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Chapter Text

The Violent Crimes Task Force’s office always smelled like instant noodles and burnt coffee, its walls lined with case photos and half-erased whiteboards. But the moment Yoon Dong-ju stepped in, it felt less like a war room and more like a sunrise.

He entered with his usual bounce, hair slightly damp from a rushed morning shower, uniform crisp, mouth already stretching into a grin.

“Hyung!” he called out cheerfully. “You didn’t eat again, did you? Got you something.”

Kim Jong-hyeon didn’t look up from the report he was reading. He sat at his desk like a statue—perfect posture, jaw tight, glasses reflecting the glow of his screen.

Dong-ju placed a warm paper bag and a takeaway coffee next to him. “Egg toast and vanilla latte. I know, I know, you said black, but that’s boring.”

Jong-hyeon exhaled slowly through his nose and finally looked up. “You shouldn’t spend money on me.”

Dong-ju just laughed. “You say that every time and still eat it.”

“I’m not going to smile back, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“Didn’t ask you to,” Dong-ju said easily, flopping down in the chair across from him. “You just look like someone should take care of you, that’s all.”

Jong-hyeon stared at him. That damned smile. It wasn’t fake—it never was. That was what made it worse.

Because people believed it. They ate it up like sunlight on a winter day. Even the gruff older detectives had softened to Dong-ju after just one round of drinks. Even the admin staff left extra snacks on his desk. Everyone liked him.

Too much.

And Jong-hyeon hated the way that made his stomach twist.

Because the more people liked Yoon Dong-ju, the more they thought they had a right to him.

—

Three days into the trafficking investigation, the task force got a temporary new member—Officer Seo In-guk.

He was older, late thirties maybe, with a slightly worn leather jacket that wasn't regulation and a voice like gravel smoothed with charm. His handshake was firm. His smile slow. His eyes... sharper than they needed to be.

“Used to work narcotics,” he said as the team gathered for a briefing. “But thought I’d try something that didn’t involve syringes taped under toilets.”

He laughed. No one else did.

Then Dong-ju walked in, late and breathless, with his jacket half on and a pencil behind his ear.

“Oh! Sorry—traffic—wasn’t expecting the briefing to start early.”

And just like that, Seo’s expression changed. Focused. Curious.

Jong-hyeon noticed instantly.

“Yoon Dong-ju, right?” Seo asked, stepping forward with the easy confidence of a man used to winning people over. “I’ve heard about you. The boxing champ turned cop. You really that fast on your feet?”

Dong-ju blinked, then smiled sheepishly. “Ah... depends who you ask, sunbaenim.”

Seo chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll find out. I’ll be riding with you today.”

“Me?” Dong-ju blinked again. “Sure, yeah—okay.”

Seo leaned a little closer, dropping his voice. “Hope you don’t mind sitting in the passenger seat. I drive fast, but I promise not to scare you.”

The smile Dong-ju gave him was polite and oblivious.

“No worries. I’ve ridden with scarier people. Like Jong-hyeon hyung when he’s in a bad mood.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t laugh.

He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his eyes hadn’t left the way Seo’s hand lingered too long on Dong-ju’s shoulder.

Not friendly. Not respectful.

Intentional.

And Dong-ju was too damn innocent to see it.

—

​​They wrapped their work at 10:47 p.m.

Outside, the city exhaled a slow, thick breath. Mist clung to the pavement like it was reluctant to rise, and the orange glow of the streetlamps fractured in thin puddles of rain. Officers scattered, pairing off into cars, checking comms, moving like parts of a well-oiled machine.

Dong-ju reached for the handle of the passenger seat in Seo’s cruiser.

And then—

“You’re riding with me.”

Seo raised an eyebrow. 

“We’ve got work. At my place,” Jong-hyeon said flatly. “Early report revisions. Captain wants them by morning.”

Dong-ju blinked. “We—?”

“Yes.” Jong-hyeon didn’t look at him. “You forgot. Again.”

There was a long pause.

Seo gave a dry laugh. “Didn’t know report writing came with overnight stays these days.”

Jong-hyeon looked him dead in the eyes. No smile. No explanation.

Just silence.

Seo held his gaze a second too long, then shrugged. “Your loss,” he said to Dong-ju, almost amused. “Offer stands if you get tired of all that revising.”

Dong-ju offered a polite nod — nothing more — and Seo finally walked away, whistling to himself as he got into his car.

Jong-hyeon didn’t move.

Dong-ju turned to him slowly.

“…We’re going to your place?”

“Yes.”

“You made that up.”

“Get in the car.”

Dong-ju hesitated, watching him — that unreadable face, that unblinking stare.

He opened the door anyway.

The drive was silent.

Tension hung in the cabin like thick smoke, unspoken and brittle. The rain tapped soft rhythms on the roof, and the headlights carved pale paths into the darkness.

Finally, Dong-ju spoke.

“You didn’t have to lie.”

“I didn’t.”

Dong-ju glanced sideways. “We’re not revising anything.”

They didn’t speak for several minutes.

Then Dong-ju, voice sharp, broke it.

“And what if I wanted to go with him?”

The words cut through the quiet.

Jong-hyeon didn’t look at him. “Then go.”

He braked at a stoplight, unbuckled his seatbelt, leaned over, and opened Dong-ju’s door with one clean motion.

The cold air rushed in.

“Go, if that’s what you want.”

Dong-ju didn’t move.

His face was twisted in something like disbelief — or anger. Or both.

“God,” he muttered, “you’re unbelievable. Start the car!”

Jong-hyeon was silent.  

“Seatbelt,” he said quietly, almost like a reflex.

“Oh—right.” Dong-ju glanced down at the strap, fingers fumbling slightly as he reached.

It was such a small thing.

But Jong-hyeon reached over.

“I’ll do it.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned in, one hand bracing against the seat near Dong-ju’s shoulder, the other reaching across his chest.

The movement brought them closer than either expected.

Jong-hyeon’s fingers brushed against the fabric of Dong-ju’s jacket. Then skin—his knuckles grazed the underside of his jaw by accident. Barely. A breath’s width. But still—

Dong-ju stilled.

So did Jong-hyeon.

For half a second, neither moved. Jong-hyeon didn’t meet his eyes, but he could feel the weight of Dong-ju’s gaze on the side of his face, warm and startled and wide.

The belt clicked into place. Jong-hyeon pulled his hand back slowly, jaw tight.

Dong-ju exhaled — the kind of exhale that felt like he’d forgotten to breathe at all.

“Thanks,” he said softly. His voice wasn’t quite steady. Not trembling, but close.

Jong-hyeon didn’t answer.

They drove in silence again, the tension now stiff and brittle.

After a few minutes, Dong-ju spoke, voice lower but still edged.

“You don’t get to act like that and then shut down.”

Jong-hyeon’s hands gripped the wheel tighter. “Like what?”

“Like a cop and a jealous ex at the same time.”

“You’re imagining things.”

Jong-hyeon turned, finally meeting his eyes — unreadable, blank. 

Dong-ju held his gaze for a moment too long. Then turned back to the window, jaw clenched.

The wipers hummed.

Outside, the city blurred.

—

The next morning was technically their day off.

Technically.

But neither of them brought it up.

Dong-ju showed up at Jong-hyeon’s apartment just after 10, holding two iced coffees and a folder full of case notes. He didn’t knock — he never did anymore — just walked in, balancing the cups in one hand and toeing off his sneakers.

“I brought caffeine,” he announced brightly, setting the drinks down on the kitchen counter. “And I’m here to save your tragic sense of interior design.”

Jong-hyeon looked up from where he was already seated at his kitchen table, files spread out like a war map. He didn’t smile. He never smiled. But his eyes lingered a second longer than they needed to.

Dong-ju was in sweatpants and a t-shirt, curls a little damp, skin warm from the walk. He looked like Sunday. Like sunlight in human form.

Jong-hyeon, in contrast, was dressed as if they were heading into an interrogation room — black fitted t-shirt, classic black trousers, clean, sharp, unreadable.

“You’re late,” he said instead.

Dong-ju shrugged and grinned. “You’re boring.”

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner. They worked — or tried to.

Thirty minutes in, Dong-ju was sprawled on the couch with one leg over the armrest, flipping a page with his pinky. “I’m bored.”

“Then read.”

“I already read these.”

“Then read them again.”

Dong-ju let out a sigh that could’ve passed for a dying breath. “How can someone be this boring on his day off? You didn’t even change your clothes.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t look up. “I changed my shirt.”

“Amazing,” Dong-ju deadpanned. “Alert the press.”

He rolled over onto his stomach, chin propped on his arms, eyes fixed on Jong-hyeon.

Silence.

“Your hair’s doing the thing again,” Dong-ju said lazily.

“What thing?”

“That intimidating villain wave.”

“Good.”

Another beat.

“I bet if you smiled once in a while, the birds would explode.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“That’s the point.”

Finally, Jong-hyeon looked up. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Hungry?”

Dong-ju’s eyes lit up. “Starving.”

They walked to a small café nearby. Low lighting, rustic tables, soft jazz in the background. It was the kind of place couples went to pretend they weren’t arguing. Dong-ju liked it immediately. Until he didn’t.

Because the waitress — a girl around their age, all dimples and glossy lips — came to take their order, and her eyes never left Jong-hyeon.

“Hi,” she said sweetly, barely glancing at Dong-ju. “You guys ready to order?”

Jong-hyeon nodded. “Steak sandwich. No onions.”

She wrote it down, smiled like he’d told her she was beautiful. “And for you?” she asked Dong-ju without looking at him.

He stiffened. “Same.”

“Got it,” she chirped, and turned back to Jong-hyeon. “You’ve got a nice voice, you know. Do people tell you that?”

Dong-ju blinked.

Jong-hyeon looked mildly confused. “No.”

“Well, they should,” she said, and walked off with an extra sway in her step.

Silence.

Dong-ju reached for the water, nearly knocking it over.

He didn’t say anything.

At first.

But then she came back with their food and lingered far too long. Asking if everything was okay. Asking if they were from around here. Asking if they came here often.

She only looked at Jong-hyeon.

Dong-ju started cutting his sandwich like it was evidence in a murder trial.

He wasn’t used to this — the hot curl of something bitter in his stomach. It wasn’t anger. Not really. It was… something colder. Smaller. It felt stupid.

But he couldn't stop glancing at her. Or him. Or the way Jong-hyeon just accepted the attention without saying much at all.

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t a big deal. She was just being nice.

When she brought them drinks the situation became worse. 

“You know, you’ve got this serious detective vibe going on. Like, if looks could be interrogated.”

Dong-ju raised an eyebrow.

And then—God help him—Jong-hyeon laughed. A quiet, short sound. Not full, not warm, but still — unmistakably a laugh.

It cracked something inside Dong-ju.

He hadn’t even heard Jong-hyeon breathe funny in weeks, and now some eyeliner-and-apron girl cracked him like it was easy?

The waitress beamed like she’d just won something. “See?” she said. “I made you laugh. That’s gotta be worth a free dessert.”

Jong-hyeon shook his head lightly, lips twitching in something dangerously close to a second smile.

Dong-ju stared at him, jaw tight, appetite gone.

He didn’t touch his sandwich anymore.

Jong-hyeon noticed. “You’re not eating.”

“Not hungry.”

“You said you were starving.”

“Well, I changed my mind.”

Jong-hyeon paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “You’re acting weird.”

Dong-ju let out a cold little laugh. “And you’re suddenly a people person. Imagine that.”

Before Jong-hyeon could reply, the waitress returned with the bill — but not just the bill.

A small folded slip of paper peeked out from underneath the receipt, her number scrawled in pink ink with a little heart dotting the i.

Something inside Dong-ju snapped. 

Without a word he stood.

“We’re leaving.”

Jong-hyeon blinked, mid-bite. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

He dropped enough cash on the table to cover everything and turned toward the door.

Jong-hyeon stood slowly, watching him with that unreadable face.

They walked out without a word.

Outside, the sky had gone a little overcast. Wind caught the edge of Dong-ju’s curls.

They didn’t speak as they walked. They didn’t even look at each other.

Jong-hyeon waited until they reached the crosswalk.

“You didn’t like the food?” he asked.

