Work Text:
T E R M I N A L C
03:42 PM
Everyone said layovers were just a waste of time.
A useless pause, they called it.
Mingyu—with his tangled hair, wrinkled pants, and a mysterious coffee blotch blooming across his hoodie—would strongly argue otherwise.
To Mingyu, layovers were prime people-watching hours, a golden opportunity to judge snack choices and question fashion decisions with zero consequences. Airports were like tiny, chaotic ecosystems—and he was a very nosy biologist.
Besides, it was during a particularly long layover in Munich that he once saw a man try to smuggle an entire live chicken through security by hiding it in his pants. Enlightening. Inspirational, even.
And now, here he was again, slouched across three connected chairs in Terminal C, sipping suspiciously sweet airport lemonade, and staring at the departures board like it owed him money.
It was meant to be a quick stop—just a brief layover at Frankfurt on the way from London to Seoul. But thanks to Seoul’s notorious winter weather, what should have been 90 minutes had stretched into a grueling six hours.
Mingyu sighed, the familiar feeling of excitement and annoyance bubbling up. Six hours was way too long to be stuck inside an airport, yet too short to go and explore the city.
The perfect time for morbid curiosity to morph into boredom.
Mingyu swirled the remnants of his watered-down lemonade, ice now melted, straw making loud slurping noises as he sipped at nothing but air.
He watched a teenager nearby struggle with his tangled headphones, his mother hurriedly beckoning him to follow as she walked toward an open terminal.
Ah, lucky. Couldn’t be him for the next six hours.
Mingyu groaned, stretching his legs out in front of him as the departures board flickered overhead. Then, through the shuffle of tired travelers and dragging suitcases, someone moved into his periphery.
A man—purposeful, precise.
He settled onto the bench opposite Mingyu with effortless ease. He wasn’t like the other weary travelers slumped against their luggage or pacing impatiently near the departure screens. No restless adjustments. No tired sighs. Just quiet certainty, like he belonged.
His suit was crisp, his sleeves perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Even the way he set down his laptop bag—carefully, deliberately—felt intentional.
Mingyu furrowed his brows.
People didn’t belong in airports. Airports were restless, temporary. But this guy? He sat like the terminal was just another part of his perfectly scheduled day.
Then—click, click, click—his fingers moved across the keyboard, steady and unbothered.
Mingyu sighed dramatically, letting his head fall back against the chair.
Of course. A serious businessman.
Perfect. Just what he needed.
The gentle hum of a ballad filled Mingyu’s ears, a soft contrast to the airport’s constant buzz. He sat comfortably, half-distracted, letting himself sink into the waiting game.
Then—without warning—the music shifted.
A sudden blast of electric guitar tore through the soft melody, sending a jolt straight through Mingyu’s body. He flinched, his knee jerking against the edge of his seat, his balance faltering—
And then, very nearly, he was falling.
The bench rattled as Mingyu caught himself at the last second, hands gripping the armrest. Across from him, the stranger—previously engrossed in his laptop—froze mid-typing, his sharp eyes flicking up in mild alarm.
Mingyu cleared his throat, adjusting his hoodie like that would somehow undo what just happened.
“Uh—sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head, as if apologizing for existing.
The stranger stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, unreadable, then simply went back to typing without a word.
The silence stretched.
Mingyu cleared his throat, adjusting his hoodie like that would somehow undo what just happened. The stranger across from him was already back to typing, unbothered.
Well. That was embarrassing.
Still, six hours was a long time to sit in silence. Might as well make it worse.
Mingyu leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest between them. “Six hours. This airport might as well be my new home.”
The stranger—still focused on his laptop—didn’t react at first, his fingers tapping out another line of whatever high-stakes email he was writing. Then, finally, a slow blink, a glance upward.
“…Excuse me?”
“Six hours. That’s how long I’ve got to stay here. My plane got delayed.” Mingyu explains.
Wonwoo barely spared him a glance before returning to his screen. "Unfortunate," he said, tone flat, fingers resuming their steady rhythm on the keyboard.
Mingyu scoffed. "Wow. That’s the most sympathy I’ve ever received."
Wonwoo didn’t react.
Mingyu leaned back, tapping his fingers against the armrest. "And what about you? Got a six-hour sentence too?"
Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. "Two."
Mingyu sighed dramatically. "Lucky you."
Wonwoo’s fingers stilled for a fraction of a second before he spoke again. "Not particularly."
Mingyu tilted his head. "What, don’t like airports?"
Wonwoo didn’t answer, just kept typing, the soft click-click-click filling the silence.
Mingyu shifted in his seat, stretching his arms above his head before slumping back down, limbs sprawled like he had fully accepted his fate.
