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・・・・・
It had been a while since Wonwoo last stepped foot inside the practice room. The polished floor and fabric-softener sweat still hit him the same. It was, oddly, comforting now, probably because there wasn’t any real schedule for him today, not until time was due. His only reason to come to this place was his own merit. He had offered to come along, just to accompany Soonyoung and Jihoon during tour practice. For moral support or ego fuel, as Soonyoung had insisted with a grin.
“It’s kind of astonishing that you two still have this much energy, especially with enlistment creeping up,” Wonwoo’s lips curled into a smile as he watched them mark through the final chorus.
“It’s either this or we wither into dust,” Jihoon muttered between heavy breaths. He was still dripping with sweat, a half-empty americano clenched in his hand. “Surprisingly, this keeps you alive.”
Soonyoung padded over, crouching next to where Wonwoo sat on the floor with his back against the mirrored wall. Jihoon looked at them both, contemplating whether to join, but he put his americano beside Soonyoung and back to learn the choreography once again.
“Still not getting enough rest?” Soonyoung took a sip of Jihoon’s Americano, noticing he wasn’t looking at him.
Wonwoo huffed a breath. “Don’t be ridiculous. I get more sleep now than I ever did before.”
He leaned his head back against the mirror, and suddenly, his eyelids fluttered shut. “It’s just that… it doesn’t feel like real rest.”
Jihoon plopped down beside them with a groan. “The classic, tired Jeon Wonwoo,” he quipped. “Indestructible, full of charm on the stage, but somehow always exhausted.”
Wonwoo opened one eye and snorted. “What, you about to hand me a box of Monster energy drinks?”
Soonyoung didn’t take the bait. Instead, his voice dipped slightly, though it was meant to be playful. “Junhui’s back yesterday, you know.”
Wonwoo’s smile faltered. He hadn’t checked his notifications since leaving the house earlier.
“He called you, right?”
・・・・・
The truth was, of course Wonwoo knew when Junhui would be back. There wasn’t a press release he needed or some sort of exclusive announcement. Even then, he had seen the signs long before the news caught on. The promo cycles had ended, and so did his studio appearance. But still, knowing it and feeling it were two different things.
Since enlistment, Wonwoo had to minimize his presence. Whether it was onstage or even online, because nowadays, he had been part of the background noise. The routine of public service had put him in the mundane of it all. Clock in, mingle with everyone around, keep his head low, then clock out.
Junhui, though, was everywhere.
He had a sharper face, losing his puffy cheek as his eyes somewhat sunken and his jaw looked far more defined, Wonwoo called it on his diet, but he did look mature under foreign lights. His name was everywhere now, next to Tony Leung’s on headlines. And everytime Wonwoo saw it, saw him, it was like something buzzed beneath his ribs. The wire is still alive even after all these years, and Junhui, thankfully, wasn’t distant.
Junhui loved to check in on everyone; the members, him. He got brand new Kakaotalk stickers lately—the one shaped like a cat (what else could it be, really?)—and he had been using it when he was chatting with Wonwoo, which apparently became the greatest distraction during his working hours, the kind that made the day pass easier. If the timezone aligned just enough, they shared some late-night calls, oftentimes with Wonwoo sleeping on him first because he couldn’t tolerate the ‘above-midnight’ hours nowadays since public service meant getting up earlier than he liked.
On their birthdays, though, things were slightly different. Which, to be fair, couldn’t be helped when you were an idol. Automatically, your birthdays belong to the world, not you. So, somewhere in between miles, they had promised to celebrate their birthdays together, combined, with something truly theirs: spicy hotpot.
It was known to everyone that they had always shared similar taste buds. Like two peas in a pod, they believed that a food without a tingle in your tongue wouldn’t taste like proper food. Junhui loved the spice in his hotpot, and Wonwoo wanted extra chili on his ramen. It worked so well when they ate together that at some point, it worked well enough for Wonwoo to actually start noticing Junhui more than he expected to.
