Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yeon Sieun had the kind of face that made people look twice. Too pretty for someone who lived in spreadsheets and numbers all day, too sharp and cold for anyone to mistake him for approachable. Deep, ocean-dark eyes that revealed little except exhaustion, lips that looked far too soft for someone who rarely smiled. In finance, people liked to joke he was a machine disguised as a man. But the truth was, there was nothing mechanical about the way he tucked his son’s blanket at night, or how his voice lowered to a softness reserved only for Minjae.

Being a single father at twenty-five was not in any plan Sieun had ever made, but life hadn’t asked for his permission. Minjae was five now—mischievous, stubborn, with a smile that could melt walls Sieun didn’t even realize he had. And Sieun loved him more fiercely than he thought possible. But between eighty-hour weeks, endless data models, and the relentless demand of clients who thought finance people didn’t need sleep, he was running on fumes.

But even Minjae’s patient little world was stretched thin by Sieun’s life. Every evening, the boy was always the last one at kindergarten, sitting on the bench with his backpack dangling from his small shoulders, waiting quietly beside the teacher while the sun slipped lower. Other children had already gone home to mothers and fathers who worked reasonable hours, while Minjae’s eyes searched the door until Sieun finally appeared, breathless, tie crooked, apologies catching in his throat. And every time, the boy smiled like he hadn’t been waiting at all. That smile broke something in Sieun, because it was too forgiving.

Some nights were worse. After picking Minjae up, he would have to drop him at home, put together something quick for dinner, kiss his hair, and leave again for the office. He told himself it was only for a few hours, that Minjae was fine with his toys and cartoons, that he was too young to notice the silence that settled over the apartment in his father’s absence. But he noticed. He always noticed.

The math didn’t add up. Numbers were Sieun’s life, and he could see the equation clearly: too much work, too little time, a boy growing lonelier by the day. Something had to shift. Which was why, against every instinct that told him to handle things alone, he started looking for a nanny. Not a live-in, not a full-time professional with certifications and stiff smiles. Just someone who could pick Minjae up in the afternoons, bring him home, cook something warm, make sure he showered, and stay until Sieun dragged himself back from the office. A part-time gap-filler, someone to keep Minjae from being the last child waiting on the bench every day.

It sounded simple. It was anything but.

The first interview had lasted less than ten minutes. A tall woman with glossy hair and perfume that clung to the air smiled at Sieun more than at Minjae. “You hardly look old enough to be a father,” she purred, crossing her legs. “What you really need is some adult company after long workdays.” Sieun thanked her curtly and showed her out. Minjae, sipping his juice box, said flatly, “She’s weird.”

The second candidate brought a typed schedule that blocked out every minute of Minjae’s life, from “silent reading” at 5:00 p.m. sharp to “meditation” before dinner. Sieun raised an eyebrow; Minjae took one look and announced, “No thank you,” with all the seriousness of a CEO rejecting a proposal.

The third was younger, freshly graduated, and seemed promising until she leaned forward with a sympathetic tilt of her head. “It must be hard, raising him all on your own. Where’s his mother?” When Sieun didn’t answer, she tried again: “You know, a man as handsome as you shouldn’t be alone. If you ever need… support…” She trailed her fingers over the resume she had placed on the table. Minjae whispered, “Daddy, she’s trying to marry you,” and Sieun ended the interview immediately.

The fourth was a man in a crisp suit who claimed to be experienced with children but spent the entire half hour pitching Sieun on an insurance plan. Minjae fell asleep on the couch midway through. Sieun almost envied him.

By the sixth attempt, Sieun was beginning to think the search was cursed. Every hopeful face that walked through the door seemed to be looking past Minjae, toward him instead. It wasn’t just frustrating—it made his chest ache. His son deserved someone who would actually see him.

That night, Sieun lingered at Minjae’s bedroom door. The boy was already asleep, hand curled around his stuffed dinosaur, his little chest rising and falling steadily. He looked peaceful, but Sieun knew better. He knew how much waiting, how much silence, stretched behind that tiny frame.

The apartment was too clean, too quiet, too heavy. Sieun loosened his tie and rubbed his face with both hands. “You deserve better than this,” he whispered into the dark.

He had almost given up, almost resigned himself to juggling until he broke. Then another name landed in his inbox: a third-year student, no formal childcare background, just part-time availability, desperation for work, and an awkward note that said willing to learn.

It didn’t sound promising. But then again, nothing else had.

And so the next afternoon, he found himself waiting for someone named Ahn Suho to knock on his door.

Chapter Text

The apartment was spotless, every object aligned with quiet precision. Order had become a necessity for Sieun, not because he cared about appearances, but because it was the only way to keep his unraveling life stitched together. A clean counter, an organized desk, numbers stacked neatly in rows — at least those things stayed where he put them. Unlike time. Unlike his son’s lonely waiting.

He was already regretting this. Another interview, another wasted half hour. He adjusted his cuffs, ocean eyes flicking to the clock. He could almost hear the tick of lost minutes that should have gone to reports, projections, clients. But then again, if this didn’t work, he would lose far more than minutes.

The doorbell rang.

When he opened the door, he was confronted with… youth.

The boy — no, the young man — on his doorstep was tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that was entirely too handsome for someone who looked so hopelessly unprepared. His dark hair was mussed from the wind, falling into eyes that shone with something too bright to be professionalism. His red windbreaker was unzipped over a plain T-shirt, his jeans worn at the knees, his sneakers scuffed gray. A backpack hung off one shoulder like an afterthought.

“Hello!” He bowed too fast, nearly catching his toe on the doormat, straightening with an embarrassed laugh. “I’m Ahn Suho! Sorry I’m late, the bus was—actually, two buses—and then traffic, and I might’ve gotten off at the wrong stop once, but I ran the last part so I wouldn’t—um. Hi.” He smiled, wide and disarming, like this was the start of something good instead of the beginning of a disaster.

Sieun stared at him, face blank, thoughts cold and exact: This is already a mistake.

Inside, Suho perched on the edge of the couch, knees bouncing, hands gripping the strap of his backpack like it might keep him upright. His presence was too loud for the room, as if even his fidgeting was disruptive to the careful silence Sieun had curated.

“Experience with childcare?” Sieun asked, voice clipped, eyes narrowing.

Suho straightened, eager. “Yes! I mean—sort of. Not, like, officially. But I babysat my cousins all the time when I was younger, and my grandma runs kind of a neighborhood daycare, so I’ve been around kids a lot. I’m great with games, and snacks, and sports, and—” He cut himself off with a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have a certificate or whatever, but I’m willing to learn! Really willing. Like… desperate.”

“Desperate,” Sieun repeated flatly, leaning back in his chair.

Suho flushed. “For money. Not—like—not in a weird way. I just, um, failed a couple credits last semester, so I need to retake them, and my scholarship doesn’t cover it, so I need a part-time job to make up the cost. But I’m dependable! I swear. I mean, I wouldn’t just quit or anything. I’ll work hard.”

The more he talked, the deeper Sieun’s skepticism grew. This was absurd. A twenty-year-old boy with messy hair and no qualifications. What was he doing, sitting here pretending this could possibly work—

“Daddy?” Minjae’s voice pulled his gaze to the hallway. The boy had peeked out, his stuffed dinosaur clutched to his chest. His eyes, curious and cautious, landed on Suho.

Immediately, Suho dropped off the couch and crouched low, meeting Minjae’s gaze at eye level. “Hi,” he said softly. “I’m Suho. What’s your name?”

“Minjae.”

“Minjae,” Suho repeated, tasting the syllables like they mattered. His grin widened. “That’s strong. You like dinosaurs?”

Minjae nodded.

Without hesitation, Suho let out the most ridiculous, guttural dinosaur roar, snapping his arms like tiny T-Rex limbs. Minjae startled, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. Suho followed it up by pretending to bite his own backpack, staggering dramatically as if the dinosaur had taken over.

Sieun blinked. He hadn’t heard Minjae laugh like that in weeks.

“You like basketball?” Suho asked suddenly, straightening with a grin. “Watch this.” He picked up one of Minjae’s small rubber balls from the toy bin and tried to spin it on his finger. For one miraculous second, it balanced, and Suho’s grin was triumphant. Then it fell, bouncing off his knee and rolling under the couch. “Okay—uh—that wasn’t my best spin. But I’m usually good!”

Minjae giggled harder, clapping his hands. “Do it again!”

Suho tried again. And again. Each attempt ended in some new form of failure — the ball bouncing off the wall, slipping from his hand, once even hitting himself in the forehead. Each time, Minjae laughed until his small body curled in delight.

Sieun pressed his lips together, arms crossed. He told himself this was childish, irresponsible, ridiculous. And yet his son’s laughter filled the room, lifting the silence off the walls, and the sound pressed something sharp against his ribs.

When Suho looked up, sheepish and smiling, marker doodles already forming on his palm where Minjae had insisted on “team tattoos,” Sieun’s ocean eyes narrowed. Relief was dangerous. He didn’t want to feel it.

“This is a mistake,” he muttered under his breath, but Minjae tugged at his sleeve, eyes wide and shining. “Daddy, I like him. Can we keep him?”

For the first time in weeks, Sieun hesitated. Logic and order demanded no. But his son’s smile demanded something else. Finally, he said, “Part-time. Afternoons only. You pick him up, cook, make sure he showers, keep him company until I return. That’s all. Boundaries.”

Suho nodded so fast he nearly bounced in place. “Yes! Got it! Super clear. I won’t let you down.”

When the door shut behind him, silence settled again. Sieun stood there, staring at the empty hallway. He told himself it wouldn’t last a week. That the boy would quit. That this was nothing more than a temporary fix.

And yet, down the hall, Minjae’s laughter lingered in the air, faint but stubborn. For the first time in a long time, the quiet didn’t feel quite so crushing.

Chapter Text

Suho was late.

Not disastrously late, not the kind that would make the teacher march to the phone with lips thin and judgment sharpened to a point, but late enough that Minjae was once again perched on the pickup bench with his dinosaur tucked under his chin like a spare heart. The afternoon sun was a warm coin pressed against the windows. The hallway smelled faintly of tempera paint and apple soap. Other children had already ricocheted into their parents’ arms and dissolved into the noise of the street.

Then came the thudding footsteps, a gust of wind, and a tall boy in a red windbreaker burst through the entrance like he’d outrun a bus. He nearly skidded on the tile, caught himself on the sign-out counter, and bowed at a ninety-degree angle that almost looked like he was apologizing to the floor.

“I’m—hi—Suho—sorry—two buses—no, three—wrong stop—found it!” he said in one breath, then flashed a grin so bright and guileless that Minjae’s head popped up like a sunflower tracking the sun.

The teacher arched a brow. “You are Ahn… Suho?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, breath finally catching up to him. “Picking up Yeon Minjae. I brought an ID, and my grandma said to always sign things, and—oh—pen.” He stabbed at the sign-out sheet with heroic seriousness, handwriting slanted and enthusiastic, then crouched so he was eye-level with Minjae. “Hey, teammate.”

Minjae blinked. “Teammate?”

“If you’ll have me.” Suho held out his palm for a secret handshake that didn’t exist yet. Minjae stared, then solemnly bumped his dinosaur against Suho’s hand. Close enough.

They stepped out into the light together, Suho trying to look competent and unruffled while he was very obviously both ruffled and slightly lost. He tried to dribble Minjae’s rubber ball, which someone had abandoned by the door; it bounced obediently twice, then ricocheted off his shoe into a bush. Suho lunged after it with such dramatic dedication that Minjae burst into laughter, quiet at first, then brighter, as if someone had turned a dimmer and the room obliged.

“Not my best warm-up,” Suho admitted, plucking leaves out of the ball’s dimples. “We’ll call that… defense.”

“Defense,” Minjae echoed, dead serious.

By the time they reached the bus stop, Minjae’s hand had found the red windbreaker sleeve. Suho pretended not to notice, only slowed his long stride to match the small one flickering beside him. The bus wheezed like an old dragon. They climbed on and sat in the front, Minjae bouncing his heels, Suho trying not to look like he was counting crumpled coins in his pocket before tapping his card. He pointed out a dog with a bandana. He made up names for every passenger they passed on the sidewalk—Captain Briefcase, Miss Sunglasses, The Mysterious Man Who Eats Ice Cream in Winter—until Minjae giggled helplessly and buried his face in the dinosaur.

While they rattled toward home, Sieun stared at numbers that unfocused every time his gaze touched them. The office hummed around him: clipped conversation, the quiet staccato of keys, someone’s controlled laughter bleeding through glass. He should have sunk into the comfort of figures—cells stacking obediently, lines forming arguments he could win—but the only countdown he could hear was the one inside his chest. He checked his phone: nothing. He set it down, then checked again as if that would change the laws of the universe. He imagined the empty bench, the teacher’s pursed mouth. He imagined a tall, handsome boy in a windbreaker turning the wrong way at the crosswalk.

“I thought you liked living in spreadsheets,” a colleague said lightly, passing by.

“I do,” he said, and kept staring at a column of digits that, today, refused to be tamed.

Home was a different kind of equation. It solved itself in noises: the bus’s exhale at the curb, the jangle of keys Suho almost dropped but did not, the scrape of sneakers being toed off in the entryway. Minjae announced, “We’re home,” to no one and everyone, as if the walls needed reminding.

“Okay,” Suho said with the solemnity of a surgeon, shrugging out of his windbreaker and hanging it carefully on a hook too small for it. “Mission brief: pick up, feed, wash, play, survive.”

“Survive,” Minjae intoned again, clearly thrilled by the seriousness of it all.

The kitchen introduced itself as stainless steel and rational light. Suho opened cabinets as if they might bite him, then closed them with new confidence. “We’re cooking,” he decided. “Well. We are… heating. Pasta is basically a personality, right? You boil water and believe in yourself.”

He filled a pot too full, salted the water with a flourish that would have made his grandmother sigh and say, child, the ocean is not in the pot; then he dumped spaghetti in before it boiled. The result was instant theater. Steam rose like a ghost. A single strand of pasta clung to the side of the pot like it was making a break for freedom. Suho tried to separate noodles with a wooden spoon and somehow created a knot of pasta that behaved like a stubborn sea creature. Minjae leaned on the counter, chin in his hands, watching with reverence.

“Is it supposed to do that?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” Suho said cheerfully. “But we adapt.”

The water frothed up. Suho, wanting to look competent, clapped the lid on. The pot hissed, rumbled, and—like a tiny volcano with a sense of humor—burped starchy foam onto the stove. The smoke alarm cleared its throat, decided this was an event, and began to shriek. Suho threw the window open, flapped his windbreaker at the ceiling, and yelled, “It’s okay! We’re fine! We’re making… ambiance!”

Minjae laughed so hard he hiccuped. The smoke alarm, perhaps charmed by the windbreaker’s dedication, finally sulked into silence.

They ate what could generously be called spaghetti, though the noodles were glued together in affectionate clumps and wore a scandalous amount of ketchup because the jar of tomato sauce in the fridge turned out to be salsa. Suho took a bite, grimaced, and smiled through it. “Gourmet. Five stars. Don’t tell your dad we used ketchup.”

“He doesn’t like ketchup on noodles,” Minjae confided, eyes sparkling with the thrill of conspiracy.

“Then this is our secret. Team rules.”

“Team rules,” Minjae agreed, magnanimous, and offered Suho the first meatball like he was knighting him.

Shower time began as a logistical problem and evolved rapidly into a water park with questionable permits. Suho rolled up his sleeves and tried to be practical. “We rinse, we soap, we rinse again,” he said, and for exactly three seconds that’s what happened. Then the dinosaur required a ceremonial bath, the plastic cup became a bucket, and Minjae, delighted, found that if he clapped the water at just the right angle it arced perfectly into Suho’s face.

“I surrender!” Suho sputtered, blinking through droplets, hair flattened and dripping. “I am a humble waterfall!”

“You’re all wet,” Minjae observed, glowing.

“That makes two of us.” Suho wrapped the boy in a towel so fluffy it swallowed him whole, then crouched to rub small circles on his back, gentle in the way people are when they’ve learned tenderness by watching it rather than being taught. “Warm enough?” he asked quietly.

Minjae nodded against his shoulder, a small, damp weight trusting the moment to hold.

They built a fort the way architects build cathedrals: with ambition, trial, error, and absolute faith. Two dining chairs became pillars, the windbreaker became a ceremonial flag, and the couch cushions turned into battlements that leaned, reconsidered, and finally consented to stand. Suho brought the lamp inside and then brought it back out with an expression of grave chastisement after it tried to overheat their new country. They lay on their backs in the dim, trading facts of enormous consequence.

“Dinosaurs had feathers,” Minjae reported.

“I failed Physics once,” Suho confessed, and Minjae gasped, thrilled. “But I can spin a ball… sometimes.”

“Show me.”

Suho found the rubber ball and tried in the confined space to demonstrate. It worked for exactly the length of time it would take for a camera shutter to click, then thumped his forehead. He fell back dramatically, clutching his heart. “I have been defeated by science.”

“Again,” Minjae demanded, gleeful tyrant.

“Again,” Suho agreed, because some defeats were victories in disguise.

Across the city, numbers waited for Sieun like a scolding. He forced his attention across a spreadsheet that should have been simple, but the edges of his concentration kept dissolving. He imagined the apartment unspooling into chaos: the gleam of clean counters scuffed by small hands, the echo of slapdash laughter. His phone sat face down, and yet his fingers hovered near it as if proximity could make it speak. He almost typed—How is he?—and stopped. He did not want to be the man who hovered. He had no right to hover. He had hired a twenty-year-old boy who drew on his own hands with a marker and roared like a T-Rex; he had no one to blame for the unease but himself.

And still—those minutes he had so meticulously budgeted refused to behave. He packed up earlier than he announced to anyone, briefcase latched with the finality of a decision he pretended was practical.

When he opened the apartment door, the first thing he noticed was the smell of something faintly scorched and vaguely tomato-adjacent. The second was the sound—not noise so much as the imprint of it, laughter smoothed into the walls until it felt like warmth. He stepped out of his shoes and took in the landscape: the kitchen showing evidence of volcanic pasta; the bathroom towel hung at a valiant, damp angle; a trail of small socks like breadcrumbs leading to the living room where the world had been reimagined.

The fort rose like a small, proud city-state. Inside it, Suho sat cross-legged in a T-shirt that clung to him in damp confession, hair tipped in unruly curls from the shower’s generosity, marker tattoos blooming on his palm. Minjae was tucked against his side, already gone heavy with sleep, mouth soft, dinosaur wedged between cheek and shoulder like a guardian. The lamp on the coffee table cast a gentle halo, as if blessing the foolishness.

Suho looked up and put a finger to his lips, face breaking into a sheepish, quiet smile. “He—uh—ate,” he whispered. “And bathed. And…” He gestured helplessly to the magnificence of the fort. “Structural engineering happened.”

Sieun’s ocean eyes moved from the fort to the boy to the man and back again. Something eased and protested in the same breath, like a knot loosening around a bruise. He nodded once. He knelt, slid his arms under Minjae with the practice of a hundred nights, and lifted him. The child stirred, sighed, and settled against the familiar scent at Sieun’s collar.

In the bedroom, he tucked the blanket with careful fingers and stood for a moment longer than necessary, counting the slow rise of Minjae’s chest. When he returned to the living room, Suho was half inside the fort, half out, trying to fold the windbreaker one-handed and not collapse the entire civilization. He sprang to his feet, mortified.

“I’m sorry about the… everything,” he said in a rush. “The pasta was a crime, the smoke alarm got dramatic, and the bathroom floor is—well, it learned to be a lake for a few minutes, but I mopped it, I swear. He laughed a lot. He was brave in the water. He said ketchup on noodles is illegal in this house, but we agreed to short-term amnesty. I know this was— I mean, I will be better tomorrow. I will be on time. Earlier than on time. Pre-time.”

The speech ran out of breath and stood there, panting.

Sieun, who had prepared a quiet reprimand on the walk down the hall, found the words dissolved by the memory of Minjae’s limp trust against his shoulder and the way the apartment felt like someone had opened a window and let weather in. He looked at the fortress of chairs and blankets; at the boy with water still drying in the curve of his hair; at the inked smiley face beaming from Suho’s palm as if someone had approved him.

“Tomorrow,” he said, and heard his own voice as if from a little distance. “Same time.”

Suho’s relief was so genuine it was almost indecent. His shoulders dropped; his grin unfurled, bright enough to tilt the room. “Yes. Tomorrow. I’ll bring… real sauce. And maybe a ball that doesn’t hate me.”

“Please don’t break the lamp,” Sieun said, which was not a no.

“I will not break the lamp,” Suho promised, solemn as a vow. “Team rules.”

“Team rules,” came soft from the hallway where Minjae turned in his sleep, the words a dream crossing into the waking world.

After the door closed behind Suho, the apartment caught its breath. Order waited, as it always did—the stove to be wiped, the chairs to be unstacked, the notes to be rewritten in his head about boundaries and protocols and schedules that did not involve ketchup. He could do all of that. He would. But for one lingering moment, he stood in the quiet and allowed himself the impossible luxury of not fixing anything at all.

The silence felt different. Not empty. Not punishing. Something else. As if laughter had left a residue that even soap could not scrub away, a proof that the house could hold more than the sound of keys on a keyboard and the hum of a refrigerator. He thought of a tall boy in a red windbreaker, ridiculous and earnest, holding out his hand for a handshake that hadn’t existed and making one anyway.

It would not last a week, he told himself. He would not let it matter. He turned off the lamp and the fort’s shadow became a low mountain on the wall, familiar and strange.

