Chapter Text
Lee Heeseung was a man who owned everything, a top-floor office that scraped the sky, polished marble floors that echoed his every step, and a company that moved when he blinked.
He ruled it all from behind cold glass and colder eyes.
But none of that mattered the morning Kim Sunoo left.
The envelope was white. Plain. Unassuming. Heeseung stared at it on the edge of his mahogany desk like it was diseased. It didn’t belong there, not next to the fountain pen Sunoo always refilled for him, not where his morning coffee usually sat, perfectly sweetened and slightly warm, just how he liked it.
But this morning? There was no coffee. Just that envelope.
Heeseung looked up. Sunoo stood in front of his desk, hands folded, face unreadable almost too calm.
“Read it.” Sunoo’s voice was soft, but final.
Heeseung didn’t move. “What is this?”
“My resignation.”
Two words. That was all it took for Heeseung to feel his stomach drop.
The silence stretched. Only the sound of the air conditioning hummed above them.
“You’re joking,” Heeseung said quietly.
“I’m not.”
The CEO stood from his chair slowly, the leather groaning under his weight. “You’re leaving… why ?”
Sunoo’s eyes flickered, hesitating a single crack in the mask. “Because it’s time.”
Heeseung clenched his jaw. “No. That’s not an answer.”
“Then here’s another one.” Sunoo’s voice quivered just slightly. “I want to be with Sunghoon.”
Heeseung flinched like he’d been slapped.
“You told me you were over him.”
“I thought I was.” Sunoo’s voice cracked. “But I still love him.”
The words hurt more than Heeseung expected. Which was ridiculous. He was a grown man. A CEO. He handled multi-million-dollar mergers and crushing corporate competitors before breakfast. He didn’t fall apart because someone walked out.
But this wasn’t someone.
This was Sunoo .
“You said you loved me.”
“I did,” Sunoo whispered. “But not the way I love him.”
Heeseung laughed bitterly the sound harsh, foreign in his mouth. “So that’s it? You’re just walking away?”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“Don’t lie.”
Sunoo blinked rapidly, and for a second, Heeseung thought he might cry. But no, not today. Not here. Sunoo held his composure with quiet strength, the same way he always organized meetings during crises, the same way he always calmed Heeseung after boardroom storms.
“I packed my things already,” he said gently. “I won’t make a scene.”
Heeseung stared at him searching for anything, any hesitation, a sign that maybe this was a mistake. That maybe he could be enough. That maybe Sunoo would turn around and stay.
But Sunoo was already stepping away.
He paused at the door. “You’re going to be okay, Heeseung. You deserve someone who—”
Heeseung snapped. “Don’t. Don’t say I deserve someone else. You know damn well I don’t want anyone but you .”
Sunoo’s breath hitched. Then he opened the door and left.
⸻
The world didn’t stop.
The city lights still glittered that night, cars still passed below his office window, phones still rang. But Heeseung didn’t hear any of it.
He stared at the chair across from his desk
Sunoo’s chair.
Still warm when he left.
Still holding the shape of his presence.
Heeseung didn’t move it. Didn’t touch the mug Sunoo always used. Didn’t throw away the sticky notes left on the computer screen.
He turned the lights off and sat in the dark.
And for the first time in years, Lee Heeseung didn’t know what to do next.
⸻
The days bled into each other.
Weeks passed. Then a month.
Sunoo didn’t come back.
Heeseung didn’t speak much.
And no one touched him.
He made that very clear.
“CEO Lee doesn’t want to be touched.”
“Don’t move anything on his desk.”
“Don’t mention the old secretary.”
Whispers rippled through the company like wind through dry grass.
One employee, a brave intern once tried to hand him a document directly, and their fingers brushed. Heeseung’s icy glare was enough to freeze the entire floor.
After that, people learned. No touch. No questions. No softness.
Heeseung came to work on time, sat in silence, signed papers, nodded at presentations he didn’t hear, and went home to an empty penthouse where Sunoo’s toothbrush still sat untouched.
He didn’t delete the number.
He just… never texted.
⸻
The company’s HR eventually forced his hand. “You need a new secretary, sir,” they said. “We’ve already chosen a candidate.”
Heeseung didn’t care.
He grunted and waved them off. “Fine. Do what you want.”
They did ended up finding the best one.
_________
Heeseung didn’t replace Sunoo.
Not immediately, anyway. After the resignation, the seat outside his office stayed empty. Every morning the other executives passed it with eyes full of pity, whispering about how the great Lee Heeseung had been abandoned.
He didn’t care. Let them whisper.
He only cared about results. That’s what he told himself when he started working later, speaking less, isolating more.
Until the board got involved.
A company as massive as Lee Enterprises couldn’t function with its CEO personally handling everything Sunoo used to do managing his schedule, organizing client files, fielding internal communication, preparing meetings. Heeseung had declined eight top-tier applicants.
On the ninth, they stopped asking for his permission.
Which is how Jaeyun arrived, coffee in hand and a hopeful smile on his face.
⸻
Jake entered the office on a Tuesday morning, sunshine practically radiating off his face.
Heeseung didn’t even look up from his monitor when Jaeyun knocked and entered.
He was all soft edges, wide eyes, and the kind of voice that felt like warm soup on a cold day. “Good morning, Mr. Lee!” he chirped, with a smile that shouldn’t have looked so adorable at 8 AM.
“I said no assistants.”
“I know, sir,” came a soft, lilting voice. “But HR said it was final. You’ve been burning through files at 3 a.m. and forgetting meals.”
Heeseung’s fingers paused on the keyboard.
That voice didn’t sound like a corporate drone. It was… bright. Sweet. Like sunlight trying to creep through blackout curtains.
Heeseung barely looked up. “You’re late.”
“I’m five minutes early,” Jake blinked.
“Be ten early tomorrow.”
Jake just nodded cheerfully“Got it, sir!”
“Name?”
“Sim Jaeyun. But people call me Jake, I’ll be your secretary from now on.”
The word felt sharp in Heeseung’s ears. Secretary. He glanced up.
The man standing in front of him was young, maybe mid-twenties. Honey brown hair curled softly over his forehead. His cheeks were flushed from the nerves of a first day. His features reminded him of Sunoo.
Cuz he refused to let go.
Heeseung blinked the memory away. “I don’t need one.”
“I know,” Jaeyun said again. “But you’ve got back-to-back meetings, a delayed quarterly review, and your lunch is two hours late. So I figured you might be hungry.”
Heeseung stared. Jaeyun raised a small takeout bag, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to grin but was afraid it would get him fired.
“…It’s just porridge,” Jaeyun added quickly.
Heeseung didn’t respond.
But that afternoon, after Jaeyun had gone to set up the filing cabinets, the porridge was no longer on the desk.
________
And the next day, he brought coffee anyway.
Still warm. Still sweet. Slightly different than how Sunoo made it.
Heeseung didn’t drink it.
But he didn’t throw it away either.
Jake wasn’t like Sunoo.
Jake was too bright. Too warm. Too happy.
But somehow… his presence started to fill the space.