Finally, the time came: Junhui was back and Wonwoo had a free night. They found themselves at a slightly run-down malatang spot somewhere in Gangnam. It wasn’t anyone’s recommendation; Junhui just picked a random place out of his exploration on Instagram reels.
Junhui slurped in a bite of Szechuan-spiced meat and immediately scrunched his face.
“It’s not that spicy,” he pouted, lips pink and slightly glossy from the chili oil. “I think they charge more for extra.”
Wonwoo let out a soft laugh, looking at him fondly, though the way his lips were swollen from the spice wasn’t a good idea at all. “You want me to go complain to the ahjumma in the back?”
“This is your turn to treat. You should get your money’s worth.”
“We’re definitely crossing this one off the list,” Wonwoo said, fishing out a quail egg from the broth and placing it into Junhui’s bowl. “Next time, we go to the place Mingyu recommended.”
Junhui perked up. “My bad for having high expectations,” he muttered, chasing the egg with his chopsticks. “If this turned out good, I was gonna ask Renjun and Chenle to try it with me too.”
“Now you’ll just have to pretend it was incredible,” Wonwoo replied. “Save face.”
Junhui grinned around a mouthful. “You know me so well.”
Wonwoo watched Junhui chew, studied him like he always did. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way his hair—slightly longer now, and blonde—kept falling into his eyes until he lazily pushed it back. He hadn’t changed much, and Wonwoo still felt it; the heartbeat, the way his stomach churned just from the thought of how the relationship had become. Because every time Junhui mentioned his friends’ names, Wonwoo could only smile, something polite enough to mask the shift in his chest.
Two things always came to mind. First: of course, he was happy. Junhui’s friends—Renjun, Chenle, a few others whose names he now recognized—had always been kind to him. They’d met a few times to exchange blessings and jokes. Enough to feel, strangely, welcomed. And though both he and Junhui were introverts by default, Wonwoo always found himself a little more awkward at the edges. A little less fluid in conversation.
He was grateful that Junhui had found people who could match his energy, who didn’t mind when he got lost in the details of composing or gaming or certain YouTube rabbit hole. A world where Junhui could be exactly who he was, openly, freely, without having to tuck joy into silence.
But then, the second feeling came. It felt like a loud pang in his heart. Wonwoo didn’t know what to call it because jealousy would’ve been too ridiculous, but it felt low-burning sometimes. It sparked when Junhui spoke about his friends, where Wonwoo would catch glimpses of it through the photos taken at cafés, karaoke clips sent in his chatroom, or even matching cat plushies won at arcades. It was all the moments that were casual, easy, and perhaps lived under sunlight instead of secrecy.
He could imagine it too well; Junhui laughing too loud in public, sharing a table with them in daylight, and linking arms for the sake of a cute picture. Things Wonwoo could do too, technically—they were in the same group, after all. Nothing suspicious about grabbing lunch. It’s never wrong to stand next to each other in frame, or secretly stealing glances during fan meetings.
But frequency breeds speculation, familiarity invites questions. And the love of their fans was something Wonwoo always carried like fine glass. So Wonwoo stayed one step back and kept quiet. He let others post the memories so Junhui may live in the light, while he watched from the safe blur of the background. It is safer, better. Quieter.
Though it didn't mean that the questions stopped. He wondered sometimes whether Junhui was still there, reaching back to him when he was somewhere under the new spotlight. Wondered if it was easier for Junhui to love someone in silence, or if it would be preferred to love out loud with people who didn’t need to be hidden. Or worse, if Junhui ever considered having him matter at all.
But today is not the time to worry. Junhui was here after a long flight. Junhui was still here for him.
“Are they good?”
Junhui looked up from the pot. “Hm?”
“Renjun, Chenle. They’re… doing alright?”