Dong-ju scoffed under his breath. “Food was fine.”

Pause.

“You didn’t like her?”

Dong-ju stopped walking. Turned to him.

“She wasn’t the problem.”

Jong-hyeon’s brow lifted slightly. “Then what was?”

Dong-ju met his eyes.

And for one second — one second — the mask cracked. Just a little.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just kept walking, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head tilted down like he was thinking very hard about not thinking at all.

Jong-hyeon didn’t move.

He just watched him go.

And for the first time that day — maybe the first time in a while — he didn’t know what to say.

—

A few days later, they had a training session together. 

They were both quiet in the dressing room.

The kind of quiet that vibrated. That clung to skin and muscle like heat.

It wasn’t their first time here. Over the months, they'd trained side by side, bruised each other bloody, changed clothes in front of each other with the same indifference soldiers had for wounds.

But something had shifted lately.

And now, stripping down didn’t feel like routine.

Jong-hyeon stood by the lockers, bare from the waist up, dragging a shirt over his head — arms stretched, back flexing, his ribs bruised faint yellow from their last session.

Dong-ju tried not to look.

Failed.

He caught his own reflection in the mirror, jaw clenched too tight. His t-shirt stuck to his back from the humidity, sweatpants riding low. He peeled it off slowly, each movement sharper than it needed to be.

Jong-hyeon’s gaze flickered over. Brief. Cool. But it lingered a second too long on Dong-ju’s collarbones.

Neither said anything.

They didn’t have to.

It was all there — in the silence, the breath, the invisible thread tightening between them.

Jong-hyeon was the first to break it. He pulled on his hoodie, grabbed his gloves, and left the room without a word.

Dong-ju exhaled — slowly, bitterly.

He turned to the bench to gather his own gear and noticed something folded beneath Jong-hyeon’s abandoned pants. Half-crumpled. Almost forgotten.

He picked it up.

A receipt.

From the café.

And tucked inside it, still faintly pink — the waitress’s number.

He stared at it like it had burned him.

Why would he keep it?

Why not throw it away?

Are they talking?

Did they meet?

Or worse.

Dong-ju shoved the paper deep into his own bag without thinking. His chest was tight. Burning. Every rational thought crumbled under the weight of that soft, stupid heart above the i.

When he walked into the gym, he didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t warm up.

He just stepped into the ring and looked at Jong-hyeon like he was the goddamn problem.

Jong-hyeon raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Dong-ju slid on his gloves without answering.

“Yoon,” Jong-hyeon warned, mouth tight, “I asked you—”

The bell rang.

And Dong-ju lunged.

There was no grace in it. No patience. Just fists — sharp, fast, brutal. He fought like he wanted to break something. Like Jong-hyeon’s ribs owed him an answer.

“Hey—!” Jong-hyeon blocked, ducked, stumbled back. “What the hell—!”

Dong-ju didn’t stop.

Didn’t listen.

Didn’t blink.

Jong-hyeon tried to grab his wrist mid-punch. “Dong-ju!”

But Dong-ju twisted, pivoted, landed a blow to his shoulder that sent him staggering.

“I’m not here to hurt you!” Jong-hyeon barked, breath ragged.

Dong-ju’s jaw clenched. “Are you?”

Their gloves cracked together. Jong-hyeon struck back — not to hurt, but to stop him. But Dong-ju moved like rage was gasoline in his veins.

Jong-hyeon was fast — but Dong-ju was faster today. Angrier. Sharper. More reckless.

The final hit came quick — a right hook that caught Jong-hyeon’s jaw, clean and brutal.

He dropped to one knee.

Breathing hard.

Stunned.

The room was silent but for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the thud of Dong-ju’s heartbeat in his ears.

He stared at what he’d done.

Then turned away.

Didn’t take off his gloves. Didn’t look back. Just stepped off the mat, grabbed his bag, and left — chest heaving, shirt clinging, eyes burning.

Still didn’t say a word.

—

The next morning the station was still half-asleep when Dong-ju walked in.

Quiet hum of monitors. Old coffee in the air. Fluorescent lights that always made everyone look worse.

Jong-hyeon was already there — hunched over his desk, drawers half-open, files pulled out and stacked haphazardly, like he was digging for something he couldn’t quite find.

Dong-ju hesitated by the door.

His legs worked before his brain did.

He wasn’t angry anymore. That was the worst part. Rage had been simple — a shield, a fuel. But now, standing in front of Jong-hyeon again, watching the faint purple bruise he’d left blooming high on his cheekbone…

He felt like a bastard.

Jong-hyeon didn’t look up right away. His hand was deep in the drawer, brow furrowed, muttering something under his breath.

“I—” Dong-ju cleared his throat. “About yesterday…”

Jong-hyeon finally looked up. Not hostile. Not cold.

Just… Jong-hyeon.

That unreadable calm again. That effortless stillness that drove Dong-ju insane.

“I don’t know what happened yesterday,” Jong-hyeon said simply. “But if it made you feel better, it’s okay.”

Dong-ju blinked.

“That’s it?”

Jong-hyeon raised an eyebrow. “You want me to fight you back now? Strip in the hallway and wrestle it out?”

Dong-ju let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Or an apology. Or both.

“Wasn’t fair.”

“Life isn’t.” Jong-hyeon stood straighter, winced slightly from the bruise. “Besides, I’ve had worse from assholes I don’t like. You don’t even make the list.”

It was disarming — how kind he was being.

Too kind.

Dong-ju hated it.

But then his eyes caught the pattern — the drawers, the mess, the way Jong-hyeon was still clearly looking for something.

“You lose something?”

Jong-hyeon didn’t answer right away. Just shuffled through another folder, distracted.

And Dong-ju felt it rise again. That tightness in his chest. That burn he thought was gone.

He reached into his bag and pulled out the paper he’d kept folded all night.

Receipt.

Waitress’s number still scrawled on it in loopy ink.

He slapped it on the table.

“Is this what you’re looking for?”

Jong-hyeon glanced at it.

Squinted.

Then looked back at Dong-ju. “What the hell is that?”

Dong-ju stared and then exhaled. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or humiliation.

Jong-hyeon shrugged and went back messing with the documents on his table. 

The door banged open.

“Yoon-ah!”

Officer Seo In-guk strolled in, all swagger and smiles, holding two takeaway coffees and looking like he belonged around people.

Before Dong-ju could react, Seo wrapped an arm around his shoulder — not just friendly, but familiar, fingers resting far too comfortably near Dong-ju’s collarbone.

Dong-ju stiffened. Glanced sideways.

Right.

He had done this.

Called Seo last night. Suggested they dig into a lead together today. Suggested coffee. Suggested company.

All to prove a point that didn’t even make sense anymore.

Seo grinned, totally unaware of the storm he’d just stepped into. “Thanks for the call, by the way. Nice to know you don’t forget me.”

Dong-ju tried to step away. “Yeah—”

But Jong-hyeon stood completely still behind his desk, eyes locked on Seo’s hand.

There was a new tension in the room now.

Hot.

Thick.

Dangerous.

“What lead?” Jong-hyeon asked, voice too even.

Dong-ju didn’t answer.

Seo did. “Ah, Yoon said we should check out those workshops near Mapo. The stolen engine parts. He said it’s easier with a partner.”

Jong-hyeon’s jaw flexed. “I see.”

Dong-ju’s chest burned again — but this time it wasn’t from jealousy. It was from the way Jong-hyeon said those words, clipped and sharp like broken glass.

Seo, still smiling, handed Dong-ju a coffee. “I even got you oat milk. Like a real date.”

Dong-ju didn’t even take it.

Because Jong-hyeon had gone silent.

His eyes didn’t move from Dong-ju’s.

And this time, they weren’t blank.

They were furious.

—-

Later that day Jong-hyeon opened the door in silence.

He was expecting it. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe a part of him thought Dong-ju would stay with Seo In-guk tonight, continue that little game they started at the station — all wide grins and fake concern and the subtle dig of jealousy that still twisted in Jong-hyeon's chest. Maybe a part of him hoped Dong-ju wouldn't show up at all.

But here he was.

In grey sweatpants, a hoodie zipped only halfway, his curls slightly damp from the evening drizzle outside. As if nothing had happened.

As if he didn’t slam his fists into Jong-hyeon’s body the night before like he wanted to split him open just to see if he bled differently.

“What are you doing here?” Jong-hyeon said flatly, turning back inside without waiting for an answer.

Dong-ju blinked, stepping into the familiar apartment, the door closing behind him.

“What do you mean?” he said, too brightly. His voice bounced off the walls like always — a little misplaced sunshine in a place built of silence and concrete.

Jong-hyeon didn’t answer. He went to the kitchen, poured water into a glass with deliberate movements.

“You were with Officer Seo.”

It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need it to be.

Dong-ju dropped his backpack on the couch, hesitated a second before he followed. “It was the worst work day in the history of work days,” he muttered, trying to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I regretted it the second I got in his car.”

Jong-hyeon took a sip of water, still facing away.

“I mean, we didn’t even talk about the case. He mostly talked about hiking and how peaceful it is being disconnected from society. Which is ironic, considering he put his stupid music on just to flex it.”

Still no response.

Dong-ju sighed.

He stepped closer, gently placing a small pharmacy bag on the table between them.

“I brought this,” he said softly. “For… you know. Your face.”

Only then did Jong-hyeon look up.

His cheek was still slightly swollen, bruised yellow-violet at the edge of the eye socket — a mark left by Dong-ju’s right hook when he let his jealousy control his fists instead of his mouth.

Dong-ju’s gaze dropped to the bruise, guilt washing over his features like a tide.

“I didn’t mean to go that hard yesterday,” he said. “I was just—”

“Angry,” Jong-hyeon finished for him, voice low.

“Yeah.”

Jong-hyeon stared at him.

Dong-ju met his eyes.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Then, slowly, Dong-ju reached for the bag, pulling out a small round container of cooling gel. “Let me,” he said quietly.

Jong-hyeon didn’t answer. But he didn’t stop him either.

Dong-ju stepped into his space. Closer than he had in days. Closer than he should.

He dipped his fingers in the gel and gently, carefully, pressed it to the side of Jong-hyeon’s face.

Jong-hyeon flinched. Not from pain. From the softness.

“You always act like nothing hurts you,” Dong-ju whispered.

Jong-hyeon didn’t reply.

He couldn’t.

The fingers on his cheek were warm. Gentle. Hesitant. The kind of touch Jong-hyeon hadn’t felt in years. The kind of touch he never thought he’d want — never from someone like Dong-ju.

And yet, here he was. Craving it. Breathing it in.

“I’m sorry,” Dong-ju said. 

“You’ve said it already.”

Dong-ju paused, eyes flicking up to Jong-hyeon’s. 

“Don’t go with him anymore,” Jong-hyeon said, finally. Voice quiet. Not demanding. Not cold.

Just... honest.

Dong-ju nodded.

“I won’t.”

Jong-hyeon’s eyes closed for a second, the tension easing just slightly. And that was when Dong-ju leaned in again.

Just a little.

Just enough.

He kissed the bruise below Jong-hyeon’s eye. Lightly. Softly. As if he could kiss the apology into the skin.

Jong-hyeon’s jaw tensed.

“My mom used to kiss my bruises,” Dong-ju said nervously. “It really helped with the pain.”

Then came another kiss — this time to the edge of his cheekbone.

Then the line just above his jaw.

“You drive me crazy,” Jong-hyeon muttered.

Dong-ju didn’t answer.

He was focused on the corner of Jong-hyeon’s mouth now. That last bruise. A small one. The most dangerous one.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

Then kissed it anyway.

Too soft.

Too fast.

His lips just barely grazed the skin, and when he pulled back, he looked stunned by his own actions. Like he hadn’t planned to actually do it.

“I hope you get better,” Dong-ju said quickly, eyes wide. “I mean—your face. The bruises. Everything.”

He stepped back.

Grabbed his bag.

Turned around.

Jong-hyeon didn’t stop him.

Didn’t say anything.

The door clicked shut a second later.

And Jong-hyeon was alone again — heart pounding, lip stinging, skin still burning from a kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen.

He sat down slowly at the table. Stared at the jar of cooling gel still open beside him.

And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself a small smile.

Just for a second.