He organized the files again. Polished the desk. Hummed while working. Left post-it notes with puppy doodles next to deadlines.
Heeseung hated how the office started to feel less like a tomb.
And more like a home again.
⸻
For weeks, Jaeyun stayed sweet. Persistent. Warm.
Heeseung was not.
“Don’t touch that,” Heeseung snapped one morning when Jaeyun tried to rearrange the post-it board that used to belong to Sunoo.
Jaeyun blinked. “It’s just—”
“I said don’t. That stays exactly where it is.”
“…Okay. Sorry.” The boy’s smile faltered just slightly.
Later that day, Jaeyun returned with color-coded sticky notes of his own, he didn’t dare touch Sunoo’s. He used a separate board entirely.
⸻
Sometimes, Heeseung wouldn’t let him inside his office unless it was urgent.
He didn’t talk unless it was work-related.
And he certainly didn’t allow touch . Not a handshake. Not even when Jaeyun once nearly tripped and instinctively reached out to steady himself. Heeseung pulled back like Jaeyun’s hand was fire.
“I don’t like being touched,” Heeseung said icily.
“…Even if someone’s falling?”
“Especially then.”
Jaeyun didn’t ask again.
But deep in his chest, behind the smile he kept up every day, something ached.
⸻
Jaeyun learned quickly that being near Lee Heeseung meant swallowing a lot of emotions.
He tried to make Heeseung laugh. Nothing.
He tried to cheer him up with fresh flowers. They were thrown out.
He tried to surprise him with themed lunches. Heeseung gave them to the interns.
And yet… Jaeyun stayed.
He stayed because something in Heeseung’s eyes was hollow. Because he recognized loneliness when he saw it. Because sometimes Heeseung would stare out the window too long, or sit frozen in his chair past midnight.
Because Jaeyun knew what it meant to be running out of time.
⸻
It started small.
A shared cab ride on a rainy night.
An awkwardly quiet coffee break where Jaeyun talked and Heeseung just… listened.
A long stretch of silence during a board meeting when Jaeyun accidentally fell asleep leaning against the chair beside Heeseung.
(Heeseung didn’t move away.)
That night, Jaeyun apologized profusely. “Sorry, I was really tired—didn’t mean to lean…..”
“You drooled on my sleeve,” Heeseung muttered.
Jaeyun turned red. “I—I’ll pay for dry cleaning?”
But when he looked up, Heeseung wasn’t angry.
In fact, for the first time… there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.
It almost looked like a smile.
⸻
Heeseung didn’t notice it at first.
Jaeyun had been smiling like always, bouncing softly through the quiet office, his hands full of coffee and files, his cheeks flushed from the effort of running up the stairs when the elevator broke down. The light in his eyes hadn’t dimmed yet but there were cracks in the glass.
Heeseung didn’t look. Not really.
He was too busy staring at the untouched mug on the left side of his desk. Sunoo used to put it there, with the little lemon cookies he’d secretly baked at home. That side of the desk was still Sunoo’s territory. Even now.
So when Jaeyun placed a new file down, the one Heeseung had asked for—he didn’t thank him. He didn’t nod. He didn’t even glance up.
“You’re not supposed to touch that side of the desk,” Heeseung said coldly.
Jaeyun’s smile faltered for just a second. “Ah. Sorry,” he said. “I’ll remember next time.”
He didn’t say that he had been organizing that side for weeks now. That Heeseung never remembered anything except how Sunoo used to do it.
He turned away quietly, but the color in his face was too deep too red. And his hands were shaking.
________
Jaeyun’s hands trembled sometimes when he typed.
He blamed it on caffeine. Told himself he was fine.
He wouldn’t tell anyone. Not yet.
Not until he found out if this pain, this slow breaking inside him was terminal or treatable. Not until he finished the most important mission he had left:
Make Lee Heeseung love again.
Not for himself. Just so that Heeseung wouldn’t be alone.
⸻
The sun was high, casting golden rays over the city skyline when Heeseung quietly asked, “Do you want to go to the amusement park this weekend?”
Jaeyun blinked, unsure if he heard correctly. “You’re asking me ?”
Heeseung’s gaze remained on his tablet. “You’ve been working hard lately. I thought… maybe you needed a break.”
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even a real “invitation.” But Jaeyun’s heart fluttered like a balloon caught in the wind.
Heeseung picked the weekend. Jaeyun picked out his best hoodie, soft pastel pink, like cotton candy and a camera slung around his shoulder. He wanted to capture every moment.
And for the first hour, it was perfect.
Heeseung stood close beside him during the ride lineups, even looked at him when he laughed too loudly on the swinging ship. Jaeyun’s eyes sparkled from too much sugar and hope. This… this almost felt like a date.
Until they bumped into Sunoo.
Heeseung froze.
Sunoo looked as stunning as always, long coat flowing, lips curling up into a soft, unreadable smile. “Heeseung? I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Sunoo…” Heeseung breathed, all warmth draining from Jaeyun’s side.
Jaeyun felt it instantly, that subtle shift in gravity. Heeseung had turned toward the past again.
“Who’s this?” Sunoo asked, nodding toward Jaeyun.
Heeseung’s hand waved vaguely. “My secretary. Jaeyun.”
Not Jaeyun , the one who had been there all these months. Not Jake , the one who waited outside Heeseung’s office with warm drinks and jokes. Just my secretary .
That was the moment Jaeyun knew.
He wasn’t part of the story today.
The rest of the park blurred into muted colors. Heeseung and Sunoo walked ahead, their heads tilted close, laughter bubbling between them soft, personal.
Jaeyun followed behind them like a forgotten puppy. He didn’t speak. Didn’t want to ruin the picture.
They ended up in a quaint little cake shop near the exit small tables, soft yellow lighting, and glass displays filled with sweetness.
A single slice of strawberry cake sat prettily on the middle shelf.
Jaeyun’s eyes softened. Strawberry cake was his favorite.
He stepped closer to the glass, silently admiring it, fingers curled over the strap of his bag. He didn’t say a word he wanted Heeseung to notice. To just know .
But before anything could be said, Sunoo’s voice rang through the shop.
“I want the last strawberry cake.”
And just like that, it was gone.
Heeseung ordered it for him without hesitation.
When the waitress asked what Jaeyun would like, Heeseung answered for him, “Just get him the chocolate tart.”
Jaeyun hated chocolate tarts.
He took it anyway.
They sat at a round table, the strawberry slice glowing like a crown jewel in front of Sunoo, while Jaeyun picked at the bitter edges of the tart he hadn’t wanted.
Heeseung never looked up.
He didn’t see the way Jaeyun’s smile faltered, or how he quietly turned away to wipe something from the corner of his eye.
That night, Jaeyun returned home and sat on the edge of his bed. The crumpled paper bag from the cake shop was still in his hands.
He opened it, the tart still untouched and whispered, “You didn’t even look at me.”
______________
It was a Friday when the heavens cracked open. The city was drenched in minutes. All public transport halted.