Junhui blinked, then nodded. “Of course.” He brought his chopsticks to mix his hotpot sauce. “They’re good people. You’d like them more if you let them talk to you longer.”
Wonwoo smiled again, eyes dropping back to the simmering broth, watching the swirl of chili oil ripple around curled mushrooms and stray slices of meat.
“I like hearing about them,” he said softly. “From you.”
Junhui gave him a smile in return, and the warmth lived more in his eyes than on his lips. The kind that always left Wonwoo somewhere between fluttering and flustered, never anything in between.
He had seen that smile a thousand times. Most of the time, on the stages. Ten years ago, in the green rooms, across dorm rooms filled with half-eaten Chinese takeout and laundry. And yet, somehow, the more he saw the stars in Junhui’s name rise—project after project, continent after continent—the further away they felt from the life they used to share.
Junhui dropped a piece of lotus root into the pot and the steam rose in gentle swirls between them. “So what about you?” he asked calmly. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Well, I…” Wonwoo hesitated, swallowing around the edge of his words. “There’s not much to say, really. It’s the usual nine to six, mostly. I get to fill things, sometimes monitoring records. It’s a repeatable routine.”
Wonwoo paused for a second as he put the meat in his bowl, “If I get off early, I’ll meet up with friends sometimes. For ramyeon, usually.”
Junhui’s expression twisted instantly into something between concern and disbelief. “I told you to cut the ramen,” he deadpanned. “It’s not good for you. You need to be more mindful of your health.”
Wonwoo let out a breath, more an exhale than a laugh. “I know.”
He did know. Of course he knew. Junhui had always worried like this consistently. Sometimes the line between his scolding and caring blurred enough until it rested warm against Wonwoo’s ribs. But it still got under his skin sometimes.
Wonwoo slept late. Walked more than he ran. He wasn’t falling apart. But he wasn’t exactly glowing either. And Junhui, as always, noticed. That was the thing about being known by someone like him. He remembered too much. He saw the small slips. And sometimes, Wonwoo didn’t know if that made him feel more held—or more exposed.
“Is that all?” Junhui asked lightly, but something in his tone gently probed at the silence that had settled between them.
“Yeah,” Wonwoo replied, barely above a whisper. “That’s all.”
The broth simmered between them, bubbles rising in lazy spirals, but all Wonwoo could feel was the slowly spreading worries in his chest because it wasn’t everything. He kept his gaze low, watching a stray fishcake drift against the edge of the pot. Wondered if the truth sat somewhere behind his ribs because he wasn’t sure he had much more to give. Not when Junhui was here, in front of him, looking like someone the world wanted so badly. Nowadays, Junhui held a different kind of shine; because the cameras loved him, the headlines chased him. He belonged to the airports, movie trailers, on magazine covers. He belonged to people who were moving forward and becoming more.
And Wonwoo was still here, stuck in his in-between. Two years of service, a rigid routine, long days stacked on each other like paper. The pride of doing his duty didn’t always outweigh the fear: that he was growing smaller in the distance, that Junhui’s life would get too full without needing him in it.
Sometimes, when Junhui spoke about the things he was doing, the people he was meeting, the places he’d been; it made Wonwoo’s chest ache in ways he didn’t have the words for. Not because he didn’t want those things for him, but because part of him was still terrified of being left behind.
His thoughts were broken by the sudden tap of chopsticks against his cheek.
“Wonwoo-yah,” Junhui said with a small smile, slightly curved like he was trying not to laugh. “Don’t fall asleep on the hotpot.”
Wonwoo blinked, startled, and then let out a breathy laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “No, I’m not.”
Junhui looked at him carefully, as if waiting for the smile to reach deeper than his lips. “Are you okay?”
“What?” Wonwoo said too quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Junhui didn’t push and nodded softly, with a little shrug of the shoulder, he’d decided to give Wonwoo the space to be half-honest just for now.
“Okay then,” he said.