Just for Dong-ju.

Even if Dong-ju wasn’t there to see it.

Chapter Text

The body was still warm when they arrived.

The street was lined with fog, a low-hanging haze that made everything feel quieter than it was — too quiet for what lay on the pavement behind the crime scene tape. A woman in her mid-thirties, strangled, dumped like trash outside the abandoned motel near the port district. Third body this month. Same signs. Same time of night. No witnesses.

Dong-ju had arrived early. Hands in his pockets. Hood up. He leaned against the corroded rail that bordered the alleyway, barely noticing the flicker of camera flashes or the hum of murmuring officers.

He was thinking about last night. Or more precisely — trying not to.

About the heat of Jong-hyeon’s skin beneath his fingertips, the way the bruises looked darker under the kitchen light, the way he had kissed his face like it meant nothing — three kisses and a fourth he wasn’t supposed to give.

Dong-ju felt stupid.

And cold.

A voice cut through the fog.

“You're early.”

He turned. There was Jong-hyeon, all black clothes and silent eyes, no trace of bruise on his face — covered well, except for that slight puff near his jaw, the one Dong-ju had left. His heart dropped and jumped at the same time.

“You look better,” Dong-ju said carefully, avoiding his eyes. “How’s your face?”

“Better. Much better.”

There was a pause. A long, heavy one. It wasn’t what Jong-hyeon said — it was how he said it. Something in his tone. Not sarcastic. Not cold. Almost… grateful. Like he didn’t regret it.

Dong-ju’s ears burned. He tried to laugh, to shake it off, but it came out awkward, too sharp.

“Glad I didn’t break anything vital,” he mumbled.

Jong-hyeon only smirked. Barely. But it was there.

The crime scene was nothing special — blood, bruises, trash, dead woman, silence. The usual. But Dong-ju couldn’t concentrate. His fingers were twitching. His brain kept looping that fourth kiss like a broken record — the one on the corner of the lips. The one he didn’t mean to give. The one that stopped the whole room for a second.

He was about to distract himself with the autopsy notes when Jong-hyeon spoke again, casual like always.

“I’m leaving for Seoul tonight.”

Dong-ju blinked. “What?”

“For a few days,” Jong-hyeon clarified. “Chief wants me to cross-check records from the northern branch. There’s a pattern we might’ve missed. I’ll be back by Monday.”

Dong-ju’s stomach clenched. His hands went cold.

“…You didn’t mention that.”

“I just found out this morning.”

“Oh.”

He tried to look unaffected. Failed miserably.

Jong-hyeon noticed.

“You’ll be fine without me.”

“Who said I won’t be?” Dong-ju replied a little too fast, too loud. He crossed his arms. “I just think it’s a bad time to go. With the case heating up and all.”

Jong-hyeon raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be working. Just from Seoul.”

“Still. What if something happens here?”

“You’ll handle it.”

Dong-ju narrowed his eyes. “I might mess it up. You know I tend to be... reckless.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Right, so maybe you shouldn’t go.”

Jong-hyeon gave him a flat look. “What’s really bothering you?”

“Nothing,” Dong-ju snapped. “Just saying. Don’t complain when I accidentally set the evidence room on fire.”

Jong-hyeon smirked. “Try not to.”

Dong-ju kicked at a rock. “Tch.”

They stood there for a moment, pretending to watch the medics haul the body away.

Jong-hyeon glanced at him. “I’ll be back before you even start missing me.”

Dong-ju flushed red. “Go to Seoul already.”

— 

That evening, Jong-hyeon was packing when the doorbell rang.

He opened it to find Dong-ju standing there, holding a small thermal bag and a paper box of something that smelled vaguely like soup.

“Seriously?” Jong-hyeon said, brows furrowing. “What are you doing here?”

Dong-ju shrugged, pretending to look confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

“And I brought food,” Dong-ju said brightly. “So you don’t starve on the train. You’re welcome.”

Jong-hyeon stepped aside and let him in. “You know there’s food in Seoul.”

“Not like this.” Dong-ju dropped the bag on the table, pulling out neatly wrapped containers. “I even packed the broth separately so it doesn’t get soggy.”

“You’re dramatic.”

Dong-ju gasped. “I am not.”

“You are,” Jong-hyeon said, walking past him to grab his jacket. 

Jong-hyeon slung his bag over his shoulder and gave him a long look. “You know it’s not a big deal. I’ll be back in three days.”

“That’s what people say before they disappear forever.”

“Why the hell would I disappear?”

Dong-ju bit the inside of his cheek. “You better not meet anyone there.”

Jong-hyeon raised an eyebrow, really confused. He didn’t understand the shit-talk Dong-ju was having at that moment. “Did you hit your head today or what? I don’t get a single question of yours. ”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

Dong-ju crossed his arms. “Whatever. Go. Leave me here. Alone. With all the paperwork.”

“You’re not alone. You have Officer Seo.”

Dong-ju made a face. “Not funny.”

Jong-hyeon smirked and turned to leave.

But Dong-ju wasn’t done.

He stepped forward, grabbed Jong-hyeon’s sleeve and shoved the box of soup into his hands. “At least eat this on the way. You don’t take care of yourself.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I mean it.”

Jong-hyeon looked at him, really looked at him. Dong-ju’s curls were messier than usual, and he was fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. His eyes didn’t meet Jong-hyeon’s. And his voice — there was something softer in it. Nervous. Vulnerable, almost.

“Dong-ju,” Jong-hyeon said quietly. “It’s three days.”

“Okay,” Dong-ju said.

A pause.

Then Jong-hyeon leaned in and muttered, “I’ll call.”

Dong-ju blinked, then covered it up with a snort. “Better. Or I’ll report you missing.”

Jong-hyeon shook his head and turned to leave. 

—

Dong-ju hadn’t realized just how quiet the city could be until Jong-hyeon left.

The first day passed with him pretending it was fine. He had plenty of work to do. Reports to finalize. Statements to double-check. But by the second day, the silence inside his apartment and the stillness at the station began pressing down on him. No dry remarks cutting through the air, no sideways glances across the office. No presence lurking at the edge of his periphery like a constant, steady shadow.

And worst of all—no message. No call.

Dong-ju stared at his phone more times than he cared to admit. Each time it buzzed with some update or group notification, his heart jumped with instinct before logic corrected it. Jong-hyeon wouldn’t call. Not unless it was about work. And clearly, it wasn’t.

It annoyed him—how much he cared. How deeply it settled under his skin.

By Sunday, it had twisted itself into a quiet bitterness. He sat curled up on his couch, the TV on but unwatchable, phone beside him untouched. He refused to message first. He wouldn’t be the one waiting. Even though that’s exactly what he was doing. Waiting. And hurting.

When Monday came, he got up early without knowing why. He moved around his apartment restlessly, like he was late for something even though he wasn’t. And before he could talk himself out of it, he found himself driving toward the train station. At 9 a.m.

His heart thudded as time passed. He wanted to be contrary — wanted to say he hated Jong‑hyeon for leaving. But all he felt was aching emptiness.

Jong‑hyeon stepped off the train at 6:14 p.m.

Dong‑ju spotted him immediately.

That same calm posture, that slow, careful stride. He looked tired but still neat, as always—hair tousled from the train, dark coat buttoned all the way up.

Dong-ju didn’t move. He froze in place, fingers curling tighter inside his pockets.

And then, unexpectedly, Jong-hyeon smiled.

“Have you been waiting long?” he asked, as if this was normal, as if they always did this.

Dong-ju swallowed. “Not really,” he lied, eyes flickering away.

He turned and led the way to the car without offering more. Normally he’d have made some stupid joke. Asked what Seoul smelled like. But today, he just got behind the wheel and drove.

In the passenger seat, Jong-hyeon spoke more than usual. He talked about the cases he’d reviewed, about a detective in Seoul who chewed gum during interviews, about how the weather was colder there. Dong-ju nodded along, added the occasional “Hm,” or “Right,” but never really jumped in.

Jong-hyeon noticed. Of course he did.

As they pulled up to the building, Jong-hyeon glanced at him. “You’re acting weird.”

Dong-ju’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I’m not.”

“You’ve barely said a word. Usually I can’t get you to shut up.”

Dong-ju forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I grew up while you were gone.”

Jong-hyeon huffed lightly. “Seriously. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Did something happen?”

Dong-ju didn’t answer. The weight in his chest was growing heavier by the second. He felt it press against his ribs, burning through his throat like heat. Jong-hyeon’s voice, calm and curious, only made it worse.

“Did someone say something? Was it about the case last week?” Jong-hyeon continued, confused and trying.

Dong-ju stared straight ahead. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t fine, and he didn’t know how to say it without sounding stupid or childish. He couldn’t say, I waited for you like a fool. I wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to know if you thought about me too.
Instead, he sat there, jaw tight, fists clenched in his lap.

“I just don’t get it,” Jong-hyeon said quietly. “You were fine before I left. Now you’re acting like—”

“Just get out,” Dong-ju cut him off.

Jong-hyeon blinked. “What?”

“I said get out of the car.”

The words dropped like stone. Heavy. Final.

Jong-hyeon stared at him for a long second, frown forming but not quite fully there. “Why are you—”

“Because I don’t want to talk right now,” Dong-ju snapped. “Okay? Just go.”

Silence settled between them. Cold and sharp.

Jong-hyeon didn’t argue. He reached for the door handle, movements slow. “Alright,” he said simply, voice unreadable. “If that’s what you want.”

He stepped out and shut the door behind him.

Dong-ju didn’t look.

He sat motionless in the driver’s seat, breathing through his nose, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached.

Outside, Jong-hyeon paused before heading inside. He didn’t glance back at the car. But his brows were drawn, lips tight, mind clearly racing.

Inside the apartment, he kicked off his shoes and sank onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

He didn’t understand. He’d barely been gone three days. Had something happened while he was away? Was it the new case? Was it Seo again?

He didn’t know.

And it bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Meanwhile, Dong-ju remained in the car for another fifteen minutes.

He gripped the steering wheel like it could anchor him.

He hated this feeling. The ache of wanting to say everything and managing to say nothing. Of needing someone but being too afraid to admit it.

He rested his head against the steering wheel, exhaling hard.

“I just… missed you,” he whispered, but the words got swallowed by the silence of the car.

—

The next morning came with heat and a low-hanging, amber haze stretched over the city. The precinct office was already alive by the time Dong-ju stumbled through the front door—twenty minutes late, breathless, and pretending he hadn’t just half-jogged from the subway station.

He scanned the room. There, standing by the whiteboard with a coffee cup in hand and a half-smile curving his lips, was Jong-hyeon.

He was surrounded by a cluster of officers, recounting something in his low, casual voice. Something about Seoul. His trip.

Dong-ju hovered for a second, unsure. His hands felt awkward by his sides. His expression was carefully arranged: relaxed, maybe a little mischievous. He knew how to perform that much. If Jong-hyeon looked over and saw anything different—anything resembling what Dong-ju actually felt yesterday—he wouldn’t know how to explain it. Wouldn’t know how to say: I’ve never missed someone and hated them for it at the same time.

So he just strode forward and gave his usual grin. “What, you come back and suddenly everyone wants to hear your vacation stories?”

Jong-hyeon looked over his shoulder and met his eyes.

“Not vacation,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I was working. Unlike some people.”

The others chuckled. Dong-ju smirked and flicked him lightly on the back. “Right, working. Eating overpriced noodles and going to museums doesn’t count.”

“Neither does showing up twenty minutes late and pretending it’s fashionably on time,” Jong-hyeon replied, already turning back to his notes.

Dong-ju’s heart calmed a little. Okay. We’re normal again. He’s not angry. He’s not even annoyed. He didn’t know why that made his chest tight, why he suddenly wanted to sit down and exhale for an hour. But instead, he just followed Jong-hyeon like a shadow the rest of the day.

Wherever Jong-hyeon was, Dong-ju found a reason to be.

They worked the same desks, followed the same leads, ate lunch at the same tiny metal table in the break room. Jong-hyeon unwrapped his kimbap in silence while Dong-ju told him an elaborate story about a neighbor’s cat that broke into his apartment last night. He exaggerated every detail, making it sound like a crime scene. He mimicked the cat’s voice. Made sound effects. People around them laughed.