"Honestly, airports are just weird little ecosystems," he mused, tapping his fingers against his knee. "Like, you've got stressed businessmen rushing to meetings, kids screaming over overpriced candy, couples fighting because traveling together is actually a nightmare—it’s all so chaotic.”
Mingyu continues. “But then, somehow, some people just sit here all calm, like they aren’t breathing in recycled air and watching their life savings drain away on a bottle of water."
Wonwoo didn’t look up.
Encouraged by the silence, Mingyu kept going.
"You ever notice how airport chairs are designed to make you suffer? Like, they look fine, but sit in them long enough and your spine starts questioning its entire existence. And don’t get me started on airport food. Why does everything taste like regret?"
Wonwoo's fingers stilled briefly over his keyboard.
Mingyu sighed dramatically, throwing his head back. "Anyway, point is—I think airports are just elaborate psychological experiments designed to test human patience. Which, personally, I fail every time."
Finally, Wonwoo spoke.
"You could always—" a pause, deliberate, before his fingers resumed typing, "just sit quietly."
Mingyu blinked, then grinned. "Wow. That’s the nicest way anyone has ever told me to shut up."
Wonwoo didn’t dignify that with a response.
"Wait, did you just tell me to shut up?"
"That's your takeaway, not mine."
Mingyu blinked, processing the sheer audacity of that response.
He sat up a little straighter, brows knitting together as he huffed, “Wow. Okay.”
Wonwoo didn’t react. Not even a flicker of regret.
“You’re kind of rude, you know that?” Mingyu continued, more to himself than to the man still typing away like he hadn’t just delivered the world’s most passive shutdown.
Still, no reaction.
Mingyu crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. “Must be nice, walking through life acting like people don’t exist.”
Wonwoo exhaled, slow and measured. “People exist. They’re just… loud.”
Mingyu narrowed his eyes. “Is that your polite way of saying I am loud?”
Wonwoo finally glanced up, expression unreadable. “You’re very perceptive.”
Mingyu scoffed, shaking his head. “You must be a hit at social events.”
Wonwoo returned to his laptop without another word.
Mingyu sighed dramatically, throwing his head back against the chair.
This layover was going to be long.
◁▶◀▷
T E R M I N A L C
04:29 PM
For the next 45 minutes, Mingyu did something he rarely ever did: he stayed quiet.
After his unsuccessful attempt at banter with the world’s most uptight airport companion, he resigned himself to scrolling through his phone with all the enthusiasm of someone reading shampoo labels.
He browsed the latest runway coverage—Milan, Paris, Tokyo—mechanically saving looks for later.
Crisp silhouettes. Slouchy knits paired with rigid leather. An aggressive return of the low-rise pant.
He frowned at that last one.
Still, it was all oddly comforting. This glossy digital world of fabric, light, and drama. It was the world he’d fought tooth and nail to be part of.
Right out of college, fresh-faced and sleep-deprived, he’d walked into Vogue Seoul with nothing but a portfolio full of saturated street shots and an annoyingly persistent sense of optimism.
He was sure he was going to get rejected. He’d even prepared a plan B involving freelance food photography and teaching Lightroom presets on YouTube.
But someone—thankfully—had seen something in his work. A spark, they called it.
Five years later, he was still there. Still hustling, still shooting, still editing until 3 a.m. and pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne at gallery parties.
He wasn’t famous, but he was respected. And if the right editor ever took a chance on his Seoul Fashion Week concept pitch, he might even get that creative director credit he kept daydreaming about.
But right now?
Right now, he was just a tired guy with a hoodie that smelled faintly of airplane peanuts and a layover that felt like it might swallow him whole.
He closed the fashion app, locked his phone, and tossed it into his lap with a soft sigh. The screen went black, and with it, his motivation to stay awake.
He leaned back into the stiff, unforgiving chair, folding his arms across his chest. The airport noise faded to white noise as he drifted toward sleep—flickering announcements, rolling suitcase wheels, the occasional toddler shriek in the distance. It was a strange kind of peace.
And then—shhkt.
A soft shuffle of movement.
Then a throat cleared. Once. Tentative.
Mingyu cracked one eye open, just enough to make out the figure sitting in front of him.
Wonwoo.
Only this time, he wasn’t bathed in the cool, untouchable glow of business superiority. He looked… hesitant.
Still put-together, obviously—this was not a man who allowed himself to appear disheveled—but there was a subtle edge to his stance. A rigidness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.
“…Do you,” he began, then paused like it genuinely hurt him to say it, “happen to have a charger?”
Mingyu blinked, trying to figure out if this was some sleep-deprived mirage. “What?”