And then, just as Wonwoo was about to retreat into silence again, Junhui’s voice returned. Somehow steadier, Junhui was indeed saving the words for the exact right moment.
“I hope you know that I miss you.”
For a moment, Wonwoo couldn’t breathe. Like something has taken over him completely; an overwhelming warmth that swells in the chest before it spills into something brighter. Junhui’s words echoed in his ears, clearing out every lingering shadow that had been spiraling through his mind only moments ago. Just like that, the heavy fog of insecurity lifted, if only a little, if only for now.
“We didn’t order soju, right?” he asked, feigning nonchalance as he reached for another piece of lotus root.
Junhui gave him a scandalized look and immediately hurled a chopstick at him, more dramatic than violent. “Yah! Do you seriously think I can only say that when I’m drunk?” He puffed out his cheeks in mock offense, grinning all the while. “You know me. That’s just for show. I can say it a hundred more times now… if it’s for you.”
The chopstick bounced off his arm harmlessly, and Wonwoo laughed, full and bright, louder than he meant to. He felt heat bloom in his cheeks, not from the hotpot, but from the words. From the way Junhui said them so easily, so unafraid.
“Okay, okay,” Wonwoo said, holding up both hands in surrender, his voice still wrapped in laughter. And then, quieter, more honest, “I miss you too, Jun-ah. It’s crazy, really. I hope you know—I think about you all the time. When you’re doing schedules, when you’re flying off somewhere new. I’m thankful for every update you send. Even the random stuff. And I’m especially thankful for your Huihuis—because thanks to them, I still get these adorable pictures of you, even when you forget to text back.”
Junhui let out a sharp burst of laughter, head tipping back as he clapped once, delighted.
“But more than all of that,” Wonwoo continued, voice softening again, “I miss you. Right here. Sitting across from me.”
Junhui was still laughing when he spoke, eyes crinkling like the sound had startled even himself. “See?” he grinned. “You’re the sappy one. I say I miss you and you turn it into a confession!”
Wonwoo rolled his eyes, but there was no heat in it—only fondness, only affection so obvious it almost embarrassed him. “So I’m not allowed to love you now? That’s unfair.”
Junhui’s grin widened. “You’re allowed. Just don’t outdo me next time.”
“Impossible,” Wonwoo said, grabbing his chopsticks again. “You’re dramatic and sentimental. I’m chill and understated.”
Junhui furrowed his eyebrows. Wonwoo knew why. It was quite literally the opposite.
“Says the guy who just poured his whole heart into a spicy broth.”
Wonwoo gave him a look. “You’re in that broth too, just so you know.”
Junhui only chuckled and nudged the pot. “Come on. Let’s finish this before the mushrooms disappear. Minghao said there’s a bubble tea place nearby, and apparently they make the best sugar donuts in all of Saecheon.”
Wonwoo raised a brow. “Okay, but, your treat?”
Junhui rolled his eyes and stood up, already grabbing their bowls. “Treat me something tonight.”
And as Junhui turned away, Wonwoo stood too, barely bothering to hide the way his heart skipped ahead of him. He didn’t need to be asked twice.
・・・・・
They walked side by side through the streets of Seoul, bundled just enough to avoid drawing attention; not that it would cause much of a stir. From the outside, they were just bandmates out for a late-night drink, nothing more. But inside, beneath the layers and the casual silence, Wonwoo felt the weight of wanting. His hand brushed close to Junhui’s every so often, and though they never touched, the pull was always there, yet restrained.
Sometimes, when nights were soft like this, Wonwoo wondered if he would ever have the freedom to simply reach out. To lace his fingers with Junhui’s in public without a second thought, without having to disguise or set his distance. Just hand in hand, walking home together.
He thought about how far they had come to even arrive at this moment. It hadn’t been easy, not even close. It took months of conversations, long walks after rehearsals, cautious planning, and most importantly, the what-ifs. When they finally decided to make it official, to move forward as something real, they promised they would never hide it from those who mattered.