“Guess you’re stuck,” Heeseung said dryly when Jaeyun stood at the office entrance looking at the flooded streets.
“I’ll manage—”
“You’ll catch pneumonia.”
“I’m good at running in the rain.”
“You’re bad at lying.”
Heeseung paused, then said reluctantly: “I live ten minutes away. Come to the condo.”
Jaeyun blinked. “You… want me to come over?”
“It’s not a date.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Good.”
⸻
Heeseung’s condo was minimalist, sleek, and sterile — not a single photograph on the walls, not a single trace of softness… except for the one dusty frame on the shelf near the window.
Jaeyun paused. It was a photo of Sunoo. Smiling. Holding a coffee mug with a crooked heart drawn on it.
The same mug Jaeyun had accidentally chipped two weeks ago.
The one Heeseung hadn’t spoken to him for two days over.
“Don’t touch anything,” Heeseung said from behind him. “Especially what’s not yours.”
Jaeyun quickly stepped away. “Sorry…”
Heeseung sighed. “The guest room’s to the right. I’ll call for food.”
⸻
When the food finally arrived, They ate together. Jaeyun joked and talked while Heeseung half-listened. Sometimes, though, he asked questions. About Jaeyun’s life. His past.
“I studied abroad,” Jaeyun said. “Thought I’d end up in finance, but turns out I hate numbers.”
Heeseung’s lips curved slightly. “So why secretarial work?”
Jaeyun hesitated.
“…Because I like taking care of people.”
Heeseung went quiet. Too quiet.
_________
Heeseung’s condo was silent, lit only by the soft yellow glow from the floor lamp in the corner. Outside, the rain drummed steadily against the windows, the sound muffled and intimate.
After finishing their dinner, Heeseung was in the kitchen, pouring red wine into two crystal glasses — not because he intended to make this romantic, but because Jaeyun had commented earlier, “You always drink like a lonely prince in a K-drama.” Heeseung had grunted. Yet here he was, bringing two glasses over.
They clinked glasses. Heeseung sipped in silence.
They ended up on the couch together — not too close, not too far with a quiet jazz playlist playing from Heeseung’s speaker.
Jaeyun was warm from the wine. Not drunk. Just enough to feel braver.
“Do you remember the first time I brought you coffee?” he asked, laughing softly. “You didn’t even look at me.”
Heeseung hummed. “It was too sweet.”
“So was I,” Jaeyun teased.
For a moment, something flickered across Heeseung’s face, something almost close to fondness.
Jaeyun leaned forward, chin resting on his palm.
“I like this,” he said. “It almost feels like a date.”
Heeseung stilled. “It’s not.”
“I know.” Jaeyun smiled. “But can we pretend, just for tonight?”
Heeseung didn’t answer.
But he didn’t say no.
Jaeyun tried to lighten it.
He talked about movies.
He talked about food.
He laughed when Heeseung told him he didn’t own a microwave.
“You’re like a rich caveman.”
“I prefer stovetops.”
“Sure, Grandpa.”
Heeseung glared. Jaeyun beamed.
Jaeyun shifted closer, just a little — his knee brushing against Heeseung’s thigh. Not enough to count as a real touch. He’d learned by now not to cross that line. Still, he ached for it.
“Heeseung,” Jaeyun breathed, turning slightly to face him. “Can I ask for something?”
Heeseung didn’t look up.
“Just this once… could you hold me?” Jaeyun’s voice cracked. “Only tonight.”
The silence that followed felt like a verdict.
Heeseung’s grip on his wine glass tightened, jaw tensing. “I told you before. I don’t touch people. Not anymore.”
“Even if I’m scared?” Jaeyun asked, eyes glistening. “Even if I’m hurting?”
“That’s not my problem,” Heeseung said. Cold. Sharp.
Jaeyun nodded slowly, blinking away the tears before they could fall. He pulled the blanket higher, curling into himself.
Heeseung glanced at him — a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes — but said nothing more.
That was when the doorbell rang.
⸻
Sunoo.
Drenched. Mascara running.
“Heeseung… can I come in?”
Heeseung didn’t even hesitate. He pulled Sunoo into the warmth of the apartment.
Sunoo was crying. Saying he and Sunghoon fought. That he didn’t know who to run to. That Heeseung was always safe.
And Heeseung — stone-cold, untouchable Heeseung — led him to the bedroom. Gave him a towel. Let him stay.
Jaeyun watched from the hallway. His heart cracked open.
⸻
Later, after midnight, the storm began.
The thunder cracked like something breaking open. The wind howled through the high-rise windows, and the lights flickered once, then settled into a dim glow.
Jaeyun lay awake in the guest bed, trembling.
His heart was beating too fast.
But not because of the storm.
Because of the pain — the sudden wave of it — blooming in his chest and curling into his lungs like fire. He bit into the blanket to muffle the whimper, eyes wide with panic.
Not now.
Not here.
He stood up, barefoot and shaky, stumbling out of the room.
He needed warmth. He needed someone.
He needed Heeseung.
The hallway was dark except for the sliver of light beneath Heeseung’s door. Jaeyun padded closer, one hand against the wall to steady himself.
He froze.
Through the door gap, he saw it.
Heeseung’s bed. And in it — Sunoo.
Wrapped in Heeseung’s arms.
Curled together like they never broke.
Jaeyun’s breath hitched.
His body trembled — from pain, from fear, from the realization that he had never stood a chance.
Not really.
He turned away before the tears fell.
He went back to his room.
And cried silently into the pillow, his body aching in places that had nothing to do with his illness.
The next morning, Heeseung acted like nothing happened.
Jaeyun didn’t ask.
He couldn’t.
But now he wasn’t sure if there would ever be space for him in that broken heart.
________________
In the morning Jake silently left heeseung place without a word.
Back in his apartment, he threw his soaked coat over the couch and stood in the kitchen until the kettle screamed. But he didn’t make tea.
He was tired of pretending things were fine.
Because the test results came back last night.
And they weren’t fine.
Stage 3. Terminal.
Chronic degenerative heart condition. A slow, irreversible breakdown of the heart muscle from a genetic flaw he hadn’t even known he carried. There were options—medications, risky surgeries, even the faint hope of a transplant. But his body was already too far gone. Even the doctor had said it with the gentleness of finality.
“Maybe a year,” they said. “If you’re lucky.”
Jaeyun turned off the kettle. Sat on the floor.
And cried. Again.
⸻
He went back to work on Monday like nothing happened.
Heeseung was already in the office when he arrived. Jaw tight. Staring at reports like they personally offended him.
There was no mention of the weekend. No explanation. No question. Nothing.
Jaeyun didn’t expect one.
“Coffee?” he asked, voice bright.
Heeseung just nodded.
So Jaeyun brewed it. Black, no sugar. He placed it on the desk gently.
Their fingers almost brushed.
Heeseung didn’t flinch.
Jaeyun didn’t breathe.
But then — as always — Heeseung pulled away.
Jaeyun gave a tiny smile and stepped back.
⸻
That afternoon, Jaeyun collapsed in the elevator.
No one saw — he was alone.