In the bedroom, Minjae breathed evenly, safely, as if the equation had solved itself for the night.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t supposed to be this hard to find a job. A part-time job. He wasn’t picky. Cafés, delivery shifts, tutoring — anything would’ve done. But the weeks had stretched thin, and each “we’ll call you back” dissolved into silence. Suho had started counting coins twice before tapping his transit card, rationing instant noodles, skipping meals when his grandmother wasn’t looking. He’d failed two credits last semester — stupid, stupid — and the retakes were expensive, and scholarships didn’t bend backwards for people who missed exams because their grandma had slipped on the stairs and needed him home.

He needed cash. Desperately.

Which was why his stomach had flipped when he saw the ad pinned on the bulletin board at the community center: Part-time nanny needed. Afternoons only. Must pick up from kindergarten, supervise, cook simple meals. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t in his wheelhouse. But kids liked him — they always had. He’d grown up half-raising the neighborhood children with his grandmother anyway. It wasn’t that different, right? And the pay — the pay would cover at least one credit, maybe both, if he stretched it.

So he’d scribbled the number down, heart hammering, and sent the world’s most awkward message: I don’t have official experience but I’m willing to learn. He hadn’t expected a reply. But then one came. A time, an address.

And suddenly, he was riding three different buses and still getting lost because he’d misread the street signs. By the time he found the building, sweat clung to his collar and his sneakers were caked with dust. He adjusted his red windbreaker twice, combed his fingers through his hair, tried to breathe. He could not afford to screw this up.

When the door opened, the world tilted.

He hadn’t expected the father to be so young. So… beautiful. It didn’t seem fair. Ocean-dark eyes that looked through him, sharp and unwelcoming, lips soft and full in a way that made Suho’s brain short-circuit. For one dizzying moment, he forgot the speech he’d rehearsed. Forgot his own name, practically. He bowed too fast, tripped over the doormat, blurted apologies about buses and traffic, and wanted to sink through the floor.

The man’s expression didn’t move. If anything, his face grew colder. Suho thought: He already hates me. I’m screwed.

Inside, it was worse. The apartment was immaculate, like something out of a magazine, and he sat there in his scuffed sneakers and windbreaker, sticking out like a blot of red ink on a white page. He rambled. Of course he rambled — about his cousins, about his grandma’s daycare, about failing credits and needing cash, as if that was the world’s most professional introduction. The silence from across the table stretched longer and longer, those ocean eyes narrowing until Suho wanted to curl up and disappear.

Then the boy appeared.

Minjae. Small, serious, clutching a dinosaur as if it could ward off the world. He peeked out from behind his father, eyes wary but curious. Something in Suho softened immediately, like someone had untied a knot in his chest.

He crouched. He introduced himself. He asked about dinosaurs.

And when Minjae smiled — when he laughed, high and bright and unguarded — it felt like the entire apartment shifted. Suho’s throat tightened unexpectedly. He hadn’t known he was capable of making anyone sound like that. He’d been drowning in silence for weeks, months, but this was different: the kind of sound that made you want to keep talking just to hear it again.

So he tried basketball tricks, because basketball was the one thing he could always count on. Except his nerves made him fumble every time, the ball slipping, bouncing, betraying him. But Minjae laughed harder with each failure, clutching his dinosaur, delighted. Suho thought, Okay. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can make him happy, even if I’m an idiot at everything else.

When Sieun finally stood, Suho expected dismissal. He was too young, too unqualified, too much of a mess. But instead: boundaries, rules, pay. A chance.

Suho nodded so hard he thought his head might come off. He promised things he wasn’t sure he could deliver but swore he’d die trying.

And then it was over. He stepped out into the hallway, back into the ordinary air, the red windbreaker suddenly too warm around him. But all he could think about was how guarded those eyes had been, how young the father had looked despite the weariness in his posture, and how, for one impossible second, Suho had wanted to make him smile too.

---

It was only his second day and already he thought he might die of nerves.

The kindergarten gate loomed like a fortress. Parents streamed past, polished and purposeful, scooping up their children like it was the most natural thing in the world. Suho stood there in his red windbreaker, sweating through the collar, wondering how long it would take before they realized he didn’t belong. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and checked the paper in his pocket for the fiftieth time: Pick up Minjae. 4:30 p.m. Don’t be late.

He was late. Again.

The teacher gave him a look that could slice glass as he stumbled up the path, panting. Minjae was still waiting on the bench, dinosaur clutched to his chest, patient in a way that hurt to see. Suho’s heart twisted. He dropped to one knee immediately. “Sorry, buddy,” he whispered. “Bus trouble. My fault. But I’m here now. Want to head home?”

Minjae’s little face softened as if the apology had been enough. He slipped his hand into Suho’s sleeve. The teacher didn’t look convinced, but Minjae’s small trust anchored Suho like nothing else.

The ride back was chaos in disguise. Suho made up names for strangers on the bus—The Man with the Mystery Ice Cream, Captain Briefcase—and Minjae giggled into his dinosaur, shoulders shaking. For a moment Suho almost forgot he was broke and failing credits and drowning in everything. For a moment he was just a boy on a bus making another boy laugh.

The apartment, when they arrived, was intimidatingly clean. Sieun’s kind of clean, which was to say cold, sterile, like nothing dared to be out of place. Suho toed his sneakers off and thought grimly: I’m about to ruin this man’s home.

Cooking was a disaster. He filled the pot too high, salted the water like he was trying to re-create the ocean, dumped the pasta before it boiled. He tried to separate the noodles and somehow created a single giant noodle-monster. When the pot boiled over, the smoke alarm screamed bloody murder. Minjae shrieked with laughter while Suho flapped his windbreaker at the ceiling, yelling, “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s ambience!”

Dinner turned into clumped noodles with ketchup because the tomato jar turned out to be salsa. Suho tasted it, grimaced, and smiled anyway. “Gourmet. Don’t tell your dad.”

Minjae whispered back, conspiratorial, “Daddy hates ketchup on noodles.”

Suho put a finger to his lips. “Team rules.”

Shower time soaked him more than Minjae. He tried to be practical—rinse, soap, rinse—but Minjae discovered that splashing his new nanny was the funniest game in the world. By the end Suho’s T-shirt clung to him, his hair dripping into his eyes. He looked like someone who’d survived a flood. Minjae wrapped in his towel, grinning, declared, “You’re all wet.”

“That makes two of us,” Suho said, laughing, though inside he was aching a little. When was the last time someone had laughed with him like this?

The fort was the crown jewel. Chairs, cushions, his own windbreaker as a flag. Minjae gasped when it held together. They crawled inside, and Suho attempted to spin the rubber ball like he had promised. It lasted a second on his finger before smacking his forehead. He fell back dramatically. “I have been defeated by science.” Minjae collapsed into giggles, face bright in the dim. Suho thought, This. This is why I need this job. Not for the money. For this.

When Sieun came home, Suho’s stomach plummeted. He scrambled to explain everything: the pasta fiasco, the smoke alarm, the water on the floor. He expected a lecture, a cold dismissal. Instead, Sieun’s ocean eyes just swept over him, unreadable. For a heartbeat, Suho drowned in them again—those eyes too deep, too tired, too beautiful for someone so young to be carrying so much. He looked away quickly, throat tight.

“Tomorrow. Same time,” Sieun said.

The relief almost knocked Suho over. He smiled too wide, nodded too eagerly, but he didn’t care. He’d lasted one day. He’d made Minjae laugh. He hadn’t been fired. That was enough.

Back in the hallway, pulling his red windbreaker on again, Suho let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The job was going to be chaos. He knew that. But when he thought of Minjae’s sleepy weight leaning against him in the fort, when he thought of those ocean eyes watching them in silence—he felt, for the first time in weeks, that maybe he wasn’t drowning after all.

Chapter Text

The first week settled into a rhythm he hadn’t expected.

He thought it would fall apart immediately. A boy like Ahn Suho—barely twenty, late on the very first day, smiling too brightly for someone with no experience—should have given up after the first mess, the first mistake. Sieun had prepared himself for it: another disappointment, another reminder that there was no easy answer to the imbalance he carried on his shoulders.

And yet, the boy kept showing up.

Every afternoon, Sieun returned home to chaos. The kind of chaos he once swore never to allow into his apartment: blanket forts sprawling across the living room, chairs dragged out of place, toy dinosaurs lined up like soldiers across the rug. The faint smell of something experimental—sometimes edible, sometimes only survivable—still hung in the kitchen air. He should have hated it. He should have snapped at the disorder, reminded Suho that this wasn’t a playground.

But his son was laughing.

The sound reached him before he even opened the door. High and unguarded, spilling through the walls, echoing in corners that had long gone silent. It startled him every time, left him standing in the entryway longer than necessary, shoes still on, listening. Minjae’s voice, small but bright, weaving between Suho’s deeper tones as the two of them invented games that made no sense and mattered anyway.

And there Suho would be: tall frame folded easily onto the floor, sneakers left at odd angles by the door, hair falling into his eyes as he crouched to let Minjae draw on his hands with markers. Long fingers stained with doodled stars, grinning like he’d been given treasure instead of ink smudges. His red windbreaker slung over the back of a chair, a slash of color in Sieun’s neat, monochrome home. Too loud. Too careless. Too alive.

Sieun told himself it was temporary, but the evidence of permanence crept in.

At school, Minjae’s teacher remarked that the boy seemed brighter, more talkative. At pickup, Sieun noticed his son clutching not just his dinosaur but also a paper covered in scribbles: a stick-figure Minjae with a taller one beside him, carefully labeled “ME AND SUHO HYUNG.” At bedtime, when Sieun tried to read a story, Minjae interrupted with Suho’s retelling—filled with dramatic voices, exaggerated battles, endings warped into laughter.

It unsettled him. But more than that—it surprised him.

He had expected resistance, mistakes, frustration. Instead, Suho was… doing well. Not perfect, not professional, but good. His son was brighter. Happier. The weight Sieun had carried alone seemed to lighten, fraction by fraction, as though the boy had reached into the silence and pried it open.

One evening, he came home earlier than usual. He paused in the hallway, briefcase still in hand, drawn by the sound of low voices. Inside the fort, Minjae’s words floated out, hesitant but sure.

“I don’t feel lonely anymore when you come.”

The sentence pierced straight through him. Loneliness. The word caught, echoing in his chest. He had tried so hard to guard against it, to keep his son safe and content, but the truth was undeniable. And now it wasn’t him easing it—it was Suho. That fact both hurt and healed in the same breath. He lingered too long outside the room, heart pressed against the walls of his chest, before turning away with a weight he couldn’t name.

By the second week, something shifted again.

He came home late one night, exhausted and hollow from a day that had stretched without mercy. He expected to find the apartment asleep, Minjae already tucked into bed, the quiet as punishing as always. Instead, his son ran to him at the door, eyes bright with pride.

“Daddy, Suho-hyung cooked more so you can eat too.”

On the counter sat a plate, covered, still faintly warm. Rice, stir-fried vegetables, an egg fried a little unevenly but whole. Not takeout. Not instant noodles. Not burnt pasta.

Sieun stared at it longer than he should have. His tie felt suddenly too tight around his throat. He turned toward Minjae, who was smiling as though this was the greatest gift he could give his father.

Later, when the boy was asleep, Sieun sat at the kitchen table and uncovered the plate. The food was simple, clumsy in places, but made with care. Made for him. He picked up his chopsticks, ate slowly, silently. He tried not to imagine Suho in this same kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed in concentration as he cooked. Tried not to imagine those long hands—marker still faint on his skin—stirring vegetables, plating rice. Tried not to picture the grin, the bright voice saying I made extra, so he has something proper to eat too.

He leaned back when the plate was empty, head tipping against the chair. His ocean eyes lingered on the quiet apartment. It no longer felt quite so cold.

Relief seeped in, unwelcome and undeniable. He told himself not to trust it. Not to let it mean anything. But even as he argued with himself, the truth settled heavy in his chest. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn’t carrying everything alone.

And for that, though he would never say it aloud, he was grateful.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The first salary shouldn’t have felt like a milestone. It wasn’t even enough to cover half his tuition bill. But when the envelope landed in Suho’s hand, smooth and warm from being passed across a desk, he held it tighter than he expected. On the bus ride back, he tore it open, counting fast. His eyebrows rose. A little more than he’d been told.

Tucked neatly inside was a slip of paper in sharp, meticulous handwriting:

This includes for the extra dinners you’ve been making. Thank you.

The words were so stiffly polite they might have been carved in stone. Suho stared at them for the rest of the bus ride, tapping the edge against his knee. He told himself not to grin like an idiot.

He blew the money almost immediately — not on himself, but on the gang.

The pojangmacha tent flapped in the wind as the four of them crammed into a corner table sticky with dried soju. The air was heavy with the smell of grilling meat, red chili paste, and smoke that stung the eyes. Baku slapped him on the back so hard the bottles rattled.

“Look who finally remembered we exist! Mr. Babysitter himself.”

“I told you, it’s temporary,” Suho muttered, tugging his cap lower.

“Temporary? You’ve been MIA for a month,” Seongje drawled, swirling his soju shot like it was wine. “We thought you got abducted. Or worse — cuffed down by some sugar mommy.”

Laughter exploded around the table. Even Baekjin, usually quiet, cracked a grin. “A sugar daddy, more like.”

Suho choked on his beer. “What the hell, hyung—”

Baku leaned in with a wide smirk. “Come on. Admit it. You’re living in some guy’s apartment, cooking dinner, picking up his kid—how is that not housewife training?”

“I don’t live there,” Suho protested.

“But you want to,” Seongje cut in smoothly. “Look at his ears, they’re turning red.”

“They’re red because of the grill!” Suho grabbed a piece of charred meat, stuffed it in his mouth, chewed furiously as if that would end the conversation.

But they were like sharks who’d scented blood.

“Do you tuck the kid in with lullabies?”
“Do you wear an apron?”
“Do you call him honey when you serve the rice?”

Suho slammed his chopsticks down. “Shut up. He’s my boss. That’s all.”

The laughter rose again, echoing under the tent. It should have been easy to ride the noise, to laugh with them until it dulled the edge of their teasing. He even tried — plastering a grin, tossing a fry back at Baku. But somewhere between the third round of soju and the fourth plate of pork belly, his thoughts slipped.

Not to the gang. Not to school. Not even to his bank balance.

Back to a neat apartment, to Minjae’s shrill laughter, to the way the boy had grabbed his hand and dragged him into blanket forts as if he belonged there. And then — unbidden, intrusive — the memory of Sieun’s eyes: ocean-dark, too deep, too watery, rimmed with exhaustion, yet sharp enough to make Suho lose his words. Eyes that made him wonder if rulers could really ever stay straight.

---

F

For Yeon Sieun, the month blurred into late nights and heavy mornings. Reports piled on his desk, meetings bled into each other, and deadlines stretched thinner than his patience. But when he came home, something had shifted.

The apartment was no longer silent when he unlocked the door. He would step inside and hear Minjae’s laughter spilling out from the living room, sometimes followed by Suho’s exasperated yelp.

One Thursday evening, Sieun returned to find the dining table covered in an elaborate fort of cushions and blankets, fairy lights strung up haphazardly. Minjae’s head popped out from the gap, cheeks flushed, Suho grinning behind him like a boy himself. For a moment, Sieun stood frozen in the doorway — briefcase in one hand, exhaustion forgotten — and felt something he couldn’t name.

Other nights, it was quieter. Sieun would loosen his tie, open the fridge, and find a container waiting: kimchi stew, stir-fried vegetables, sometimes even neatly packed rice balls. He ate standing up in the kitchen, chopsticks still in his hand when his phone buzzed with work emails. But in the warmth of that food, there was a comfort that unnerved him.

He told himself it was nothing. Temporary. Practical. A convenience, not a comfort. And yet—

“Daddy, look!” Minjae tugged on his sleeve one Friday, holding up a crayon drawing. A crooked figure with black hair, holding hands with a smaller figure labeled “me,” and next to them a taller one, messy hair, wide grin. Underneath, in uneven letters: me and Suho-hyung.

Sieun stared at it longer than he should have. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch before he stopped it, pressing a hand against Minjae’s head instead. “Good job.”

That night, after Minjae fell asleep, Sieun lingered by the bedroom door. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But through the crack, he heard the boy’s whisper:

“I don’t feel lonely anymore when you come, Suho-hyung.”

The words hit harder than any late-night spreadsheet. Relief, because his son wasn’t lonely. Ache, because it took someone else to fix that. He backed away before he could hear Suho’s reply, but the sentence echoed long into the night.

And so the days spilled on, a strange rhythm forming.

Suho laughed too loud at the pojangmacha, but fell silent on the bus ride home, replaying Minjae’s laugh in his head.

Sieun stacked files on his desk at work, but paused too long when he remembered the container of stew waiting in the fridge.

Neither of them said it. Neither of them admitted it. But already, without their consent, the shape of their lives had begun to shift — quiet, domestic, fragile as glass, yet steady as the tide.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet when Yeon Sieun unlocked the door, but not the kind of quiet he had grown used to over the years. It wasn’t the hollow silence of exhaustion, when only the refrigerator’s hum and his own footsteps existed. Tonight, the air hummed with something warmer, softer—an echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. He paused in the entryway, shoes aligned automatically on the mat, and let his eyes travel to the living room. 

Suho was there, exactly where Sieun had half expected him to be, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of a battlefield of Lego blocks. Minjae, with his cheeks flushed pink, was leaning across Suho’s shoulder to show him something—a crooked tower, a spaceship maybe, or some strange hybrid of both. Suho’s head tilted as if he were listening intently to a world-shattering discovery, nodding with such exaggerated seriousness that Minjae dissolved into giggles.

Sieun felt something unclench, though he would never call it relief.

His gaze flicked to the kitchen before he could stop himself. The faint smell of tomato and basil lingered, almost alien compared to the usual burnt instant noodle broth. On the counter, covered by a plate, sat a still-warm portion. A yellow sticky note was crookedly slapped onto it, the handwriting sloppy but cheerful: Don’t burn it, hyung.

He swallowed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward for half a second before he shut it down. He stepped further inside, his voice even and cool. “It’s late.”

Suho startled slightly, then scrambled to his feet with all the gracelessness of someone too tall for his own limbs. His sneakers squeaked against the floor. He brushed off his sweatpants, flashing that same irrepressible grin that irritated Sieun for reasons he could not articulate.

“Hey—welcome home.”

Sieun froze. It was the way he said it. Not mechanical like the polite bows of coworkers, not casual like an acquaintance. It sounded… habitual. Familiar. Like the apartment was supposed to have two adults in it.

He blinked once, tamped down the thought, and muttered, “Minjae, bedtime.”

Minjae groaned but obeyed, scampering off toward his room, dragging his stuffed dinosaur by the tail. Suho stayed behind, rocking slightly on his heels, still wearing that grin.

And then—unexpectedly—he said it. “I hope the pasta last night wasn’t too salty.”

Sieun turned his head sharply. The words had been casual, almost careless, but they landed with a strange weight. Nobody asked him about dinner. Not colleagues, not acquaintances, not even family. His son sometimes complained. But this—

“It was fine,” he said, clipped.

Suho’s grin widened like he’d won something. “Good. I was worried. My grandma used to say I season like a soldier—too much or nothing at all.”

Sieun had no idea what that meant. He didn’t ask.

But something in his chest felt… off balance.

---

The days that followed carried the same pattern, though with small shifts that Sieun tried not to notice.

Every afternoon, he returned to the sight of his son’s happiness—genuine, unguarded. There were pillow forts straining against gravity, toy cars lodged under the sofa, sometimes even a faint burnt smell from Suho’s questionable culinary experiments. But there was always laughter. And tucked neatly in the kitchen: enough dinner for him, as though by default.

Suho had started talking more, too. Tiny intrusions, nothing dramatic, but they landed like pebbles against the glass of Sieun’s composure.

“How was your day, hyung? You look… tired.”
“I tried packing Minjae’s lunch differently—less carrots. He swore he hates carrots.”
“The kid beat me at Go Fish three times today. I think he’s hustling me.”

Sieun answered in clipped syllables, but he didn’t shut them down. That unsettled him most of all—that he let them stay.

And Suho, apparently, noticed everything. He noticed when Sieun’s tie was still tight at midnight, when the coffee canister was nearly empty by Wednesday, when Minjae’s drawings started featuring an extra tall figure labeled “Suho-hyung.”

One evening, Minjae begged for a story. “But Suho-hyung has to do the voices,” he insisted.

So Suho sprawled on the rug, waving his arms wildly, giving each character a ridiculous accent. Minjae howled until hiccups shook his chest. Sieun sat stiff on the couch, book in hand, pretending to supervise. When he tried to interject—“That’s not how the line goes”—Suho only grinned, undeterred.

“He’s got your laugh, hyung. Loud when it slips out.”

The words dropped like a stone. Sieun’s breath caught. He hadn’t realized Suho had been watching him that closely. He hadn’t realized his laugh was loud at all.

He masked it with a cough, flipping the page. But his chest felt unsteady, like the walls he’d built were shifting.

Then came the night that broke the pattern in a quieter direction.

He wasn’t even that late. The office had coughed him out sooner than usual; the elevator ride home felt like an indulgence. The apartment was dim—only the lamp in the living room on, its shade throwing a mellow circle across the table. The kitchen was clean in that learned way Suho cleaned—drying rack neat, counters wiped in big circles you could still see in the sheen. The hallway held the soft night-breath of a child asleep.

Sieun stood at Minjae’s door longer than needed. The nightlight cast a small moon on the wall; his son’s dinosaur guarded the pillow fort that was now just a tumbled stack. Minjae slept sprawled, one hand flung open like a thought abandoned mid-sentence. The blanket had been tugged up with gentle, deliberate hands. There was safety in the smallness of that room that made Sieun’s throat tighten. It hadn’t always felt this way.