Convincing Seungcheol was part of that. A mountain of its own.
“I hope you know this is going to come with consequences,” Seungcheol had said, though he was calm that day and knew that this was coming, he couldn’t help but remain firm about it. “It won’t be smooth sailing.”
“I know,” Wonwoo replied without hesitation.
Because even back then, he knew. What they had wasn’t just about shared meals or stolen moments between schedules. It had started with food, yes; with late-night hotpot runs, bickering over spice levels, there, comfort found in familiarity. But it bloomed in the quiet; when Wonwoo began sharing thoughts he’d never voiced before, when Junhui confessed insecurities that never made it to the stage. Then came the late-night calls, the inside jokes, the sleepy goodnights that bled into good mornings. Junhui had become the center of his sky, the apple of his eye, the first person he looked for in every room, the only one who made even the toughest days feel worth it, all in a process that unraveled right under his nose but had gone unnoticed.
He still remembered the ache of 2021, when Junhui had gone back to China for his drama promotions. It was supposed to be temporary, just a few weeks. But time stretched strangely in his absence. The dorm felt too quiet and the schedules stretched too long. And somewhere in that silence, Wonwoo realized he didn’t just miss Junhui as a groupmate, he missed him as something much more.
“I think you should tell him,” Mingyu had said one night after a fanmeeting, sitting beside him in the car, watching traffic blur past the windows. “It’s not like it’s one-sided, right?”
Wonwoo had known then that it wasn’t. But knowing didn’t make the risks any smaller. The stakes were enormous. They were both public figures, under scrutiny from both countries and few parts of the world. Wonwoo, despite his certainty, didn’t know if he had it in him to shoulder that kind of weight, especially when he wanted so badly for Junhui to thrive in China, to take every opportunity without hesitation.
But then, came enlistment. Wonwoo had thought about it; it was something inevitable, and Wonwoo had braced for every possibility to come though he still couldn’t fully prepare himself to face up until it happened. He worried about the pause, the distance, and many would too—the waiting.
Here they were now: four years in, still walking side by side beneath a half-lit sky. Despite the distance, schedules, and irrational fear.
As they passed a quiet storefront glowing with the promise of milk tea and sugar donuts, Wonwoo allowed himself the smallest comfort: nothing had changed between them at all.
“Oh my god.” Junhui came to a sudden stop, something about his voice laced with delight.
The storefront wasn’t crowded—thankfully—but it did have something remarkable: a large ceramic cat statue right by the entrance, proudly holding up a bubble tea cup with both paws. Its face was painted into a frozen, welcoming smile, and its tail curled like a soft question mark.
“That’s so cute,” Junhui whispered, already crouching down to get a better angle.
Wonwoo lingered behind him, watching with quiet amusement as Junhui angled his phone for a picture, biting his lip in concentration because for him, the lighting actually mattered. Then, out of nowhere, two real cats padded over from the corner of the sidewalk—one black, one orange—and rubbed themselves affectionately against Junhui’s ankles.
Junhui let out the most unfiltered giggle Wonwoo had heard all week, then turned on his phone camera again, this time switching to video. “Meow,” he said, mimicking a cat’s voice with exaggerated softness. “Wonwoo-yah. Oh my god. This is so cute. This one looks exactly like you.”
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, crouching down beside him as the black cat weaved between their legs and began to purr audibly. He gently reached out to stroke its head, fingers moving slowly through soft, slightly dusty fur. “It looks so snuggly,” he murmured, watching it melt into his touch. “So… are you saying the orange one is you, then?”
Junhui huffed, still aiming his camera as the cats continued to curl around their feet. “Not quite,” he replied. “He doesn’t seem that clingy.”
“Fair,” Wonwoo tilted his head. “Then I guess the black one’s a mix of us. Both are a little too good at cuddling.”