It started with dizziness. Then pressure behind his eyes. By the time the doors slid shut, his legs gave out. He slid to the ground, clutching his side, gasping.
He was sweating when he finally stumbled out at the rooftop garden. He needed air. He needed—
“Shit—!” he hissed as he threw up behind a potted plant.
He wiped his mouth with trembling hands, breathing hard.
When the nausea passed, he sat on the bench with his head between his knees. The wind stung, but it felt real. It kept him grounded.
A soft chime buzzed from his phone.
Heeseung [2:13 PM]
Where did you go?
He hesitated.
Then typed: “Needed some air. Be back soon.”
He didn’t say: I just threw up blood.
He didn’t say: I’m dying and you don’t even know.
He didn’t say: Please hold me. Just once.
⸻
“You’re not eating,” Heeseung said, looking over his bento.
Jaeyun blinked. “Huh?”
“You skipped lunch. Again.”
Jaeyun smiled. “You noticed.”
Heeseung narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“I’m just not that hungry.”
“You’re losing weight.”
Jaeyun tilted his head. “You really noticed.”
“I’m not blind.”
Heeseung said it sharply. But his voice softened, just a bit, when he added, “There’s a new place near here. Udon. Want to go?”
Jaeyun froze.
“Is this finally… a date?” he teased, half-joking, half-hoping.
“It’s noodles,” Heeseung said flatly. “Not a proposal.”
Jaeyun laughed. “Okay. Noodles, then.”
He didn’t care what it was.
As long as he could sit across from Heeseung a little longer.
⸻
They went together that evening.
The udon place was small, tucked between buildings, glowing yellow with warm lights and steamed windows. It reminded Jaeyun of something domestic — something real. Heeseung ordered for both of them.
They sat by the window. Rain tapped gently against the glass.
“Is this what normal people do?” Jaeyun asked, watching the noodles swirl in his bowl.
Heeseung didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave, either.
They talked. Mostly Jaeyun, of course. He filled the silence with stories — his childhood, school, silly jobs he worked in college.
Heeseung just listened.
At one point, Jaeyun laughed too hard and had to cover his mouth. His eyes crinkled, nose scrunched.
And for just a second, Heeseung slipped a small smiled .
Jaeyun stared.
Heeseung looked away.
⸻
After the dinner, they walked back to the office because Heeseung left his briefcase.
It was cold. The streetlamps flickered gold across wet pavement.
Jaeyun’s hands were tucked in his coat.
His fingers itched. Just one graze. One brush of Heeseung’s hand.
But Heeseung kept his arms crossed.
When they reached the building entrance, Jaeyun paused.
“Thanks for tonight,” he said, voice quieter. “It was nice. Even if it wasn’t technically a date.”
Heeseung met his eyes. “You’re persistent.”
Jaeyun grinned. “You’re avoidant.”
Silence stretched between them.
For a moment… it felt like something might happen.
A step closer.
A breath shared.
Heeseung’s gaze flickered to Jaeyun’s mouth.
Jaeyun leaned forward—just slightly.
And—
Heeseung stepped back.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jaeyun’s heart fell.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “See you tomorrow.”
⸻
That night, Jaeyun’s chest hurt again.
He curled into a ball on his bed, phone in hand, debating if he should text a goodbye to someone. Anyone.
He wanted to tell Heeseung so badly. Wanted to scream: I’m not okay.
But instead, he sent a different message.
Jaeyun [12:41 AM]
You smiled tonight. It looked good on you Mr.Lee.
No reply.
Not that night. Not the next morning.
⸻
Heeseung didn’t sleep.
He stared at the text for hours, the words glowing on his screen like a wound.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled. Maybe back when Sunoo still loved him. Before Sunghoon. Before the betrayal.
He thought he had no more warmth left in him.
But then there was Jaeyun.
Too kind.
Too fragile.
Too willing to stay beside someone who never touched him.
Heeseung gripped his phone tighter. He could feel something stirring in him — not quite love, not yet, but something sharp and terrifying and alive .
He pushed it down.
He always pushed it down.
_______________________
Back at the Office
The next week, Heeseung noticed something.
Jaeyun was quieter.
His usual sunny energy was dimmed — not gone, but faint, like a candle burning low.
Still, he smiled. Still, he worked twice as hard. Still, he brought Heeseung his coffee at exactly 9:00 AM.
And then he asked, gently:
“Mr. Lee, would it be okay if… I moved the documents from the Sunoo side today? It’s just for filing. I’ll put everything back.”
Heeseung stared at him.
His lips parted. But no words came out.
For a moment, he saw the memory of Sunoo again. His laugh. His perfume. The way he’d leave sticky notes on his desk, always signed with a heart.
Then Jaeyun.
Smiling. Waiting. Always waiting.
“No,” Heeseung said, and his voice was sharp. “Don’t touch anything on that side.”
Jaeyun didn’t flinch.
But he nodded. “Okay. Of course.”
Then he turned away. Quietly. As always.
⸻
That Weekend
They ended up at a restaurant together — by accident.
A client meeting turned into a late dinner. The lights were low. The wine was soft. Heeseung had ordered food Jaeyun loved — without realizing.
Jaeyun laughed over a glass of ginger ale, teasing Heeseung about a typo in the last report.
“Mr Lee, do you know you accidentally wrote ‘mating strategy’ instead of ‘marketing strategy,’ right?”
Heeseung blinked. Then… a smile. Barely there.
“That would explain the client’s face.”
They both laughed.
And for a second, Heeseung didn’t feel so heavy.
But when Jaeyun reached across the table to take the pen from his fingers — just to doodle something on a napkin — Heeseung pulled back.
Jaeyun paused.
He didn’t say anything.
But Heeseung saw it. The flicker of hurt.
⸻
Heeseung sat in his apartment, staring at the untouched couch.
The silence was loud.
He opened his phone.
There were 67 texts from Sunoo.
All unread.
He didn’t know why he couldn’t delete them.
But he also didn’t know why Jaeyun’s laugh from dinner echoed louder in his mind than any of Sunoo’s words.
⸻
It was late. Everyone had gone home.
Jaeyun lingered by the window in Heeseung’s office, watching the city lights flicker like stars.
He looked tired.
Too tired.
Heeseung stood across the room, unsure why he hadn’t left yet.
Maybe it was the silence between them. Or the warmth in Jaeyun’s soft eyes.
“Mr. Lee…” Jaeyun said, voice low. “Can I ask you something?”
Heeseung turned to him.
“If someone was… running out of time,” Jaeyun continued, “but didn’t want to burden the person they cared about… what should they do?”
Heeseung’s brows furrowed. “Are you talking about yourself?”
Jaeyun smiled, brokenly. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
He took a step closer.
“I just think… sometimes we wait too long to tell someone what we need. Or to give them what they’ve been asking for all along.”
Heeseung froze.
Jaeyun’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Sometimes all someone wants is… to be held. Even just once.”
He took a shaky breath. “But I know that’s not something you can give.”
Heeseung’s heart stuttered.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t reach for him.