Wonwoo glanced briefly at the laptop cradled under his arm, then back at Mingyu. “My battery died.”
Mingyu blinked once.
Twice.
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, slow and smug.
“Well, well,” he said, voice still thick with sleep. “Look who suddenly knows how to talk to people.”
Wonwoo looked unamused. “Do you have one or not?”
Mingyu laughed—really laughed—and reached into his backpack. “You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood.” He pulled out the charger with an exaggerated flourish. “USB-C, yeah?”
Wonwoo nodded, expression unreadable.
He handed it over, brushing imaginary dust off the cord before presenting it like an offering. “Use it wisely, Stranger Who Told Me To Sit Quietly.”
Mingyu held the cord just out of reach for a second longer than necessary. “I feel like I should get something for this. A thank you? A compliment? A formal apology for the whole 'just sit quietly' thing?”
Wonwoo stared at him, then exhaled through his nose—the closest thing Mingyu had seen to a sigh of defeat. “You’re not completely unbearable.”
Mingyu grinned, victorious. “I’ll take it.”
Wonwoo took the charger, fingers brushing against Mingyu’s for a moment. Cool, composed. The kind of touch that didn’t linger but still left something behind.
As he returned to his seat and plugged in the laptop, Mingyu watched him with the vague sense of someone witnessing a solar eclipse. Rare. Unexpected. And beautiful in a slightly soul-crushing way.
“So,” Mingyu said, settling back in, “do I get to know what world-saving work you were doing before your battery died, or is it classified?”
Wonwoo didn’t look up. “Emails.”
“Wow,” Mingyu said, mock awe in his voice. “So mysterious. Must be important.”
Wonwoo’s lips twitched. Barely.
Mingyu tilted his head, curiosity piqued now that the edges of Wonwoo’s armor were showing faint cracks. “You work in fashion?”
Wonwoo paused. “Something like that.”
“Lemme guess,” Mingyu said, leaning back. “Consultant? PR? Fashion law?”
Wonwoo’s eyes flicked toward him. “Why do you assume fashion?”
“Because you’re wearing a shirt worth more than my rent, and you haven’t once tugged at your sleeves or collar in the last two hours. That’s rare in normal people.”
A brief pause.
Wonwoo turned back to his screen. “You’re very observant.”
“It’s literally my job,” Mingyu said with a shrug.
Wonwoo glanced at him again, slower this time.
Mingyu just smiled and offered his hand across the bench.
“Kim Mingyu.”
Wonwoo looked at it, looked at him, and then—after what felt like a tiny war inside his head—shook it.
“Jeon Wonwoo.”
Their hands separated, but the mood stayed different—less tense, more tentative.
Like a truce had been called.
Maybe, just maybe, this layover wouldn’t be so bad after all.
They sat in companionable silence for a while after that.
Mingyu, now half-curious and half-suspicious, watched out of the corner of his eye as Wonwoo’s fingers moved over his trackpad with casual precision. He wasn’t typing anymore—just browsing something with the kind of focus that made him look annoyingly competent.
Wonwoo had just finished adjusting the angle of his laptop again when his phone buzzed, the sharp vibration echoing against the plastic bench.
He picked it up with a practiced motion, answering with a clipped, "Yes?"
Mingyu didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Not exactly. But the man wasn’t whispering, and airports weren’t known for providing privacy.
“Yes, I’m still in Frankfurt,” Wonwoo said, his voice shifting slightly—less casual, more professional. “What is it?”
A pause.
Mingyu didn’t pay attention at first. He was leaning back with his eyes half-closed, trying to lull himself into the illusion of a nap. His earbuds were still in, though they’d stopped playing music a while ago—drained of battery, just like his patience.
He was about to shift to a more comfortable angle when a voice crackled loudly through the other end of Wonwoo’s phone—loud enough to cut through the ambient hum of the terminal.
“Vice President Jeon, we just received the latest update from operations. There’s been another delay on your flight.”
Mingyu’s eyes opened, one at a time.
Vice President?
He blinked and tilted his head just slightly, catching a glimpse of Wonwoo from beneath his lashes.
The man looked utterly unaffected. His expression hadn’t shifted—still cool, still unreadable—as though being referred to with a title that carried more weight than Mingyu’s entire resume was an everyday occurrence.
Which, he supposed, for this guy, it probably was.
Mingyu didn’t react outwardly. Just slouched further into his seat and fiddled with the frayed end of his hoodie sleeve, pretending like he hadn’t just stumbled on the most intriguing bit of information all day.
“Understood,” Wonwoo said into the phone, his tone clipped but calm. “How long is the delay?”
There was murmuring on the other end—muffled but urgent. Whoever was speaking clearly didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news.