When he turned, he found Suho at the dining table, hunched over a mess of printed sheets and a notebook fat with scribbles. He had a pen between his teeth, another tucked behind his ear. The lamp turned the tips of his hair into light. He did not look like chaos, not now. He looked like a young man trying very hard.

“Your posture is an injury,” Sieun said, because anything else would have been too much like walking into a conversation he didn’t know how to have.

Suho jumped; the pen pinged against the table. Then he grinned, sheepish and unembarrassed. “Welcome home,” he said, softer this time, like they were both aware Minjae was down the hall. He pushed the papers into a tidier pile with the edge of his hand. “He knocked out early tonight. Big day. He and the dinosaur had a reconciliation ceremony after snack time betrayal.”

“And you?” The question surprised Sieun as it left him.

Suho’s mouth tipped. “Midterm project. Sports management. I have to build a microplan for a youth program. Schedules, nutrition, budget. I can do the part where you run around and get sweaty.” He gestured helplessly at the spreadsheets he’d attempted on ruled paper. “The rest is… a lot of numbers pretending to be people.”

The chair scraped before Sieun decided to pull it out. He sat. The dining table was his desk some nights and a cluttered workbench others; tonight it became a classroom neither of them had planned. He touched the nearest sheet with a finger, scanning the column where Suho had listed snacks as “yummy,” “healthy,” and “sneaky healthy.”

“You can’t just write ‘yummy’ in a plan,” he said.

Suho leaned in, peering. “But it’s a critical metric.”

“You can define the metric as ‘palatability for target demographic,’” Sieun corrected dryly.

Suho said the words under his breath, as if trying on a coat too big for him. “Pala… palata— I’m going to write ‘tasty.’”

“Write both.” He reached for a pen and drew a grid without asking permission of the page. “You’re mixing fixed and variable costs, and you’re duplicating line items. Here—break them apart. Equipment purchases are up front, replacement cycles can be amortized across the quarters.”

“My brain is leaving my body,” Suho said, eyes wide and glittering with a mix of panic and delight. “Amor—what? Is that a dinosaur?”

“Depreciation schedule,” Sieun said, and because patience was muscle memory when Minjae was involved, he slowed the sentence down. “We assume your cheap cones die after a year. Your balls—” He stopped, and Suho slapped a hand over his mouth to smother a laugh that tried very hard to be quiet. A beat. “Basketballs.” He did not smile. “Replace them in the budget annually. That way the cost isn’t a surprise.”

“Okay,” Suho said, and he really was trying. His handwriting was big and eager. “Cones die. Balls—basketballs—have birthdays. Got it.”

They worked like that for a while—Sieun drawing columns, Suho populating them with messy numbers; Sieun framing a sentence, Suho translating it into his own clumsy clarity. The lamp hummed. Somewhere beyond the window, a motorcycle insisted on having feelings. Every so often, the apartment settled—pipes ticking, the refrigerator clearing its throat—and both of them would glance down the hall as if the house itself needed permission to keep breathing.

“Your nutrition section is a manifesto,” Sieun said at one point, turning a page covered in exclamation points.

Suho looked mortified. “I get… enthusiastic about kids eating actual food.”

“That is obvious.” He tapped the margin. “Keep the energy. Cut the exclamation points. Swap stories for data—‘Kids who help cook eat more vegetables’ instead of ‘Please don’t feed them only chips or I will cry.’”

“Fine. I’ll save my tears for when the sauce burns.”

There was a moment then—not long, but noticeable—when Suho set his pen down and slumped back in the chair. “Nobody ever really sat down with me like this,” he said. It wasn’t a fishing line, not a plea for praise. It was just fact, laid gently on the table between them. “Grandma tried, but homework wasn’t her battlefield. Teachers were always… busy. I learned to guess and go fast.”

“Guessing is expensive,” Sieun said, and it should have sounded like a lecture, but it came out quiet.

Suho’s eyes lifted. In the lamplight they were darker than daytime, soft at the edges but bright. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

Sieun didn’t know what complicated thing pressed against his ribs then—something like recognition, something like regret, something like the tired tenderness he allowed himself only when Minjae was asleep. He cleared his throat. He drew a smaller grid. He explained quarterly reviews and buffer percentages and why promises were safest when they lived inside numbers first.

Suho took it all in with a kind of joyous stubbornness. He asked when he needed to, nodded when he didn’t, cracked jokes just enough to keep the room from getting too stiff. Twice he nearly wrote “yummy” again and caught himself at the last second, throwing a guilty side-eye at Sieun like a child sneaking candy.

They finished close to midnight. The plan was still a student’s plan—rough edges, a few crooked lines—but it held together. It would do.

Suho sat back and let out a long, satisfied breath that seemed to lighten the room. “Thank you,” he said, and he said it like he meant the whole hour, the patience tucked into the explanations, the way Sieun had turned his pen without commentary when Suho’s ran out of ink. “For real. You… make things easier. Even when you don’t know you’re doing it.”

Something uncoiled and then recoiled in Sieun, like a creature unused to daylight. He capped the pen. He stacked the papers neatly to give his hands an occupation. “Go home,” he said, because that was the safest sentence. “You have class tomorrow.”

“Bossy,” Suho murmured, but his grin was soft. He gathered his pages, tugged his hoodie on, and stood. For once he didn’t trip over anything on his way to the door. He stopped there and turned, one hand on the frame, and it would have been so easy for Sieun to just nod and send him off into the hallway.

“Hyung,” Suho said, small. “How was your day?”

The question landed differently now, after columns and amortization and quiet. It wasn’t a pebble at the window. It was a chair pulled out at a table.

“It was long,” Sieun said, and he found, to his own surprise, that he wanted to add more. “But it ends better than it started.”

Suho’s smile did that thing again—unreasonable, immediate. He lifted two fingers in a salute. “See you tomorrow. Don’t… skip dinner.”

“Don’t burn the sauce,” Sieun countered, and the way Suho’s laugh spilled down the hall after the door clicked shut made the apartment feel briefly—dangerously—like a place with two sets of footsteps in it.

He didn’t go to his room. Not yet. He rinsed two cups that hadn’t been used. He straightened a stack of Minjae’s books no one had asked him to straighten. He walked to the doorway of his son’s room and stood there, the soft in-and-out of Minjae’s breathing smoothing the sharpness of the day. Then he went back to the table and sat where Suho had sat, half expecting warmth to have sunk into the wood and stayed there.

The plan lay between his hands, a map of a young man’s attempt at order. He could see the places he’d corrected, his handwriting stark against Suho’s eager sprawl. He saw, too, the places he’d let be—Suho’s over-earnest sentence about kids cooking vegetables; the line in the schedule labeled “Dance break (mandatory).” He didn’t cross it out.

On his way to the kitchen he opened the fridge without thinking. The container was there, the sticky note more crooked than yesterday’s. He ate standing up, chopsticks moving on muscle memory while his mind replayed the lamp-lit hour in slow circles. He tried to name the feeling and failed. Relief was part of it. Fear, a sliver. Something warmer that he would not touch.

Later, in bed, the apartment made the night sounds it had always made, but they seemed to belong to a different house—a house where the quiet rested instead of accused, where the dark did not swallow so much as fold around. He closed his eyes and saw the shape of Suho’s hand gripping a pen too tight, the way his mouth moved around a new word until it fit, the way he had said you make things easier like he was putting truth down gently where it couldn’t be knocked over.

He told himself it was temporary. He told himself he was grateful for competence, for energy, for a boy who wasn’t a boy where it mattered. He told himself a lot of things as sleep crept up on him, and none of them contained the sentence that wanted to be said most: Stay.

In the morning, Minjae would find a new sticky note on the fridge with a small drawing in a tidy hand: three stick figures and, beside them, a fourth thing that was not a person—just a square with a bow. A packed lunch. He would ask who it was for. “Suho-hyung,” Sieun would say, and make it sound practical.

For now, the lamp was off, the city was a rumor beyond the window, and somewhere a young man in a red windbreaker was walking down a street with his head up, pockets full of lists, and a page that held, for the first time, numbers that behaved.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a night off. For once, Suho wasn’t running from one place to another, juggling classes and the part-time job he’d stumbled into like a lifeline. He was leaning back in a too-small chair at a noisy fried chicken joint, a bottle of beer sweating in his hand while Baku and Beakjin argued over who was the worst shooter on the court. Seongje was laughing so hard he nearly choked on a wing.

“You’ve changed, man,” Baku said, grinning across the table at Suho. “A month ago you’d be here every night, talking trash and drinking us under. Now you’re always running home like—” he wagged his brows, “—like some househusband. Don’t tell me that hot single dad stole you away for good.”

The table erupted into laughter. Suho rolled his eyes and reached for another chicken wing. “Shut up. I'm working my ass off for real.”

“You’re whipped,” Seongje declared suddenly, pointing a greasy drumstick at him.

“I’m not whipped,” Suho shot back, reaching across to steal a fry.

“Bro,” Beakjin cut in, grinning like a wolf. “You ditched us twice last week because Minjae had a school project. You’re basically the kid’s second dad.”

“Housewife,” Seongje chimed in, raising his beer in mock salute. “The way you cook dinners? Pack it up, Suho, you’re done for.”

Suho groaned, slumping back in his chair. “He’s my boss. End of story.”

Baku leaned forward, eyes glinting. “A hot boss, with eyes like the ocean. You said so yourself, remember? Don’t think we forgot.”

Suho froze, caught off guard. He had said that once, weeks ago, half-drunk and too loose-tongued for his own good. His friends roared with laughter at the look on his face.

“Man, bet he’s a player,” Beakjin said, voice dripping mischief. “Knocked up some girl and now ended up being a hot single dad. You sure you wanna get involved in that mess?”

Suho bristled. “He’s not—” He stopped himself, realizing how defensive he sounded. “Look, he’s not like that. He’s… just tired. Works too much. Drinks coffee like water. Half the time, I think he forgets to eat unless someone reminds him. He’s not some player.”

“I’m serious!” Beakjin pressed. “Have you even asked about the mother? Maybe she’s still around. Maybe she’s coming back.”

Something tightened in Suho’s chest. He hadn’t asked. He didn’t dare. Every time he thought about it, something in Sieun’s eyes — the kind of hollow depth you couldn’t fake — warned him away from the question.

“I’m not interested,” Suho muttered finally, though the heat in his ears betrayed him. “He’s… he’s straight as a ruler anyway.”

Baku barked a laugh. “Straight? Please. You’re in too deep, bro. Next thing we know, you’ll be showing up here in an apron, bragging about how you made Daddy Yeon’s favorite soup.”

The whole table dissolved again, and Suho forced himself to laugh with them. But later, when the laughter dulled and the night air cooled against his skin outside, the words lingered, curling heavy in the corners of his mind.

Have you even asked about the mother?
Hot boss, with eyes like the ocean.

His phone buzzed against the table. He ignored it, halfway through his beer. It buzzed again. And again.

When he finally glanced down and saw the name on the screen, his pulse jolted. Sieun.

He excused himself, stepping into the cool night air, and pressed accept. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end wasn’t the composed, clipped tone he’d grown used to. Sieun’s words tumbled fast, fraying. “Suho—sorry—it’s late, I know, but Minjae’s got a fever, it’s high, I gave him medicine but it won’t go down. I—” He broke off, breathing sharp. “I just got called in. They need me in the office. It’s urgent. I can’t—” A ragged pause, and then, quieter: “Can you please stay with him? Just tonight. Please.”

Suho didn’t even think. “I’ll be there.”

“Really?” The relief in that single word nearly undid him.

“Yeah. Just—don’t panic. I’m coming now.”

By the time he ducked back inside, his friends were staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “What’s the rush?” Beakjin asked.

“Kid emergency,” Suho muttered, pulling on his jacket. He ignored the wolf-whistles and teasing comments that followed, his thoughts already racing ahead.

---

He arrived at the apartment breathless, damp hair sticking to his forehead. The door swung open to reveal Sieun, pale and harried, one hand pressed to Minjae’s forehead. The boy lay restless on the couch, cheeks flushed, breathing shallow.

Sieun’s tie was half-off, shirt wrinkled, as if he’d tried to dress for work and care for his son at the same time. For once, the man who always seemed so controlled looked frayed, fragile.

“Sorry,” Sieun said, the word tight, rushed. “I shouldn’t ask this of you, but I have no choice. He—he needs someone with him.” His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly.

Suho shook his head, stepping forward. “Go. I’ll stay. Don’t worry.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment Sieun froze. There was something unspoken there — trust, desperation, the tiniest spark of something else. Then he grabbed his car key, muttered another apology, and left in a whirl of hurried footsteps.

The apartment fell into silence. Suho knelt beside Minjae, touching his forehead with a cool towel. “Hey, champ. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Minjae whimpered, small hand reaching blindly, and Suho let him hold on, his fingers squeezing tighter than they should for someone so little. He told him stories — nonsense about a brave knight who fought off fevers with magic ice swords, about a dragon who guarded soup instead of treasure. Slowly, the boy relaxed, his breathing evening out.

Hours stretched. Suho stayed, refreshing the towel, whispering reassurances, until his own head nodded heavy and he dozed off in the chair beside the couch, hand still resting protectively on the blanket.

When Sieun came back, the sky was paling with the first hint of dawn. He stepped quietly inside, shoulders weighted from a night of damage control at work, but his eyes softened instantly.

Suho slouched on the floor, head tilted back against the couch, dozing lightly. Minjae tucked in, cooler now, face peaceful.

For a long moment, Sieun just stood there. His chest tightened in a way he didn’t want to name.

Suho stirred at the sound, blinking awake. “Hey,” he said softly, voice rough with sleep. “He’s okay. Fever dropped a little.”

Relief cracked through Sieun so sharply it almost hurt. He set his briefcase down, pinched the bridge of his nose. “…Thank you.”

They ended up in the kitchen, the apartment hushed around them. Sieun pulled out two beers, pushed one toward Suho. They sat at the table, both too tired to fill the silence at first.

Finally, Sieun spoke. “You didn’t have to do all this. But you did. I don’t…” He trailed off, lips pressed tight. Then, quieter: “You made it easier. For both of us.”

Suho looked at him — really looked — at the worn lines of his face, the exhaustion tempered by something softer. And, damn it, there it was again: those ocean eyes, tired but still shimmering, drawing him in deeper than he meant to go.

He covered it with a grin, raising his bottle. “Guess I’m good for more than burnt pasta, huh?”

The laugh that slipped from Sieun’s mouth was quiet, almost reluctant. But it was real.

And that, Suho thought, was worth everything.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Minjae started talking about sports day like it was a national holiday and he was the host. He bounced in his chair at dinner, feet drumming the chair rungs, dinosaur clamped under his arm like a mascot who’d unionized.

“You have to come,” he told Suho, sauce on his chin. “You and Daddy. If you don’t come, who will shout ‘run run run run run’ in the exact right voice?”

Sieun, who had been pretending not to listen while de-weaponizing a cherry tomato, said, “Suho has classes,” in the careful tone of a man offering an out he did not want accepted.

Suho glanced at Minjae’s expectant face. “I can shout in several professional registers,” he said. “Cheer voice, coach voice, dinosaur voice. I’m in.”

Minjae whooped, nearly fell off his chair, and then tried out a test chant while Sieun’s mouth did that micro-twitch it did around things he wanted to call impractical and secretly approved of anyway.

The morning arrived bright and aggressively cheerful, the kind of early light that made even apartment stairwells look freshly invented. Suho showed up in a cap and track pants and a T-shirt that had lost a war with a dryer, carrying a tote bag so overstuffed it had opinions. He’d labeled water bottles (HYUNG / DADDY / CHAMPION), packed snacks, a travel umbrella, the “good” band-aids (cartoon dinosaurs—he had become that person), and sunscreen he had already decided would be reapplied every hour whether the sun liked it or not.

Sieun looked…out of place. Not in a suit, thank god, but in simple jeans and a pale button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. It wasn’t casual in the way other dads were—no sportswear, no sneakers meant for sprinting—but somehow the neatness only made him stand out more. His hair was ruffled, as if he’d run a distracted hand through it on the way out the door. His face looked tired, faint shadows beneath his ocean-colored eyes, lips pressed in the kind of straight line that suggested he’d rather be at his desk or anywhere else but here.

And yet.

To Suho, watching from a half-step behind, the man still looked devastatingly nice. Too much so for a kindergarten sports day where other fathers were busy sweating through polyester. Sieun bent down to adjust Minjae’s shoelaces, murmuring something so quietly Suho couldn’t catch it, and for one dangerous second Suho thought, beautiful.

The kindergarten yard was an explosion of small humans and bigger humans trying to look collected. Flags strung overhead blinked in the breeze, teachers wore matching T-shirts that said GO TEAM KINDER in aggressive fonts, and someone had set up a speaker that alternated between peppy children’s songs and inexplicably, 80s rock. The smell of cut grass, sunscreen, and the secondhand stress of a hundred adults wafted in waves.

“Appa! Appa!” a teacher chirped when she saw them, bustling over with a clipboard and the energy of a caffeinated squirrel. She looked at Suho, then at Sieun, then at Minjae bouncing between them like ping-pong. Her smile widened by mathematical degrees. “The whole family! So nice to see both parents today!”

There was a beat in which zero people corrected her.

Suho almost did—some snark lived permanently on his tongue—but Minjae had hooked his small hand into Suho’s sleeve and was looking up at all three of them like the picture had finally matched the book. Suho shut his mouth, nodded solemnly, and said, “Team Yeon reporting for duty.”

Sieun’s ears went faintly pink. He didn’t move to disabuse anyone of anything. Suho looked away so he wouldn’t smile with his whole face.

Warm-up stretched into something between choreography and chaos. The teachers led a follow-along dance that appeared to have been invented by a committee: jump, clap, spin, pretend to be a tree, suddenly stomp like a dinosaur. Suho committed like a man auditioning for the role of “Fun Uncle,” limbs too long, hat askew, Minjae shrieking at his dramatic velociraptor. Sieun began stiffly, then—under Minjae’s merciless coaching—attempted the stomp with the seriousness of a merger. When he accidentally spun into Suho and then pretended he had meant to, Suho wheezed and Minjae declared their technique “illegal, but cool.”

Events spilled across the field in cheerful tyranny: obstacle course, beanbag toss, balancing races involving spoons and golf balls and the fragile dignity of adults. Suho tied shoelaces like a triage nurse, stuck stickers on foreheads for bravery, and became, within fifteen minutes, the designated piggyback ride for three children who were not his. He rotated water bottles like a pit crew chief and sunscreened Minjae’s nose with the gravitas of a war painter. When he held the bottle out to Sieun, there was a hesitance at the edges, a question that wasn’t about SPF at all.

Sieun, who had the kind of complexion that burned even under fluorescent office light, tilted his face without a comment. Suho dabbed two neat stripes on his cheeks. “Now you look like you’re going into battle,” he said.

“I am,” Sieun said, eyeing the upcoming parents’ relay with visible calculation. “And I am under-equipped.”

The parents’ relay began as all disasters do: with optimism. Minjae insisted on pairing with both of them (“You are my two legs,” he declared, scandalizing physics), so a compromise was struck: Suho would run the balloon-between-foreheads stretch with him; Sieun would take the three-legged final.

The balloon segment devolved immediately into a farce. Suho leaned down, Minjae tiptoed, they pressed foreheads to plastic and toddled like ungainly deer. Suho narrated in whispers—“We are stealth spies. The balloon is a secret code. Do not pop the government.”—which was ruined six steps in when Minjae laughed so hard he popped their intelligence. The pop startled a nearby dad into dropping his egg-and-spoon, which set off a chain reaction of dropped eggs and one child triumphantly shouting, “WE LOST WITH HONOR!”

By the time they reached the hand-off cone, both of them were crying with laughter. Sieun knotted his leg to Minjae’s with the focus of a sailor securing a ship in a storm. Suho, bent double, wheezed, “Run like you’re late to a quarterly review.”

Sieun shot him a look that said he did not run late to quarterly reviews, then took off in a careful hop-hop. Minjae’s little leg tied to his long stride turned the movement into a synchronized ridiculousness that somehow worked. They didn’t win, but Minjae threw his arms up like they had set a world record. He beamed at both of them, face bright and sweaty, and declared, “My team is the tallest.”

“You hear that?” Suho said, handing Sieun a water bottle. “Tallest team. Data-backed.”

Sieun took the bottle. Their fingers brushed. The moment was nothing and too much at once, the tiny warmth of it arrowing under Suho’s ribcage. Sieun blinked once and then looked at anywhere that was not Suho’s mouth.

Between events, the teachers made the rounds, sticky stars at the ready. One, a cheerful woman with a pixie cut and a voice that could command ten toddlers at once, stopped in front of them. “Family photo?” she asked, already lifting her tablet. “It’s for our newsletter!”

Suho opened his mouth to say something appropriately unserious and then shut it because Minjae had plastered himself to both their legs and was holding up his medal ribbon like a knight saluting his king and queen. Sieun hesitated. The teacher solved it by physically arranging them: Minjae in the middle, Sieun’s hand on his shoulder, Suho slightly behind and to the side. “Closer,” she chirped. Suho moved; he felt the brush of Sieun’s shoulder through cotton, the slightest contact that the camera would never capture and his skin would not forget.

“Say ‘bulgogi!’”

“Bulgogi,” Suho echoed, grinning like a man who did not know where to put his hands, and the shutter clicked.

