Chapter Text
𝒇𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒋𝒂𝒆𝒉𝒚𝒖𝒌 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚 “𝒊 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖” (𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅)
𝟏. 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒚
Jaehyuk doesn’t say it when Jeongwoo walks out of his martial arts class, cheeks flushed and beaming, holding a gold-painted trophy like it’s made of real diamonds.
The class only gives them to the top student of the term. The tall one who always kicked higher than Jeongwoo wasn’t even called.
Asahi’s hand is on his chest. His other one’s covering his mouth. “Oh my god,” he whispers, eyes shining. “He got it. Jae—he got it.”
Jeongwoo’s hair is sweaty, and his belt is a little crooked. He runs straight to Jaehyuk, even though Asahi’s the one gasping and squealing.
Jaehyuk kneels to his level and takes the trophy carefully, just for a moment, inspecting it like it’s part of an opponent’s body he’s studying.
“You did good,” he says, placing a hand on the boy’s head.
Not a ruffle, not a pat — a solid, grounding hold. It makes Jeongwoo close his eyes and lean in like it’s better than words.
Asahi crouches beside them. “You’re amazing, Woo Bear,” he gushes, pressing a million kisses to his son’s cheeks.
Jaehyuk watches them, and he smiles. But he doesn’t say it.
𝟐. 𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒐-𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆
The silence is too loud that day.
It’s the day Jaehyuk’s coach calls and says he’s not cleared to fight — not until the scans come back clean. Something about tendon damage. Rest for four weeks. No sparring. No stress.
Jaehyuk hangs up and just stands in the middle of the kitchen.
He doesn’t move until Asahi comes in wearing a soft beige cardigan and asks what he wants for lunch.
“I don’t care,” Jaehyuk replies. “Whatever.”
“You okay?” Asahi’s voice is light, but his eyes aren’t.
“I said whatever.”
He regrets the tone immediately. It echoes through the too-quiet kitchen.
Asahi turns. Not away — just around, toward the fridge. But Jaehyuk sees the shift in his shoulders.
He steps forward and pulls the cardigan gently from the back, like reeling in a kite.
“Don’t,” Jaehyuk mutters.
Asahi turns slowly. Jaehyuk’s hand rests on his waist, thumb stroking once.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, looking down at him.
And then he kisses him.
Not a hungry kiss, not romantic, not even long — just warm. Slow. With his hand on the small of Asahi’s back like an anchor.
And he doesn’t say “I love you.”
But Asahi doesn’t ask for it.
𝟑. 𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔
Woo Bear is seven when he breaks his wrist falling off the monkey bars.
It’s a clean fracture, and he doesn’t cry much, but Jaehyuk looks like he’s the one in pain.
Asahi fills out the forms while Jaehyuk carries their son — big enough to walk, small enough to still be carried — all the way to Room 4B.
“I told him not to jump,” Asahi murmurs.
“He wanted to try.”
“I should’ve—”
“It’s not your fault.”
Asahi finally looks at him. Jaehyuk never talks this much in one go.
Woo Bear sleeps on the little bed with a temporary cast and his favorite blanket that Asahi had packed just in case — the blue one with cartoon strawberries on it.
Jaehyuk sits beside him with both hands on his knees. His knuckles are white.
Asahi comes and stands behind him, looping his arms gently around his shoulders.
“He’s okay,” he whispers into Jaehyuk’s hair.
Jaehyuk’s voice is gruff. “He’s too small.”
“He’s brave,” Asahi corrects.
“He shouldn’t have to be.”
He doesn’t say I was scared too.
He doesn’t say I’ve never loved anything like I love this boy.
He doesn’t say I love you, Sahi, thank you for making him.
He just leans back into Asahi’s arms and closes his eyes.
𝟒. 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒑 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒊
Jeongwoo’s Korean is perfect. His Japanese is slower.
So when they go to visit Asahi’s parents in Sendai, he clings extra tight to his appa’s hand.
Jaehyuk’s passport photo is awful. Asahi teases him the whole flight.
They eat miso soup that tastes like Asahi’s childhood. Jaehyuk listens more than he talks. His Japanese is improving.