Wonwoo’s jaw ticked just slightly. “I see. Fine. Keep me informed.”
More words were exchanged. Mingyu heard mentions of timelines, approvals, something about revised decks and final sign-offs. He didn’t catch all of it—didn’t need to. It was the tone that gave the real story. Controlled frustration. Authority.
The kind of voice that didn’t often get told no.
“Push the deadline if you must,” Wonwoo said. “I’ll approve the changes remotely, but I want everything routed through me before final layout. I’m not signing off on another rushed issue.”
Issue? Mingyu perked up internally.
Mingyu shifted slightly in his seat, eyes trained on his own shoes now, as if the scuffed toe of his left sneaker had never been more interesting.
“Yes,” Wonwoo continued. “If the design director wants a last-minute change, it goes through me first.”
Another beat.
“I’ll check in once I land. Until then, loop Minji and Haejin in. They know how to handle it.”
And just like that, the call ended.
The call cut off with a soft beep, and the terminal’s murmur returned to full volume.
Wonwoo held the phone in his hand for a second longer, as if considering something, then placed it face-down beside him. His laptop remained shut now, resting in his lap, unused.
Mingyu let the moment breathe, then—unable to resist the urge to poke at the silence—spoke up.
“So,” he drawled, stretching his legs out in front of him with a groan, “welcome to the Delay Club.”
Wonwoo glanced at him, just a flicker of his gaze.
“Membership’s exclusive,” Mingyu added with a crooked grin. “Only for the truly unfortunate.”
Wonwoo hummed. “I’ll pass.”
“Oh, no passing allowed,” Mingyu replied, propping his elbow up on the shared armrest. “Once you’ve suffered through more than three gate changes and overpriced coffee, you’re in for life.”
Wonwoo didn’t argue. Didn’t agree, either. Just leaned back slightly and folded his arms across his chest, the picture of composed irritation.
Mingyu turned his head toward him. “So, what did the Delay Gods bless you with? An hour? Two?”
“Three,” Wonwoo said.
“Tragic. Not quite long enough to leave the airport and explore, but too long to sit still and pretend you enjoy it here.”
Wonwoo gave a faint nod. “Exactly.”
“And yet,” Mingyu said, looking him over again—creased brow, tense shoulders, fingers twitching like they missed the keyboard—“you seem like the type who pretends to enjoy things anyway. Or at least endures them without complaint.”
Wonwoo’s brow arched. “You’ve known me less than an hour.”
“True.” Mingyu flashed a grin. “But I’m a very observant person.”
Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on him. Not challenging. Just… assessing.
“You travel a lot?” Mingyu asked.
“Often enough.”
“Work?”
Wonwoo nodded. “Yes.”
Mingyu nodded like that was all he needed. He didn’t press, didn’t ask what Wonwoo did, or why he was called Vice President by someone who sounded terrified to disappoint him. Instead, he simply offered a faint grin and said, “Business class traveler energy.”
Wonwoo glanced at him, brows raised. “And what does that mean?”
“Oh, you know,” Mingyu replied, playful. “Crisp shirts, real leather shoes, an aura of mild condescension—”
“I see.”
“—and a deep hatred for talkative airport strangers.”
That earned him a brief, sharp breath through the nose. Maybe even a reluctant chuckle.
“And you?” Wonwoo asked, shifting slightly to face him more fully. “Do you… travel for fun?”
Mingyu shrugged. “Sometimes. But mostly for work. I’m in fashion.”
Wonwoo’s gaze lingered for a moment. “Makes sense.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mingyu asked with a mock gasp, gesturing at his hoodie like it was high couture. “This coffee-stained masterpiece scream ‘fashion’ to you?”
Wonwoo’s eyes dropped briefly to the splotch over his chest, then back to his face. “It screams something.”
Mingyu laughed—genuine and unguarded.
“I’m a photographer. Editor, too, kind of. Depends on the day.” Mingyu waved a hand. “I mostly do photo shoots and help build editorial layouts. Sometimes I write captions when our writers forget we have a deadline.”
He stopped short of saying Vogue Seoul. Not because he was hiding it—okay, maybe a little—but mostly because there was something weirdly fun about holding back.
Wonwoo didn’t ask for the company name, and Mingyu didn’t offer it.
“Sounds chaotic,” Wonwoo said finally.
Mingyu smirked. “You have no idea. Models with food poisoning. Clients who think Photoshop is sorcery. Editors who want summer covers in the middle of February. The works.”
Wonwoo hummed thoughtfully. “You like it?”
Mingyu paused. That was a real question. Not just polite interest.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I do. It's weird and exhausting and sometimes everyone’s kind of a diva, but… it feels like something. Like I get to make people see the world differently. Even if it’s just through clothes.”