The tug-of-war finale turned into a morality tale about hubris. Suho dug his heels in like a cartoon ox, made faces at Minjae to keep him laughing, and took the whole left flank far too seriously because he had been called out by a dad in a tracksuit who said, with a glint, “Hyung, don’t lose.” Sieun joined, which was insane—his shoes were treacherous—and still he leaned back with a straight line from jaw to heel, quiet and implacable. They slid anyway, grass coating Suho’s calves, Minjae squealing with glee even as they were dragged past the line.

“Unfair,” Suho gasped from the ground, hair full of turf, laughing so hard his cap fell off. “They had, like, six uncles on their team.”

“You were making faces at a six-year-old while losing ground,” Sieun said, dusting grass off Suho’s shoulder with two curt, unnecessary pats that somehow set Suho’s entire nervous system on fire. “Consider a strategy not reliant on grimacing.”

“Wow.” Suho flopped a hand to his chest. “We’re getting post-game notes now. Coach Yeon emerges.”

“I am merely observing,” Sieun said.

“Uh-huh.” Suho raised his brows. “Observation: you almost smiled when I face-planted.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You did. It was small, like when your email says ‘per my last message.’”

“Drink water,” Sieun said, which was not a denial.

Parents started to pack up. Someone passed out paper cups of lurid juice. Minjae, medal slightly crooked, ran in small triumphant circles, showing every staff member and two rocks his gleaming prize. Suho fielded questions from three different moms who asked if he gave lessons (“Lessons in what?”—“Being this tall and patient,” one said, fanning herself theatrically), and he tried not to look at Sieun during that onslaught because the place behind Suho’s ribs felt like it might do something reckless if he saw anything that could be read as reaction.

He failed not to look when a child, bold and literal, marched up to Minjae and asked, “Where’s your mom?”

Another parent winced, too late to intercept. Minjae didn’t flinch. He glanced instinctively at Suho and Sieun and then squared his small shoulders.

“We don’t have one,” he said, with the grave serenity of a pronouncement. “We have Daddy. And Suho-hyung. It’s enough.”

The sentence landed like a bell. Suho’s throat closed and then opened again around a laugh he couldn’t release. He reached down and squeezed Minjae’s shoulder once, brief and fierce. Over the boy’s head, he saw something move in Sieun’s face—something complicated and bright and afraid, the way light looks under water when the surface has just been broken.

“Let’s go, champion,” Suho said then, too loudly, full of air he didn’t need. “You need victory dumplings.”

“I need two,” Minjae said, instantly mercenary.

“Start with one,” Sieun said, automatic, and Suho caught the corner of his mouth, the tiny lift that came with having someone else to volley with.

On the way out, the pixie-cut teacher pressed a slip of paper into Sieun’s hand. “We’ll send the photos tonight. The family shot is adorable.” She beamed and was gone before either of them could stammer anything that wasn’t an admission of something they couldn’t name.

Minjae fell asleep in the car before they pulled out of the lot, medal askew, mouth parted. The world shrank to the quiet cabin, afternoon light angling in, the soft click of the turn signal—a metronome for thoughts neither of them wanted to speak.

“He’s happy,” Suho said finally, voice low, as if saying it too loud would wake the spell. “You’re doing a good job.”

Sieun’s hands tightened on the wheel and then loosened. He kept his eyes on the road. “You’re part of that,” he said. It was not gratitude. It was an inclusion.

They drove in that self-contained hush that only exists when a sleeping child is in the backseat, the warmth between front seats something other than the weather. At a red light, both their phones buzzed. The school had sent the link. The preview thumbnail showed three figures: a small boy blazing with joy, a tall young man leaning in a fraction without realizing it, and a man with ancient eyes caught mid-softness, as if he’d forgotten to wear the rest of his armor for the picture.

Suho stared longer than necessary. “Send me that?” he asked, too casual.

“I will,” Sieun said, and his voice did the thing it did when he wasn’t thinking about keeping it level. “I’ll print a copy for Minjae, too.”

He almost added and one for you, and Suho almost said and one for you, and they didn’t, because the light turned green and the city made its regular demands.

Back at the apartment, the debrief was practical: shoes off, medal placed in a bowl like a relic, sweatshirt tied around the sleeping boy’s waist before Suho folded him into his arms and carried him to bed. They orchestrated a quiet undress, a careful blanket pull, the ridiculous art of removing a medal ribbon from a child’s neck without waking him, both stifling laughter when the medal thunked lightly against the headboard and Minjae snuffled but did not wake.

In the hallway, they spoke in whispers because the walls remembered joy better that way.

“Next year,” Suho said, still a little breathless for reasons sprinting did not explain, “you’re wearing sneakers.”

“Next year,” Sieun said, dry, “you’re not picking a fight with a balloon.”

“Bold of you to assume the balloon won’t start it.”

“Go home safely,” Sieun said, and it meant a dozen smaller things: thank you for today; I saw you; leave before I say more.

Suho took a step back, then another, then stopped. “Hey,” he said, thumb hooking the strap of his bag. “That family photo… even if they got it wrong,” and here his eyes flicked without meaning to, “it looked right. To me.”

He could have left it at that. He should have. But Sieun’s face did something at that sentence, a small unguarded thing that made Suho’s body want to move forward instead of away. He didn’t. He lifted two fingers in a salute that, somehow, wasn’t unserious.

“See you tomorrow, hyung.”

“Tomorrow,” Sieun echoed. It sounded like the end of a prayer and the beginning of one.

When the door closed, the hallway felt suddenly too narrow and the elevator too slow. He grinned into his shoulder, helpless, and then laughed when his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number that was not unknown at all:

Sieun: Photo.

A second later, the image arrived again, high-resolution proof that whatever they weren’t saying had a shape anyway.

Inside, Sieun stood at the kitchen counter with the printed slip from the teacher in his pocket and the sound of muffled traffic outside and the weight of a long, absurdly good day pressing at his bones. He looked around the apartment—as if seeing it for the first time: the shoes lined up messily, the water bottles with their stupid labels waiting in the dish rack, the medal sleeping in the bowl. He opened the fridge to no real end and closed it again with a small nod to no one.

The silence had changed color. It would again. For now, it held a picture. For now, it held the echo of a chant still faintly ringing in his ears—run run run—and the knowledge that when he had, someone else had run beside him, ridiculous shoes and all.

Chapter Text

Suho had never thought kindergarten sports day would stick to him like this. It should’ve been the kind of thing you laughed about once and moved on — kids in oversized T-shirts running in crooked lines, parents pretending not to mind grass stains, balloon races that ended in chaos. And yet he kept seeing it in flashes, like a reel looping in the back of his mind.

Minjae grinning so hard his cheeks went pink, holding up his medal like it was gold.
Sieun, sleeves rolled to his elbows, running a three-legged race with all the awkward dignity of a man who had never been off-balance in his life — and laughing when Minjae tripped him anyway.
The teacher lining them up for a photo, insisting they “stand closer, family!” while Minjae clutched both their hands at once.

Suho had laughed it off at the time, tossing out a joke about “Team Yeon.” But that photo haunted him. The way Sieun’s head tilted the slightest bit toward him, like gravity itself was in on a joke. The way his own shoulder brushed Sieun’s, and how he hadn’t moved away.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About them.

Which was insane.

Suho sprawled across his bed now, the ceiling fan slicing lazy shadows above, textbooks half-open on the floor where they’d slipped off hours ago. He was twenty. He should’ve been worrying about exams, or whether he had enough saved to cover tuition after that failed credit last semester. Not about a man in his mid-twenties with a five-year-old and eyes like the ocean.

But every time he closed his eyes, those eyes filled the darkness. Watery, deep, so calm they should’ve been cold — and yet something in them tugged Suho closer, made his chest ache and his brain short-circuit. He’d look up from tying Minjae’s shoelaces and forget what he was doing because Sieun had glanced at him across the room. He’d sit at the kitchen table listening to Sieun explain some finance thing to Minjae like it was a puzzle, and Suho would just… blank.

It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was confusion, a fog he couldn’t push through. This was new territory, this domestic orbit he’d fallen into. Grocery lists, dinners, bedtime stories, morning texts about whether Minjae remembered his homework. It shouldn’t feel like home, but it did. And that made Suho’s chest both swell and tighten, like a balloon filled too far.

Chapter Text

Friday nights now had a rhythm. Minjae always made it a duel first—bedtime vs. dinosaur—in which bedtime lost for a while and then, inevitably, won. By nine-fifteen the roar softened to a yawn; by nine-thirty he was starfished across the covers, one sock on, one sock lost to the mysterious under-bed void, plastic stegosaurus clamped beneath his chin like a bodyguard. Ten o’clock used to mean Suho washed the last dish, texted his grandma—home soon—and slipped out into the night with the easy relief of a day that fit its edges.

Tonight didn’t fit. Ten slid to ten-thirty. Eleven. The apartment was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made the refrigerator hum sound like it had things to say. The hallway to Minjae’s room was a small tunnel of dark; soft breathing eased out of it in a steady, comforting rhythm. Suho sat near the door with his backpack on the floor and his phone in his hand and told himself not to look at the lock every thirty seconds.

He couldn’t leave. Of course he couldn’t. Responsibility had weight, and it was five years old and asleep in the next room. He tried to pretend that was the only reason his knee kept bouncing. It wasn’t.

He killed time badly. He opened a textbook and read one sentence six times until it turned into sound instead of meaning. He scrolled through the class group chat and tried to care about a meme war over whether coffee counted as a food group. He messaged Baku back—still at work?—and got approximately three skull emojis and we’re playing 2K u coward, log on later in reply. He stood, paced, sat, stood again. He checked the peephole (useless). He went to the sink, filled a glass, didn’t drink it, set it on the counter, picked it up, drank it after all, then hated the glass for not solving anything.

By eleven-thirty he was irritated at how much not-knowing could take up space. At eleven forty-three he walked to Minjae’s door and just stood there, listening, letting the tiny proof of the boy’s breathing loosen the knot behind his ribs. He whispered, “Go back to sleep, champ,” to no one and to himself.

At eleven fifty-six the lock finally scraped.

Relief hit so hard it made him laugh under his breath, this little broken thing, and then the door swung open and everything he knew about Yeon Sieun—cool, composed, cut from glass—fell apart in one crooked step.

He stumbled. Not the elegant stumble of a man who would pretend he’d meant it. A real, gravity-wins stumble. His tie was loose, his shirt half-untucked, his hair had given up and gone soft, and his eyes—those impossible dark oceans—were blurred at the edges, unfocused, a tide rolled up too far. Soju clung to him like a second suit.

“Hyung?” Suho crossed the room fast, catching his elbow before he could go down. “Oh my— You’re gone.”

Sieun blinked. It took time to land on Suho’s face. “Clients,” he said, very seriously, as if this explained physics and regret. “Important dinner. Had to… be agreeable.”

“Yeah, and apparently ‘agreeable’ means trying to become a rice wine,” Suho muttered, shifting so Sieun’s arm was over his shoulders. “God, why are you this wasted? Who let you do this? Who is your handler and where can I fight them?”

“I’m fine,” Sieun tried, which would have been more convincing if he hadn’t immediately leaned with all his weight into Suho like the room had decided to slide diagonally.

“Fine, my ass.” Suho braced his legs and started them toward the hallway in these lurching, ridiculous steps, half drag, half waltz. “You’re about two sojus from starring in a corporate HR warning video.”

“Sorry,” Sieun mumbled. His voice kept catching on s’s and falling through vowels. “Sorry. Clients… dinner. Didn’t want… Minjae to…”

“I know,” Suho said before he could stop himself, tone going gentle under the sarcasm. “He didn’t see. He’s out like a light. Come on, move, you’re not sleeping in the entryway like a decorative plant.”

They made it three steps. Sieun discovered the wall, leaned his forehead against it with the grave tenderness of a man greeting an old friend, and shut his eyes. “Cold,” he sighed, content, like he’d arrived.

Suho smacked his shoulder lightly with the back of his hand. “Do not make friends with the wall. This is not your stop.”

“Wall,” Sieun said firmly, like he was correcting him. “Reliable.”

“Okay, first of all, rude. I’m reliable.” Suho tugged him. “Second, your bed is literally ten steps away. Third, if you fall asleep here, I will take photos and show them to Minjae when he’s a teenager.”

That got a frown, which on drunk-Sieun looked like a kitten trying to be a hawk. “Mean.”

“Effective.” Suho set his foot against the baseboard and leveraged him away, muttering to himself: “I did not sign up for adult wrangling. I am a nanny. For a child. A small one. With better balance than you.”

They pinballed down the hall. Twice, Sieun tried to sit on the shoe cabinet like it was a bench. Once, he attempted a dignified hand-wave that almost took out a lamp. Suho narrated the whole trek like an exhausted tour guide.

“On your left, a plant that does not want you. On your right, a bookshelf that will sue if you touch it. Straight ahead, a bed. You know beds. You’re a fan. Let’s go.”

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot and the room came into view and, just for a second, Suho forgot how to move.

He’d never been inside. He’d imagined sterile: colorless, cold, spare the way Sieun could be when he shut himself tight. It was neat, yes—files stacked straight, books squared to the shelf edge—but there were soft things inexplicable in their ability to cut: a photo of Minjae in absurd sunglasses, teeth bared in a feral grin; a sweater draped over the chair, like someone had been too tired to fold it and decided that was allowed; a watch resting beside a mug with a brown ring at the bottom; a tiny paper crown, crooked, obviously handmade, tucked under the corner of a picture frame like a secret talisman.

It was a room somebody lived in. It was a room somebody came home to. It smelled faintly like coffee and clean cotton and something else Suho only knew as him.

“Sit,” Suho ordered, because his brain needed a job and that one existed. He wrangled Sieun to the mattress and the man sat with the boneless obedience of a marionette whose strings had been dropped. Then he listed sideways abruptly, like the bed had turned, and Suho lunged to catch him, cursing and laughing all at once.

“You’re heavy,” he groaned, easing him back onto the pillows. “I’m going to need hazard pay and a chiropractor.”

“Sorry,” again, but softer this time, the kind of sorry you say when the word itself feels like a cushion.

He tugged at the laces—no, too elegant for laces; of course the shoes were slip-ons with smug little elastic—and got them off. He set them neatly beside the bed without thinking, like he’d been coming in here a hundred nights and therefore knew where they belonged. He loosened the tie, unbuttoned the cuffs. It was not sensual; it was survival. Still, his fingers felt too aware of the pulse at Sieun’s wrist, the warm slide of fabric, the way the man exhaled when his collar loosened as if air could finally get in.

“Next time,” Suho muttered, which implied there might be one, which he did not examine, “pace yourself. Or smuggle water between courses. Or fake a stomach bug. Or—this is radical—say no.”

“Clients,” Sieun repeated like a prayer that didn’t save him.

“Yeah, well, your clients can fight me,” Suho said. “I’ll win on points.”

That almost-smile flickered. Suho pretended he didn’t see it because he was busy pulling the blanket up. His hand smoothed it once; his palm felt the shape of a shoulder through cotton; his breath did something inadvisable. He snatched his hand back.

He turned toward the door and then back again—like the room had a gravity that tilted him in a small arc—and stood there longer than he meant to, watching. He had known from the beginning that Sieun was beautiful in a way that made the word feel sloppy—carved features, that mouth, those eyes that could look right through noise. He had not considered that mess would make it worse. But something about this—the slackness, the unarmored line of his throat, the way his lashes lay dark against his cheek—punched below language.

“Goodnight, hyung,” he said, barely sound, and the word hyung flashed in him like it always did—playful, affectionate, dangerous when applied to a man who wasn’t supposed to have that title from his mouth—and then he fled.

The apartment felt too big when he pulled the door nearly shut behind him. The hallway’s dim gave way to the kitchen’s low light. He could leave now. He could write a note—put water by the bed—and go. But his hands had their own plan already; they were pulling the cupboard open, finding the pot, assessing the too-empty fridge with the fatalism of a college student and the optimism of a grandmother.

Rice. Egg. A half bunch of scallions. A little leftover chicken breast, plain and tidy, in a container like everything else in this man’s life. Suho rinsed the rice until the water went cloudy, dropped it in, covered with water, added the little things that made poor ingredients rich—a pinch of salt, a sliver of ginger from the back of the crisper, the white ends of the scallions bruised with the flat of the knife. He let it come to a boil, turned it down so it would get that soft, spoon-barely-needs-to-do-anything texture. His grandma’s voice arrived like muscle memory: Soup fixes things your pride won’t. The first time he’d failed a credit, she’d ladled him congee and called him my smart boy anyway, and that had been worse and better than crying.

Steam softened the edges of the air. He stirred, added the egg in a thin stream, watched the broth catch and cloud, scattered the green of the scallions on top so it looked like luck. He tasted and winced and adjusted and tasted again until it tasted like something that said it’s okay without getting sentimental about it.

He poured a glass of water and put it on the bedside table. He dragged the small trash bin to within easy reach because he was not naïve. He hesitated at the door, listening: nothing but even breath. Good. He pressed the door almost closed, leaving that narrow slice of safety open—the habit of a man who’d learned children sometimes needed a hallway’s worth of reassurance to get through the night.

Back in the kitchen, he tore a piece of paper from a grocery list and scratched a note, handwriting slanted from using the counter as a desk.

Soup’s on the stove. Good for hangovers.
Grandma makes it for me after failed credits lol.
Don’t skip breakfast, hyung.

He frowned at the lol, considered crossing it out, decided it softened the line of worry in the word hangovers, and let it stand. He propped the note against the pot lid where even a half-dead man would see it.

It was very late now. Or very early. The city’s noise had thinned to the small persistent sounds of people who worked when everyone else slept. Suho’s body was suddenly heavy with the crash after adrenaline, and his brain—traitor—wanted to tiptoe back to the door and look again. He didn’t. He rinsed the knife, turned off the stove, took one last look around the kitchen to make sure it was more neat than it had been, as if that was a kind of care, and slipped out into the corridor with a key twist that didn’t dare click loud.

He didn’t notice until he was in the elevator, watching floors blink down, that his palms smelled faintly like ginger and scallion and soap, and that the smell made him ache.

—

Morning. A slow, ugly thing with light that overdid it and a headache that wrote its name carefully across the inside of Sieun’s skull.

He surfaced the way you surface from bad water: cautious, a little shocked to find air. The room arranged itself around him—desk, shelves, the stupid paper crown Minjae had demanded he keep—like a puzzle he’d solved a thousand times and suddenly couldn’t remember if he’d put together correctly the night before. He moved and his shirt tugged softly at his shoulder and he realized, with a detached sort of curiosity, that his tie was off and his cuffs unbuttoned and his shoes were lined up neatly on the floor, toes paired, as if some gentler version of himself had prepared for him to land.

Memory was a sawtooth. Clients, smiling with too many teeth. Glass clinks that multiplied into something like rain. Laughter too loud, a joke that wasn’t funny but required a performance, the particular heat behind the eyes that meant too much. The walk home felt like film missing frames. And then—like a bright card resurfacing—you. Suho’s face, closer than he usually allowed it to be. The feel of a shoulder under his hand, young and solid. A voice, exasperated and careful at the same time. The brief, humiliating thought—don’t let my son see me like this—and the relief of hearing he didn’t in a tone that made a promise out of simple fact.

His mouth tasted like regret. His stomach made a warning noise and then decided to try being reasonable. He got upright slowly, discovered someone had placed a glass of water on the bedside table (not him; he was not that kind to himself), drank it in careful swallows, and made it as far as the kitchen before the smell found him.

Warm. Clean. The kind of smell that convinces the body to trust the next minute.

A pot sat on the stove, still faintly warm to the touch. Beside it, a note. He didn’t recognize the paper until he turned it over; milk / apples / rice / coffee stared back at him in his own block letters—the list he’d written, twice: coffee, because he didn’t trust himself to remember the first one. On the front, in Suho’s mess of strokes:

Soup’s on the stove. Good for hangovers.
Grandma makes it for me after failed credits lol.
Don’t skip breakfast, hyung.

He stood there with the note in his hand and let the silence behave differently. It didn’t press on him. It held him up, a little. He could hear Minjae’s voice in the rooms that weren’t awake yet, like an echo; he could hear, absurdly, the hiss of a pot one hour ago when he’d been unconscious. He was not alone inside his morning.

He lifted the lid and steam rose like something forgiving. Rice bloomed soft in broth; ribbons of egg curled golden; scallion freckled the surface. He ladled it out and the first spoonful found the place in him that had been scraped raw by performance and filled it. He exhaled by accident.

He leaned on the counter, bowl in one hand, note in the other, and let the two facts sit side by side: he had called Suho; Suho had come; this was now on his stove. He did not let his mind write the sentence I don’t know what I’d do without you in present tense even though he had already typed it last night. He did not let himself think the word dependence. He did let himself stand there longer than necessary reading the same four lines until the lol made him huff an unwilling smile.

He rinsed the bowl, set it in the rack, folded the note in half and then in half again without meaning to, as if making it small would make it less loud, and tucked it under a magnet on the side of the fridge where Minjae wouldn’t notice right away. He caught sight of himself in the microwave door—a man not quite as ruined as he’d felt waking up, hair a mess, eyes still too dark but clearer—and he thought for one second of last night’s room: a boy in a red windbreaker shouldering him to bed with more competence than he’d had the right to have; a ridiculous voice threatening to show his son blackmail photos; a gentling hand pulling a blanket up just to the collarbone and then snatching away like it had touched heat.

His phone was on the table with the charger coiled beside it. Two messages glowed from clients—curt, satisfied, something about numbers moving as they should. One sat in the thread with Suho: nothing new, just the last line he’d sent: Don’t skip breakfast, hyung. He considered writing Thank you and decided that was redundant—he’d said it last night; he would say it again, properly, when the day allowed his mouth to work. He typed instead:

You didn’t have to. Thank you anyway.