Didn’t touch.
And Jaeyun just smiled — like that didn’t break him.
“Good night, Mr. Lee.”
Then he walked away.
_____________________
The sky turned lavender by the time Jaeyun closed Heeseung’s office door behind him.
The day had felt longer than most. His chest ached, dull and lingering, like a warning knocking softly against his ribs. But still, Jaeyun smiled through it all, offering warm coffee with too much sugar, rearranging Heeseung’s files with his usual humming, and standing quietly near Heeseung’s desk even when he wasn’t needed — just to feel close.
Heeseung didn’t ask him how he was. He never did.
And Jaeyun never expected him to.
Jaeyun sat on the couch in the corner of the CEO’s office, a document in his lap. He watched as Heeseung worked with his usual sharp silence, his pen gliding effortlessly, the lines between his brows etched deeper than usual.
Jaeyun broke the quiet.
“Mr. Lee,” he said softly, “do you think… people are allowed to ask for comfort when they’re not sure they deserve it?”
Heeseung didn’t look up. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just wondering.” Jaeyun’s voice cracked a little. “If someone… wants to be held, even when they’re being strong.”
A beat.
Then Heeseung finally looked at him — cold, unreadable.
“Not this again Jaeyun, You shouldn’t rely on other people for that. Especially not me.”
Jaeyun’s throat tightened, but he nodded.
Heeseung returned to his paperwork.
Jaeyun curled his fingers into the sleeves of his sweater and whispered, more to himself than anything else, “But I still want to be held by you.”
Heeseung didn’t hear. Or maybe he pretended not to.
⸻
The next day Heeseung walked in five minutes later.
Jaeyun smiled up at him.
Heeseung paused.
“Why do you always look at me like that?” he asked quietly.
Jaeyun tilted his head. “Like what?”
“Like I’m someone worth waiting for.”
Jaeyun chuckled.
“Because you are Mr.Lee.”
Heeseung didn’t respond.
But he stayed in the room longer than usual that evening.
And Jaeyun pretended that was enough.
Even if his chest still hurt.
Even if he had a clock ticking behind his ribs that no one else could hear.
_______
The office had never felt colder.
Even with the late summer heat pressing against the glass walls, the air around Heeseung’s office felt suffocating. But not for him. No, Heeseung was fine — detached, unreadable, completely in control.
It was Jaeyun who was trembling again.
He sat on the edge of the couch near Heeseung’s desk, his hands folded in his lap, hiding the way they shook. His cheeks were pale, his lips chapped. He hadn’t eaten since, not really. Just nibbles here and there. Coffee replaced sleep. Painkillers replaced meals.
And the ache in his chest?
It was growing.
“Where’s the itinerary for the Shanghai conference?” Heeseung’s voice snapped him back to attention.
Jaeyun blinked, forcing his smile. “Right here, sir.”
He stood too quickly, handing the folder with both hands. His vision swam. He nearly stumbled but caught himself just in time, pretending it was nothing.
Heeseung didn’t look up from the documents. “You need to be more organized. This layout is sloppy. Sunoo would’ve formatted it by priority, not by time.”
It wasn’t even harsh — just matter-of-fact. But it still made something inside Jaeyun shatter.
“Understood,” he said quietly.
No defense. No explanation. Just his usual soft tone.
Heeseung looked up then, pausing for a brief moment as if something flickered in his chest — but if it did, he buried it as fast as it came.
“You’re dismissed.”
Jaeyun nodded. “Yes, Mr.Lee.”
⸻
Later that Night
It rained again.
Not a soft drizzle — a downpour, angry and relentless, washing over the city like a warning. Jaeyun stood under the overhang of the building’s parking lot, hugging his thin cardigan tighter around his small frame. He hadn’t brought an umbrella. He never remembered anymore.
His legs ached. His body ached.
He stared out at the window, debating if he should just walk home and let the rain soak him. He was too tired to care.
The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts.
“Jaeyun.”
He turned. Heeseung stood there, dressed in all black, briefcase in hand, his gaze unreadable as ever.
“Come with me,” Heeseung said simply.
⸻
They ended up in Heeseung’s condo again.
It wasn’t planned. At least, not for Jaeyun. But Heeseung had offered, said it was too dangerous to walk home, and Jaeyun… he was too weak to argue. His head pounded. His legs felt like air.
“I’m making tea,” Heeseung muttered.
Heeseung paused in the kitchen, eyeing him. “…You’re sick, aren’t you?”
Jaeyun looked up, startled. “No—no, it’s nothing serious. Just fatigue. It’s been busy lately.”
“Stop lying.”
That hit harder than anything else. But he didn’t defend himself. Not with words. He just smiled, soft and broken, and lowered his head again.
They sat at the kitchen island sipping tea in silence.
Jaeyun’s fingers brushed Heeseung’s mug by accident. Heeseung pulled it away sharply.
“Sorry,” Jaeyun mumbled.
Heeseung didn’t say anything.
Jaeyun looked down at his own cup, then whispered:
“Mr.Lee, Why don’t you ever touch me?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Heeseung exhaled. “You know why.”
“I know your rule,” Jaeyun said softly, “but… even when I’m hurting. Even when I need it. Even when I asked you.”
“You’re not him.”
The words cut deeper than they should’ve. Jaeyun nodded slowly.
“I know.”
Somehow, they ended up eating together.
It wasn’t romantic — not really — but Jaeyun made it feel that way. He lit a small candle from the kitchen, laughing gently at himself.
“Just to feel like I’m not alone,” he said, sliding the plate across the counter.
Heeseung didn’t stop him. Maybe because he was tired. Maybe because, deep down, a part of him didn’t mind the illusion.
They ate quietly, and for once, Jaeyun laughed — really laughed. He told stories about his dog back in Brisbane. He smiled so much it hurt.
Heeseung listened.
That was rare.
And for a moment, it felt like a real date.
__________________
A normal afternoon at work, It wasn’t until Jaeyun collapsed in front of the elevator that anyone noticed.
The thud echoed in the marble lobby, and someone screamed. Heeseung had been in a meeting with the board, half-listening, nodding vaguely at charts that didn’t interest him anymore. He hadn’t smiled in months.
Then his phone lit up.
“Sir, Your secretary fainted. We’ve called emergency services.”
He stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor. He didn’t speak. Just left.
By the time he got downstairs, Jaeyun was on the ground, barely conscious, his skin clammy and pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. He was breathing shallowly. A receptionist was holding his wrist, trying to find a pulse. A paper cup had rolled out of Jaeyun’s hand — spilled coffee soaking into the white marble.
“Jaeyun—” Heeseung breathed. His heart dropped.
But his hands… didn’t move.
He stood over the boy on the ground, trembling slightly, but not reaching out. Not lifting him. Not touching.
Because the last person he’d held in his arms had left him.
“Mr. Lee?” a staff member asked. “Should we… carry him upstairs?”
“No,” Heeseung said, too quickly. “Bring him to the hospital now.”
The staff picked Jake up and ran behind Heeseung to his car.
