Chapter Text
The first day of summer break was supposed to taste like freedom.
Jongho had mapped it all out with the kind of precision that made him feel steady: mornings sweating at the gym, afternoons bent over textbooks, evenings maybe finally daring to sit in on that music club Mingi kept teasing him about. He craved the structure, needed the sense that he wasn’t drifting through his first year of college.
The rec center was alive with the energy of summer—shoes squeaking across polished wood, the hollow echo of basketballs bouncing, the occasional cheer when someone made a clean shot. Jongho wasn’t the flashiest player, but he loved the rhythm of it: the satisfying thump of the ball against his palms, the way his muscles worked in smooth coordination when he leapt toward the basket.
He felt strong. Confident. Almost free.
Until one landing went wrong.
His ankle buckled, his knee twisted, and before his brain caught up with the disaster unfolding in his body, he was crashing to the floor. A ragged shout tore from his throat, sharp enough to startle the guys playing nearby.
Then came the pain—white-hot, immediate, consuming. It clawed up his leg and swallowed every thought about summer plans.
---
Two hours later, the brightness of the rec center had been replaced by the sterile chill of an orthopedic clinic. The exam room smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper gowns. Jongho sat hunched on the stiff table, staring at the plaster cast hardening around his leg.
The doctor’s voice droned on like static. Healing time… physical therapy… patience.
All Jongho really heard was a list of no’s:
No gym.
No basketball.
No independence.
He tried standing, and his crutches immediately clattered against the wall with a loud, humiliating clang. His pride hurt almost worse than the bone.
“Six to eight weeks?” he muttered, his voice cracked with disbelief.
The doctor gave him the polite, practiced smile of someone who’d said the same line a hundred times. “That’s standard for a clean break. You’re young, you’ll bounce back quickly—if you don’t push yourself too soon.”
Jongho bit back the urge to argue. The cast was heavy, his body awkward, and his carefully mapped-out summer had already been erased.
---
When he finally hobbled back into the apartment, Mingi was waiting in the doorway like a sentinel, arms crossed, his long frame filling the narrow hall.
“Yah, Choi Jongho!” Mingi’s voice boomed with theatrical outrage, though his eyes were all worry. “You were supposed to be careful! How am I supposed to leave you alone like this?”
Jongho rolled his eyes, grumbling, “I’m fine,” but the stumble he made crossing the threshold betrayed him. His crutch caught on the rug, his balance wobbled, and before he could topple, Mingi was there, steadying him with big, warm hands.
“Fine?” Mingi repeated, eyebrows shooting up. “You can’t even make it three steps without almost face-planting.”
Jongho sighed, letting himself be guided to the couch. Mingi fussed with the pillows, arranged the blanket, set a glass of water and the remote control within reach—all the while muttering under his breath like an overgrown parent.
“You’re worse than my mother,” Jongho said, but there was no real bite to it.
“Good. Someone has to be.” Mingi crouched down, resting his chin in his hand as he studied Jongho’s cast. His expression softened, the dramatics slipping away. “I’m supposed to leave tomorrow. Yunho’s so excited. You’ll… you’ll be okay, right?”
Jongho hated the hesitation in his friend’s voice. He hated even more the part of himself that wanted to say no, don’t go. Instead, he forced a nod, managing, “Yeah. Go. Have fun.”
Mingi reached out and ruffled Jongho’s hair, like he always did when words felt too heavy. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. Don’t go running marathons while I’m gone, okay?”
“Very funny,” Jongho muttered, swatting his hand away.
But later that night, when the apartment fell into a quiet so hollow it echoed, Jongho stared at the ceiling and admitted to himself what he wouldn’t say out loud: summer was already shifting into something he hadn’t planned for at all.
---
The next morning dawned far too bright for Jongho’s liking. Sunlight spilled across the living room floor, golden and insistent, highlighting the suitcases stacked by the door. Mingi and Yunho were already bickering as they shoved snacks and last-minute essentials into their bags.
“You don’t need three bags of chips,” Yunho insisted, tugging one from Mingi’s grip. “We’re going to the beach, not hiding in a bunker.”
“And you don’t understand road trips,” Mingi shot back, snatching the chips back. “Snacks are half the experience.”
Jongho watched from the couch, his leg stretched across a cushion, pretending to be absorbed in his phone. He couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his mouth. Yunho had only just returned from his dance program abroad, glowing with the kind of tired joy that came from weeks of pushing yourself and finally coming home. Mingi had been counting down the days until Yunho’s return, pacing the apartment like a restless cat.
Now the two of them were practically buzzing with anticipation, sunshine and laughter already waiting for them down the coast.
“Don’t burn the place down while we’re gone,” Mingi teased, crouching briefly to ruffle Jongho’s hair.
“Don’t worry,” Jongho muttered. “I’m not incompetent.”
Yunho grinned at him, warm and reassuring in a way that made Jongho’s chest ache unexpectedly. “Rest up. We’ll bring you something back.”