Wonwoo regarded him for a moment, then looked away—not dismissively, more like he was thinking something over.
Mingyu didn’t push. He just sat there, letting the quiet stretch again.
And in that quiet, something settled between them—not tension, not exactly comfort either. Just a flicker of mutual understanding.
Two travelers, suspended in a nowhere place, talking about nothing and everything at once.
◁▶◀▷
T E R M I N A L C
06:33 PM
What surprised Mingyu the most wasn’t that the conversation continued—it was that it never seemed to lag. It flowed, easy and unforced, like water over smooth stone, punctuated only by infrequent bathroom breaks.
They jumped from one topic to another, zigzagging between sarcasm and sincerity like they’d done this a hundred times before.
They talked about airports around the world—Mingyu claimed that Tokyo had the cleanest bathrooms, while Wonwoo argued that Zurich had superior coffee kiosks.
They talked about the best in-flight meals (both agreed: Turkish Airlines, no contest), and the worst (Mingyu’s horror story about a mystery omelet on an American redeye nearly made Wonwoo— almost —smile).
Mingyu ranted about photography deadlines and last-minute reshoots, about models who refused to wear shoes and stylists who thought bubblewrap was couture.
Wonwoo, still keeping his job vague, offered the kind of calm, logical responses that sounded like he was used to fixing chaos—not creating it.
They debated whether fashion shows were actual artistic expressions or just elaborate social games. Mingyu ranted about filters ruining good lighting.
Wonwoo confessed—quietly—that he always found fashion weeks kind of exhausting, but impressive in scope. They both admitted to falling asleep during panel events and never drinking enough water.
Somewhere along the way, they even ended up talking about aliens. And ghosts. And whether or not pigeons were secretly government spies.
(“You’re not seriously one of those conspiracy theorists,” Wonwoo had said, flatly. “Pigeons are suspicious,” Mingyu insisted. “I’m just asking the hard questions.”)
It was ridiculous. And yet—easy.
There was something oddly liberating about ranting to a stranger. Someone who didn’t know your history. Someone who didn’t have any expectations of you.
You didn’t have to be polished. Or interesting. You just had to be.
And maybe that was why Mingyu didn’t mind when the conversation turned quiet for a moment. Comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t feel like a failure, but a shared breath. He leaned back, rubbing at his face before groaning.
“God,” he muttered. “I’m so thirsty.”
Wonwoo glanced at him.
Mingyu held up his battered metal water bottle and shook it. It gave a hollow clank. “Empty. And I’m way too lazy to go hunt down a water fountain.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, unexpectedly, Wonwoo said, “Let’s get coffee.”
Mingyu blinked. “Huh?”
“You said you’re thirsty,” Wonwoo said, standing and slinging his coat over his arm. “And tired. Coffee solves both.”
Mingyu stared at him for a second too long, caught off guard by the suggestion. “Wait— you want to go get coffee? With me ?”
Wonwoo arched a brow. “Would you rather sit here and dehydrate?”
“…No. No, I’d absolutely rather exploit overpriced airport caffeine with a man who told me I was loud a few hours ago. Let’s go.”
Wonwoo said nothing. Just turned and started walking.
Mingyu scrambled after him, trying not to grin too obviously.
The airport café was tucked into a corner near Gate C27, its dim lighting doing a poor job of disguising the eye-watering prices on the menu board.
A sleek chain with industrial-chic stools and chalkboard menus trying too hard to look handwritten, it screamed aesthetic but felt sterile. Still, it was better than sitting around sipping stale lemonade and pretending recycled air didn’t feel like sandpaper in your lungs.
Mingyu stood in front of the counter, staring at the price of a simple iced Americano like it had personally wronged him. “Eight euros,” he whispered, scandalized. “I could buy a bag of coffee beans for that.”
“Then go brew some,” Wonwoo said, voice flat, already stepping confidently up to the counter. “What do you want?” Wonwoo asked without turning around.
Mingyu blinked, a little caught off guard. “Oh. Uh—iced Americano, if they’ve got it.”
Wonwoo nodded once, already scanning the chalkboard menu.
Mingyu hung back, eyeing the glass display case with the kind of reverence usually reserved for fine art or new camera lenses. The pastries looked aggressively perfect—shiny, golden-brown, and flaky in all the right places.
He leaned in slightly, as if he might solve the mystery of how airport croissants always looked like something off a bakery ad but tasted like despair.
“God,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “those croissants look stupid good.”
He didn’t think anyone heard.
Before Mingyu could even think about reaching for his wallet, Wonwoo had already stepped forward, card in hand, moving with the kind of practiced efficiency that made it clear he’d never fumbled for change a day in his life.