⸻
In the Hospital
Later, alone in the backseat of his car, Heeseung stared at the closed hospital doors.
The rain tapped softly on the windows. His phone buzzed with an update.
“He’s stable. High fever. Signs of exhaustion. He hadn’t eaten properly in days.”
Heeseung read the message three times.
Why hadn’t Jaeyun said anything?
Why hadn’t he noticed?
The question clawed at him.
He closed his eyes — and a memory hit like a freight train.
⸻
Flashback: Two Years Ago
Sunoo had fallen asleep on the office couch. His head resting on Heeseung’s thigh. A soft smile on his lips. The company had just gone public, and they had worked three nights in a row.
Heeseung had run his fingers gently through Sunoo’s hair.
“You should eat more,” he’d murmured. “I don’t want you collapsing on me.”
Sunoo had only hummed, curling into him like a cat.
Heeseung had kissed his forehead. Without hesitation.
Back in the car, Heeseung opened his eyes. His hands trembled.
He hadn’t touched Jaeyun once.
He didn’t even know what it would feel like.
⸻
Later That Night
Jaeyun woke up in the hospital bed to find flowers at his side.
He blinked slowly. His body ached all over, and his chest was tight with something that wasn’t entirely physical.
There was a note.
“Next time, don’t forget to eat.
— H.”
He smiled. It hurt.
But he smiled anyway.
Because even if Heeseung never touched him…
Even if he would never be Sunoo…
He still wanted to be by his side.
Just a little longer.
⸻
The hospital let him go after two nights.
Jaeyun had downplayed everything with a smile, like he always did, joking with the nurses and saying he just had low blood sugar or maybe too much coffee. The truth was harder to say — harder to face.
“Nothing serious,” he told Heeseung as he returned to the office, files in hand and cheeks faintly flushed. “I just fainted from stress, that’s all.”
Heeseung barely looked up. “Next time, don’t just randomly collapse like that.”
“Noted,” Jaeyun replied cheerfully, though his knees trembled beneath his slacks.
He still remembered the way Heeseung had stared down at him that day — close enough to help, to hold him, to do something — but chose distance instead. He hadn’t even brushed a hand across Jaeyun’s forehead. Just called someone else. Like always.
Jaeyun didn’t expect more. Not really. But he kept hoping anyway.
⸻
The week dragged on. Jaeyun worked late every night, and so did Heeseung. The office lights burned until almost midnight some days, and it was always just the two of them in that glass tower.
One Friday evening, Jaeyun brought Heeseung tea without asking, his sleeves rolled up, wrist bruised faintly from the IVs.
“You don’t have to stay late,” Heeseung said gruffly, not looking up.
Jaeyun placed the cup down quietly, ignoring the ache in his joints.
“I don’t mind.”
There was a silence. A long one.
“You keep doing that,” Heeseung muttered. “Smiling like that.”
Jaeyun blinked. “Like what?”
“Like it doesn’t hurt.”
The words hit deeper than they should have. Jaeyun’s heart skipped.
“Maybe I’m just used to pretending,” he said softly.
⸻
That night, they didn’t leave until well past 11 p.m. Everything has become quiet and dark outside.
“Cabs are a nightmare right now,” Jaeyun muttered, trying to book a ride on his phone. “Great! And I can’t seem to book a rides in this hour.”
“Come on,” Heeseung said.
Jaeyun looked up.
Heeseung was already grabbing his coat. “You’ll staying at my place again.”
“I—really?”
“It’s already late at night. Even if you want to walk home I won’t allow that, In a time like this it’s dangerous to be alone.”
The words were blunt, but Jaeyun couldn’t help the warmth that flared in his chest.
Heeseung’s condo was quiet as ever. Sleek. Cold.
But Jaeyun was used to it now. He padded barefoot to the kitchen and helped himself to water, humming softly. Heeseung watched him from the living room couch, his tie loose, a file in hand.
“Why do you act like this is your home?” Heeseung asked, not unkindly.
Jaeyun smiled. “Maybe because I wish it was.”
Suddenly the rain began pouring again.
The silence that followed was heavier than the rain outside.
⸻
They sat in the dim-lit living room for a while. Heeseung worked. Jaeyun curled on the opposite end of the couch, watching the storm outside. A crack of thunder startled him, and his fingers tightened around the throw pillow.
“You hate storms?” Heeseung asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” Jaeyun said, too quickly. “I used to sleep in my mom’s bed when I was little. It just… stuck with me.”
Heeseung didn’t reply, but he didn’t look away either.
“Can I ask you something Mr.Lee?” Jaeyun whispered, voice trembling slightly.
Heeseung blinked.
Jaeyun bit his lip. “When will you ever gonna let me feel your touch?”
The question hung in the air like fog.
“You let Sunoo hold your hand. Hug you. Sleep in your bed,” Jaeyun continued, his eyes glossy. “I—I don’t want much. Just… once. Just once, could you—?”
“No,” Heeseung said firmly. “Don’t ask me again.”
Jaeyun looked down, throat burning. “Right. Sorry.”
⸻
That night, Jaeyun curled up alone on the guest bed just like always, clutching the edge of the blanket like a lifeline. His chest ached, more from emotion than anything else — but the physical pain was creeping in again, like a shadow stretching longer each day.
Down the hall, Heeseung stood outside Jaeyun’s door for a long moment.
He didn’t knock.
_______
But from that day on, something in Jaeyun’s body began to fail faster.
He didn’t collapse at the office anymore — he knew better now.
But he moved slower. Sometimes his fingers dropped things. Sometimes the light hurt his eyes. Sometimes he had to brace himself against the counter when no one was looking.
He kept it hidden. Always hidden. Always with a smile.
But Heeseung began noticing things he didn’t want to.
Like how Jaeyun’s hand trembled when he poured coffee.
Or how he didn’t eat when they worked late.
Or how he once fell asleep upright in his chair, pale, lips slightly parted — the outline of a pill bottle visible in his bag.
“Are you feeling sick?” Heeseung asked one night, his tone flat but the tension obvious.
Jaeyun just smiled. “You’re finally asking.”
Heeseung looked away.
“You never touch me, Heeseung,” Jaeyun continued softly. “Not once. Even when I was shivering that night in the hall, or when I passed out by the copier. You never even reached for me.”
“That’s not your place to talk,” Heeseung snapped.
Jaeyun flinched, but he still smiled — smaller this time.
“I know Mr.Lee. I know that you’re still waiting for him.”
A beat of silence.
Then, with that same soft voice: “But I’m still here.”
The next day, Jaeyun took a half-day. First time since he started. Claimed he had to “visit family,” but he didn’t have any in the city.
He spent it at the hospital.
His doctor’s face was grim. “It’s spreading. Fast.”
“How long?” Jaeyun asked.
“Maybe… a couple months. Less if you keep skipping treatments.”
Jaeyun didn’t cry.
He just chuckled quietly. “Guess I better not waste it, huh?”
⸻
That night, Heeseung found something odd.
He returned to the office late — some habit he couldn’t break — and found Jaeyun’s desk drawer slightly open.