Jong-hyeon just shook his head, chewing slowly. But the smile lingered in his eyes longer than he probably realized.

Dong-ju noticed. He noticed everything.

By the end of the shift, the air between them felt light again. Like nothing had happened. Like Dong-ju hadn’t kicked him out of the car the night before with no explanation and driven home with a lump in his throat the size of a fist.

So when they were gathering their things, Dong-ju glanced over and asked, as casually as he could, “Can I come over tonight?”

Jong-hyeon didn’t even blink.

“Since when do you ask?”

And that—just that—made Dong-ju’s entire chest warm. He shrugged, trying not to look too relieved.

“Trying to be polite towards you,” he said, grabbing his bag. “It’s exhausting, actually.”

On the way home, Jong-hyeon pulled into a small cafe and ordered food for both of them, even though Dong-ju had already claimed he wasn’t hungry.

“Your version of ‘not hungry’ includes stealing half my plate,” Jong-hyeon told him through the driver’s side window.

Dong-ju beamed from the passenger seat. “See, that’s why we work so well together. You just know me.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t reply, but his fingers tapped once on the wheel, and his mouth twitched like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

When they got to the apartment, Dong-ju made a beeline for the guest room closet, already rummaging through the drawer that definitely wasn’t his, even though it was somehow full of his things. Five minutes later, he emerged in one of Jong-hyeon’s pajama sets.

The one with the tiny cartoon hearts. Why would Jong-hyeon even have pajamas like this?

The pants were a little long, the sleeves slightly too wide. His collarbone peeked through the oversized neck. His hair was damp from a quick shower, curling slightly over his forehead.

Jong-hyeon, holding two bowls of noodles in the living room, looked up—and froze.

Just for a second.

Then he looked away.

Dong-ju noticed. But he didn’t say anything. He just flopped down onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh and held out his arms. “Feed me. I’m poor and underpaid.”

Jong-hyeon handed him the bowl without a word.

The movie played in the background—some action thriller they both pretended to be invested in—but Dong-ju’s attention drifted halfway through. He was pressed into Jong-hyeon’s side now, their knees almost touching. His fingers brushed Jong-hyeon’s wrist when he reached for his drink, and when their arms rested against each other, neither moved away.

It was… comfortable. Familiar. Too familiar.

Dong-ju leaned in more, just to see what would happen.

Nothing. Jong-hyeon didn’t react. He kept his eyes on the screen, mouth neutral, like this was completely normal. Like this didn’t make his pulse flicker.

Dong-ju scowled.

Fine. If you won’t give me anything—

He turned suddenly and jabbed two fingers into Jong-hyeon’s ribs.

“What the—!” Jong-hyeon jerked back.

Dong-ju grinned. “Ticklish?”

“Don’t,” Jong-hyeon warned.

So Dong-ju did it again. And again. Until Jong-hyeon was doubled over, breathless with laughter, trying to fend him off and failing. The couch cushions shifted under their weight as Dong-ju climbed partly onto him, relentless.

“You’re evil,” Jong-hyeon managed between laughs.

“Uh-huh.”

Dong-ju blinked. They were chest to chest now. He was half-straddling Jong-hyeon’s lap, both of them out of breath. The laughter faded. The silence wrapped around them like a tight, stretched wire.

Jong-hyeon’s eyes darkened just a little as they searched his.

“…Why were you so upset yesterday?” he asked, voice soft, but unyielding.

Dong-ju flinched.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were,” Jong-hyeon said. “You wouldn’t look at me. You told me to get out of the car. Did I say something? Was it something I—?”

“No.” Dong-ju shook his head quickly. “It’s not—I just…” He exhaled and sat back, climbing off his lap.

The moment broke.

He stood up and brushed invisible lint from the pajama top.

“It’s nothing, okay?” he said, turning his back. “Forget it.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t push. He watched him walk to the bathroom in silence. When Dong-ju came out later, the lights were off, the bedroom doors were both open.

But they still went to sleep in different rooms.

—

Dong-ju woke up earlier than usual. The room was dim, the curtains filtering a sleepy haze of morning light. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling. His limbs were heavy, but his heart felt oddly light. Something about waking up in Jong-hyeon’s house had reset something in him, like a switch flipped the moment the sun came through the window.

He got up slowly, bare feet on the cold floor, and wandered toward Jong-hyeon’s room.

The door wasn’t locked.

He peeked in and saw Jong-hyeon asleep — still, peaceful, the faintest crease between his brows like even in rest he couldn't let go completely. He looked impossibly good like this, vulnerable in a way Dong-ju rarely saw. And that, of course, was reason enough to cause trouble.

Dong-ju grinned.

He tiptoed in and launched himself on top of the man like a child throwing a tantrum, arms wrapping around Jong-hyeon’s torso like a human koala.

“HYUNG—!” he cried dramatically, faking sobs, burying his face into Jong-hyeon’s chest, “WAKE UP! YOU’RE DEAD, YOU’RE DEAD, IT’S OVER—!”

Jong-hyeon startled awake with a muffled groan and immediately tried to pry Dong-ju off.

“What the hell are you doing,” he rasped, voice hoarse with sleep.

Dong-ju only held tighter, sniffling exaggeratedly. “I thought you DIED, hyung. My poor sweet hyung.”

“You’re insane,” Jong-hyeon mumbled, but he didn’t push him away again. In fact, his hand found Dong-ju’s hair and stayed there.

For a few moments, neither moved. Just the two of them lying tangled on the bed, breathing the same air. It was quiet. Gentle.

And then Jong-hyeon cleared his throat and moved. “Okay, that’s enough,” he muttered, detaching him.

Dong-ju rolled off but was all grins. 

They both stood up, shoulders brushing slightly as they moved around each other. It was comfortable again, familiar.

“I’ll get breakfast,” Dong-ju offered brightly, grabbing his hoodie and slipping into his sneakers. “You clean or whatever. Pretend to be a responsible adult.”

“I am a responsible adult,” Jong-hyeon called behind him.

Dong-ju stuck out his tongue before closing the door.

He walked for a while, half-dreaming through the streets, phone in hand but not looking at it. The warmth of the morning clung to him, soft and steady, and for the first time in weeks he felt like he could breathe. Like something he didn’t have a name for was back in his arms — even if he wasn’t allowed to hold it properly.

He ended up at a small café on the corner. Familiar.

He blinked.

Wait.

Oh no.

It was that café.

The one with the too-pretty waitress who had flirted with Jong-hyeon that night. The one Dong-ju had wanted to erase from his memory.

Too late now.

He stepped inside and ordered quickly, keeping his voice down and eyes on his phone. Maybe she wasn’t working today.

“Hey,” a voice rang out, and Dong-ju winced. “Aren’t you that guy who came here with the tall cop?”

He looked up slowly. There she was. Smiling. Hair tucked behind her ear.

“Uh. Yeah,” he muttered, trying to stay polite. “Just here for takeout.”

She tilted her head. “I gave your friend my number, but he never texted. Is he okay?”

Dong-ju stared at her.

Wait.

He never texted?

He felt his chest swell. With what — relief? Guilt? A weird possessive triumph?

“He’s fine,” he said quickly.

“Oh. Thought maybe he lost his phone or something,” she laughed, brushing invisible crumbs off the counter. “You two are still working together?”

Dong-ju's expression flattened. “Yeah.”

“Well, tell him I am still waiting,” she said lightly, then turned to grab his coffee.

Something bitter rose in Dong-ju’s throat. He didn’t know what got into him — maybe it was just the week of pent-up longing, maybe it was the stupid number exchange — but his voice came out sharp before he could stop it.

“He’s taken,” he snapped. “So maybe don’t wait.”

She blinked.

Then frowned. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”

“Just—forget it,” Dong-ju mumbled, grabbing the food and walking out, hot with embarrassment.

Back at the apartment, he dropped the bags on the table harder than necessary.

Jong-hyeon raised a brow from where he was folding a blanket on the couch.

“Someone fought the barista?” he asked, tone dry.

Dong-ju glared. “Don’t joke.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

They sat down to eat. Dong-ju was uncharacteristically quiet, poking at his croissant like it had personally wronged him.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jong-hyeon asked again. “You look like you murdered someone in line.”

Dong-ju exhaled. “It’s fine. Just... weird morning.”

Jong-hyeon nodded slowly. “Still mad about Seoul?”

Dong-ju paused.

And then, before he could stop himself, it came out. Quiet, raw.

“I was angry you didn’t call me.”

Jong-hyeon blinked. “What?”

“You went to Seoul and didn’t call once. Not even a text.”

“I told you I had a lot of work.”

Dong-ju shrugged, picking at the edge of his sleeve. “And? Did you even feel that I wasn’t around?”

Jong-hyeon opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Then, finally, softly: “I missed you too, Dong-ju.”

Dong-ju looked up.

“I really did,” Jong-hyeon added, eyes steady. “I just thought... you were busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Dong-ju felt his heart twist in a way that was both painful and warm. He looked away quickly.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “Too late now.”

But the corners of his mouth twitched. And then he grinned, big and boyish. “I knew you missed me. You’re obsessed.”

Jong-hyeon rolled his eyes. “Eat your food.”

“Say it again.”

“No.”

“Hyuuung—”

“Shut up.”

They ate, Dong-ju nudging Jong-hyeon’s leg with his knee under the table. Everything was lighter again.

Jong-hyeon took a bite of toast, then looked up to find Dong-ju staring at him.

“Stop staring.”

“You’re being weird.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Do you want to ride to work  in the car or walk by yourself alone?”

Dong-ju only laughed, unbothered.

—

The days that followed passed like any other. Routine. Quiet. Predictable.

They went to work, drank bitter vending machine coffee, went through reports, talked with the same tired officers about the same tired crimes. Dong-ju still joked like nothing ever happened. Still stood too close, still clung to him like a child too old to be held, still looked at him for too long when he thought Jong-hyeon wouldn’t notice. And Jong-hyeon — he let him. Worse, he wanted it. Craved it.

He wasn’t sure when the shift happened, only that it did. Somewhere between being pinned under him in a fit of laughter and watching him storm off after saying it felt like you don’t care, something cracked open inside him.

And now, Jong-hyeon couldn’t stop thinking.

What is this?

What was he doing?

And why did it feel like not doing anything was becoming the most unbearable choice of all?

That Friday evening, the station emptied out earlier than usual. A rare quiet night in the city. Some of the others offered him a ride, but he refused. Said he needed fresh air.

He didn’t.

He needed time alone.

Time to walk, to think, to let the confusion settle into something he could hold.

But Seoul at night was never quiet for long. Just two blocks from the station, he saw it — a small fight escalating fast. Two men shoving another against a wall. One of them pulling something from his coat. Jong-hyeon didn’t hesitate.

“Hey!” he barked. “Break it up.”

They didn’t listen. Of course they didn’t. Drunk or high or just angry at the world — it didn’t matter. He stepped closer, showing his badge. They laughed. Called him names. Said something about cops being just bored little men with too much pride.

He should’ve called backup. He didn’t.

He stepped in.

The first punch was a blur. Not even a punch — a boot to his cheek. The jolt rattled his teeth, the taste of iron blooming in his mouth. It should’ve scared him. Should’ve triggered his training, his instincts.

Instead — he thought of Dong-ju.

Of his hands, warm and clumsy, dabbing at a cut with too much pressure and too much care.

Of the way he frowned like a kicked puppy, whispering sorry with every touch.

Of the way his lips brushed over his skin, soft and trembling.

He didn’t know what was more pathetic — that he wanted it again, or that he knew no other way to get it than this.

So he didn’t fight back.

He let them knock him down. Let the world tilt sideways. Let the ache bloom across his face until he felt it in his bones.

It wasn’t bravery. It wasn't a strategy.

It was longing. And it was stupid.

By the time the patrol car rolled in, the men scattered. He gave a half-hearted report, brushed off help, said he’d walk it off. And he did — limping, blinking blood from his brow.

He got home. Showered in the dark. Didn't look in the mirror.

The next morning, his face looked worse than it felt. Eye swollen. Lip split. Purple spreading like bruised fruit across his cheekbone.