By the time Mingyu realized what was happening, the receipt was printing and the barista was already thanking them with a smile far too cheerful for the hour.
Mingyu opened his mouth to protest, but Wonwoo simply turned to the side, drinks and a brown bag in hand, completely unfazed—as if it hadn’t even occurred to him that Mingyu might want to pay for his own overpriced coffee.
Mingyu blinked. “Wait, are you—did you just—?”
Wonwoo didn’t look at him. “I’m paying.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His tone was final. “Come on, let’s walk. This place is a fluorescent nightmare.”
Mingyu blinked and followed.
They wandered past sleepy bookstores and closed boarding gates, coffee cups warm in their hands, the hum of suitcase wheels and overhead announcements their soundtrack.
It wasn’t until they passed a particularly chaotic souvenir shop—where a rotating rack of keychains nearly took Mingyu’s shoulder out—that Wonwoo handed him the bag.
“What’s this?” Mingyu asked, eyeing it suspiciously.
“You said the croissants looked nice.”
Mingyu stared at him, stunned into silence for a second. “Wait. You… heard that?”
Wonwoo nodded, taking another sip of his drink like it wasn’t a big deal.
Mingyu pulled the croissant out of the bag and stared at it with something close to reverence. “Okay. First of all, I take back everything I said about you being rude. This is an act of true kindness. Like—this is peak chivalry. Coffee and pastry?”
“You’re easy to impress,” Wonwoo said.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
They walked slowly, meandering through echoey corridors lined with overpriced electronics and tired duty-free clerks.
Occasionally, they’d pause—once to watch a child try to ride their suitcase like a scooter, another time to point out a man wearing an enormous fur hat that neither of them could figure out was fashion or punishment.
Between bites of croissant, Mingyu launched into a dramatic retelling of a fashion shoot that involved three malfunctioning fog machines and a model who insisted on posing with a live parrot.
Wonwoo, for his part, countered with dry observations and sarcastic one-liners that made Mingyu laugh so loud a security officer glanced over.
They talked about their favorite cities—Mingyu loved the vibrant chaos of Bangkok, while Wonwoo preferred the quiet elegance of Copenhagen.
They discussed sleep schedules, flight playlists, their deeply incompatible coffee preferences, and whether or not socks with sandals should be punishable by law.
They walked without purpose, letting the current of the terminal guide them.
Past the neon-lit ramen shop with artificial steam curling out of its display window, past rows of chairs where travelers lay curled like cats, and onward through the glossy arteries of a space designed to be passed through, not lived in.
Mingyu cradled his croissant like it was sacred, taking small, appreciative bites and occasionally making soft, delighted noises like he was trying to savor every crumb. Wonwoo didn’t comment, though there was a barely-there curve at the corner of his mouth that might have been a smirk.
“You’re really enjoying that,” he observed as they passed a store selling travel pillows and LED luggage tags.
“It’s not just a croissant,” Mingyu replied, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “It’s a symbol. Of decency. Of redemption. Of kindness in an otherwise cruel, overpriced world.”
Wonwoo sipped his coffee. “It’s butter and flour.”
“And love,” Mingyu added dramatically.
They turned into a quieter hallway, one of those forgotten airport pockets lined with outdated payphones and a defunct massage chair humming quietly in the corner. The foot traffic thinned, and the lights overhead buzzed a little too loudly.
“So,” Mingyu said, slowing his pace, “what kind of person orders black coffee and a croissant for someone they just met, even though they started off acting like a robot?”
Wonwoo gave him a look. “The kind who was just trying to work and got interrupted by a man falling off a chair.”
Mingyu grinned. “You still remember that?”
“You flailed like a cartoon character. It was memorable.”
They both laughed, low and genuine.
From there, the conversation spilled out easily, the way it sometimes did when you spoke to someone you knew you’d never have to see again.
They circled each other through a maze of ridiculous topics. Mingyu admitted he once bought light-up sneakers for a photoshoot and wore them unironically for two weeks after.
Wonwoo confessed he didn’t own a single hoodie and had never taken a selfie. Mingyu gasped like he’d been physically wounded. Wonwoo countered that he found selfie angles inherently suspicious.
Wonwoo listened with surprising patience as Mingyu recounted the entire plot of a Korean reality show he’d binged on the flight from London, and when he finished, Wonwoo simply said, “That sounds exhausting,” in a tone that was almost fond.
At some point, they found themselves in front of a floor-to-ceiling aquarium tucked between two terminals—an inexplicable airport decoration full of sleepy-looking fish and a few confused children pressing their hands to the glass.