He knew he shouldn’t.
He really did.
But he pulled it open anyway.
Inside was a small, neatly folded piece of paper.
Just his name. Heeseung .
Nothing else.
He didn’t open it.
He tucked it back into the drawer, closed it softly, and walked away.
But that night, he couldn’t sleep.
⸻
The following week, Jaeyun invited him to dinner.
Not a date, he said.
Just dinner. Just the two of them.
“Mr.Lee, I found a place near the river,” he said brightly. “They’ve got candlelight and everything. You’ll like it.”
Heeseung didn’t answer at first. Then, gruffly: “Why?”
Jaeyun blinked. “Why what?”
“Why are you doing this?”
A long silence.
Then Jaeyun smiled, more sadly than usual.
“Because it might be the last time I get to pretend.”
⸻
The dinner wasn’t fancy.
But Jaeyun dressed up anyway — light blue shirt, hair styled, lips pink with the faintest gloss. He looked soft, like the version of himself he never got to be around Heeseung.
Heeseung didn’t wear a tie.
Didn’t reach for Jaeyun’s hand when he extended it playfully across the table.
Didn’t smile when Jaeyun cracked a joke and pretended to wipe “imaginary lipstick” off his cheek.
But he was there.
That was enough.
For Jaeyun, it always had been.
⸻
On the drive home, Jaeyun finally asked.
“I know you won’t love me the way you loved him. I don’t need that anymore.”
Heeseung glanced at him, frowning.
“I just…” Jaeyun’s voice cracked. “Can I have your touch? Just once? A hug. A hand on my head. Anything.”
Silence filled the car.
Heeseung’s hands tightened on the wheel. “I told you before. That’s not something I give.”
Jaeyun turned away. “Even now?”
“…Even now.”
He didn’t see Jaeyun’s eyes blur with tears.
Didn’t see the way his hands trembled silently in his lap.
Didn’t see the way Jaeyun clutched at his chest when he stepped out of the car later that night, as if trying to hold himself together just a little longer.
⸻
Jaeyun coughed into the crook of his elbow again, quiet and controlled. The office was empty except for him and the distant hum of fluorescent lights above. He was getting good at hiding things — like the dull ache spreading across his ribs, or how his vision blurred every time he stood too fast. He pressed his palm over his chest and took a long breath, steadying himself.
His body was slowly betraying him, but he kept smiling.
He always did.
Heeseung was out on a late dinner meeting. That gave Jaeyun time — time to finish up some of the backlog that had piled up since the last week, and to sneak away the hospital bills from the drawer in his bag before anyone noticed.
When he turned to leave, the world tilted.
He grabbed the side of the desk, knuckles white.
The air around him was getting colder.
He hated hospitals. Hated the sterile lighting, the heavy air that never really left your lungs. But he hated the idea of worrying Heeseung more.
…As if Heeseung would worry.
⸻
Heeseung returned past midnight. The lights were still on. He frowned as he stepped inside and saw Jaeyun curled up on the couch in the corner of the office, arms wrapped around his knees, fast asleep.
There was a file open in his lap.
His head was resting against the window, the storm outside lighting up his features in pale flashes.
Heeseung stood there for a long moment.
There was something too fragile about the scene, like a painting on the verge of smudging away.
Jaeyun stirred. “Oh— Mr.Lee… you’re back.”
“Why are you still here?” His tone was cold, sharper than it should’ve been.
“I wanted to finish the quarterly breakdown. I—I thought I’d save you time,” Jaeyun said, sitting up too fast and wincing.
Heeseung’s eyes narrowed. “You could’ve emailed it tomorrow.”
Jaeyun chuckled softly. “I just wanted to be useful.”
There was a pause.
Heeseung looked at him, really looked — Jaeyun’s skin looked paler than usual, his eyes sunken slightly, and his breathing… too shallow.
But instead of saying anything, he turned away.
“Don’t stay here again.”
Jaeyun nodded. “Of course.”
⸻
Later that week, Jaeyun collapsed in the copy room.
This time, it wasn’t quiet.
Heeseung had heard the crash. He was the first one to reach him. Jaeyun was on the floor, eyes barely open, his chest rising with difficulty.
“Jaeyun,” Heeseung called, kneeling beside him — close, but still not touching. “Hey. Stay with me.”
Jaeyun coughed, one hand reaching toward him weakly. “Mr.Lee… I—can you—”
Heeseung flinched when Jaeyun’s fingers brushed his suit sleeve. He didn’t move closer.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” he muttered, standing.
“No—” Jaeyun rasped, barely holding consciousness. “Don’t… don’t leave me alone.”
But Heeseung had already turned.
⸻
The hospital.
They told Heeseung it was a chronic degenerative heart condition. One that had been progressing for a while. That Jaeyun had probably known, and had chosen not to say anything.
That with the current rate, he didn’t have much time.
“Why… didn’t you tell me?” Heeseung asked him when he woke up.
Jaeyun smiled faintly. “You would’ve asked me to leave.”
Heeseung didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
Because deep down… maybe he would’ve.
⸻
Days passed.
Heeseung tried to focus on work. But his mind kept drifting. To Jaeyun’s worn smiles, to how quiet the office felt without his bright energy, to the strange heaviness that settled in his chest every time he looked at the now-empty chair by his desk.
One night, he found himself wandering the storage room — the one Jaeyun always used to organize with such care. Heeseung stared at the labeled files, all marked in perfect handwriting. Each one had a tiny sticker beside it — stars, smiley faces, hearts.
Childish. Innocent.
So Jaeyun.
His fingers brushed over one label.
He froze.
Inside was a sealed envelope. His name written on it.
He didn’t open it. He was scared to open it.
Not yet.
⸻
Back at the hospital.
Jaeyun sat by the window, IV attached, watching the rain fall again.
Heeseung visited, but he still never touched him.
They talked sometimes. About nothing. About the company, about the clouds, about the coffee shop Jaeyun wanted to try “once I get out of here.”
One evening, Jaeyun asked softly, “Do you think someone like me could’ve made you happy?”
Heeseung didn’t answer.
Jaeyun chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I love you Mr.lee, I really do. I used to imagine you’d come home tired and I’d be waiting with food. That you’d kiss me on the forehead and I’d melt. But I guess… that was never mine to have.”
Heeseung looked away. His fists clenched. His chest tightened as he fought to keep his emotions from spilling over.
“I was always chasing ghosts, huh?” Jaeyun said, more to himself.
Outside, thunder cracked across the sky.
⸻
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and quiet grief.
The halls echoed with the hollow sounds of Heeseung’s footsteps. They were too slow, too soft—as if even the floor didn’t dare interrupt the heavy silence that surrounded him. Every breath he took burned, and yet he kept walking toward the door he never wanted to reach.
He didn’t knock. He pushed it open.
Jaeyun lay on the hospital bed, pale against the white sheets, his eyes closed but his face peaceful. Tubes lined his arms and a slow, beeping monitor echoed in rhythm with the painful truth. Heeseung’s chest constricted.