He hovered, deleted anyway, retyped it, deleted it again, sent the shorter thing before he could edit the human out.

Then another impulse, less tidy, pushed his thumb: It helped.

He set the phone down like it might bite him, went to check on his son so he would remember the reason for all this, and paused in the hallway to press his palm to the door Suho had pulled almost, not quite, closed. The gap let the night’s care leak into the morning. He could hear Minjae’s soft snuffle, that small animal sound children make when they turn over into another dream. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, felt the throb muted by soup and water and sleep, and let himself think, okay. Just once.

—

Suho woke late at his grandma’s to the sound of a kettle and the smell of rice. He squinted at his phone and found two messages stacked like little lights:

You didn’t have to. Thank you.

It helped.

His chest did the swift, stupid thing again. He typed back:

How’s the head?

A long beat. Then:

Recovering. Will attempt coffee after… soup.

Proud of you, he wrote, because reckless was a morning mood, and then added, Text if you need—

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The offer was always there now, threaded through his days like a second color.

His grandma knocked his ankle with her toe. “Eat,” she said. “You look like a boy who fought a storm.”

He grinned. “I won.”

“Of course you did.” She squinted at him. “You smell like ginger.”

He did. He thought of a dark hallway, a door he’d left a finger’s width open, a man asleep with his cuffs undone, a room that had looked more like a life than he’d expected. He thought of a note propped against a pot and a magnet on a fridge and a line that had read, Don’t skip breakfast, hyung. He ate, and the rice was perfect because his grandma was a machine, and when he left for the day, his phone buzzed with another flood of messages in the group chat — Baku demanding his RSVP for the trip, Seongje threatening to “kidnap him,” Beakjin sending memes about rivers. Suho just locked the screen. The bus that would take him to the kindergarten gate was due in three minutes, and that mattered more. 

When he reached the apartment that evening, Minjae would brag about how his daddy had eaten two bowls of breakfast, which in this house counted as a miracle. Suho would look at Sieun, who would look back not quite as long as the night demanded and say nothing he couldn’t take back. That was fine. A night ago, he’d held him up. This morning, he’d kept him steady. The day would come when steadiness would be a habit and not an emergency.

For now, he shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t do something idiotic like touch the edge of a sleeve in passing, and he let the wait at the gate be simple: a kid barreling toward him like proof, a routine forming teeth, a slow burn being patient with itself.

Chapter Text

The note was still there. Folded, pinned under a magnet, quiet in the corner of his kitchen. Soup’s on the stove. Good for hangovers. Grandma makes it for me after failed credits lol. Don’t skip breakfast, hyung.

He had told himself, more than once, to throw it away. To crumple it and let the trash lid shut over it like it had never mattered. But every morning since that drunken Friday, his eyes had strayed to it while the kettle boiled. And every morning, his hand had stopped just shy of taking it down.

It wasn’t the soup that unsettled him — though he had eaten two bowls that morning and felt steadier than he wanted to admit. It was the handwriting. The note. The fact of it: someone thinking of him when he was too far gone to think of himself.

He shouldn’t have called Suho that night. There were colleagues, neighbors, anyone else. It had been a small thing — Minjae forgetting a project — but in the moment, trapped in a meeting, he had reached for Suho without hesitation. A twenty-year-old boy, barely past being a child himself.

And that was what troubled him. How easily Suho had become the answer. How natural it had felt to type the words I don’t know what I’d do without you.

He told himself it was because Minjae laughed more these days. Because his son came home clutching drawings of “me and Suho-hyung,” because bedtime was easier, the apartment less silent. He told himself Suho was just doing a good job.

But the truth pressed harder: Suho was everywhere now. At the kindergarten gate. In the laughter echoing down the hall. In the fridge, where leftovers were labeled in messy block letters. In the fridge door, where a stupid note clung like a reminder that Sieun was not as alone as he insisted.

And it bothered him. It bothered him because he didn’t understand why it bothered him. Why a boy — a nanny — was filling his thoughts in the cracks between work and home. Why every time he shut his eyes, he saw a red windbreaker hunched over his kitchen counter, steam rising from soup, a grin tugging at a flour-dusted face.

He should have drawn the line. He should have pulled back. But he didn’t.

By the time Tuesday evening rolled over him, heavy and merciless, he was too tired to think of lines. The day had bled him dry — clients demanding, deadlines pressing, his inbox a hydra of endless replies. His tie was suffocating, his head buzzing with numbers, and all he wanted was silence. Silence and a cold beer.

Instead, he opened the apartment door — and froze.

The smell hit him first. Sweet, cloying, not quite right. Then the noise: clattering, laughter, Suho’s voice saying, exasperated and fond all at once, “No, not that much salt—Minjae, the sprinkles don’t go in yet—hey, don’t eat that raw!”

“Daddy!”

Minjae darted out from the kitchen, face streaked with frosting, hands sticky, hair wild. Behind him, the kitchen looked like a snowstorm had broken in: flour dust across the counters, a bowl abandoned in the sink, sprinkles scattered like confetti. And in the center of the table, crooked and plain, sat a cake.

“Happy Father’s Day!” Minjae shouted, practically vibrating with pride. “We made it! Suho-hyung helped! I did the sprinkles!”

Sieun just stood there. His body had been primed for exhaustion, for collapse into silence. Instead, his chest flooded with something sharp and warm that hurt more than the day’s grind.

On the table, the cake slouched sideways, its middle sunken, frosting uneven. It looked awful. It looked perfect.

“You… made this?” His voice came out quieter than he meant.

“Yes!” Minjae grabbed his hand, dragging him forward. “Try it, Daddy! It’s for you!”

Suho leaned in the doorway, hoodie dusted in flour, a streak of something white across his cheek. He looked sheepish, grinning despite himself. “It’s… edible. Probably.”

Sieun sat, because Minjae shoved a fork into his hand and his legs didn’t trust themselves. He took a bite. The cake was dense, bland, a little salty where sugar should have been. But his son’s eyes shone at him, proud and waiting. And Suho was watching too, grin tugging crooked, daring him to find fault.

“It’s…” He swallowed, throat tight. “It’s good. Thank you.”

Minjae cheered like the cake had won an award. Suho laughed, the sound warm, easy, filling the corners of the room. And Sieun, tired to his bones, felt something give way inside him.

Later, when Minjae had run off to show his dinosaur plush the “special cake,” Sieun lingered in the kitchen. The mess was still everywhere — flour, bowls, frosting smears.

They cleaned together, or rather Suho cleaned and Sieun leaned against the counter with a beer in hand, too drained to do more than watch. The boy moved with restless energy, sponge dragging across the counter, sleeves shoved up, hoodie streaked with flour. He looked absurd and young and—unsettlingly—like he belonged here.

Sieun opened the fridge again, pulled out another beer, and held it out. “Here.”

Suho blinked, surprised, a smear of frosting still bright on his cheek. “Err... thank you?”

“You helped him,” Sieun said simply. Their fingers brushed when the bottle passed between them. The touch was brief, but he felt it longer than he should have.

For a moment they drank in silence, the only sound the fizz of the bottles and the low hum of the refrigerator. It wasn’t the silence Sieun usually preferred—the safe, heavy kind that walled him off. This silence felt alive, like it was waiting.

He stared at the crooked cake still sitting on the table, half-collapsed but proud in its ruin. His throat tightened before he could stop it. “I don’t really celebrate Father’s Day,” he said quietly.

Suho’s head turned, surprise flickering across his face. “You don’t?”

Sieun rolled the cool glass bottle between his palms. “It feels… wrong. I’m not a good one.” He let out a humorless breath. “Most of the time, I’m late. He waits at school longer than he should. I work until he’s asleep. I leave him with someone else so I can chase numbers that don’t stop moving. A good father doesn’t do that.”

The words came faster now, as if the beer had loosened a valve. “And he—Minjae—he deserves better. A father who shows up on time. Who cooks him dinner instead of hiring someone else to. Who doesn’t…” He trailed off, pressing his thumb hard against the rim of the bottle. “Who doesn’t look at his son and wonder if he’ll remember the empty spaces more than the filled ones.”

The confession sat raw between them. He hated himself for saying it. He hated how much it hurt to hear his own voice shape the thoughts that gnawed at him in the quiet hours.

For once, Suho didn’t fill the air with clumsy words. He leaned back against the counter, bottle loose in his hand, and said, low and steady, “Minjae doesn’t think about it that way.”

Sieun’s head jerked up.

“He doesn’t,” Suho repeated, gaze steady. “He talks about you all the time. How smart you are. How hard you work. How you buy the dinosaur yogurt even though you hate shopping. He brags that his dad wears suits and has ‘ocean eyes’—his words, not mine.” Suho’s grin was quick, but his eyes stayed serious. “He thinks you’re the best. That’s what matters.”

The words pierced too cleanly. Sieun’s chest ached in a way he couldn’t name. “You don’t understand,” he said, the instinctive defense sharp in his voice. “His mother—”

He stopped. He hadn’t planned to go there. But Suho waited, patient, not pressing, and the rest slid out anyway. “She’s not in the picture. Hasn’t been for a long time. It’s just been me and him since he was one.”

Suho’s expression shifted—no pity, no shock, just quiet comprehension.

Sieun forced the rest out, low, almost like admitting defeat. “And most days it feels like I’m failing both jobs—the one that pays, and the one that matters.”

Silence stretched. Not empty. Not heavy. Just… still.

Then Suho spoke, and his voice was soft but unflinching. “You’re not failing. He’s happy. He laughs. He’s proud to be your kid. That doesn’t happen if you’re failing.”

Sieun let out a humorless breath, looking away. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple,” Suho said. “Kids don’t measure love in hours worked or deadlines met. They measure it in who comes home. And you always come home.”

The words lodged deep. Sieun stared at the crooked cake on the table, at the sprinkles clumped in the corner. He felt something warm spread through him, slow and disarming, and it frightened him.

He took another swallow of beer, trying to steady himself. “You’re too young to sound this sure.”

Suho smiled, crooked. “Maybe. But I know what it’s like not to have a parent around. And I know Minjae doesn’t feel that way. Not with you.”

The words hit harder than Sieun wanted to admit. His chest felt tight, his throat thick. He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, muttering, “You talk too much.”

“Yeah,” Suho said, grin widening. “But sometimes I’m right.”

Sieun huffed out something like a laugh, soft and reluctant. Their eyes met across the space between them. The air seemed to hum with something unsaid, and for a moment, Sieun let it be. He let the warmth seep in, even if he knew he shouldn’t.

He drained the last of his beer and set the bottle down hard enough to end the moment. “You should go. It’s late.”

But when Suho left, when the door clicked behind him, Sieun stood for a long time in the kitchen, staring at the cake, the mess, the empty bottles. He felt the warmth of Suho’s words still in his chest, dangerous and lingering.

He thought: Maybe I’m not a good father. But maybe—maybe—I’m not as bad as I thought.

And that thought, fragile and unfamiliar, carried him into the quiet of the night.

Chapter Text

The warmth of Father’s Day still lingered, stubborn as smoke. The crooked cake was wrapped in foil in the fridge, its sprinkles dulled but still bright. The note Suho had written weeks ago — Soup’s on the stove. Don’t skip breakfast, hyung. — was still pinned under the magnet, a weight he couldn’t throw away.

For days after, Sieun had carried a strange lightness into the grind of work. He caught himself thinking about Suho’s words — He doesn’t think you’re failing. He thinks you’re everything. He had carried the taste of beer and the sound of his own confession, the warmth of Suho’s quiet defiance, like something dangerous tucked against his ribs.

For the first time in years, he had wondered if maybe, just maybe, letting this be wasn’t so dangerous.

The thought lasted until Thursday night.

He opened the apartment door, exhausted, expecting silence. Instead, he was hit by light, laughter.

On the couch, Minjae was wide awake, bouncing with a dinosaur clutched in his hand. Beside him, Suho sat cross-legged, waving another toy like it was alive. An empty noodle bowl sat on the table, the scent unmistakable.

“Minjae,” Sieun said sharply, dropping his briefcase with a thud. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

The boy froze. Suho straightened, startled. “Ah—he wasn’t sleepy, so—”

“It’s past ten.” Sieun’s voice cut like glass. “He has school in the morning.”

“I know,” Suho said quickly. “He just asked and—”

“And you gave him noodles?” Sieun’s gaze burned on the bowl. His tone rose. “At this hour?”

Suho blinked, then frowned, defensive. “He was hungry. It was one bowl. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” Sieun snapped. “Routine matters. He needs structure.”

Suho’s brows knit, heat in his voice now. “Structure? He’s five. He had a long day. Sometimes he just wants something small before bed. It doesn’t mean—”

“You don’t get it,” Sieun cut in. His chest tightened, exhaustion tipping into anger. “You can’t just give in because he smiles at you.”

“I don’t just ‘give in,’” Suho shot back. “I take care of him. I make sure he eats. I get him to laugh when he’s sad. I help him with homework. I tuck him in. You think I don’t know he needs more than jokes and noodles?”

The sharpness of his tone startled Sieun. But the words that rose in his throat came sharper still, honed by fatigue and fear.

“You think this is a game?” he bit out. “You get to play house for a few hours, let him stay up, feed him whatever, and then go back to your own life like nothing happened. But I don’t get to walk away. This isn’t a game for me. This is my son’s life.”

The silence after was brutal.

Minjae’s face crumpled. His small voice broke: “I’m sorry, Daddy…”

The guilt landed like a blow. But Suho moved first — crouching by Minjae, voice soft. “No, champ. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” He stroked the boy’s hair, whispered until his sniffles eased, and gently led him down the hall.

Sieun stood rooted to the spot, the echo of his own words still burning in his ears.

When Suho returned, his face wasn’t angry — it was worse. Quiet. Closed.

“Suho—”

“I get it,” Suho cut in, voice low but steady. “You don’t have to remind me. I’m just the nanny.”

“That’s not—” Sieun’s throat tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”

But Suho’s eyes held his, unflinching. Hurt threaded through the steadiness. “Really? Because that’s what it sounded like. Like none of it matters. Like I don’t matter.”

Sieun swallowed. “I didn’t—”

“I’m here almost every day,” Suho said, the words rushing now, like he’d been holding them back too long. “I pick him up. I cook. I make sure he laughs. I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “But you still think I’m just playing.”

Sieun opened his mouth, but nothing came. The truth of it pressed sharp inside him: he had meant to protect his son, but the words had cut deeper than he’d intended.

Suho slung his backpack over his shoulder, his movements clipped. “Maybe I should take a few days off. Give you space.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was simple, quiet, final.

“Suho—” Sieun started, but the boy was already turning. Their eyes met once more, and Sieun saw the hurt there, raw and silent. Then he was gone.

The door shut softly, but it sounded like a slam.

The silence crashed in, suffocating.

Sieun dropped onto the couch, staring at the empty bowl, the abandoned toy dinosaur. The apartment felt cavernous again, heavier than it had in months. But now, the hollowness wasn’t relief. It was loss.

Later, he stood in Minjae’s doorway. His son was curled around the dinosaur, tear tracks on his cheeks. Sieun smoothed his hair back, whispered, “I’m sorry,” though the boy couldn’t hear.

In his own room, he sat on the bed with his tie still choking him, the words replaying over and over. Play house. Walk away. Just the nanny. Each repetition cut deeper.

For the first time in years, the silence he had once clung to suffocated him. Because now he knew exactly what was missing.

He tried to sleep.

The apartment was too quiet without Suho’s voice in it, without Minjae’s late giggles echoing down the hall. Sieun lay in bed, tie still knotted around his throat, staring at the ceiling. The words he’d spat replayed on a loop, sharper every time. Play house. Walk away. Just the nanny.

He turned onto his side, shut his eyes. The silence pressed heavier.

After what felt like hours, he got up. Barefoot, he padded to the kitchen. The clock on the wall blinked past two in the morning.

The fridge hummed softly. The foil-covered cake was still inside. And there — pinned under the magnet — the note. Soup’s on the stove. Don’t skip breakfast, hyung.

His eyes locked on the messy handwriting. For a long time he just stood there, the hum of the fridge filling the silence Suho used to.

He reached up, fingers brushing the paper, ready to tear it down. But his hand froze. The thought of crumpling it, of throwing it away, left a hollow ache in his chest.

With a quiet curse, he let his hand drop.

He poured himself water, didn’t drink it, left it on the counter. Then he stood there longer, staring at the stupid note like it was mocking him.

Like I don’t matter. Suho’s voice replayed, steady, hurt.

Sieun pressed his palms into the countertop, head hanging. He told himself it was better this way. Suho was just the nanny. He was temporary. A twenty-year-old boy shouldn’t matter this much.

But the ache in his chest wouldn’t listen.

When he finally lay down again, dawn was bleeding through the curtains. He closed his eyes, but the darkness wasn’t quiet anymore. It was filled with a red windbreaker, flour-dusted smiles, laughter spilling down his hallway. And the echo of words he hadn’t meant to cut so deep.

The silence pressed, heavier than it had in years. And for the first time, Yeon Sieun realized he didn’t know how to bear it.

Chapter Text

Suho had walked out steady, or at least he thought he had. His voice even, his shoulders squared, backpack slung like it was nothing. But by the time he reached the bus stop, the mask cracked.

The words chased him down the dark street, quiet but relentless. Just the nanny.

He jammed his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the night air. He wanted to be angry, sharp, set ablaze by what Sieun had said. Anger would have been easier — cleaner. But it wasn’t anger that gnawed at him. It was something slower, heavier. Hurt.

At the bus shelter, he sat down too hard and pulled out his phone, thumb sliding into the group chat. The gang was awake, of course — they always were.

[Baku]: oi suhooo where tf u been
[Beakjin]: he’s prob folding towels for his boss again
[Seongje]: nah he’s doin dishes in a frilly apron rn. housewife suho 🧽✨

Suho barked out a laugh despite the tightness in his chest. They never failed to hit where it stung.

I quit, he typed. Taking a few days off.

The replies were immediate, savage.

[Baku]: LMAO whipped and dumped in the same week
[Beakjin]: man turned into a househusband and got divorced after 3 months. custody goes to the hot dad
[Seongje]: pls tell me you at least got benefits. dental? vision? hot dad allowance?

Suho groaned, covering his face with one hand, laughter muffled in his palm. “You guys are the worst.”

[Baku]: nah. we’re the best. pack ur shit
[Beakjin]: weekend trip. more than weekend. mountains. river. beer. no kids.
[Seongje]: unless ur still breastfeeding ur boss lol

“Shut up,” Suho muttered, grinning despite himself, but the ache in his chest throbbed under the grin.

[Baku]: u in or nah
[Beakjin]: stop being boring
[Seongje]: yeah come cry into the river w us.

Suho stared at the screen, thumb hovering. His head told him no, he should stay, study, keep the routine he’d built. But his chest ached with every memory of ocean eyes narrowing at him, every word replayed sharper than he meant them. Just the nanny.

His thumb moved before his brain did: Fine.

He told himself it was the right choice. Space. Perspective. A reminder that his life wasn’t supposed to orbit around a too-serious man and his dinosaur-obsessed kid.

But when the bus rolled up, he still felt hollow.

The cabin smelled of wood smoke and cheap beer. The gang sprawled in plastic chairs outside, a deck of cards between them, bottles scattered. The mountains rose black against the night sky, stars sharp above.

Suho sat with them, letting their laughter wash over him.

“Seriously though,” Baku said, pointing a card at him like an accusation. “You. Living in some dude’s apartment every night. Cooking, cleaning, babysitting. That’s wife shit.”

“It’s a job,” Suho muttered, but his voice lacked heat. "You all know I need extra cash to cover my school fee."

“Job my ass,” Beakjin scoffed. “You’ve been glowing, man. Domestic bliss. I swear you’ve been smiling more since you started wiping that kid’s nose.”

“Gross,” Suho said, tossing a chip at him.

“Tell us the truth,” Seongje leaned back, grinning wicked. “Is he real hot? Are those eyes that beautiful? Show us the picture. That’s why you stayed, right?”

Suho snorted, but the sound snagged in his throat. “Shut up.”

Baku howled. “He’s hot. He’s hot and you’re whipped. Admit it.”

“I’m not—”

“Bro,” Beakjin cut in, deadpan. “You literally skipped gaming nights to wash dishes in someone else’s kitchen. You’re a househusband. Housewife Suho.”

“Can you all drop dead?” Suho groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

“Fine, but only after you answer,” Seongje pressed. “On a scale from one to ten—”

“Ten,” Suho muttered without thinking, too fast.

The table erupted, laughter exploding into the night. Baku nearly fell out of his chair. Beakjin wheezed. Seongje clapped like he’d won the lottery.

“WHIPPED.”
“Completely gone.”
“Pack it up boys, our Suho’s a family man now.”

Suho threw another chip at them, laughing, but his ears burned. He downed the rest of his beer and reached for another. The laughter faded into the night, but the ache didn’t. Even here, with his oldest friends, under stars and jokes and noise, he couldn’t shake the thought of Minjae’s little hand tugging his sleeve, or Sieun’s eyes heavy with exhaustion but so impossibly deep when they looked at him.

He laughed harder, louder, to drown it out.

Back in the city, Sieun was drowning in work. He told himself it was fine, that Suho had taken time off and they’d manage. He had managed for years before. He buried himself in meetings, numbers, reports, until the hours blurred into each other.

At four-forty-five, his phone buzzed. The kindergarten.

“Mr. Yeon?” the teacher’s voice was polite, careful. “It’s almost five. Minjae is still here. He’s waiting. He said Suho usually comes.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. His chair scraped back. “I’ll be there in fifteen,” he said, already shoving files into his bag, his pulse pounding in his ears.