“God,” Mingyu said, staring at a pufferfish with unblinking eyes. “What I’d give to be that fish.”
Wonwoo arched a brow. “You want to be bloated and floating in a box?”
“I want to not have deadlines,” Mingyu replied, deadpan.
Wonwoo both sipped his coffee, watching the fish drift slowly through the filtered blue.They spiraled into a long, impassioned debate about country flag designs, and then, somehow, ended up talking about death rituals in different cultures.
“Why are we like this?” Mingyu asked, genuinely laughing as he stirred melting ice cubes in his drink.
Wonwoo shrugged. “It’s easy to talk about random things when you think you’ll never see someone again.”
Mingyu quieted for a second at that. It was true, in a way. There was something liberating about talking to someone who didn’t exist in your day-to-day life. No weight of expectations. No past. Just the strange, temporary safety of the present.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s probably why I’ve told you more in the past hour than I’ve told my therapist in months.”
Wonwoo raised a brow. “You have a therapist?”
“Yup.”
“Do you go to them?”
“…Not as often as I should.”
There was a pause. A stillness, unexpected between two people who had been talking nonstop for over two hours.
And then, Mingyu, unable to let the moment linger too long, said, “You know, I still can’t believe you bought me a croissant. That feels… significant. Emotionally.”
“Stop talking about the croissant.”
“I will never stop talking about the croissant.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t eat it myself.”
“You wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much.”
“That’s probably true,” Wonwoo said, surprisingly softly.
They stood side-by-side, leaning against the railing that looked down onto the lower terminal floor. People swirled below them—rushed, late, indifferent. But up here, in this strange little pocket of suspended time, there was nothing but the echo of idle footsteps and the lingering warmth of conversation.
Mingyu turned his head slightly, watching Wonwoo in profile. He wondered, for a moment, how this had happened—how a grumpy stranger with an attitude and an expensive suit had somehow become someone he felt oddly at ease with. Like a friend. Or something not quite that.
He didn’t overthink it. Not yet.
They kept walking.
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T E R M I N A L C
08:56 PM
They found their way back to the same bench, the one where their odd little story had started. But this time, there was no awkward glancing, no clicking of keys or dramatic sighs.
Just the easy rhythm of two people no longer strangers. Where tension had once sat thick between them, there was now a lightness, like the fizz of soda just cracked open—bubbling, familiar, and sweet.
Wonwoo sat with one leg crossed over the other, sipping what was left of his coffee, his jacket neatly folded over his arm. His expression was relaxed now, a faint curve at the edge of his lips that hadn't been there six hours ago.
Mingyu lounged across the bench like he’d always belonged there, legs stretched out, the last of his drink cupped lazily in one hand.
The croissant had long since disappeared, half of it eaten with gleeful exaggeration and the other half carefully saved for "later"—although "later" had come and gone twenty minutes ago.
Mingyu had declared it the highlight of his airport culinary experience, and Wonwoo, who had bought it without a second thought, pretended not to be pleased by the praise.
Now, instead of silence, there was laughter—unfiltered and genuine.
Mingyu had just finished telling a story about how he’d once shown up to an editorial shoot wearing mismatched shoes—one black and one navy—and hadn’t noticed until the model pointed it out with a horrified laugh.
Wonwoo had actually laughed at that.
Not a polite chuckle, but a real laugh that crinkled his eyes and made Mingyu stare for half a second longer than he should’ve. It sent a quiet flutter through his chest, like an unspoken thought that didn’t yet have a name.
Then the announcement came—crackling overhead, mechanical and familiar:
“Flight 228 to Seoul, now boarding at Gate A17.”
Both of them blinked, processing the words. Then, slowly, they stood—one after the other—and turned toward each other in realization.
“You’re on Flight 228?” Mingyu asked, surprised.
“So are you?” Wonwoo replied, brow raised.
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then both of them burst into laughter.
“We’re idiots,” Mingyu said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Truly,” Wonwoo replied. “Six hours of talking, and not once did we mention flight numbers.”
They started walking toward the gate together, still grinning.
“I’m in business,” Mingyu offered casually as they neared the boarding area.
Wonwoo didn’t miss a beat. “First.”
Mingyu gave him a sideways glance and snorted. “Yeah. I figured.”
Wonwoo just smirked.
At the gate, the line had split—first-class one way, business the other. They paused, not quite at the fork yet, the sounds of boarding passes scanning and wheels rolling filling the space around them.
Mingyu hesitated before pulling out his phone. “Give me your number. For, you know… future philosophical debates about overpriced airport food.”
Wonwoo took it without question, typing in his number and handing it back. “I expect croissant updates.”
“You’ll get them,” Mingyu promised.
And then, like some strange reversal of their meeting, they parted—one stepping left, the other right.