Woo Bear calls Asahi’s mom “ばあば” with a bow. The whole table laughs. Jaehyuk doesn’t smile with teeth, but he does smile.
Later that night, after Jeongwoo’s asleep in a tiny futon and Asahi’s brushing his hair in the dim hallway, Jaehyuk says, “He’s like you.”
“Hm?”
“Polite. Thoughtful. Tiny.”
Asahi snorts. “He’s not that tiny. He’s seven.”
“You were tiny when we got married,” Jaehyuk murmurs. “Still are.”
Asahi stands up and kisses him softly in the middle of his parents’ hallway.
Jaehyuk cups the side of his face but doesn’t say it.
𝟓. 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚
It’s raining the night Asahi almost leaves.
Not because of a fight, not because of a breakup — but because he’s overwhelmed. Burnt out. Spinning.
Jeongwoo’s school is demanding. His schedule is packed. Jaehyuk’s training is strict. His own art projects are behind.
Asahi sits at the edge of the bed with his suitcase half-zipped. He’s not running away — just… taking a break. Going to a hotel for one night to clear his head.
Jaehyuk comes in from his shower, hair damp, towel on his shoulders.
He sees the bag. He sees Asahi.
Asahi doesn’t look up. “I’m not leaving you. Just for a night.”
Jaehyuk doesn’t yell. Doesn’t plead. Just walks over and kneels in front of him, resting his head against Asahi’s thighs.
“Stay,” he says.
Asahi’s hands tremble. He touches Jaehyuk’s hair.
“Just one night,” he repeats.
Jaehyuk doesn’t argue.
But Asahi doesn’t leave.
Not because Jaehyuk said I love you, but because he said stay like he meant I need you.
𝟔. 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅
Jeongwoo is asleep, half-curled like a shrimp on the big couch in the living room, TV still playing some cartoon on low volume. His hair’s messy. He drooled on the pillow. His strawberry blanket is barely covering one leg.
Asahi stands behind the kitchen island, rinsing the last dish of the night. He’s wearing that old, soft tee — the faded grey one with the sleeves too wide and the neckline stretched from Jaehyuk pulling at it when they kiss.
The lights are dim. The rain hasn’t stopped since afternoon. Everything is still.
Jaehyuk walks over to the couch and scoops Woo Bear into his arms, effortlessly, gently. The boy stirs a little, then rests his cheek against his appa’s chest without opening his eyes.
He’s heavier now. He used to be the size of Jaehyuk’s forearm. Now his legs dangle, almost reaching Jaehyuk’s knees.
Asahi watches, drying his hands on a towel. “He’s getting big,” he says softly.
“Too fast,” Jaehyuk replies.
He walks Woo Bear to the bedroom, lays him down on the bed they all still share some nights — when the thunder is too loud, or the air just feels a little lonelier than usual. He tucks the blanket in, brushes the hair from his son’s forehead.
And then he just stands there.
Not moving.
Not talking.
Until Asahi comes in behind him and loops his arms around Jaehyuk’s waist, pressing his cheek to the middle of his back.
“You okay?” Asahi whispers.
“Yeah.”
Asahi pulls him back gently. They step out into the hallway, quietly.
And Jaehyuk just looks at him.
No noise.
No more thunder.
Just the softest, most vulnerable silence between them.
And then—
“I love you.”
Asahi freezes.
Jaehyuk says it like he’s been holding it in for seven years. Like it cracked something open in his chest. Like it burned his throat on the way out.
“I love you,” he repeats, quieter.
Asahi’s eyes glisten. “Why now?”
“I don’t know,” Jaehyuk admits. “He looked just like you when he was sleeping.”
Asahi steps forward and wraps both arms around him tight, face pressed into his collarbone. “Say it again.”
Jaehyuk cups the back of his neck.
“I love you,” he says, like he means it with every win, every bruise, every day he came home and didn’t say it out loud but thought it anyway.
Asahi doesn’t say anything this time.
He just kisses him, slow and real, in the hallway outside their son’s room — where it’s quiet, and warm, and everything they built together is sleeping softly just a few steps away.
The end