Junhui’s lips curved into a smirk. “You know what? I changed my mind. The orange one is actually you. Totally a tsundere.”
Wonwoo scoffed, playfully offended. “Excuse me? That's literally you.”
“Since when?!” Junhui widened his eyes, pretending like he was offended.
In response, Wonwoo leaned in slightly, narrowing his eyes. “I stand by what I said.”
Before he could say more, Junhui reached out and poked him in the stomach. Wonwoo jolted dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like he’d just taken a direct hit. The whole thing would’ve looked ridiculous to any passerby, but it was familiar; the kind of spontaneous gesture that existed only between the two of them.
Still grinning, Junhui stood up and brushed off his coat. “Come on,” he said as he was already heading toward the door. “I need something sweet after that spicy pot.”
Wonwoo followed a few steps behind, his gaze lingering for a moment on the cats as they settled under the glow of the shop’s sign. He let out a breath through his nose, soft and content.
He didn’t need a picture. He’d remember this just fine.
・・・・・
At first, Wonwoo thought Junhui intended to eat inside the shop. Once they stepped in, though, it became clear that wasn’t going to happen: the place was warm and cramped, a soft chaos of chattering students and low, American jazz music, and it didn’t take long before they were recognized. A few fans politely approached for signs, which they obliged with practiced smiles and brief exchanges, but it was enough to change the atmosphere entirely. It was no longer their space.
And Wonwoo—who had looked forward to more conversation, more of Junhui’s little updates and teasing nudges—realized they’d need somewhere safer.
So when Junhui suggested his apartment, Wonwoo didn’t hesitate. Mingyu was still at home, which ruled out his place, and Wonwoo had missed the kind of late-night conversations that only came after shoes were off and the world was shut out.
“It’s not cleaned up,” Junhui warned as they stepped inside, juggling donut bags and keys. “I haven’t had time since I got back. Everything’s kind of… a mess.”
“Junnie,” Wonwoo said gently, taking the milk tea from his hands and setting it on the coffee table. “You just got back from China. It’s okay.”
Junhui exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and dropped himself onto the sofa with exhaustion. “It’s weird,” he muttered. “Didn’t think I’d miss Seoul this much.”
Wonwoo set down the drinks and joined him on the couch, the cushions sinking slightly beneath his weight. He reached for Junhui’s legs, draping them across his lap and began rubbing gentle circles into his calves through the fabric of his pants.
“Probably because I’m here,” he said with a smile that curled quietly at the edges.
“And my friends,” Junhui retorted with a snort, still a tsundere, but he didn’t pull his legs away. Instead, he let his head fall against the cushion with his eyes half-closed. “You’re still not telling me anything new. Nothing interesting at all?”
Wonwoo shrugged, his hands still moving in steady patterns. “I don’t know what counts as interesting anymore,” he said honestly. Then, after a second, “Do I look skinnier to you?”
Junhui cracked one eye open, studied him, and then said, “When I saw Jeonghan hyung last week, I thought of you.”
“So I do look skinnier,” Wonwoo muttered.
Junhui furrowed his eyebrow. “If you’re staying here tonight, I could definitely help put some weight back on you.”
Wonwoo wasn’t sure if Junhui meant anything by it—or maybe he did, but Wonwoo didn’t quite know how to let himself believe in good things without caution. Of course he wanted to. He wanted to lean into the evening, into the warmth of Junhui’s laugh and the way his legs stretched lazily across the sofa. But some part of him still hesitated. He didn’t know if Junhui was still the same person from those long nights years ago; before the dramas, before the headlines, before the world started calling his name with more hunger than ever. And maybe Junhui still was that person. But sometimes Wonwoo feared that the version of him Junhui once loved no longer fit into the life Junhui had now.
“Did you know,” Junhui rustled open the bag of donuts, “that one of these sugar donuts could be, like, five hundred calories?”
Wonwoo raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if you eat too many, they help you gain weight,” Junhui said with a theatrical grimace, turning the donut over in his hand. “But like, the bad kind.”