He didn’t plan to see anyone. Would’ve spent the day in silence. But Dong-ju called and said: “Let’s go somewhere, I’m bored. I’ll wait downstairs.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t think. He just got in the car.

Dong-ju climbed in and slammed the door. The moment he turned, Jong-hyeon saw it — the widening of his eyes, the shock, the horror, then the rage.

“What the hell happened to your face?!”

Jong-hyeon flinched. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing! You look like you got hit by a truck—twice!” Dong-ju reached for his chin, tilting it into the light.

Dong-ju scoffed. “Hospital. Now.”

There it was. The word that made Jong-hyeon’s stomach drop. Hospital. He’d let himself get beat up hoping for something more intimate, something stupid and gentle and shameful. And now he was being dragged into fluorescent lighting and gauze pads.

He felt the disappointment curl tight in his chest.

“Right,” he muttered. “Hospital”

The days after the bruises blurred into routine.

They didn’t talk much at all.

Dong-ju showed up on time, did his job, made sharp observations, and offered nothing more than necessary. Jong-hyeon matched him, replying with clipped instructions, short nods, and the occasional glance that lingered too long before darting away like he’d made a mistake by looking at all.

The case wasn’t moving. The victim’s phone logs came back empty. No new witnesses. No leads from forensics.

They were stuck, and it was beginning to show. Paperwork piled on Jong-hyeon’s desk. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands at 2 a.m. shifts and kept working anyway.

Dong-ju, for his part, didn’t complain. He worked through the exhaustion like it was penance for something unspeakable. He didn’t yawn, didn’t stretch, didn’t even drink coffee anymore.

Just silence, tension, and ticking hours.

The unspoken things between them turned heavier than any report. Like a held breath neither of them dared release.

It wasn’t one big thing that broke it. It was the sum of small ones.

A few words too short.

A silence too long.

A touch that didn’t come.

It started in the hallway of the precinct — late, again. Rain on the windows, flickering fluorescent lights above.

Dong-ju passed Jong-hyeon without a word. Their arms brushed by accident.

Jong-hyeon turned around.

“Are we just not going to talk anymore?”

Dong-ju stopped but didn’t look at him. “We’re at work.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dong-ju tilted his head, slow and deliberate, like he was doing his best not to snap. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Jong-hyeon bit back, stepping closer. “Maybe why you’ve been acting like I’m a stranger?”

Dong-ju laughed under his breath. “That’s rich. You’ve been cold lately out of nowhere. So I matched the temperature.”

Jong-hyeon’s jaw flexed. “Don’t turn this around.”

“I’m not.” Dong-ju’s voice was even, almost casual. “You decided to act like a dickhead again.”

“You think I am a dickhead?” Jong-hyeon asked, his voice rising slightly. 

Dong-ju shrugged.

Jong-hyeon took a breath that didn’t go anywhere. “I’ve been giving you space.”

“I didn’t ask for space.”

“Well, I didn’t know what you want!”

“I never said I wanted anything.”

“Exactly!” Jong-hyeon snapped. “You never say anything.”

Jong-hyeon’s hands curled into fists.

He wasn’t angry at Dong-ju. Not really.

He was angry at himself. For wanting more. For not knowing how to ask for it.

For being afraid.

Later that night, after the team debriefed in the cramped conference room, Jong-hyeon stood by the window with a cold cup of tea and too many thoughts.

Dong-ju was at the table, looking through a report he wasn’t really reading. His fingers were still. His brow unfurrowed.

Just blank.

Gone.

That’s when Jong-hyeon realized: they were losing it. Whatever unspoken connection they had—it was slipping.

Because neither of them was brave enough to say the one true thing.

It exploded the next night, in the parking lot.

They were both exhausted. Tense. Frustrated.

The suspect they’d pinned their hopes on had a rock-solid alibi. The captain chewed them out in front of everyone. The case was cold again.

Jong-hyeon offered a ride home.

Dong-ju didn’t answer, just walked to the car and got in.

The silence on the drive home was unbearable. Streetlights passed like flashes of lightning, but no one said a word until they hit the hill road just before Dong-ju’s neighborhood.

“You’ve been off all week,” Jong-hyeon said, gripping the wheel tighter than he needed to. “I know I said I’d give you space, but this is getting ridiculous.”

Dong-ju didn’t look at him. “Maybe I just don’t like being handled.”

“Handled?”

“You’re careful with me now. Like I’ll break.”

“I’m not being careful,” Jong-hyeon said. “I’m being respectful.”

“That’s not what it feels like.”

“Then tell me what it feels like.”

Dong-ju’s head turned sharply. “Like I’m invisible.”

Jong-hyeon slammed the brakes at the red light. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You with me when I’m bruised. You vanish when I’m not.”

The words fell heavy between them.

Jong-hyeon blinked.

It wasn’t true. But it wasn’t a lie either.

And that scared him more than anything.

“Look,” he said, voice tightening, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Nothing,” Dong-ju snapped. “I want nothing.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“It shouldn't be! I want you to stop looking at me like I’m some accident you regret being too close to!”

The light turned green.

They didn’t move.

Jong-hyeon stared ahead, hands frozen on the wheel.

“I don’t regret anything,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

Dong-ju scoffed. “You have a strange way of showing it.”

“You want me to make it easy? To say something I can’t take back?”

“I want you to stop pretending like we’re just two cops who work together.”

“Well, we are two cops who work together. What else could it be?”

The silence after that felt like an earthquake.

Dong-ju looked at him as if he was the deadliest enemy known on earth.

Jong-hyeon’s throat worked around words he didn’t say.

“I thought I was protecting it,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Whatever we have.”

Dong-ju’s voice was flat. “By avoiding it?”

“By not breaking it.”

“Too late.”

The sentence echoed in the car, and this time, Jong-hyeon felt it in his ribs.

He turned to look at Dong-ju, really look—but Dong-ju was already getting out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride.”

And the door slammed shut.

The next day was worse.

Neither of them spoke. Not at the station. Not during interviews. Not during the coffee break where they sat three feet apart and didn’t even pretend to acknowledge each other.

It wasn’t silence anymore.

It was ice.

And it crept into everything.

And Jong-hyeon… Jong-hyeon told himself this was better. That stepping back was the only way to keep things from falling apart.
Because if they pushed any further, if they gave in even a little — whatever fragile thing they had would burn up in the process.

So he stopped himself.
Again and again.
And Dong-ju, who had never been the type to beg, stopped trying too.

It was a Friday when Jong-hyeon noticed.

Dong-ju wasn’t at his desk.

For a second, he thought he’d just missed him. Maybe he was in one of the conference rooms or buried in the records archive. But hours passed, and there was no trace of him.

He asked one of the junior officers, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, yeah,” they said, “he went out with Officer Seo and a few others. They had to check out that abandoned building in Sector 4. Big lead or something.”

Jong-hyeon gave a tight nod. “Got it.”

He didn’t ask why he wasn’t told. He didn’t ask why Dong-ju didn’t even leave a note on the board.

He just sat back down and stared at the monitor, seeing nothing.

He said he wouldn’t.
He said “I won’t.”

But maybe that promise expired the same night everything else did.

That night, Jong-hyeon was home — hoodie on, sprawled on his couch, some muted documentary flickering in the background — when his phone rang.

Officer Seo.

Weird.

He answered immediately.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

A beat of silence. Then:

“I’m sorry to bother you. I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

Jong-hyeon sat up. “What happened?”

“It’s Dong-ju. After the inspection, we all went out for drinks. Just a few rounds. But he… he lost it. Drank way too much. Started crying. He’s in the back room now, and he won’t talk to anyone except—he keeps repeating your name.”

Jong-hyeon’s heart stopped. “Where are you?”

“Club Haneul. On 5th. Back entrance’s quieter.”

He didn’t even hang up. Just grabbed his jacket and keys and bolted.

When he arrived, Officer Seo met him outside. The alley was slick with rain. Low lights. No sound but the distant thump of bass from inside.

“He’s in bad shape,” Seo said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t eat all day. Slammed shots like water. Then started mumbling stuff.”

Jong-hyeon nodded once and walked in.

Dong-ju was slouched against a brick wall in the darkened back hallway, coat half off, eyes glassy, face blotchy. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. There was a smear of blood under his nose, probably from earlier, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

He looked up.

And when he saw Jong-hyeon, his expression twisted.

“Oh, look who decided to show up,” he slurred.

Jong-hyeon stepped forward. “You’re drunk.”

“No shit.” Dong-ju tried to stand but stumbled. “What, you come to give me another lecture? Gonna say I’m reckless again? Cold? That I make everything worse?”

“I didn’t say any of that,” Jong-hyeon muttered, jaw tight.

“Well, you don’t have to say it. You think it every damn day.”

Jong-hyeon reached out, but Dong-ju swatted his hand away, like a child throwing a tantrum.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t need anything from you.”

“You’re making a scene.”

“No one’s watching,” Dong-ju snapped. “No one cares.”

He suddenly slammed a fist against the wall, then winced, cradling his hand.

Jong-hyeon cursed under his breath and stepped closer.

“Stop it. You’re hurting yourself.”

“I’m always hurting,” Dong-ju muttered, voice cracking. “Just that sometimes you notice. And sometimes you pretend not to.”

Before Jong-hyeon could say anything, Dong-ju’s body sagged forward.

And then—he started sobbing.

Like something inside him broke.

Raw, broken sobs that didn’t sound like they belonged to a grown man. He stumbled into Jong-hyeon’s chest and clung to him, fists twisted in his jacket, trembling.

“ImissyouImissyouImissyou—”

He whispered it like a prayer. Or a curse. Over and over, too fast to mean nothing. Too raw to mean anything else.

Jong-hyeon stood frozen, arms halfway raised. His chest tightened. His breath stopped.

Dong-ju kept crying. Shaking. Falling apart.

And just as suddenly, he shoved Jong-hyeon back.

“You didn’t miss me at all, didn’t you?!” he shouted. “I bet you were glad and happy I wasn’t around you anymore!”

“I—” Jong-hyeon reached for him again.

“I’ll fight you!” Dong-ju screamed, eyes wet and furious. “I swear, I’ll fight you—!”

His voice cracked again. His knees buckled. Jong-hyeon caught him before he could hit the ground.

“Goddammit,” Jong-hyeon muttered, voice hoarse. “What an actual idiot.”

And he dragged him out the back exit, one arm hooked under Dong-ju’s shoulder, ignoring his protests, ignoring the way his own heart pounded like it might rupture.

The drive was silent.

Dong-ju passed out in the passenger seat somewhere between 6th and the bridge.

—

The morning after was nothing short of brutal.

Dong-ju groaned into the pillow before even opening his eyes, his skull splitting like someone had driven a spike through it. His mouth tasted like ash and regret. Every part of his body ached, as if he’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer—and lost.

He shifted slightly.

Blankets. Familiar bed. Dim morning light filtering in through the curtains. The faint scent of coffee somewhere in the apartment.

And then—

Footsteps.

He cracked one eye open.

Jong-hyeon stood in the doorway holding a glass of water and two aspirin. His expression was unreadable, but the shadows under his eyes betrayed just how little he had slept.

Dong-ju groaned again and sat up slowly, leaning against the headboard like a dying man. “You look like shit,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome,” Jong-hyeon said dryly, stepping forward and handing him the water.

Dong-ju downed the pills and water in one go, wincing. “Do I even want to know what I did last night?”

There was a flicker in Jong-hyeon’s gaze. “You don’t remember?”

Dong-ju gave him a flat look. “Of fucking course I remember everything.”

He lay back down with a groan. “Kill me now.”

There was a pause. And then:

“I’m sorry,” Jong-hyeon said.

Dong-ju blinked.

“I mean it,” Jong-hyeon went on, quieter. “These past two weeks… I didn’t like them at all. I didn’t like how we handled things.”

“Not we, you. ” Dong-ju corrected him.

“Yeah, whatever,”Jong-hyeon said, rolling his eyes. 

Dong-ju turned his head to look at him. For a second, something warm and uncertain moved between them. Then he grinned. “Wow. Is this your version of a romantic speech?”

Jong-hyeon chuckled but smiled faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

It was almost normal again. Almost.

Until Jong-hyeon exhaled, long and slow, and added, “I have to go to Seoul again.”