The drive was a blur. When he arrived, the hallway was empty, the other children gone. And there by the door sat Minjae, small and quiet, backpack clutched tight, dinosaur tucked under his chin.

“Daddy,” he said softly. Not angry. Just hurt. “Suho-hyung didn’t come.”

The words cut deeper than any client’s rebuke. Sieun crouched, reaching for him, but the boy’s eyes flicked up, disappointment shining. He smoothed his son’s hair, whispered, “I’m sorry. I should’ve been here sooner.”

Minjae nodded but didn’t smile. He hugged his dinosaur tighter.

The ride home was silent. The kind of silence Sieun used to consider normal, preferable. Now every second pressed against his ribs like stone.

Dinner was worse. Minjae pushed food around his plate, appetite gone. He asked once, voice small: “Is Suho-hyung coming back?”

Sieun’s throat closed. He reached across the table, touched his son’s hand, forcing the words out. “He just needs some time.” They sounded flat, empty, and Minjae looked back down, chewing slowly, eyes too old for his age.

That night, after Minjae curled small under his blanket, Sieun lingered in the kitchen. The foil-wrapped cake sat on the counter, sprinkles dulled. He unwrapped it, stared at the lopsided frosting, then wrapped it again without taking a bite.

His eyes lifted to the fridge. The note still pinned under the magnet. Soup’s on the stove. Don’t skip breakfast, hyung.

He reached for it, fingers curling at the corner. Ready to tear it down. Ready to end the madness of letting a boy’s handwriting haunt him.

But his hand froze.

Throwing it away felt like ripping out something vital. Something he wasn’t sure he could survive without.

He let his hand fall, sat back down, buried his face in his hands. The silence pressed harder than ever.

Up in the mountains, Suho sat outside the cabin, beer sweating in his palm, listening to his friends argue over who cheated at cards. Their laughter rang, sharp and loud, but when he tipped his head back, the stars blurred. He thought of Minjae’s disappointed voice, though he hadn’t even heard it — only imagined it. He thought of Sieun’s face when he’d said those words, as if cutting him down was easier than letting him in.

He told himself space was good. He told himself he needed this. But under the stars, with his friends shouting nonsense, he realized that no amount of beer or laughter could quiet the ache of being absent from a certain place he wanted to be.

Chapter Text

The first morning without Suho, Sieun told himself it was nothing he could not handle. He had lived years like this—years of silence, of balancing deadlines and his son, of moving through each day with no one at his side. It had been difficult then, yes, but not impossible. He had survived. He would again.

But by the second morning, the lie was too thin to hold.

The office was merciless, deadlines stacked high, voices tugging at him from every direction. He stayed until the hour grew late, eyes burning, the glow of the screen branding itself into his skull. When he finally stepped outside, the night pressed close and airless. His phone buzzed.

The kindergarten.

His gut clenched before he answered.

“Mr. Yeon?” the teacher’s voice was kind, but careful. “It’s nearly five. Minjae is still waiting. He said… Suho usually comes.”

The words lodged sharp under his ribs. He drove faster than he should have, every red light a curse. When he arrived, the hall was nearly empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing. And there—his son. Small. Backpack clutched, dinosaur pressed under his chin, too quiet in the cavernous hallway.

“Daddy,” Minjae said softly, lifting his eyes. Not angry. Worse—disappointed. “Suho-hyung didn’t come.”

Something in Sieun’s chest twisted. He crouched, smoothing the boy’s hair with a hand that trembled despite himself. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been here sooner.” The apology was a whisper. But Minjae only nodded, eyes dulled, the brightness Suho had drawn out of him already dimmed.

At home, the silence thickened. Dinner stretched endless, the boy pushing rice around his plate. He asked once, voice so thin it nearly broke him:

“Is Suho-hyung coming back?”

Sieun’s throat closed. Any answer felt like a betrayal—too hollow, too fragile. “He just… needed some time.”

Minjae only nodded again, weary in a way a child should never be.

The days dragged, heavy with silence. Sieun found himself pacing long after Minjae fell asleep, the apartment pressing in on him, walls that once protected now suffocating. He had wanted order, control, discipline—but now they felt like shackles. The absence left every room too large, too cold.

And Minjae changed. Slowly at first, then unmistakably. His laughter dulled, his chatter shrank. His drawings no longer carried the figure of Suho-hyung. At night, he curled smaller, clutching his dinosaur, as if bracing himself against a loss he did not understand.

Sieun sat in the dark, watching the shallow rise and fall of his son’s chest, guilt burning into him. He had wanted to protect Minjae, shield him. Instead, he had carved something vital out of the boy’s days with words spoken too sharply, a wall raised too high.

He told himself to be angry at Suho—for disappearing, for walking away, for being irresponsible. But the anger slipped and collapsed under its own weight, revealing what lay beneath: understanding. He knew why Suho had left. He knew his words had cut too deep. And he hated himself for letting them leave his mouth.

One of those night, restless and raw, Sieun reached for his phone. He told himself it was pathetic, beneath him. His thumb hovered over the link Suho had once left beneath his phone number. Instagram.

The screen lit up, and with it, pieces of a life he no longer touched.

The first was a video—Suho sweaty on the basketball court, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey clinging. He was grinning, shouting something at a teammate, a flash of boyish energy that carried through the shaky recording.

Scroll.

Another photo: Suho with his grandmother in a small kitchen. Smoke rose faintly from a pan on the stove, and in Suho’s hands was a pancake so burnt the edges curled black. His grin was sheepish, captioned: chef in training (disaster edition).

Scroll.

A group shot in the mountains—Suho with his friends, beers in hand, arms slung casually around shoulders. He looked the same as he always did in crowds: easy, warm, magnetic. But Sieun stared too long and thought he saw it—that hollowness behind the grin.

Scroll.

A close-up of his sneakers kicked off on a balcony railing, city lights blurred in the background. Caption: nights like this. The kind of careless, aesthetic post students his age tossed up without thought. Yet Sieun felt something stir—an echo of evenings when those sneakers had been by his own door.

Scroll.

Then Minjae. Just the back of his head, small hand holding the familiar dinosaur. Suho had been careful, discreet. Caption: a single blue heart. Sieun’s chest tightened painfully.

Scroll.

Another shot, older—Minjae’s dinosaur propped up on a table, a ridiculous construction paper crown perched on its head. Suho’s caption: king rex rules again 👑🦖. He remembered that day. The boy had come home glowing, babbling about how Suho made the dinosaur a king. Sieun had brushed it off then. Now the memory cut deep.

Scroll.

The last one stopped him cold. A cake. Lopsided, uneven, frosting smeared like careless brushstrokes. Caption: edible. barely. happy father’s day tho. A laughing emoji tagged on, but the affection beneath it was unmistakable.

Sieun stared until the letters blurred, throat constricting. He set the phone down face-first, but the images burned behind his eyes. The grin. The cake. The boy who had walked so effortlessly into their lives and filled the silence with laughter.

Now the apartment was stripped bare. Now the silence was unbearable.

Because silence, Sieun realized, was not empty. It was absence.

And absence had Suho’s shape.

Up in the mountains, the night was loud with young men's snores. The fire had burned down to embers, the bottles knocked empty and forgotten. Suho lay on his back on the thin cabin mattress, arms folded under his head, eyes wide open.

He should have been out cold after all the beer, all the laughter. But his mind refused.

Every time he shut his eyes, he saw them — a little boy’s round face, pout soft when he was scolded, bright grin when he laughed. And behind him, always, the man. Ocean eyes, tired and cold and impossibly beautiful. A face that had cut him with a handful of careless words but still lingered like saltwater in his veins.

He rolled over, groaned into his pillow. It’s good you’re here. It’s good you’re away. That was what he told himself. That he needed space, that he wasn’t supposed to care this much.

But in the silence, with only the sound of his friends shifting in sleep, he let the truth slip. He missed them. Both of them.

He thought about the boy sitting by the kindergarten doors, waiting. He thought about the man, drowning himself in work and coffee, shoulders bowing under the weight Suho had been helping to carry. He hated imagining them without him, hated that he wasn’t there to help.

He pressed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw. He had left because he’d been hurt, because he had needed to protect himself. But here, miles away under a mountain sky, the ache didn’t ease. It grew.

He rolled over again, restless. “Damn it,” he muttered into the dark, half a laugh, half a curse. His friends shifted but didn’t wake.

And in the silence, both men — one in the city, one in the mountains — lay awake, staring into different darknesses, haunted by the same absence.

Chapter Text

The numbers blurred on the screen. Sieun had been staring at the same spreadsheet for ten minutes, but nothing held. Columns swam, rows doubled, his eyes sliding off formulas he knew by heart. His hand moved without thinking, reaching for his phone. One swipe, one tap, and the familiar blue-and-pink icon was open before his reason could catch up.

Suho’s Instagram again.

It had become a quiet compulsion, almost like breathing. A way to fill the silence between calls, the hollow stretches between tasks. He told himself it was nothing, only a glance, but he knew better. Every visit pulled him deeper, every scroll pried at wounds he pretended were closed.

He skimmed past the photos he had memorized already—Suho sweaty and flushed on the basketball court, Suho with his friends in loud cafés, Suho laughing over a burnt pancake in his grandmother’s kitchen. Then came the one that still left his throat tight every time it appeared: the cake, lopsided and uneven, captioned with half a joke but more warmth than Sieun could bear to admit aloud.

His thumb hovered, then shifted sideways. Tagged.

New photos bloomed across the screen, chaotic snapshots from the weekend trip. The mountains stretched wide in the background, the gang crowded around plastic chairs and bottles, faces flushed, gestures wild. Suho was everywhere in them—bright red windbreaker cutting against the muted green, hair tossed by wind, grin sharp and wide.

And then—one photo stopped him cold.

A candid. Suho sitting apart from the rest, beer bottle slack in his hand, gaze turned somewhere beyond the camera. His face wasn’t smiling, wasn’t joking. It was quiet, faraway, almost lonely.

Beneath it, the caption struck like a blade:

“Nanny off-duty but still thinking about his ocean-eye homie 💙😂”

Sieun froze. Heat rushed his ears, prickled at his neck, flushed across his face before he could stop it. Ocean-eye homie. He knew exactly who that was meant for.

The phone trembled faintly in his hand. He set it face-down on the desk, jaw clenched, pulse racing as if he had been caught doing something illicit. He forced his gaze back to the spreadsheet, tried to will the columns into coherence. But his eyes betrayed him. The words replayed in his head like a chant, relentless and merciless.

Ocean eyes.

Minjae sometimes whispered it, the silly nickname in his small, proud voice. But Suho? Had Suho carried it to his friends? Had he said it aloud, called him that?

His stomach tightened. Compliment. It had to be. Not mockery. A compliment. His face grew hotter still, an embarrassing rush that left him pressing a hand to his temple, furious at himself. What kind of man—what kind of professional—lost composure over a stray caption on social media?

And yet, no amount of self-reproach steadied him. The words wouldn’t leave.

The rest of the afternoon was useless. Numbers swam, words from clients blurred into static. His mind refused to stay tethered, dragging him back again and again to that candid photo of a boy in a red windbreaker, gaze turned away, caption slicing through him with careless precision.

By evening, after he had collected Minjae and trudged them both home, it still clung like smoke. Dinner passed in strained quiet—his son subdued, pushing food around his plate. Sieun washed the dishes on autopilot, hands raw from soap he barely felt, thoughts spinning in an endless loop.

When at last the apartment fell still, Sieun retreated to his room. Exhaustion dragged at his body, but his mind was wired, restless. His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, humming with temptation. He stared at it for long minutes, telling himself to leave it, to close his eyes, to sleep.

But the itch was unbearable. His hand reached before his pride could stop it.

The screen flared to life, harsh against the dark. The photo appeared again. Suho, distant, beer in hand, caught unaware. The caption beneath it mocking, teasing, too pointed.

“Nanny off-duty but still thinking about his ocean-eye homie 💙😂”

Sieun’s stomach clenched, the heat rising all over again. His thumb hovered as if rereading it might change the meaning. Ocean-eye homie. Did Suho truly speak of him that way? Did his friends laugh about it, about him? Or was it—he swallowed hard—a kind of endearment, private and unguarded, spilled into public without thought?

It shouldn’t matter. But it did. His face warmed at the thought, pulse skipping, only for fury to follow just as quickly—fury at himself, at his weakness, at lying awake like some foolish boy because of a careless caption.

He locked the phone, shoved it aside, rolled onto his side, eyes pressed shut.

Sleep did not come.

Minutes passed, then an hour, his thoughts circling tighter and tighter. At last, with a muffled curse, he reached for the phone again. The glow washed over his face, cruel and merciless.

But it wasn’t the ocean-eyes photo this time. It was worse.

Suho again—this time standing close to a girl, holding her drink while she bent to tie her sneaker. A moment so small, so meaningless it should have been invisible. And yet, the caption from his friends struck like acid:

“Housewife Suho finally cheating on his sugar daddy 🤣🍻”

Sieun’s chest knotted. His jaw locked, teeth grinding. He stared at the photo until his eyes ached, until his throat felt tight.

It was nothing. It had to be nothing. Suho was twenty, young, free. Entitled to laugh, to linger, to lean close to anyone he wanted. It wasn’t his place to care. It wasn’t.

And yet.

The image replayed in his head even after he shoved the phone aside, even after he buried his face into the pillow as though darkness could blot it out. The curve of Suho’s mouth, the careless ease of his shoulders, the way his laughter seemed aimed at someone else. It burned like jealousy, though he refused to name it as such.

By midnight, he was still awake, staring at the ceiling, fury simmering not at Suho, not even at the photo—but at himself, at the heat in his chest that refused to fade. He pressed his palms against his eyes, willing it away. But every blink conjured the same images, the same cruel truths.

A caption that made his ears burn.
A smile directed somewhere he wasn’t.
And beneath it all, the simplest truth of all—

He missed him.

And it was driving him mad.

Chapter Text

The night before had been jagged and restless, a blur of half-sleep and too-sharp thoughts. Every time Sieun’s eyes shut, the dark lit up with the mocking glow of a caption he couldn’t escape. Ocean-eye homie. The words looped until they lost shape, until they felt like a curse, until he wanted to crush the phone under his hand and still knew it would live on in his memory.

By dawn, he had drifted into something shallow, not rest but collapse. The alarm split the silence anyway. His head throbbed faintly as he sat up, muscles heavy, body uncooperative. The room was dim, the air stale.

He moved through the morning like a ghost. His shirt was misbuttoned the first time. His tie came out too tight, constricting, and he yanked at the knot until the fabric creased. He poured coffee he never touched, the cup cooling beside him until the surface dulled.

Minjae sat slouched over his cereal bowl, spoon tracing circles in the milk instead of lifting to his mouth. The clink of metal against ceramic was soft, rhythmic, and strangely accusatory in its persistence.

“You’re quiet,” Sieun murmured as he sat across from him, voice ragged with fatigue.

Minjae’s spoon stilled. Slowly, he lifted his eyes, and Sieun was struck again by how much sharper they were than a five-year-old’s should be—too observant, too direct.

“Daddy,” he said softly, “do you miss Suho-hyung too?”

The words landed in Sieun’s chest like a stone in still water, sending ripples that hurt more with every spread.

His hand curled around the mug he hadn’t touched. He stared into the dark liquid, reflection fractured, foreign. His throat felt too tight for words.

“You look sad when you look at your phone,” Minjae continued, not accusing, not whining. Simply stating fact. “You miss him.”

Heat rose under Sieun’s skin—an involuntary flush of shame he couldn’t hide. He tugged hard at the tie again though it had already left a raw mark against his throat. “Eat your breakfast,” he said, clipped, too sharp, hiding behind the command.

Minjae ducked his head. The spoon clinked again, smaller now, and Sieun couldn’t breathe around the ache it left behind.

Noise spilled endlessly across the mountainside. Laughter cracked against the cabin walls, cards slapped down hard enough to shake the table, bottles clinked with every cheer. Smoke from the grill curled into the cold night air, sharp and heavy.

Suho sat cross-legged in a sagging chair, cards fanned out in his hand, grinning on reflex whenever someone pointed at him. He let the noise carry him, let the rhythm of it wash over him. He had always been good at this—at throwing himself into the chaos, at laughing the loudest, at pretending the ache underneath didn’t exist.

But the ache was there all the same.

The jokes hadn’t stopped since the photo went up. His friends passed phones back and forth, shoving the screen in his face, howling as though it were proof of something scandalous. A girl crouched at his feet, him holding her drink as she tied her sneaker. Perfect bait for their endless teasing.

“Look at our man! Housewife Suho cheating already!”
“Fastest divorce in history. Didn’t even last a season.”

He groaned, buried his face in his hands, swore at them, laughed along because that was what they expected. His cheeks burned, but he let them think it was embarrassment. It was easier that way.

Because the truth was simpler, quieter, and harder to admit: the photo unsettled him. Not because of the girl. She had been no more than a moment, an afterthought. But because of the way the picture looked—him smiling, her near enough for their silhouettes to overlap. It told a story that wasn’t true, one that made his stomach twist the longer he thought about it.

It wasn’t her face he remembered when the night fell quiet. It wasn’t her laugh that lingered after his friends’ noise had dulled.

It was a small hand tugging at his sleeve.
It was the sound of crayons rattling in a box.
It was the way a man with ocean eyes had looked at him—sometimes sharp enough to cut, sometimes soft enough to undo him entirely.

He downed the rest of his beer, the liquid harsh and bitter, but the hollow inside him only spread wider.

His friends shouted for another round, cards slammed, chips scattered. Suho leaned back, smiled too wide, let the night swallow him again. But even surrounded by laughter, his thoughts drifted stubbornly elsewhere.

The trip had cooled him, dulled the sting of their fight, blurred the edge of it. But cooling wasn’t the same as forgetting. And no amount of mountain air or smoke or noise could make him forget what—or who—he was missing.

By the time the bus rumbled back toward the city, the decision had already solidified. He couldn’t stay away.

His thumb hovered over the screen, words typed out, deleted, typed again. He stared until his chest ached. Then, with one hard swallow, he hit send.

I’ll pick up Minjae tomorrow.

That night, the apartment did not feel lighter for the promise of tomorrow, but it wasn’t quite as heavy either. The silence lingered, stubborn as ever, yet it no longer seemed absolute. The clatter of dishes still echoed too sharply, but each sound felt less like punishment and more like something to occupy his hands.

Minjae ate slowly, pushing food around his plate, subdued but not stormy. It was the kind of quiet that pressed against Sieun’s awareness, but tonight he didn’t scold, didn’t push. He let the boy take his time, told himself tomorrow might smooth what today could not.

When Minjae’s door finally closed, Sieun lingered in the kitchen longer than necessary. He rinsed plates until the water turned cold, folded the damp towel twice over the rack, stood for a moment in the hum of the refrigerator. Not because there was anything left to do, but because moving kept him from noticing the stillness pressing in.

When he shut himself in his bedroom, exhaustion weighed at him, but his thoughts crackled too sharp, restless beneath his skin. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the dark screen of his phone on the nightstand. He told himself not to. He told himself he didn’t need it. That it was enough to know Suho was coming back tomorrow.

But the habit returned, irresistible. His hand reached before his pride could stop it. The screen lit harsh and blue, throwing light against the walls.

He scrolled Suho’s page again, though he knew it by heart, though every photo unsettled him more than it soothed. And then—

A new post.

His breath caught.

The photo was nothing remarkable: the wide pane of a bus window, city lights stretched into blurred streaks against the glass. But his gaze went at once to the corner of the frame, to the detail no one else would have noticed. The sleeve of a red windbreaker, just barely visible. Familiar. Undeniable.

The caption read: Nanny back to the city.

No mocking hashtags. No exaggerated emojis. Just words. Simple. Casual. Almost careless. And yet, to Sieun, they landed heavy, reverberating against his chest.

He stared until his eyes burned, until the glow of the screen seared into his vision. His throat tightened, his lungs refused to draw a steady breath. He shut the phone abruptly, pressed it face-down against the nightstand, rolled onto his back and stared into the dark.

But the image clung.

That sleeve, sharp red against the blur.
That caption, stripped bare of jokes.
The quiet certainty beneath it.

He was coming back.

And Sieun, exhausted and furious with himself, realized that certainty terrified him almost as much as it filled him with a relief so sharp it hurt.

Chapter Text

The morning dragged like lead.

Sieun had always prided himself on discipline, on being the kind of man who never bent under exhaustion or distraction. But today, every file blurred, every call grated. He caught himself staring at his phone more than once, replaying that single message in his head. I’ll pick up Minjae tomorrow.

It should have meant nothing. Practical. A boy resuming a job. But the words echoed until they filled every quiet pocket of his mind. His chest tightened each time he remembered them, something sharp and restless stirring where calm should have been.

Minjae’s words over breakfast hadn’t helped either. Do you miss Suho-hyung too? He had no answer for that, and his son’s quiet certainty had followed him into the office like a shadow.

By mid-afternoon, Sieun’s patience was gone. Colleagues tried to rope him into another meeting, but he waved them off with a clipped shake of his head. Reports piled in his inbox, deadlines pressed at his ribs — and for once, he didn’t care. He packed his bag early, ignoring the startled looks, and told himself it was only fatigue. That he needed quiet, rest, anything.

But deep down he knew the truth. He wanted to go home.

When the door swung open, the sound that met him knocked the breath from his lungs.

Laughter. High, unrestrained, tumbling through the apartment like sunlight. Minjae’s voice, bright again, cut through the silence that had strangled the rooms for days.