Wonwoo gently tapped his knee. “You say that like it’s been years since you touched sugar.”
Junhui shrugged. “It kind of has. I’ve been avoiding stuff like this lately. Diet for the promos. Schedule’s been brutal, and I figured… it’s better if I just eat clean.”
“If we’re both losing weight like this, who’s going to take care of us?” Wonwoo joked, a smile tugging at his lips. “Come on, eat something sweet. You’re not even going to take a bite?”
“I am,” Junhui said indignantly. “Just a small one. The rest is for you. You need to eat.”
“You too,” Wonwoo insisted. “Don’t deprive yourself of good things.”
Junhui’s eyes dropped for a moment. He hesitated for a while, didn’t know how to put it better in front of Wonwoo, then said softly, “I’m not… depriving myself. I just get scared sometimes. That if I like something too much, I’ll get addicted to it. Obsessed. I’ll want it again and again and again, and I won’t be able to stop.” He fiddled with the paper bag. “And that’s not always healthy. Not with how things are now, especially how much this job demands.”
Wonwoo stared at him, watching how his expression shifted—how quickly he folded that vulnerability back into something smaller, more manageable. But the words sat in Wonwoo’s chest, aching just a little. He knew how much Junhui loved what he did. And he also knew how much it took from him. How much it asked him to give up in return.
“Don’t overthink it,” Junhui said quickly, trying to wave it off.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can see it. That’s your ‘philosopher’ face.”
Wonwoo sighed. He stopped massaging Junhui’s legs and let them rest back on the cushions. That made Junhui sit up straight, alert now. Something in the air felt different.
“It’s just…” Wonwoo hesitated. “You love your job. And I love that you love it. But sometimes I wonder if it makes it harder for you to let yourself enjoy anything outside of it. Even things like this. Even… us.”
Junhui tilted his head slightly.
“I used to be part of your job too,” Wonwoo went on, slower now. “SEVENTEEN. The group. The concerts. The travel. And I guess I get scared sometimes. That if we take all of that away—if I’m not on the same stage as you anymore, not in the same rhythm—you might not want me the same way.”
Junhui looked at Wonwoo for a good second. He let the pause settle between them for a while, then, without warning, Junhui grabbed one of the sugar donuts and shoved it unapologetically into Wonwoo’s mouth, which was left agape.
Wonwoo blinked, startled, a muffled noise caught in his throat as powdered sugar clung to his lips and the sweetness bloomed against his tongue. He chewed slowly, eyes narrowing as he swallowed. “Wh–I was talking—”
“Do you still take sugar?”
“Junnie—”
Junhui leaned in, now just a breath away. “Do you still take sugar, Jeon Wonwoo?”
The question landed like a weight and a feather all at once. Wonwoo stared at him, his boyfriend, how this man could turn laughter into a shield and still cut straight through him with a single sentence.
“Do you still take sugar?” Junhui repeated, softer now, and closer. Close enough that Wonwoo could see the way his lashes kissed the tops of his cheeks. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating between them, untouchable from the outside world.
Wonwoo thought of it quickly than anything; of course he still took sugar. He’d always take it—again and again. Even when it felt like too much. Even when it stuck to his skin and lingered long after it should’ve. Because loving Junhui had always felt like that. A craving you tried to silence, a sweetness you knew better than to indulge, but did anyway. Because life tasted duller without it.
“Yes,” Wonwoo whispered. “I do.”
Because now, Junhui didn’t need to say it with words when he leaned in, closing the last distance not with words but certainty, and Wonwoo didn’t flinch. It was enough to convince him; how sweet the taste came together of their lips tangling, just the same kind of years learning to name and unname. And though it came with risk and restraint, distance and duty of two lives moving at uneven speed, it was still here.
Wonwoo would always taste sugar on his tongue just like how Junhui liked his.