The smile dropped off Dong-ju’s face instantly. “What?”

Jong-hyeon hesitated. “It’s for work. Could be a month. Maybe longer.”

Dong-ju sat up straighter, the hangover temporarily forgotten. “You’re telling me this now ? After the whole ‘I didn’t like the past two weeks’ speech?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

Dong-ju stared at him. “So you apologize just to drop a bomb on me?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh, really?” Dong-ju’s voice climbed an octave. “Then what is it like, huh? You think you can just say sorry and disappear again for a month like nothing happened?”

“I’m not disappearing—”

Dong-ju grabbed a pillow and hurled it at his face. “Yes, you fucking are!”

The pillow hit Jong-hyeon square in the chest. Then another. And another.

“Don’t throw things at me.”

“I’ll throw what I damn well want!” Dong-ju shouted, his voice cracking with something rawer than anger. “Do you know how shitty those two weeks were? And now you just— leave again? ”

Jong-hyeon took it, all of it. Let the blows land. Let the yelling spill out. He didn’t move until Dong-ju’s arms dropped.

And then, softly: “Come with me.”

Dong-ju blinked. “What?”

“I talked to the captain. You can come. We’re working the same case, remember? Seoul’s got more data. You’d be helping.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yep.”

Something changed in Dong-ju’s face then. The storm behind his eyes cleared just enough for hope to creep in. “So… I could actually go with you?”

Jong-hyeon gave a small nod. “I want you there.”

Dong-ju stared at him, stunned—and then smiled. Wide and childlike and real, the kind of smile that made Jong-hyeon’s chest ache for reasons he now could explain.

“Can we leave right now?”

Jong-hyeon let out a breath of laughter. “You can’t even stand straight yet.”

“Then carry me,” Dong-ju said, already flopping back dramatically on the bed. “I’m weak. Frail. Vulnerable.”

“You’re hungover.”

“Semantics.”

Jong-hyeon looked at him, really looked at him. For the first time in what felt like forever, the distance between them wasn’t insurmountable. It was bridgeable. Tangible.

He walked to the edge of the bed, leaned down slightly, and brushed Dong-ju’s fringe away from his forehead.

“We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Only us?”

“Only us.”

Chapter Text

The car smelled like coffee, mint gum, and sun-warmed sweaty jackets. Dong‑ju sat cross‑legged in the passenger seat, one sneaker tapping the door-frame in a restless rhythm while sunlight streaked across his hair in broad, golden lines. Jong‑hyeon drove with laconic focus, cool behind the wheel, one bare arm resting on the center console while the other guided the steering wheel with precise familiarity.

They’d been on the road for over an hour, but it felt like five minutes and also a lifetime—the kind of stretch where the outside world dims, swallowed by narrow lanes of asphalt and shifting light.

Dong‑ju glanced at the GPS mounted to the dash.
“How long?” he asked, tone mild, eyes glued to the screen.

“Two hours, thirty‑three minutes,” Jong‑hyeon replied without breaking stride. Steering steady, brows relaxed, tea in the cupholder emitting steam.

Dong-ju glanced over. Jong-hyeon wore sunglasses — the nice ones, the pair Dong-ju once called “too sleek for your face” just to see how long it’d take him to stop wearing them. (Answer: not long. But they were back now, apparently.) 

“Do you always hold the wheel like that?” Dong-ju asked suddenly.

Jong-hyeon didn't turn. “Like what.”

“Like you’re doing surgery on it.”

A breath of silence. “Didn’t realize you had a degree in steering wheel ergonomics.”

“I didn’t,” Dong-ju said. “But I’ve sat next to enough bad drivers to develop taste.”

That earned a twitch at the corner of Jong-hyeon’s mouth — not quite a smile, but something. Dong-ju took it as a win.

The road ahead was smooth. Traffic was light, the sky high and almost cartoon-blue. The kind of day that makes it hard to remember anything sharp-edged.

Jong-hyeon reached for the dashboard and hit play on the music. Something low and instrumental hummed through the speakers — piano keys and a soft beat, like it had been designed to go unnoticed.

“You didn’t make a playlist?” Dong-ju asked.

“I did. This is it.”

“This is barely music. This is the sound of an IKEA showroom.”

“Shut up,” Jong-hyeon said.

Dong-ju leaned back against the seat and tilted his head. “Uh-huh.”

He was smiling.

A sign flickered: Next Services 12km . Dong‑ju sat up.
“Can we stop? I need food.”

Jong‑hyeon sighed but took the next exit without complaint.

They pulled into a rest stop cafe with bright fluorescent lights, metal chairs, and sticky tables. Dong‑ju stretched steps before exiting, twisting his neck and pretending to complain of stiffness.

Inside, there was a small kiosk selling rice balls, instant ramen, coffee, pastries, and a samgyetang food truck outside. The air smelled of broth, cut limes, sweet bread.

Dong‑ju made a beeline for the rice ball, browsing through labels in a way that made Jong‑hyeon laugh—it was relentless focusing like he’d never chosen snacks in his life.

“Blueberry cheesecake bun?” Jong‑hyeon asked, pointing to a pastry.
Dong‑ju grabbed it. “It’s for later—you drive still.”

Then: “Do you want my strawberry rice cake?” Jong‑hyeon offered.

Dong‑ju limited his eyes to the counter. “If you’re offering, yes.”

They paid in silence, got coffee in mismatched cups (‘Caffeine monster’ for Dong‑ju, ‘Black tar’ for Jong‑hyeon), and carried everything to a booth near the window.

Once seated, Dong‑ju opened his samgyetang and inhaled—the steam rose like apology.

“You love that smell,” Jong‑hyeon said.

Dong‑ju nodded without looking. 

Fuelled by broth and sugar, they settled into the car again.

Dong‑ju looked out the window at a field of sunflowers, bright faces turned toward the sun.
“They’re all waving at me.”

“You’re halfway to Seoul, Mr. Celebrity.”

Dong‑ju twisted sideways to face Jong‑hyeon. “Is that what you think I am?”

“To the sunflowers — yes.”

Then he was quiet.

Jong‑hyeon glanced over. “Sleep if you want.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You’re blinking slow.”

“That’s because I’m thinking.”

“Oh?” Jong‑hyeon quickly brushed hair off Dong‑ju’s forehead. “About?”

Dong‑ju pressed a chip to the center console, then flicked it at the dash light.
“About how badly I want to drop this car off a cliff if I have to be in it one more second.”

“Be grateful,” he said.

Dong‑ju smiled. No words needed.

An hour later, the high-rise buildings of Seoul crawled up the horizon. Closer now. The radio chimed a broadcast traffic delay downtown.

Jong‑hyeon switched lanes deliberately, calm. “No traffic. I know the back route.”

Dong‑ju watched him navigate. Precise. Calm. Steady.

He reached over to adjust the mirror so he could see without turning his head.

When he looked over, Dong‑ju half-closed his eyes at the reflection.

“You okay?” Jong‑hyeon asked.

Dong‑ju winked. “Never better.”

Jong‑hyeon eased the car onto a parallel street lined with cafes and flickering neon signs. “We’re close.”

“How close?”

—

They parked.

Silence settled, gentle, like warm linen.

Dong‑ju reached into his jacket and pulled out the leftover snack bag—only a few chips left.

He shook one out, then looked at Jong‑hyeon with that small, careless grin.

“What?”

Dong‑ju raised the chip. “One for you.”

Jong‑hyeon didn’t answer.

“You know,” Dong-ju said, voice softer now, “this was kind of nice.”

“What was.”

“This. The drive. No murder. No shouting.”

“No food limit.”

Dong-ju exhaled a laugh. “Yeah. That too.”

Another chip was handed to Jong-hyeon. This time, he took it.

—

The apartment was so Jong-hyeon.

Dong-ju stepped in first, blinking at the quiet, polished luxury of it. White walls, minimalist furniture, not a single mug out of place. The kind of place where people didn’t live — they performed being alive. Even the air smelled expensive.

“This yours?” he asked, kicking off his shoes and letting his socks slide a little too loudly on the polished wooden floor.

Jong-hyeon nodded, closing the door behind them. “Mm.”

“Like, you own it?”

Jong-hyeon gave him a look. The kind that was more answer than anything he could say.

“Right,” Dong-ju muttered, half-smirking. “Forgot you’re a chaebol in disguise.”

“I’m not a chaebol.”

“Says the man with a smart fridge that talks.”

“I turned the voice off.”

“Oh, well, how humble of you.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t rise to the bait, just dropped his keys on a quiet little ceramic tray by the door and walked in like this wasn’t his big coming-out party as someone secretly rich.

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. Towels are in the cabinet.”

“You first,” Dong-ju said, but didn’t move. “I want to snoop a bit.”

Jong-hyeon walked off, dry as ever, and Dong-ju let himself smile as he sipped cold water and watched the man disappear down the hallway.

The apartment didn’t feel lived in. Not really. It was too curated. Like someone had set it up for him, expecting he'd need a safe, quiet place but never quite believing he’d want to stay in it. The furniture was too pristine. The books on the shelf hadn’t been cracked open. Even the plants were too green, too thriving, like someone else watered them.

But it felt… safe.

Dong-ju wandered until he found the bedroom.

Big bed. One bed.

And one small couch.

By the time Jong-hyeon came back — damp hair, black shirt sticking to his collarbone in that annoyingly attractive way — Dong-ju was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed like it was his.

“You don’t have a guest room,” Dong-ju said immediately, like he’d been waiting.

“No.”

“You planned this.”

Jong-hyeon rubbed a hand through his damp hair. “I didn’t.”

Dong-ju leaned over, one hand dangling toward the floor. “You’re going to sleep on the couch?”

“Yes.”

Dong-ju’s eyes narrowed. “Is it because you think I’ll try something, or because you will?”

Jong-hyeon blinked, then turned away.

“Oh, come on.” Dong-ju leaned back, dramatic. “In your own apartment? You’ll wake up with back pain and then I’ll feel bad and you’ll make that face like you’re suffering in noble silence. It’s exhausting just imagining it.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t answer. Just knelt by the couch armrest, adjusting a throw blanket like it was his fate.

“Get up,” Dong-ju said.

“Dong-ju.”

“It’s a big bed. We’re not in high school.”

Jong-hyeon looked over his shoulder, something unreadable passing through his expression. 

Dong-ju smiled. 

Jong-hyeon sighed, like he already regretted agreeing to this trip.

But he got up. Reluctantly. Quietly.

He turned the light off and climbed into bed like it was a negotiation. Like the mattress might reject him for inappropriate thoughts.

Dong-ju made room. Or made it seem like this. Their shoulders brushed.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t awkward. Just… full.

Dong-ju turned onto his side, facing Jong-hyeon.

“You’re stiff,” Dong-ju murmured.

Jong-hyeon stared at the ceiling. “It’s a firm mattress.”

“Liar.” Dong-ju shifted again, somehow winding himself even tighter against Jong-hyeon’s side. “This is one of those memory foam ones, huh? It’s like sleeping on a cloud. A very expensive, judgmental cloud.”

“You’re overthinking a bed.”

Dong-ju hummed. “I think you’re scared.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re doing that thing where you lie with your whole body. All rigid. Like you’re trying not to touch me.”

“I’m trying to sleep.”

“Then why are your eyes still open?”

Jong-hyeon closed them immediately.

Dong-ju grinned into his shoulder.

The silence stretched. Comfortable. Close.

Then: “You always sleep on your back like a corpse?”

Jong-hyeon sighed. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“I can,” Dong-ju said, grinning wider. “If you ask me nicely.”

There was no reply. So he slid a little higher up the bed and rested his chin lightly on Jong-hyeon’s shoulder, hair brushing his neck.

“You smell like laundry detergent and clean towels,” he whispered. “It’s strangely comforting.”

“I can get you the same shampoo if that’s what you’re after.”

“I don’t want the shampoo,” Dong-ju said. “I want you.”

Another pause. Heavy this time.

Then Jong-hyeon said, softly, “Dong-ju—”

“I know,” Dong-ju cut in before the rest of it could land. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

He flopped back, dramatically sprawling, one arm tossed across Jong-hyeon’s chest like a starfish. “But you are warm.”

“You’re making up reasons to touch me.”