He still hadn’t touched him. Not once.
Even now, as the machines stood like sentinels around Jaeyun’s fragile body, Heeseung stood frozen at the door. His fists clenched. His heart screamed. But his feet remained stuck.
“Why didn’t you tell me…” he whispered, barely audible.
Dr. Min had told him everything.
Chronic degenerative heart disease.
Jaeyun had been fighting it alone for years. The fatigue. The dizzy spells. The way he often leaned on walls when he thought no one was looking. The sudden nosebleeds. The pain he brushed off with a puppy smile. It had all been there— right in front of him.
Heeseung had just been too blind.
Too obsessed with the past. With Sunoo. With not touching. Not loving. Not opening his heart.
“Mr. Lee,” the nurse said gently behind him, “he’s been waiting for you. He asked for you before he lost consciousness.”
Heeseung nodded numbly. The nurse stepped out.
He walked to the chair beside Jaeyun’s bed and sat down like a ghost. For a long time, he didn’t say anything.
The monitor beeped.
Jaeyun’s breathing was shallow, fragile— as if the world could take him with one gust of wind.
And still, Heeseung didn’t touch him.
“I was supposed to be the one hurting,” Heeseung said hoarsely. “Not you.”
His voice broke at the end.
“You were the one who kept smiling. Who made me coffee. Who showed up when I was too cold to notice the snow on the window. You were supposed to be annoying and loud and clingy forever.”
He chuckled, but it cracked in the middle. “Not—like this.”
He stared at Jaeyun’s hand. Small. Trembling. The skin slightly bruised from all the needles.
He reached out—but stopped.
His fingers hovered.
“Would it be selfish to touch you now?” he whispered. “Even though I refused all this time?”
The memory of Jaeyun’s voice echoed in is mind:
“Just a hug. That’s all I want. Just. One.“
“You don’t have to say anything… just hold me, please.”
“It’s okay. I’ll wait until you’re ready.”But he never was.
Heeseung had stood behind his wall, building it higher with every moment Jaeyun asked for comfort. For warmth. For something as simple as being held.
Now Jaeyun didn’t have time left to wait.
The monitor stuttered.
Heeseung’s head jerked up. “No, no—no—Jaeyun!”
He rose, grabbing Jaeyun’s hand with both of his own. It was the first time he’d ever touched him.
“Please…..don’t do this. Please.”
The machine’s beep faltered again. A nurse rushed in, followed by a doctor, but Heeseung didn’t hear them.
He pressed Jaeyun’s hand to his face.
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry I made you wait—please wake up—please, I’ll hold you every damn second of every day, I’ll never let go—Jaeyun, please—”
The heart monitor flatlined.
“No.” Heeseung’s voice was a broken sob. “No..no…you can’t—Jaeyun, please….I’m sorry—I’m sorry I didn’t touch you when you needed me—I’m sorry I was too afraid—I’m sorry—”
He pulled Jaeyun’s limp body into his arms, holding him close, for the first and final time.
Heeseung kissed his cold forehead.
Then his cheek.
Then finally, his lips—soft, lifeless, still.
“I love you,” he whispered against his skin. “You were the only one. And I was too much of a coward to see it.”
Tears streamed down his face, landing on Jaeyun’s closed eyelids.
“I’ll never forgive myself.”
He refused to let go.
He held Jaeyun through the nurses’ soft pleas, through the doctor’s gentle attempts, through the silence that grew heavier with each passing second.
In the end, they left him be.
Alone with the boy who’d loved him more than anyone else had ever dared.
⸻
A Week Later
Heeseung sat alone in his condo. The sun had long since set, but he hadn’t turned on the lights.
On the table before him lay a white envelope.
His name written in Jaeyun’s familiar handwriting.
He’d found it tucked in the pocket of Jaeyun’s coat.
With trembling hands, he opened it.
⸻
Dear Mr.Lee,
If you’re reading this, then I guess I’ve already gone.
I didn’t want you to find out this way.
I never told you about my condition because I didn’t want your pity. I just wanted to stand by you. I wanted to brighten your cold mornings, make you annoyed with my jokes, sneak you little gifts, and maybe one day if I was lucky, have you smile at me the way you used to smile at him.
I knew I was sick. I’ve known for a long time.
And yet I still fell in love with you.
It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t owe me anything. I knew about Sunoo. I saw the way you looked at him. But I stayed because I was happy just being near you. I stayed because loving you was the only thing that made me feel alive, even when my body was dying.
You never touched me, and that’s okay.
But if there’s a next life, I hope I get to be the one you touch first.
I hope next time, I’ll be healthy. And brave enough to tell you everything sooner.
Please don’t blame yourself.
You gave me the happiest days of my life, even if you didn’t realize it.
You were my favorite part of living.
Love,
Jaeyun
⸻
The paper trembled in Heeseung’s hands.
He pressed it to his chest, curling over it as another sob ripped through him.
The pain was endless.
And yet, in that pain, there was also love.
The kind he would carry for the rest of his life.
Even if he had touched Jaeyun too late.
EPILOGUE
It had been six months .
The world continued to spin. The stock market didn’t crash. The sun still rose over the skyline of Seoul, and birds still landed on Heeseung’s window every morning like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Heeseung still went to work. He still wore the same expensive suits and walked the same corporate halls with the same expressionless face.
But there was no one to greet him at the elevator anymore.
No clumsy knock on his glass door.
No strawberry smoothies with sticky notes that said “Mr.Lee needs sugar, don’t deny it .”
No Jaeyun.
Only silence.
And memories.
⸻
On Sundays, Heeseung visited Jaeyun’s grave.
It wasn’t fancy. Just a small, sunlit spot at the top of a quiet hill.
He brought yellow carnations.
He always sat beside the stone, one hand tucked into his coat pocket—where he now kept the letter Jaeyun had left him.
Sometimes he read it out loud.
Sometimes he didn’t have to.
“I still see you everywhere,” Heeseung murmured one morning, brushing fallen petals from the gravestone. “You were always there, weren’t you? The warmth I ignored. The comfort I was too afraid to hold.”
The wind blew gently through the trees.
He took out a small notebook. Inside were pages and pages of unsent letters.
All addressed to Jaeyun.
⸻
Dear Jaeyun,
You would’ve hated the new intern. He’s too formal. Doesn’t know how to make coffee without burning it. I miss your terrible playlists.
⸻
Dear Jaeyun,
I touched your scarf today. Still smells like citrus and rain. I shouldn’t have waited so long. My hands remember your warmth now, and I can’t stop missing it.
⸻
Dear Jaeyun,
I dreamt of you last night. You were healthy. You wore that ridiculous yellow sweater and called me “ice cube boss.” I laughed in the dream. But I woke up crying.
⸻
Heeseung closed the notebook.
The sky was beginning to darken.
“I loved you,” he said quietly. “I still do.”
A breeze brushed past, soft and gentle.
And for a moment—just one—he thought he felt a hand in his.
⸻
That night, as Heeseung lay in bed, he whispered into the silence:
“In the next life… I’ll touch you first.”