He froze in the entryway, briefcase dangling, shoes still on. The scene unfolded in front of him: Minjae sprawled on the carpet, dinosaurs marching across puzzle pieces, cheeks flushed with glee. And beside him, legs folded, hair mussed from play, Suho.

The boy looked up, red windbreaker tossed over a chair, sleeves rolled high. His eyes widened when they met, as though neither had expected this moment to come so soon.

“Daddy!” Minjae squealed, scrambling up. He crashed into Sieun, tugging his sleeve, words spilling like a river: “Suho-hyung’s back, he played dinosaurs with me, we made dinner, I beat him at puzzles, he’s terrible, but he cooked and—”

The rush of joy in his son’s voice hollowed Sieun out. His hand moved on instinct, smoothing Minjae’s hair, murmuring something he didn’t even hear himself say. His gaze, though, kept slipping back to the boy across the room — still crouched low, awkward, shifting his weight like he didn’t know where to stand.

For the first time in days, the apartment was alive again.

Dinner was different. Careful, almost fragile. Minjae sat between them at the table, recounting everything from school projects to playground adventures, his words tripping over themselves in his rush to share. Suho leaned in, nodded at every detail, laughed at his jokes, scooped more rice into his bowl without prompting.

Sieun barely tasted the food. His chopsticks moved out of habit, but his attention slid again and again to the boy across the table. Suho didn’t look at him once. Not in avoidance exactly, but in restraint, as though deliberately keeping his focus elsewhere. It left Sieun strangely restless, hollow even as the table brimmed with chatter.

And yet… the weight that had settled on his tongue these past days had eased. It wasn’t silence anymore. It was the ache of things unsaid, of wanting to speak and holding back, of watching his son glow brighter than he had in a week and knowing exactly who he owed it to.

When the meal was done, Minjae yawned so wide his dinosaur nearly slipped from his grip. He was asleep not long after, curling small under his blanket, the corners of his mouth still curved faintly upward.

The apartment quieted. But it wasn’t the suffocating quiet Sieun had endured alone. It was softer now, threaded with warmth that lingered after laughter.

He found Suho in the kitchen, rinsing dishes. The boy’s movements were slow, deliberate, careful not to make noise.

“Suho,” Sieun said finally, voice low.

The boy turned, startled, water dripping from his fingers. His eyes flicked to Sieun’s face, uncertain. “Yeah?”

Sieun swallowed, throat tight, pride a stone he had to force past. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. The words felt raw, stripped of their usual armor. “For what I said. That night.” He paused, jaw tight, then added, “It was cruel. You didn’t deserve it.”

Suho blinked, caught off guard. For a moment he looked like he didn’t know what to do with the apology. Then his mouth curved, hesitant, not quite a smile but softer than he’d worn in days. “I’m sorry too,” he murmured. “For… maybe overstepping. For making things harder.”

“You didn’t,” Sieun said, almost before he realized the words were out. He stepped further in, leaned against the counter. His gaze lingered on the boy’s damp hands, the nervous shift of his shoulders. “You… helped more than you know.”

Silence spread, but it wasn’t heavy. It sat between them like something unspoken but understood, fragile and real.

Suho’s eyes lifted again, met his — and for a moment, Sieun let himself hold it. Ocean-blue colliding with warm, dark brown, something pulling taut between them.

“You’re really bad at puzzles,” Sieun said finally, voice low but edged with something gentler.

Suho huffed a laugh, shoulders loosening. “Yeah. Minjae crushed me. Twice.”

The corner of Sieun’s mouth twitched — the closest thing to a smile he’d managed in days.

For the first time since that fight, the silence didn’t hurt. It lingered like a question neither dared ask, like a tide waiting to pull them further in.

Silence settled again, but softer now. Sieun’s hand shifted on the counter, fingers tapping faintly against the edge. His chest was still tight, but in a way that wasn’t only guilt anymore.

“You made him laugh,” he said suddenly, voice quieter than he intended. His eyes stayed on the counter, as though looking at Suho would make the words too heavy. “These past days… he hasn’t smiled much. Tonight, he… he was himself again.”

Suho’s breath caught, subtle but not missed. He dried his hands on a towel, half a laugh slipping out. “Yeah, well, dinosaurs are my specialty. Don’t underestimate my T-Rex roar.”

Sieun’s lips twitched despite himself. He turned his head, finally letting his gaze land on the boy. “It was terrible. I heard it from the hallway.”

Suho grinned, wide and boyish, leaning one hip against the counter. “Minjae loved it. That’s what matters. I’ll work on impressing you next time.”

The words slipped out too easily, too playful. Sieun’s eyes narrowed faintly, but there was no real bite. Only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying amusement he refused to name.

“Don’t waste your energy,” he said dryly. “I doubt anything you do would impress me.”

Suho laughed under his breath, ducking his head. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

The silence between them stretched, not brittle anymore but full, humming. Suho stood awkwardly with the towel in his hands, and Sieun, still leaning against the counter, felt the ache of his own restraint. His pride told him to dismiss the boy, send him off, restore order. But something in his chest, raw and restless, said otherwise.

Without a word, Sieun moved to the fridge. The door opened with a quiet sigh. He reached in, pulled out two cold bottles, and set them on the counter. The caps twisted free with practiced ease. He slid one across the counter to Suho.

The boy blinked, caught off guard. “You… sure?”

Sieun’s ocean eyes met his, steady, unreadable. “You act like I’ve never offered you beer before.”

Heat crept up Suho’s neck — because he remembered. That other night, when Sieun had wordlessly placed a bottle in his hand, both of them drinking under the soft hum of an apartment too quiet for words. This one felt heavier, sharper, like a ritual being repeated on purpose.

They drank side by side, the cool burn settling into the quiet.

Suho was the first to break it, his voice low, pitched half toward teasing. “This feels weirdly domestic. You, me, post-dishes beer. All that’s missing is me folding laundry.”

The words were meant as a joke, but Sieun stiffened. “Don’t say ridiculous things.”

Suho blinked, then grinned when he caught the faint flush painting Sieun’s cheekbones. “Oh my god,” he whispered, gleeful. “You’re actually embarrassed.”

“I’m not,” Sieun said quickly, eyes narrowing. But his tone lacked steel, and the pink lingered against his pale skin.

The silence stretched again, humming, until Sieun spoke this time, voice clipped as if to redirect. “What did you do these past few days?”

Suho glanced at him, caught the question’s edge. He shrugged, playing it casual. “Trip with my friends. The mountains. Cards, beer, bad jokes.”

Sieun nodded once, pretending indifference, but his grip tightened faintly around the neck of his bottle. He thought of the photo — Suho laughing with that girl, holding her drink, the mocking caption from his friends. It needled more than he cared to admit. “I see.”

Suho tipped his bottle, grin lopsided. “Three days straight, my friends wouldn’t let me breathe. Same jokes again and again. Apparently, I’ve been living a double life. The runaway housewife sneaking off from his ocean-eye boss.”

The words landed like a spark in dry kindling. Sieun felt heat crawl up his neck before he could stop it. He had seen those words on a glowing screen at midnight — housewife, sugar daddy, ocean-eye boss. Ridiculous, stupid, but they’d burned under his skin until he couldn’t shake them.

He took a drink to cover the flush, jaw tight. “Sounds like you enjoyed yourself,” he said, tone clipped, dangerously close to petulant. His ocean eyes cut sideways. “Out in the mountains. Meeting people. Maybe some young girl handing you drinks… Must’ve been more fun than babysitting a five-year-old. Or his cold, annoying father.”

The jab slipped out coy, sharper than he intended.

Suho blinked, then burst out laughing — a real laugh, bright and startled. He leaned back against the counter, clutching his bottle. “Wait—wait. Did you just get jealous?”

“I’m not,” Sieun said instantly, too fast. His ears burned hotter.

“Oh my god.” Suho grinned wide, eyes shining. “You totally did.”

Sieun’s glare should have cut him down, but it lacked bite. He looked… cornered. Which only made Suho laugh harder, his cheeks pink from more than beer. “Wow. Here I thought you didn’t care what I do with my time. Guess I was wrong.”

Sieun’s grip tightened on his bottle. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, but the words rang thin.

Suho’s grin softened, losing its edge. His voice came quieter, steadier. “For the record… it wasn’t better. Out there.” He tilted his head, dark eyes holding Sieun’s. “I missed this. Him. And maybe…” He let the word hang, teasing, warm. “…you.”

Sieun’s pulse jumped, chest tightening. His throat worked around words he didn’t have.

Suho smirked, leaning back against the counter. “Relax, hyung. I’m just saying my T-Rex roar is still more convincing than whatever you call dinner when I’m not around.”

Sieun’s head snapped toward him, ocean eyes narrowing. “I never asked you to feed me.”

“You didn’t have to,” Suho shot back, grin widening. “Minjae told me. Instant noodles and coffee, every night. That’s a crime, not a meal.”

Sieun’s lips pressed tight, as if to hide the twitch threatening them. “You talk too much for a nanny.”

“And yet…” Suho lifted his bottle, cheeky. “…you’re still drinking with me.”

The silence that followed hummed, warmer than either of them intended.

Chapter Text

The promise had been made in a moment of weakness. Minjae’s eyes had been shining too brightly, his little hands clutching the paper certificate his teacher had pressed into them. “Daddy, I won! Look, I won!” he’d cried, cheeks pink, bouncing on his toes as though the world itself might lift him up.

Sieun had been tired, briefcase still heavy in his hand, but the sheer delight in his son’s face had disarmed him. He crouched to examine the carefully printed ribbon, nodding with a soft hum. “Well done.”

“And you said,” Minjae continued, seizing the advantage like the strategist he was learning to be, “if I won something, we’d go to the theme park.” His eyes widened, all innocence. “This weekend. Right?”

Sieun had rubbed his temple, exhaling, already cornered. “Fine. This weekend.”

But the boy wasn’t finished. He spun toward Suho, who had been lounging against the classroom wall, hands in his jacket pockets, grinning like the sun. “Hyung is coming too.”

It wasn’t a question. It was law.

Suho blinked, surprised, then his grin spread wider. “Guess I’ve been promoted to plus-one.”

Sieun’s protest had withered beneath Minjae’s stubborn stare. And so, on Saturday morning, they found themselves standing at the gates of the city’s largest theme park: Minjae vibrating with excitement, Suho practically bouncing beside him, and Sieun already wondering what madness he had agreed to.

---

The park smelled of fried batter, sugar, and too many people. Minjae’s hand was warm in Suho’s as he tugged him forward, darting between stalls, his rabbit plush already tucked under one arm. Sieun followed a step behind, straight-backed as ever, scanning the crowd like a general on patrol.

“Come on, Daddy!” Minjae chirped, pointing at a cluster of booths with flashing lights. “Games! Hyung, let’s play!”

Suho ruffled his hair, already grinning. “You’re on.”

The first stop was the water gun race. Rows of bright plastic guns lined the counter, each aimed at a clown’s mouth. Suho grabbed one, Minjae clambered onto the stool beside him, and both took aim. When the whistle blew, the two shouted in unison, streams of water flying everywhere, half missing the target.

By the time the bell rang, their balloons barely halfway up the track, Sieun stood behind them, arms folded. The attendant announced the winner three stalls down, and Suho groaned dramatically. “Rigged. Totally rigged.”

“Hyung, you lost!” Minjae crowed, giggling.

“Not fair,” Suho muttered, shaking his head. Then he glanced over his shoulder. “Come on, boss, show us how it’s done.”

Sieun lifted a brow. “Point and shoot. That’s all it is.”

“Exactly,” Suho said, nudging him forward. “Let’s see if your aim’s as good as your glare.”

Sieun sighed, stepped up, and picked up a gun. At the whistle, his stream shot straight, steady, unbroken. He didn’t so much as blink as the balloon soared, reaching the top in seconds.

The bell rang. The attendant handed over the largest prize of the day: a ridiculous oversized shark plush.

Suho let out a low whistle. “Okay, I take it back. That was the coldest, smoothest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Minjae squealed as Sieun handed him the shark. “Daddy’s the best!”

Sieun only adjusted his cuff, tone flat. “It wasn’t difficult.”

But Suho was still staring, grinning like a fool. “Hot Boss strikes again,” he muttered under his breath, and Sieun’s ears warmed despite himself.

The ring toss was next, and Suho’s spectacular losing streak returned with vengeance. Every ring clattered against the bottles, bouncing uselessly to the ground. Minjae laughed so hard he had to lean against the counter, clutching his stomach. Suho narrowed his eyes in exaggerated concentration, lining up his final throw. Just as he let it fly, the crowd pressed forward, bumping him hard. He stumbled back, only to feel a hand clamp firmly around his arm.

Sieun’s grip was strong, steady, pulling him upright without hesitation. For a split second too long, Suho felt it—the warmth of his palm, the grounding strength, the way his pulse surged hard and fast in response. Then the hand was gone, Sieun already releasing him as though nothing had happened.

“You’ll drop the ring,” Sieun said smoothly, as though that explained everything.

Suho’s laugh came out rougher than he meant. “Guess I’ll hold on tighter next time,” he murmured, eyes gleaming.

The balloon darts followed, and Sieun’s precision was once again infuriating. Suho popped two balloons out of five, Minjae managed three, and Sieun landed every single dart, walking away with another ridiculous prize without so much as a flicker of expression.

Suho groaned, throwing his head back. “You’re impossible. Who even is this good? You must practice in your sleep.”

“You lack coordination,” Sieun said simply.

Minjae perked up. “Hyung, Daddy’s so cool, isn't he?”

Sieun’s jaw tightened, but Suho leaned down with a grin, voice pitched just loud enough. “The coolest!”

Sieun didn’t answer, but the faintest pink touched his ears. Suho caught it.

By midafternoon, their arms were laden with snacks and cheap toys. Suho insisted on buying a corndog nearly the size of his forearm, then held it up to Sieun’s face with a wicked grin. “One bite. Come on. Live a little.”

Sieun gave him a look cold enough to wither lesser men. Suho only leaned closer, practically shoving it at his mouth. “Say ahhh.”

Against his better judgment, Sieun leaned forward and took the smallest bite possible, intending to end the nonsense quickly. But Suho’s grin widened as he reached out with his thumb to swipe at the corner of Sieun’s mouth. “You’ve got sugar,” he said lightly.

Sieun went still. The touch was nothing, casual, careless—but it lingered just long enough to make his pulse stumble.

He turned away, eyes narrowing. “Don’t touch me.”

Suho only chuckled, licking the sugar off his own thumb, eyes glinting with mischief. “Too late.”

The photo booth came next. Minjae practically dragged them inside, waving a stack of tokens he had begged from Suho. The cramped space forced them too close, Suho’s knee brushing against Sieun’s under the narrow bench.

“Smile, Daddy!” Minjae commanded, as the first flash went off.

Sieun’s expression was stern, but Suho leaned close, pulling a face so ridiculous that Minjae howled with laughter. The second flash caught Suho mid-laugh, his hand braced on Sieun’s knee for balance. By the third, Sieun’s lips twitched despite himself, and the final frame captured something rare: the faint curve of a real smile.

Suho’s gaze flicked sideways, catching it. The warmth in his grin softened into something else, something quieter.

Sieun noticed too late, heat flaring unbidden. He cleared his throat sharply, pushing out of the booth. “We’re wasting time.”

Suho followed, still grinning, photo strip clutched in his hand. “I’m keeping this one.”

Toward evening, Minjae grew too small for one of the rides, barred by the attendant’s measuring stick. His face fell, but before Sieun could step in, Suho crouched to meet his eyes. “Don’t worry, champ. I’ll take your dad instead. You can cheer for us.”

Minjae brightened instantly, already bouncing toward the fence.

And so Sieun found himself strapped into a spinning ride beside Suho, shoulders pressed tight by the narrow seats. Suho leaned close, eyes gleaming. “Bet you scream.”

Sieun gave him a withering glare. “Childish.”

The ride jolted forward suddenly, and Sieun’s hand shot out instinctively, gripping the bar. Suho laughed, loud and free, bumping shoulders against him. “Knew it.”

When the ride slowed, both were laughing, breathless. For a fleeting moment, they leaned too close, laughter spilling into shared air. Then Sieun caught himself, straightened sharply, clearing his throat.

Suho smirked, unbothered.

By the end of the day, Minjae had cotton candy stuck to his cheeks, three balloons tied to his wrist, and the rabbit plush riding on Suho’s shoulders. Sieun trailed behind with the shark slung under one arm, refusing to look as ridiculous as he felt.

The ride home was hushed, save for the faint thrum of the engine and the quiet rhythm of Minjae’s breathing in the backseat. The boy had fallen asleep within minutes, his head tilted against the oversized shark plush, lips parted in the slack of dreams.

Suho sat in the passenger seat, slouched comfortably but stealing glances whenever the streetlights caught Sieun’s profile. There was something about the way the light brushed across his features, painting him in shifting shadow and gold. His hands steady on the wheel, his mouth set, his eyes sharp on the road — but softened in those moments when he thought no one was watching.

“You were better at the games than I expected,” Suho said at last, voice low but edged with humor. “I guess I’ll have to retire as Minjae’s champion. You stole the title.”

“It wasn’t difficult,” Sieun replied, his gaze never shifting from the road.

Suho chuckled. “No, I guess nothing is for you.” A pause, softer now. “Still. He had fun today. You did too, didn’t you? You smiled today. More than once.”

Sieun’s hands tightened briefly on the wheel. “You’re imagining things.”

“I have proof,” Suho countered. “Photo booth never lies.”

Sieun exhaled slowly, refusing to take the bait. But his ears, lit faintly by the passing glow, betrayed him.

Suho tilted his head, watching him. “You’re different when you let go a little. Less scary.”

Sieun’s jaw ticked. “Stop talking.”

“You’ll miss me when I stop,” Suho teased. “Besides, I’m complimenting you. Most people say thanks.”

“Most people aren’t you.”

“Exactly,” Suho said softly, eyes fixed on him. “That’s why I get to see it. The smiles no one else does.”

Sieun’s breath caught almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t reply. The car rolled on through the night, Minjae breathing steady in the back, Suho secretly hoping the road would stretch longer, that the city would never arrive.

---

Deep into the night, the apartment turnedd still. Too still.

Minjae was tucked away in his room, surrounded by an army of stuffed animals he had insisted on sleeping with. His little breaths rose and fell, steady through the cracked door, the faintest murmur of dreams slipping between them. For once, Sieun didn’t have to coax or soothe him — the boy had dropped off the moment his head hit the pillow, worn out from sugar and running.

Sieun should have been grateful. Should have taken the rare quiet, stretched it into rest. Instead he found himself wandering the apartment with no aim, lingering in the kitchen longer than necessary, folding away the towel, wiping the counter twice. Anything to fill the silence. But his mind betrayed him, circling back, refusing to let the day go.

When he finally sat on the edge of his bed, the quiet pressed differently. Not suffocating, not hollow. Just… restless.

He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, and let the images flicker across his mind like slides on a projector.

Minjae squealing with laughter as Suho tried and failed at the water gun race, spraying everything but the target. The way Suho had groaned dramatically, clutching his chest, declaring the game rigged while Minjae doubled over at his expense. The sharp contrast of his own hand steady and precise at the trigger, the balloon rocketing skyward, Suho staring like he’d never seen something so absurdly impressive.

The dart game, Suho’s groan when his fifth balloon missed, and Minjae’s triumphant clap when Sieun popped every single one. Suho’s laugh then — a mix of disbelief and exasperation — still echoed faintly in his ears. “You’re impossible,” he’d said, and for once it hadn’t sounded like an insult.

And then the small, fleeting moments his mind refused to release: the sudden heat of Suho’s arm beneath his hand when he’d caught him from stumbling at the ring toss. The brush of his knee against his in the cramped photo booth, Suho’s hand planted on his leg as he leaned into the frame. The way Suho’s laughter had vibrated through the tiny space, warm and too close, until Sieun’s own mouth had curved in spite of himself. He had felt the smile before he realized it was there.

That smile — captured by the camera, tucked now in Suho’s pocket — gnawed at him most. He hadn’t smiled like that in years, and certainly not in front of anyone. It unsettled him, how easily it had happened, how it still pulled faintly at the corner of his mouth now, hours later.

The car ride returned next, unbidden: Minjae’s soft breathing in the back, the road unfolding endless in the dark. Suho’s voice low, teasing without sharpness, casual but warm. “He had fun today. You did too, didn’t you?” Sieun hadn’t answered then. He still couldn’t, even in the privacy of his own mind. But his silence hadn’t been denial, and that truth pressed heavier than anything.

He shut his eyes, rubbed a hand over his face, willing the thoughts away. But they returned, stronger, threading through him until something inside loosened. And before he realized it, his lips curved again — small, private, impossible to hold back. A smile in the dark, one no one could see.

It startled him enough that he froze, the warmth fading quickly. He sat straighter, frown slipping back into place as though it could erase the moment. But the echo of it lingered.

On the nightstand, his phone glowed faintly, a temptation he recognized too well. He told himself to leave it, to sleep. The day was already too much, too heavy in memory. But his hand reached anyway, thumb swiping almost on instinct.

Suho’s feed lit the screen.

The newest post was a chain of photos from the day.

A ridiculous selfie of Suho cross-eyed with cotton candy bigger than his head.

Minjae’s big plush shark, Suho must have been laughing while he took it; the image tilted, unfocused, capturing more chaos than clarity.

Neon lights in streaks against the night sky, a ride caught mid-spin, glittering like a galaxy.

And the last—

His breath caught.

A shot of the park at sunset. The carousel glowed faintly in the distance, the sky a wash of amber fading into violet. And at the edge of the frame, backlit and sharp against the light, stood a silhouette. His silhouette. Hands in his pockets, head tilted just slightly, caught in unknowing stillness.