“Pf, I’m just smart enough to seek warmth where it is. Evolution.”

Jong-hyeon snorted, and Dong-ju felt the laugh in his chest before he heard it.

“Uh-huh, sure”

“See,” Dong-ju said, triumphant, “you’re relaxing.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t reply, but the tension in his shoulders had loosened slightly. He shifted, rolling to his side just enough to make space for Dong-ju to settle more comfortably. It was a small movement, but Dong-ju noticed. He always noticed.

He tucked his head under Jong-hyeon’s chin and let out a pleased little sigh.

“I used to hate nights,” he murmured after a while.

Jong-hyeon’s voice was quiet. “Why?”

“Too much thinking. Too quiet. Or too loud, depending where I was.”

A beat.

“And now?”

“Now it’s okay.” Dong-ju reached up and tapped Jong-hyeon’s chest with two fingers, right over his heart. “You don’t talk much, but it’s not the same kind of silence.”

He felt more than heard Jong-hyeon swallow.

The silence that followed was warm. 

Dong-ju yawned, face scrunching into Jong-hyeon’s shoulder.

Jong-hyeon glanced down. “You’re tired.”

“I know.” Another yawn. “But I don’t want to sleep yet.”

“You’ll regret it in the morning.”

“Mm. Probably.” He nudged Jong-hyeon with his knee. “You gonna cook me breakfast?”

“I don’t cook.”

“Rich boy with a giant bed and no kitchen skills,” Dong-ju said, mock-disappointed. “What a waste. I think I can cook something, but only if you’re nice to me.”

“You’re the one kicking me right now.”

Dong-ju kicked him again, lightly. “Am I?”

Another laugh, soft and short, escaped Jong-hyeon’s throat before he could stop it.

Dong-ju smiled in the dark.

He settled again, this time quieter, less fidgety. His fingers curled loosely into the fabric of Jong-hyeon’s t-shirt, like he needed something to hold. Something to remind himself this wasn’t a dream, or a one-night accident, or something that would disappear come daylight.

Jong-hyeon didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His hand hovered for a moment — unsure — then slowly rested on the curve of Dong-ju’s back. 

Dong-ju whispered, eyes closed now, “This bed is too big. But you’re not.”

“What does that mean?”

Dong-ju yawned again. “Means I fit here just fine.”

He was asleep before Jong-hyeon could answer.

—

The first thing Dong-ju felt was heat. Not the suffocating kind, but the low, steady warmth of another person. A chest under his cheek. A breath rising and falling beside him.

And then, slowly, the awareness that he hadn’t dreamed any of it.

He blinked one eye open.

Morning light was seeping in through half-drawn blinds, soft and golden and too gentle to be real. It brushed the side of Jong-hyeon’s face — still asleep — highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight mess of his hair. He looked too peaceful. Like someone who never slept and was finally catching up.

Dong-ju didn’t move.

He just watched him for a while. Close like this, Jong-hyeon looked younger. Softer. The kind of face you wouldn’t believe had seen half the things it had. The kind of face that didn’t match the gun he carried or the silence he wore like armor.

It made Dong-ju ache, a little.

And then Jong-hyeon shifted.

Not all at once — just the slight twitch of fingers, the deeper inhale, the flutter behind his closed lids. Dong-ju immediately closed his eyes again, faking sleep before Jong-hyeon could catch him watching.

Seconds passed. Maybe longer.

He felt Jong-hyeon stretch slightly beneath him, holding him tighter. 

“How long have you been watching me?” Jong-hyeon suddenly asked, eyes still closed. 

Dong-ju cracked one eye open, just a sliver.

“You awake?” he mumbled, voice muffled into Jong-hyeon’s shirt.

There was a pause. Then: “No.”

“Liar.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t reply, but Dong-ju felt his chest shake faintly with silent laughter.

Dong-ju stretched, limbs heavy and lazy, and rolled just enough to bury his face into Jong-hyeon’s shoulder.

“You snore,” he muttered.

“No, I don’t.”

“Like a small dying engine.”

“You’re describing yourself.”

Dong-ju grinned into his shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to record it tonight and find out.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t answer that. Which was answer enough.

The apartment was quiet. Still no noise outside, no pressure to move. Just soft air and expensive silence. Dong-ju could smell the faint scent of coffee somewhere — maybe from the neighbors — and sun-warmed linen. It all felt too domestic. Like a life that belonged to someone else.

He sat up a little, brushing hair out of his face, and looked around the room properly for the first time. The minimalism. The sheer size. The obvious luxury of the mattress they were sprawled across like two underdressed college students.

“You really live here alone?” he asked suddenly, frowning at the high ceilings.

Jong-hyeon didn’t open his eyes. “Yes. Why?”

Dong-ju blinked. “Alone-alone?”

A noncommittal shrug. “Yeah.”

Dong-ju looked around again, suddenly aware of how his socks had probably left dust on that polished floor, and how he’d sat on the fancy granite kitchen counter last night without even thinking.

“No, but really. You own this place?”

Jong-hyeon opened one eye. “I told you - yes! Did you hit your head at night? Or what?”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m wearing the same socks I wore at the station yesterday and I drooled on your designer pillow.”

Jong-hyeon blinked. “You drooled?”

Dong-ju grinned. “Not saying where.”

“I’m burning that pillow.”

“Fine by me,” Dong-ju said, laying back down beside him, dramatic as ever. “But I get to pick the next one. Something plush and loud and ugly.”

“Pick the next one?”

Dong-ju rolled onto his side to face him, cheek resting against his bent arm. He watched Jong-hyeon, then nudged him lightly in the ribs.

“Yes? I’m going to live here too.” Dong-ju stuck his tongue for a quick second. 

Jong-hyeon didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah. Whatever.”

Dong-ju smiled. “Whateverything ”

A beat.

“We should get up,” Jong-hyeon said quietly.

“We could.”

“Shower. Eat.”

“Eventually.”

Another pause.

Dong-ju watched him, eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re thinking again.”

“I always think.”

“Too much.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Jong-hyeon said.

“I know.”

“I’m just—”

“I know.”

And somehow, that was enough.

Dong-ju reached out and poked him gently in the center of the forehead. “Come on, rich-boy. I’m gonna make you a breakfast”

“I have cereal.”

“God, you’re useless.”

But he was smiling when he said it.

—

They'd been in Seoul for three days. Long enough for the high of the road trip to wear off, long enough for the work to settle in.

It was early morning — the kind of Seoul morning that felt slow and sticky, despite the breeze. The narrow street they stood on was crammed between old apartment buildings with sagging window screens and rows of silver mailboxes locked shut. It smelled like laundry, kimchi, and fried oil from the shop downstairs.

Dong-ju stood on the curb with his hands in his pockets, squinting up at the third floor of the building across the way.

"She said she saw someone come out around 1 a.m. that night," he said, nodding toward the crooked window above. "Tall. Limped a little."

"That's what she said the last time, too," Jong-hyeon replied. He was flipping through the leather-bound notebook he always carried, one hand in his coat pocket, shoulders hunched just slightly like they always were when he was thinking.

Dong-ju glanced sideways at him. "You think she’s lying?"

"I think she’s bored," Jong-hyeon said flatly. "She probably saw someone, just not that night."

Dong-ju tilted his head. “You’re grumpy today.”

“You say this all the time.”

“You’re especially grumpy today.”

“I had to listen to you snore for two nights straight.”

Dong-ju snorted. “I don’t snore.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t look up. “You do. It’s small. Embarrassingly small, actually. Like a baby hedgehog wheezing.”

Dong-ju bumped his shoulder into Jong-hyeon’s, a small, familiar nudge. “You stayed up to listen?”

There was a pause — just a second too long — and then Jong-hyeon muttered, “You wouldn’t shut up in your sleep.”

That made Dong-ju grin, amused and slightly smug. “What’d I say?”

“Mostly nonsense. My name. A few swears. Something about sweat and blood.”

“Sexy,” Dong-ju said.

“You’re an idiot,” Jong-hyeon muttered, but the corner of his mouth curved slightly, like he didn’t mind being teased. Not from Dong-ju.

They climbed the stairs slowly. The old building creaked under their feet, a claustrophobic stack of peeling paint and humming fluorescent lights. At the third floor, they stopped in front of 3B. Jong-hyeon knocked — three sharp raps — then stepped back.

The door creaked open. A woman in her late seventies stood in the frame, wearing a floral vest and mismatched slippers. Her hair was in tight grey curls, and she looked them both over with a suspicious squint.

“Oh, it’s you boys again,” she said. Her voice was loud. Cheerful. “The police men.”

Jong-hyeon nodded politely. “Yes, ma’am. We just have a few follow-up questions.”

“Of course, of course,” she said, already stepping back to let them in. “Come in. You must be tired, running around like this all day.”

The apartment was small but spotless. Lace doilies on every surface. A calendar with puppies on the wall. A faint smell of boiled barley and tiger balm.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the low table. “I’ll bring tea.”

“We won’t be long,” Jong-hyeon said.

“Oh hush,” she waved him off. “You look exhausted, both of you.”

Dong-ju leaned down and whispered, “She’s right. You’re aging.”

Jong-hyeon gave him a look. 

The woman returned a moment later with two cups of barley tea and a plate of rice crackers. She settled onto the floor with surprising agility, tucking her legs under her.

“So,” she said, peering at them like a grandmother evaluating future sons-in-law. “You two together, then?”

The question hit the room like a firecracker.

Jong-hyeon blinked. “Sorry?”

“You’re a couple, right?” she said, matter-of-fact. “You have the same look my husband and I used to have. Always bickering, but always close. He used to follow me around like a puppy too.”

Dong-ju didn’t even blink. “Yes, ma’am,” he said smoothly, smiling. “He does follow me around.”

Jong-hyeon choked slightly on his tea.

The woman beamed. “I knew it. I can always tell. He looks at you like you’re the last dumpling in the pot.”

Dong-ju grinned, leaning back on one hand. “You should see how he acts when someone else tries to take a bite.”

“That’s love, dear,” she nodded, entirely pleased.

Jong-hyeon cleared his throat. “We’re not—”

“We’ve been together for years,” Dong-ju said, completely ignoring him. “He even lets me steal his snacks.”

The woman patted Jong-hyeon’s arm. “Don’t be shy, son. He’s handsome. You’re lucky.”

Jong-hyeon sat stiffly, clearly trying to decide whether to protest or just let the moment die.

“Now,” the woman said, businesslike. “What do you want to ask me?”

As Jong-hyeon opened his notebook and began questioning her about the night of the incident, Dong-ju stayed mostly quiet, sipping his tea and watching with open amusement. Every so often, when the old woman looked away, he’d give Jong-hyeon a look — innocent, cheeky, infuriating.

And Jong-hyeon, for all his rigid posture and quiet sighs, didn’t say a word about it.

He never did.

They stayed in the apartment longer than planned. The old woman insisted on packing them snacks—wrapped rice cakes and dried persimmons—“for the road,” even though they weren’t going anywhere. Dong-ju took them with both hands, bowed low, and called her halmeoni on the way out. She nearly teared up.

Outside, the summer heat had settled over the street like a soft blanket. Jong-hyeon unlocked the car with a tap, and Dong-ju climbed into the passenger seat, balancing the cloth-wrapped bundle on his knees.

“She likes you,” Jong-hyeon said, sliding behind the wheel.

“She likes both of us,” Dong-ju countered, undoing the bundle with delicate fingers. “She said we looked good together.”

Jong-hyeon let out a faint, incredulous scoff and adjusted the rearview mirror.

“She thought we were dating,” Dong-ju added.

“I noticed.”

Dong-ju bit into a rice cake, the soft texture crumbling slightly at the edges. 

“You could’ve corrected her.”

“I could’ve,” Dong-ju agreed. Then he turned, expression mild. “But you looked cute blushing like that.”

Jong-hyeon didn’t answer. He started the engine.

The drive to the next location—a shop owned by a former contact of their primary suspect—was short. Jong-hyeon stayed focused on the road while Dong-ju cranked the window open, elbow propped lazily against the door.

“Should I get us drinks?” Dong-ju asked when they stopped at a red light. “Something cold.”

“There’s a convenience store on the corner. Two minutes.”