Then the door shut behind them, luggage wheels bumping down the hall, their voices fading into the stairwell.
The silence that followed was crushing.
---
Without them, the apartment felt cavernous. Every creak of the building settled into the corners like dust, every clock tick reminding him how empty the place had become. Their shared chaos—the half-finished conversations, the overlapping playlists, the clatter of Mingi’s laughter—was gone, leaving Jongho adrift in stillness.
The days bled together, indistinct:
Wake up late. Hobble around the apartment. Nap in the afternoon sun. Half-watch a drama, only to realize he hadn’t followed a single plot point. Strum his guitar, then set it aside before finishing even one song.
He tried cooking once, dragging a pan from the cupboard, balancing awkwardly on his crutches while stirring. The moment he tried carrying it across the kitchen, his weight shifted wrong. His leg screamed in protest, and the pan nearly clattered to the floor. Heart racing, Jongho abandoned the experiment entirely.
By midweek, he was restless, stir-crazy enough to attempt a trip to the corner store. The air outside was thick with summer heat, cicadas buzzing in the trees as if mocking his uneven steps. But the victory of reaching the lobby soured when he found the building’s ancient elevator slumped in defeat, a glaring orange Out of Order sign slapped across its doors.
He stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight.
“Seriously?” he muttered.
Three flights of stairs stretched above him like a challenge. Stubbornness carried him through the store and back, arms loaded with groceries. But the climb home was brutal. By the fourth step, pain shot like fire through his injured leg. His breath caught, vision blurring at the edges.
The bags tumbled from his grip, cans rolling back down the stairs. Gritting his teeth, he left them where they fell, dragging himself back up with nothing but his pride and his crutches.
By the time he collapsed onto the couch, sweat sticking his shirt to his back, frustration burned hotter than the pain. He hated feeling helpless. Hated the reminder that his body had betrayed him.
---
That night, the apartment was dark except for the glow of his phone screen. Jongho sat with his thumb hovering over the food delivery app, scowling at it as though sheer willpower might make it disappear.
Cooking was impossible. Shopping was a disaster. His stomach grumbled like it was mocking him.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. “It’s just one order.”
His pride battled with practicality. Ordering felt like admitting defeat.
But hunger was louder.
With a long, resigned sigh, Jongho tapped Confirm Order.
The screen blinked, cheerful and merciless: Your delivery is on its way.
He set the phone aside, leaned back against the couch cushions, and closed his eyes. For the first time since the accident, he let himself think: maybe this summer wasn’t going to look anything like he’d planned.
—
The knock came quicker than Jongho expected. Sharp, three beats against the door—confident, not tentative.
He maneuvered himself upright, crutches clicking against the wooden floor, and swung the door open with a practiced tug.
And then froze.
The delivery guy standing in the hallway wasn’t what Jongho had imagined. No slouched shoulders, no distracted teenager glued to his phone. Instead, he was tall, with sharp lines to his face that the dim hallway light only seemed to emphasize. His hair fell across his forehead in a way that looked careless but intentional, and his eyes—dark, unreadable—met Jongho’s with cool neutrality.
“Order for… Jongho?” the boy asked, voice smooth, clipped, and just edged with disinterest.
“Y-yeah. That’s me.” Jongho fumbled with his phone, trying to balance it in one hand while steadying himself on his crutches with the other. His palms felt sweaty.
He pulled out cash, but his grip slipped. A coin spun free, hitting the floor with a metallic clatter that echoed down the empty hallway. Jongho winced, bending awkwardly as if he might chase it, only to realize he couldn’t without pitching face-first onto the tile.
The delivery boy crouched smoothly, scooping up the coin with ease. His movement was fluid, unhurried, and when he straightened, there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Careful,” he said, handing the coin back, his tone more amused than scolding. “Looks like you’ve got enough trouble staying upright.”
Heat rose immediately to Jongho’s ears. He wished the floor might just swallow him whole. “I—I’m fine. Really. Thanks.”
The boy didn’t push. His gaze flicked once to the cast strapped around Jongho’s leg, lingering only for a heartbeat before he shifted the warm takeout bag into Jongho’s hands. The smell of fried chicken and garlic hit Jongho instantly, comforting and heavy.
The boy gave a slight bow, efficient and polite, then turned on his heel and walked down the hall, steps even and unhurried.
Jongho shut the door, leaning back against it harder than he meant to. His heart was thudding far louder than a simple food delivery warranted.
—
It wasn’t until his third order that week that Jongho realized it was always the same guy.
Always the same tall frame in the doorway, the same clipped but steady voice asking, “Order for Jongho?” Always that faint, knowing glint in his eyes when their gazes met, like he saw through Jongho’s attempts at nonchalance.
And each time, Jongho felt more painfully obvious—like every stammer, every dropped coin, every awkward shuffle was etched into the boy’s memory.
By the end of the week, Jongho wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: how often he was ordering food, or how much he was starting to look forward to the knock that came after.