Mingyu settled into his aisle seat in business, tossing his bag into the overhead compartment and sinking into the plush seat with a quiet sigh. He looked out the window briefly, at the tarmac glowing under the terminal lights, and smiled to himself.
Across the partitioned aisle and through the curtain, Wonwoo took his window seat in first class, set his bag neatly beneath the seat in front of him, and leaned back. The cabin crew offered him a drink, which he declined with a polite nod.
As the engines rumbled to life and the plane began its slow roll toward the runway, neither of them reached for their phones. Neither opened a laptop or scrolled through music.
They just sat there, thousands of feet from home but oddly content.
And somewhere between Gate A17 and the clouds, they were both already looking forward to whatever came next.
Maybe layovers weren’t such a waste of time after all.
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V O G U E S E O U L
09:07 AM
The following Monday, Mingyu walked into the Vogue Seoul office wearing oversized sunglasses and an even more oversized coat—equal parts post-trip exhaustion and a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact with deadlines. He was barely through the lobby when a familiar voice greeted him with alarming energy.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Seoul’s most fashionably late employee… actually on time.”
Mingyu lowered his sunglasses with a dramatic flair to reveal Lee Seokmin, standing near the elevator bank with a coffee in one hand and his usual HR-issued chaos in the other.
Mingyu gave him a slow blink. “Is it too late to turn around?”
“Yep,” Seokmin chirped. “Already saw you.”
Another voice chimed in as the elevator doors opened. Xu Minghao stepped out, phone in hand, eyebrow perfectly arched. “You didn’t just see him. You announced it like it was the second coming of Christ.”
Seokmin grinned unapologetically. “Because it is. Have you ever seen him walk in before nine?”
Mingyu scowled. “It’s 9:07.”
“That’s early—for you,” Minghao said, eyes glinting.
Mingyu rolled his eyes but followed them into the elevator, which smelled faintly of perfume samples and overworked interns.
He leaned back against the mirrored wall and stretched his arms above his head, letting out a groan that sounded far too dramatic for a man who had just returned from a fashion capital.
“So,” Seokmin prompted, “how was London? Survive Fashion Week without burning out or accidentally punching a model?”
Mingyu hummed thoughtfully. “Didn’t punch anyone. Bought a scarf that cost more than my rent. Sat front row at a show next to someone who asked if the designer was ‘new.’ So, you know… eventful.”
“And the flight back?” Minghao asked, brushing invisible lint off his impeccable turtleneck.
“Long,” Mingyu said, face pinching. “My layover in Frankfurt got extended to six hours.”
Both of his friends winced in unison.
“God, I’d cry,” Seokmin muttered. “Six hours? That’s just long enough to lose the will to live but not long enough to go do anything interesting.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Mingyu replied, shrugging. “But it wasn’t that boring. I was with someone.”
There was a tiny pause, the kind that only happens when someone drops something vaguely interesting and then refuses to elaborate.
But neither Minghao nor Seokmin took the bait. Not because they weren’t curious—just because they knew Mingyu well enough to know he’d either tell them eventually, or dramatically withhold the details until they begged.
Minghao smirked. “Must’ve been decent company if you didn’t start live-tweeting terminal despair.”
Mingyu snorted. “Better than decent.”
The elevator chimed and they stepped out onto the editorial floor, which was already buzzing with pre-lunch emails and soft pop music filtering through someone’s desk speaker.
As they rounded the corner, Seokmin glanced over his shoulder. “By the way, good thing you showed up on time today.”
“Gee, thanks,” Mingyu said flatly. “Love the confidence in my punctuality.”
“No, I mean it,” Seokmin said. “The President’s coming.”
Minghao’s head turned. “The Jeon Seunghyeon?”
Seokmin nodded solemnly. “Big boss himself. And his son, the Vice President. Full royal visit.”
Mingyu raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Sounds dramatic.”
“It is dramatic,” Seokmin whispered conspiratorially. “We haven’t seen either of them in months, and suddenly—bam—morning visit. Probably to ‘observe workplace culture’ or something equally terrifying.”
Minghao snorted. “Let’s be real, they just want to make sure no one’s dressing like chaos. The last time we had surprise execs visiting, someone wore Crocs. Crocs, Mingyu.”
“Fashion crimes,” Mingyu agreed solemnly. “But don’t worry. I’m wearing actual shoes today.”
“Barely,” Minghao muttered, eyeing the chunky loafers that looked more art piece than functional footwear. The conversation flowed into project deadlines and shoot schedules, Mingyu half-listening as they reached his desk.
But somewhere near the executive floor, Jeon Wonwoo had just walked out of the elevator.
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