Dong-ju nodded, already unbuckling. “I’ll get those canned coffees you like. The boring kind.”

Jong-hyeon watched him go in the side mirror. His gait was unhurried, hands shoved in his back pockets, head tilted toward the sun. For a moment, Jong-hyeon didn’t think about the case or the timeline or the fact that he hadn’t slept properly in three days. He just watched Dong-ju exist.

He returned a few minutes later, tossing a can into Jong-hyeon’s lap.

“You’re lucky I know your taste.”

“I’m consistent,” Jong-hyeon replied.

“You’re predictable,” Dong-ju said, cracking open his own drink.

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” Dong-ju tapped the rim of his can against Jong-hyeon’s. “Being predictable is boring. Being consistent is reliable.”

The shop was tucked into a narrow alley, painted a faded mint green and partially shaded by a striped awning. Inside, shelves were crowded with cleaning supplies, cooking oil, hardware odds and ends. The owner was a man in his sixties with slicked-back hair and a wary squint.

He didn’t recognize their suspect at first. But after Jong-hyeon flipped through a set of surveillance stills, the man leaned in, peering.

“This guy… yeah, I’ve seen him. Came in a few times for supplies. Bleach, gloves, stuff like that.”

“Cash or card?” Jong-hyeon asked.

“Cash,” the man replied, scratching his head. “Always cash. And he never talked much.”

“He say anything unusual?”

“Nope. Just asked for what he needed. Wore a hat. Sunglasses. Thought he was someone’s driver.”

They pressed further—dates, receipts, descriptions—but the man had nothing solid. No license plate. No phone number. Just a memory of someone forgettable trying not to be remembered.

Back in the car, Jong-hyeon pulled out his notepad, jotting down a few names from the nearby street camera listings. Dong-ju leaned his head against the window, sipping what was left of his drink.

“Do you think he knew we’d find him this way?”

“No,” Jong-hyeon murmured. 

Their final visit of the day was to a security kiosk outside a residential building—nothing fancy, just a concrete block with dusty blinds and a fan spinning too slow to make a difference. The guard was young, mid-twenties, good looking with a wide grin and a sharp eye for detail.

They showed him the photo. He pointed.

“That guy? Yeah, I’ve seen him. Came in twice last week. Said he was looking for someone. Apartment 502.”

“Did he give a name?” Jong-hyeon asked.

“No. But he looked nervous. Kept checking over his shoulder. Wore this weird cologne too—like… sour flowers.”

Dong-ju arched an eyebrow. “Sour flowers?”

“You know, like when something’s trying too hard to smell expensive.”

Dong-ju laughed.

Jong-hyeon handed over a card. “Call us if he shows up again.”

The guard nodded, slipping the card into his lanyard. “You guys a team or something?”

“We’re from another city,” Jong-hyeon said flatly.

“No, I mean—you know. Together?”

Jong-hyeon threw up his hands, puzzled. “What’s going on today?!”

The guard raised his hands. “Sorry. It’s just— never mind.”

“We are,” Dong-ju said to the guard. “He’s my person.”

Jong-hyeon said nothing, already walking away. The guard just blinked.

“Anyway,” Dong-ju continued with a grin, “thanks for the help.”

Back in the car, Jong-hyeon didn’t speak for several blocks.

“You’re quiet,” Dong-ju said eventually.

“You’re stupid.”

They arrived back at the apartment late, after dark, the city still humming around them with the low, unshakable rhythm of summer in Seoul—cicadas, car horns, and the occasional echo of laughter from a rooftop. Jong-hyeon parked in the underground garage, cutting the engine in the same unhurried silence that had filled the drive home.

Dong-ju didn’t speak until the elevator doors shut behind them.

“You’re mad.”

“No.”

“You’re sulking.”

Jong-hyeon exhaled through his nose. “It’s not the same thing.”

Dong-ju turned to face him, head tilted, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker. “You didn’t like what I said.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what?”

“It’s about people thinking we’re something we’re not.”

Dong-ju was quiet for a beat. “Why does that bother you so much?”

The elevator dinged before he could answer. The doors opened directly into the apartment’s private foyer, dimly lit and cool, the polished floors glowing under soft recessed lights.

Jong-hyeon stepped out first. “We’re working a case. It’s not professional.”

Dong-ju followed, unbothered. “You said that like I licked your face in front of a witness.”

Jong-hyeon shot him a look over his shoulder. “I'm afraid you're going to do it soon..”

Dong-ju grinned.

They stripped off their jackets in the hallway. Dong-ju toed off his shoes and padded into the kitchen, opening the fridge like he owned the place. He took out two bottles of water, tossed one to Jong-hyeon, and leaned against the counter.

“You ever get tired of pretending this isn’t something?”

Jong-hyeon didn’t answer. He took a long drink of water and set the bottle down too carefully.

Dong-ju sighed and pushed off the counter. “I’m going to shower.”

Jong-hyeon heard the water start a minute later, the quiet thunder of it spilling into the tub, the sharp scent of mint body wash rising faintly in the air.

He cleaned up slowly—putting their jackets away, folding the day’s files into his bag, clearing two coffee cans from the car and rinsing them out in the sink. When Dong-ju came out in a towel and damp hair, Jong-hyeon looked up but said nothing.

“You want the bathroom?”

“In a minute.”

Dong-ju disappeared into the bedroom, and Jong-hyeon stood still for a long moment before finally peeling off his own clothes and stepping under the water.

He took his time. Not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t know what version of Dong-ju would be waiting for him on the other side of that door.

When he finally emerged, shirtless, hair dripping down the nape of his neck, the bedroom lights were dim. Dong-ju was curled up under the blanket, still half-damp himself, shirtless, phone in hand.

“Didn’t know you were shy,” he said, glancing up.

“I’m not.”

“You hesitate.”

“I think I should use the couch.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want you here,” Dong-ju said simply.

Jong-hyeon stood there for a second too long. Then, without a word, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, back straight.

Dong-ju rolled onto his side to watch him. 

“You’re distant,” Dong-ju whispered.

“Just giving you space.” He finally lay down. 

“Since when do I want space?” Dong-ju said, and slid closer.

He didn’t touch him at first. Just settled in the middle, body curved slightly toward Jong-hyeon, close enough to feel the heat off his shoulder.

Then came the small, warm brush of a knee against Jong-hyeon’s thigh. A sigh. A hand resting casually, deliberately, between them on the mattress.

“You smell different today,” Dong-ju said softly. “Like honey”

“New shampoo. It’s under the sink.”

“Uh-huh.”

He was close now—his voice barely more than breath, his skin warm, soft from the shower. Jong-hyeon tried not to move, not to react.

Then Dong-ju leaned in. His forehead bumped Jong-hyeon’s shoulder.

Jong-hyeon stared at the ceiling. “Go to sleep, Dong-ju.”

“I don’t need sleep,” Dong-ju muttered, shifting again under the covers, his knee nudging Jong-hyeon’s thigh deliberately. “You’re the one who looks like he’s about to have a panic attack.”

“You’re being touchy again.”

Dong-ju lifted his head from Jong-hyeon’s shoulder, brows raised. “So?”

“We’re working together.”

“You said that already.”

“And you’re doing it again.”

“I live here,” Dong-ju said, like that explained everything. “And I’m not ‘doing’ anything.”

Jong-hyeon turned his head slightly, eyes meeting Dong-ju’s. “You’re in my bed. Wrapped around me like a scarf.”

Dong-ju snorted. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is .”

Dong-ju narrowed his eyes. “So I should sleep on the floor next time? Or outside like a dog?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, you’re the one acting like I just tried to sleep with you.”

“You’re half-naked,” Jong-hyeon bit out, “and pressed against m.”

“That’s because you’re warm. Sorry for being cold.”

Jong-hyeon ran a hand down his face, tension gathering across his shoulders. “You’re impossible.”

“No, I’m clingy. Apparently that’s worse.”

There was a beat of silence. Jong-hyeon said nothing.

Dong-ju rolled onto his back with a loud ugh , throwing one arm over his eyes. “You know what? Forget it. Next time I’ll just sleep like a corpse. Arms crossed. Completely still. No breathing. No touching. I’ll probably levitate just to avoid your precious side of the mattress.”

Jong-hyeon stared at him, jaw tightening.

Dong-ju peeked at him through his fingers. “I mean, God forbid someone finds you attractive. You might faint.”

“Dong-ju—”

“Don’t worry, Officer Kim,” he said, voice rising dramatically, “your honor will remain intact. I won’t even look in your direction. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m seducing you while we review witness statements.”

“You’re being childish.”

“I’m being repressed . And sexually frustrated. And cold.”

“You’re also annoying.”

“And you’re cute ,” Dong-ju snapped. “With your stupid clenched jaw and that neck vein that pops when you get annoyed. Like right now.”

Jong-hyeon blinked.

Dong-ju kept going. “You walk around like a robot with unresolved intimacy issues but then you go and let me sleep in your bed, and get me coffee without asking, and throw your arm across the passenger seat when you brake too hard. So which one is it , huh? Am I imagining things or are you just a hypocrite with a nice mouth?”

“Dong—”

“And stop staring at me like that, it’s messing with my train of thought. And your stupid cheekbones aren’t helping. You’re like some kind of... emotionally constipated model cop—”

Jong-hyeon moved before he thought.

In a single motion, Jong-hyeon rolled over and pinned him beneath him. The blankets twisted with the sudden shift, their legs tangled, chests flush. Dong-ju stared up at him, wide-eyed, frozen.

“Stop saying nonsense," Jong-hyeon said, voice low and unreadable.

Dong-ju smirked, breath catching. “You’re... unbelievably cute. And you smell good. And your arms are driving me insane.”

Jong-hyeon kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t experimental.

It was the kind of kiss that made the world tip sideways.

Jong-hyeon’s mouth found Dong-ju’s with startling certainty, like he’d been holding himself back for weeks—months—and had finally run out of excuses. Dong-ju gasped, his hands flying up to fist into Jong-hyeon’s shirt, pulling him closer instinctively, hungrily.

There was nothing cautious about it. No hesitation. Just the hot press of lips and teeth, the rough slide of breath between them, the shiver that rolled through Dong-ju when Jong-hyeon’s hand cupped his jaw, fingers trembling.

Dong-ju kissed him back like he’d been waiting for this moment in secret. Like it had been eating him alive.

Jong-hyeon’s weight pressed him down into the mattress, and he didn’t fight it. He let himself be held, kissed, claimed—every thought burning out of him with each passing second.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Jong-hyeon didn’t move right away. 

The room was silent, save for the ragged rhythm of their breathing.

Then Dong-ju whispered, voice soft but certain:
“Told you. I didn’t lie today.”

For a second, Jong-hyeon could only breathe—shallow and sharp—still half-lost in the feel of Dong-ju’s mouth, the taste of the confession. His hands were still curled at Dong-ju’s waist, uncertain whether to let go or pull him closer.

And then, with a sudden burst of movement, Dong-ju grinned and pushed at his chest.

Jong-hyeon blinked, caught off guard, as Dong-ju flipped their positions and plopped down on top of him—knees planted on either side, perched on his hips like he’d just climbed a jungle gym. His hair was a mess, cheeks pink, eyes too bright.

“You’ve made a mistake,” Dong-ju said, voice low but amused.

Jong-hyeon just stared up at him, caught between disbelief and awe. “What mistake?”

“This,” Dong-ju said, gesturing between them with both hands, like it should’ve been obvious. 

“I didn’t me—”

“Shh,” Dong-ju said dramatically, pressing a finger to Jong-hyeon’s lips. “No take-backs.”

Jong-hyeon sighed. He wasn’t even trying to argue anymore.

Dong-ju leaned down and kissed him again — quick and smug this time, a victory kiss, all teeth and laughter pressed into the corner of his mouth.

“You’re doomed now,” he whispered against Jong-hyeon’s skin. “You’ll never get away from me.”

“As if there was another option,” Jong-hyeon muttered.

Dong-ju grinned. “Exactly.”

Then he dropped his head onto Jong-hyeon’s chest with a thud, clearly satisfied with himself, and sighed like he’d just finished running a marathon. Arms draped lazily over Jong-hyeon’s sides, he looked up with a half-smile and said, voice almost sweet:

“Goodnight, boyfriend.”