, and then—

He crumples.

Grabs at Riki’s shirt and sinks against him, his face buried in his shoulder, crying like the world has finally let him fall apart. His knees go weak and Riki catches him, folds around him without a second thought.

Riki wraps his arms around him instantly. Tight. All-encompassing. One hand cradles the back of Jungwon’s head, the other winds around his waist. He tucks his chin on top of Jungwon’s head and breathes him in.

“I’m here,” Riki whispers, voice trembling. “I’m here.”

They stand like that in the hallway—two boys undone by time, distance, and longing. Letting the tears come. Letting the pain run its course. The air between them thick with salt and memory and a quiet kind of forgiveness.

When Jungwon finally pulls away, his cheeks are soaked. His lashes are clumped and wet. His nose red, his lips trembling.

He still looks like everything Riki ever wanted.

And Riki, gently, like he’s handling something holy, cups Jungwon’s face in his hands.

“I love you,” he says, soft and sure, like it’s the only truth he’s ever been certain of.

Jungwon blinks at him, trembling.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” he whispers.

Riki nods. “Then don’t. Let’s do something new. Together. Whatever you want.”

Jungwon studies him for a long, quiet beat. Then slowly, he leans forward until their foreheads touch.

“Just…don’t leave again.”

“I won’t,” Riki breathes. “I swear, I won’t.”

Outside, a breeze rustles the cosmos.

Inside, in the warmth of the old farmhouse, something broken begins to mend.

They stay like that for a long time—how long, they don’t know. Minutes. Hours. Maybe lifetimes.

Riki thinks he could stay like this forever. With Jungwon in his arms, the farmhouse silent around them, the air warm with dust and light. Their foreheads pressed together. Their breaths slow and mingling. The world quieted to the rhythm of their hearts.

Jungwon exhales slowly. It comes out like a breath he’s been holding for months—soft, tired, and full of something that sounds like peace.

“…You still want the job?”

Riki lets out a soft laugh, the sound brushing between them. “Yeah. I heard it comes with accommodations, right? I don’t really have anywhere to stay.”

Jungwon huffs, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, even through the tremble. “The pay is bad. The work is tough. You’ll be sleeping on a futon. On the floor.”

It’s a perfect mirror to the first time. That late afternoon in the café when they were strangers and something already breaking loose between them. But now—now everything’s changed. Now everything means more.

Riki doesn’t hesitate. His voice drops low.

“Don’t care,” he says. “Don’t need the money. Or a proper bed. Just need—”

Their eyes meet.

Just need you .

He doesn’t say it.

He doesn’t have to.

Jungwon’s eyes crinkle a little. His smile is small, wobbling at the edges, lips bitten like he’s trying not to cry again. But his whole face glows with it—with understanding, with feeling, with love.

He rises to his tiptoes.

And Riki meets him halfway.

The kiss is soft. Not desperate, not rushed. Just them , closing the last sliver of space that’s lived between them since the day Riki left. Their mouths fit like they remember. Like they never forgot. Like all this time apart only sharpened the shape of each other in their hearts.

Jungwon’s hands thread up into Riki’s hair. Riki cradles the back of Jungwon’s neck. Their noses bump a little. Their mouths tremble.

But neither of them pull away.

And in the quiet, in the stillness of a house that’s always known longing, they kiss like a promise.

Not an ending.

A beginning.

Chapter Text

i’m so sorry if anyone is opening this expecting actual content. but i’m just here to update and inform you guys that i have a twt now! replying all the comments lately have made me realise how much i yearn for more interactions. life has been getting away with me lately and i really really want to get back into writing for wonki, so please! find me on twitter if you’d like. it’s my first time ever having a twt / x account so bare with me if i sound like a boomer (i swear i’m not) i’ll keep this one one a/n up for maybe about a week! just for me to hopefully make some fellow engene friends aaaa especially if you’re a writer too! ok, that is all from me, i hope to see you guys around, sending all my love~~

twt/x user: yodreamies_