The caption was simple. days like this.

Harmless. Careless. A dozen people could scroll past without thought. But Sieun sat with it, chest tight, pulse quickening. Because he knew. He knew who had been behind the camera, who had chosen that angle, who had thought that moment worth keeping.

His thumb hovered, useless, the screen burning bright against the dark. He set the phone down face-first beside him, leaned back, and pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes.

But the images refused to leave: the laughter, the smile, the silhouette carved in gold. That caption, small and simple, but heavy all the same.

Days like this.

It shouldn’t matter. But it did. And in the silence of his room, Sieun admitted, if only to himself, that he wanted more of them.

Chapter Text

For a few days after the theme park, everything seemed to settle into place.

The air in the apartment was lighter somehow, as though Minjae’s laughter had left a permanent echo in the walls. He was still talking about it every morning over cereal, every evening before bed, recounting in breathless detail how Daddy had won the shark plush with perfect aim, how Suho-hyung had nearly fallen off the water-gun stool, how their photo strip from the booth made him look like a superhero sandwiched between two clowns. The crumpled ticket stubs and the bright balloon string that Suho had tied to his backpack lingered as proof, little relics of a day too bright to forget.

And for Sieun, though he never admitted it, there was something steadier in his chest when he came home now. He would open the door and find Suho sitting cross-legged on the rug helping Minjae with drawings, or sprawled across the couch with his head tilted back, humming tunelessly, sneakers tossed carelessly by the door. It irritated him on principle, the invasion of order, but the irritation never reached his mouth. He let it pass, let the small details settle into the edges of his days.

Suho acted as if nothing had changed. He was as infuriating as always—teasing, loud, a mess in the kitchen, humming songs off-key. And yet sometimes, when Sieun caught him watching Minjae too fondly or caught the faintest grin curve his mouth for no reason at all, he felt something else under it, something quieter. He pushed it away before it could surface.

Things moved smoothly. Even Suho, beneath all his noise, seemed to sense it, as if they’d reached a fragile truce, a rhythm that held.

It lasted until the night Suho decided Minjae was too full after dinner and dragged him out for a walk.

---

The evening air was mild, the kind that carried the faint smell of damp earth and blooming grass. Dinner had left Minjae flushed and drowsy, his small body stuffed to the brim with rice and soup, his legs dragging across the living room floor until Suho laughed and hauled him up by the hand.

“Come on, champ” Suho said, grabbing a jacket from the hook. “You’ll burst if you just sit around. Let’s take a walk.”

Minjae perked up immediately, the lethargy dropping off him in seconds. He hopped beside Suho, chattering about the shark plush that still took up half his bed, about the playground swings, about how he was going to climb the monkey bars this time all by himself. His little voice carried easily through the courtyard, mixing with the hum of crickets and the muffled conversations of neighbors walking their dogs.

They had just reached the playground when headlights swept across the path, bright enough to make Suho squint. He turned his head, expecting a neighbor’s old sedan. What rolled into view instead was a sleek black car, polished enough that it caught every light and threw it back. It slowed near the entrance of the apartment building, and Suho’s eyes narrowed instinctively.

The passenger door opened. And out stepped Sieun.

Suho’s breath caught—not because it was unusual to see him come home from work, but because it wasn’t his car. He was too used to the quiet way Sieun carried himself when he parked in the garage, briefcase in hand, head down, striding briskly toward the elevators. This was different.

The driver’s door opened, and a woman climbed out. She was striking in a tidy, put-together way: sleek hair, clean lines to her jacket, a smile that softened as soon as it turned toward Sieun. Even from across the courtyard, Suho could see it—how it lingered. She leaned lightly against the car door, her body angled toward him as if pulled by a string.

Minjae tugged on his sleeve, pointing. “Daddy!”

Suho hummed low in his throat, eyes locked on the pair. Sieun bowed faintly, already half-turned toward the building, but the woman said something that made her laugh, and she lingered. She wasn’t moving. Sieun inclined his head again, polite, but she kept speaking, her hand brushing the door frame as though reluctant to leave.

Suho’s fingers tightened around the chain of the swing. He tried to sound casual, but it came out clipped. “Who’s that?”

“Daddy’s… friend?” Minjae guessed. He squinted, then added helpfully, “She’s pretty.”

Suho scowled. “She’s… fine.”

They both watched as Sieun finally stepped away, disappearing through the lobby doors. The woman didn’t drive off immediately; she lingered another moment, staring after him, then slid back behind the wheel. Only then did the car purr softly away.

Suho muttered under his breath, “That was unnecessary.”

---

Later, when the apartment was warm with lamplight and Minjae sprawled across the floor with crayons, Suho sprawled on the couch, still replaying the scene. He didn’t even notice Sieun until he came out of his room, hair damp from the shower, a towel draped over his shoulders.

“So,” Suho started, voice too casual, “your chauffeur friend.”

Sieun glanced at him once, impassive, before kneeling to check Minjae’s backpack. “My car’s at the garage for a few days. She lives nearby, so she offered.”

Suho sat up straighter. “What kind of garage keeps a car that long?”

Sieun didn’t look up. “One that needs time to fix it.”

Suho muttered, half to himself, “Or one that got bribed to keep it longer.”

Sieun lifted his head at that, one brow arched. “What?”

“Nothing.” Suho’s tone snapped a little too fast. He rubbed at his jaw, then reached over to pluck a crayon from Minjae’s hand. “Your coloring’s sloppy,” he told him.

“Hyung,” Minjae complained, grabbing it back. “I’m making a dinosaur.”

“Looks like a potato,” Suho muttered, earning a squeal of laughter.

But his chest was still too tight.

The next evening, Suho told himself he wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t look. He’d keep his eyes on Minjae at the swings, push him higher, higher, let the laughter drown out everything else.

But then headlights cut across the path, and like clockwork, the sleek car rolled up. The same woman stepped out, her hair catching the light, her smile tilting toward Sieun. Suho’s head snapped automatically, heart thumping against his ribs in irrational irritation.

This time he watched more closely. Watched the way she lingered even after Sieun had opened the building door. Watched her tilt her head, her lips curving too much at nothing.

“She’s laughing too much,” Suho muttered.

“She’s laughing at Daddy,” Minjae said, as if it were obvious.

“Yeah, well, he’s not that funny,” Suho snapped, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

When Sieun finally passed by the playground on his way upstairs, Minjae shouted, “Daddy, you hang out with that lady too much!”

Sieun paused, eyes flicking toward Suho, who was suddenly and furiously busy pushing the swing chain.

“Go inside,” Sieun said simply, his voice even. “It’s late.”

Suho muttered under his breath, “Didn’t deny it.”

By the third night, Suho was ready to combust. He stood stiffly at the sandbox with Minjae crouched at his side, building a lopsided tower. The now-familiar headlights slid across the courtyard, that sleek car purring into place.

“She’s back,” Suho announced grimly, as if reporting an enemy sighting.

Minjae looked up, squinting. “She waved at me yesterday. She’s nice.”

“Don’t wave back,” Suho said immediately. “That’s how they get you.”

When Sieun finally entered the apartment, Suho was waiting for him in the living room, arms crossed.

“Look at her,” he said without preamble. “She was staring at you like—like you’re dinner. Like she was going to eat your face.”

Sieun stilled, then shot him a look equal parts weary and baffled. “What are you talking about?”

"Are you sure she's not paying the garage to keep your car longer?"

Ocean eyes shot him a questioning look, "She was being polite."

“Polite?” Suho barked a laugh. “Polite doesn’t involve hair flips. She leaned in. Like this—” He bent forward in an exaggerated imitation, lips puckered until Minjae shrieked with laughter, rolling onto the carpet.

Even Sieun’s mouth twitched, though his tone stayed dry. “You’re ridiculous.”

“She’s ridiculous,” Suho shot back. “And you’re blind.”

Minjae crawled up beside him, tugging on his sleeve with conspiratorial eyes. “Hyung,” he whispered loudly, “you’re jealous.”

The word hung in the air like smoke.

Suho froze, ears going hot, scrambling for a retort, but Sieun was already brushing past, maddeningly calm, his voice smooth as water: “Finish your homework, Minjae.”

Which left Suho standing there in the lamplight, scowl deepening, heat crawling up his neck while the boy at his side giggled and whispered, “Jealous, jealous, jealous.”

Chapter Text

The nights piled on top of each other, identical in rhythm but different in weight. Each evening, the sleek black car appeared in the courtyard like clockwork. Each evening, the same woman stepped out with her neat smile, her polished hair, her body tilted a fraction too close toward Sieun. And each evening, Suho stood by the playground with Minjae tugging his sleeve, pretending not to watch, and failing.

At first he muttered, tossing barbs under his breath that even he pretended were jokes. “Garage must be having the longest holiday of the year.” Or: “Bet she bribed them to keep your car.” Minjae laughed at the dramatics, and Sieun, as always, brushed it off.

But the longer it went on, the less it felt like a joke.

He started noticing things that gnawed at him: how her voice always seemed just a little too warm when she said something; how she lingered a heartbeat too long even when Sieun had already bowed and turned away; how her hand clung to the frame of the door like she wanted to keep him there. Suho’s chest tightened at the sight every single time, heat crawling up his neck.

It would have been easier if Sieun reacted. If he smiled at her, if he softened even a fraction, Suho could have rolled his eyes, scoffed, shoved it off as see, of course he’s into her. But Sieun didn’t. He didn’t encourage, didn’t reciprocate, didn’t linger. He was maddeningly polite, his expression smooth as always, unreadable. Which was somehow worse.

Because Suho didn’t know. Didn’t know if that blankness was disinterest or discretion. Didn’t know if, beneath it, Sieun thought she was pretty. If he thought she was easier. If maybe he preferred women anyway.

The thought lodged itself deeper each night until it colored everything. The laughter from the theme park felt further away, like it had belonged to someone else. His humming dulled, his jokes trailed off, the easy brightness in his chest dimmed. He caught himself staring at Sieun more than once across the apartment, searching for something he couldn’t name. Every time he found nothing, the ache grew sharper.

The gang noticed first.

“You look like someone stole your puppy,” Baku said, elbowing him over cards.

“Or your hot boss dumped you,” Beakjin added with a wicked grin.

Suho laughed too loudly, threw a chip at Beakjin’s face, and snapped, “Shut up.”

But they were right. He felt like he’d been left behind by something he hadn’t even had.

It broke one evening.

He was in the kitchen, stirring noodles absentmindedly, when his phone buzzed. A message.

Having dinner with colleague. Don’t make one for me.

Suho stared at the words until they blurred. His jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around the spoon. He didn’t need to ask which colleague. He could already see her glossy hair in the glow of headlights, the way she leaned toward Sieun, her laugh too soft.

He set the phone down with a thunk, spoon clattering against the pot. Minjae peeked over from the table where he was coloring. “Hyung? Are you mad?”

“No,” Suho said too quickly, voice scraping. “Just—stupid stove.”

But his chest burned all through dinner, through cleanup, through Minjae’s bedtime routine. He read the boy a story in a voice too flat, tucked him in too quickly, lingered by the door longer than necessary. And when the apartment fell quiet, he didn’t move to the couch or his bed. He sat at the kitchen table instead, the overhead light humming, his phone on the table in front of him.

He told himself he was being ridiculous. That Sieun was a grown man, free to eat dinner with anyone he wanted. That it was nothing. That he didn’t care.

But he stayed anyway. Waiting.

Every car that passed in the street below made his head lift. Every creak of the elevator pulled his shoulders tight. The minutes dragged until the door finally clicked open.

Suho looked up too fast.

Sieun stepped in, steady as ever, though his cheeks were faintly flushed, his jacket draped over one arm. There was the faint scent of wine clinging to him — not strong, not enough for drunkenness, but enough to tell. He set his briefcase down neatly by the door, slipped off his shoes, and glanced up. His gaze caught on Suho at the table, still awake, waiting.

“You’re late,” Suho said, the words too sharp, too brittle.

Sieun’s brows lifted faintly. “I told you. Dinner with a colleague.”

Suho’s fingers curled against the table edge. He tried for humor, but it came out bitter. “What was it? That polite-enough-to-give-you-a-ride lady?”

“Yes,” Sieun answered simply, calm as water.

The word cut sharper than it should have. Suho swallowed hard. “So what, was it—” His throat worked. “Was it a date, then?”

Sieun set his jacket carefully over the back of a chair before answering. “No. Not a date. I invited her to dinner as a thank you. She’s been giving me rides all week.”

Suho scoffed under his breath, the sound low, wounded. “Some thank you.”

Sieun’s eyes flicked to him then, and for the first time, something in his expression shifted — not irritation, not ice, but something smaller, subtler. A faint crease between his brows, like concern, like ache.

“You’re upset,” he said quietly. Not a question.

Suho laughed once, harsh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not upset. I just—” He broke off, staring at the table, at the reflection of the light in the varnish. His voice dropped, rough with something he couldn’t name. “I just thought… you’d have told me. If it was like that.”

Sieun stilled, his throat working once before he said, even softer, “It’s not like that.”

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, taut as wire. Suho lifted his head finally, and when his eyes met Sieun’s, something raw flickered there: confusion, jealousy, hurt threaded through with something he didn’t want to admit.

It was enough to make Sieun’s chest tighten, just faintly.

He looked away first, steady as ever, and said, “It's late. You should go home and rest.”

And then he left Suho in the kitchen with the weight of it pressing down, heavier than the silence.

---

That night, Suho lay in the dark staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the city pressing through the window. He should have fallen asleep hours ago. His body was tired, his eyelids heavy, but his mind refused to rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again — the headlights, the sleek car, the woman’s smile tilting just a little too soft, her voice brushing too warm toward Sieun. And then the way Sieun had walked in, calm as always, wine lingering faintly on his skin, his answers clipped, unbothered.

Yes. No. Just a thank you.

Suho turned onto his side, shoved his hand under the pillow, tried to bury it. But the ache stayed.

He told himself he was being ridiculous. That Sieun was free to do whatever he wanted. Free to date whoever he wanted. God, hadn’t he earned it? Years alone, raising Minjae, buried in work, holding everything together without anyone beside him. Maybe he should be with someone. Maybe he deserved it more than anyone.

Suho pressed the heel of his palm to his chest as if he could smother the heaviness there. The logic didn’t soothe. It only sharpened.

Because the thought of Sieun with someone else — smiling that rare smile at her, letting her linger, letting her close — made Suho’s throat tighten until he could barely breathe.

He tried to laugh at himself, tried to brush it off as childish jealousy. He’s not yours. He’s not even close to yours. You don’t get to want this. But the laughter never came. Only a hollow ache, deep and bruising.

In the silence, his mind whispered the words he wouldn’t let himself say out loud: I don’t want him to belong to anyone else.

The thought scared him as much as it comforted him.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under, but it was a restless sleep, broken into fragments, leaving him heavier when he woke again.

It was Saturday morning when he stirred next, sunlight already bright against the blinds. He rubbed at his face with a groan, reached blindly for his phone on the nightstand.

A message waited.

A photo.

Minjae sat strapped in the backseat of Sieun’s car, the plush shark crushed to his chest, his head tipped happily against the window.

Beneath it, Sieun’s caption: The car is fixed. No need for a ride from today.

The words were so characteristically Sieun — dry, pared down, indifferent on the surface. But Suho read more into them instantly. Too much, maybe. Enough.

No more sleek car pulling up at the curb. No more polished smiles angled too warmly. No more of her.

Relief hit him like sunlight cracking through clouds. His chest loosened so abruptly it made him laugh — a sharp, breathless sound that startled even himself. He rolled onto his stomach, shoved his face into the pillow, and grinned so wide his jaw ached.

The heaviness of the night dissolved all at once, replaced by something effervescent, wild, impossible to cage. He wanted to kick his legs, to laugh out loud, to shout like an idiot. He settled for muffling the sound into the pillow, shaking with it, grinning until his eyes watered.

He swiped at his phone again, staring at the photo until his vision blurred. The shark, the boy, the faint reflection of Sieun’s hand in the rearview mirror.

His heart felt absurdly light.

Chapter Text

When the car refused to start, Sieun’s first reaction was irritation. He had just left the office, briefcase heavy in his hand, the sky darkening with the promise of rain. He turned the key again, but the engine only gave a hollow click. He leaned back in his seat, exhaled slowly, already recalculating the evening in his head. He didn’t have time for this.

The garage sent a tow truck and told him it would be a few days. A few days. He considered calling a taxi, but before he could, a colleague appeared, keys in hand, smiling.

“You live near my route,” she offered lightly. “I’ll drop you.”

It was efficient. Convenient. He nodded once, accepted, and slid into her car.

The first evening, he barely noticed how she lingered when they arrived. He was already thinking of Minjae, of dinner, of Suho. He stepped out, thanked her politely, and went inside without a second thought.

The second evening, he noticed more.

She slowed the car in the courtyard, her words soft and winding, stretching seconds into minutes. Her smile lingered when she said goodbye, the angle of her body tilted faintly toward him, as if reluctant to let him go. He gave her the same polite nod, stepped out, walked away.

It would have ended there, a forgettable moment, except for the voice that carried faintly across the playground.

“Garage must be having the longest holiday of the year.”

Low, muttered, dripping with annoyance.

"Are you sure she's not paying the garage to keep your car longer?"

He turned his head briefly. There, by the swings, Suho stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, Minjae bouncing beside him oblivious. The irritation in Suho’s tone was obvious, pointed, impossible to mistake.

Something in Sieun’s chest stirred, unexpected.

He brushed it off, went upstairs, carried on as usual. But the third night, when the headlights swept the courtyard again and she leaned across the door frame with that practiced smile, Suho’s mutter was sharper.

“She’s laughing too much.”

And another night:

“She was looking at you like she wanted to eat your face.”

Sieun lowered his gaze each time, careful, because if he let his eyes linger too long the curve tugging faintly at his mouth would give him away. It shouldn’t have mattered — Suho’s mutters, his little bursts of sarcasm. Childish. Petty. He had heard worse in his life and ignored it without thought. And yet, somehow, this was different.

Because the words weren’t careless. They were barbed, but not with indifference. There was heat in them, the kind that came from something deeper, something personal.

It struck him the first time like a sharp note in a quiet room: jealousy.

The word startled him, unsettled him, made his pulse thrum strangely in his chest. But the longer he thought about it, the more sense it made. The way Suho’s shoulders stiffened whenever the headlights cut across the courtyard. The way his jaw worked when the woman leaned just a fraction too close. The way his mutters carried more bite than humor, as if he couldn’t keep the irritation pressed behind his teeth.

Suho was jealous.

The realization lodged in Sieun’s chest, and instead of hardening him, it softened something he hadn’t even realized was still there. Something that hadn’t stirred in years.

It was absurd. Irrational. But it was also… endearing.

Suho, with all his brightness, his noise, his careless laughter, was suddenly revealed in another shade — sharp-edged, possessive in ways he probably didn’t even understand himself. And Sieun, watching from the edge of it, found the thought almost tender. That Suho cared enough to be annoyed. That Suho’s mutters meant he had been paying attention.

As for the woman, Sieun never encouraged her. He wasn’t cruel, but he wasn’t welcoming either. He kept the distance precise: polite nods, clipped thanks, no more warmth than he would give anyone else. He knew what she wanted — it was obvious in the way her gaze lingered, in the way her laugh curled too easily into the spaces he left empty. He saw it, but he didn’t invite it.

Because she was a colleague, and because rejecting her outright felt unnecessary.

And because the rides helped. They were efficient. Practical. They got him home faster. That was all he told himself. The quicker he arrived, the quicker he could open the door to Minjae’s chatter, to the crayon mess across the floor, to the clattering of pans Suho insisted on using even though his cooking was more chaotic than competent. The sooner he could shed the office, loosen his tie, and sit at a table where Suho’s food might be uneven, but warm, waiting.

That was what he wanted. To get home quickly. That was all.

But even as he told himself that, another truth pressed at the edges. Because when Suho barked out another sarcastic jab, when Minjae giggled and nudged him and whispered with the innocent cruelty only children had, Hyung, you’re jealous, Sieun felt something he hadn’t expected.

He felt grateful.

Grateful for the broken car. For the inconvenience. For the silly circumstance that had pulled this thread loose and let him see it. Because Suho’s jealousy — ridiculous, petty, unpolished — revealed something softer underneath, something Sieun hadn’t thought to ever glimpse: that he mattered to him.

And though Sieun would never admit it aloud, never let it show more than in the faintest flicker of his mouth, he carried that thought with him each night. A quiet, steady warmth he hadn’t known he was missing until now.

The dinner was his own doing. Gratitude demanded formality. She had offered rides for nearly a week; to ignore it would be careless, even disrespectful. So he invited her out — not for interest, not for pleasure, but to balance the ledger, to draw a clean line.

That was what he told himself, at least.

The meal itself passed smoothly. Too smoothly. The wine was gentle, mellow against his throat. The conversation light, circling comfortably around projects at work, deadlines, small frustrations they could both share. Each time her words reached for something closer — a question about his family, about his weekends, about whether he ever allowed himself fun — he deflected, redirected with precision. He kept it steady, unyielding, polite but firm.

It wasn’t unpleasant. But it wasn’t home.
The whole time, in some corner of his mind, he thought of Minjae’s chatter, of Suho’s too-loud humming as he burned rice in the pan, of the cluttered warmth waiting behind another door.

By the time he finally let himself in that night, the apartment lights glowed low and golden, a welcome warmth against the faint chill in his skin. He slipped out of his shoes, quiet as always, setting his briefcase neatly aside.

And then he saw him.

Suho, sitting at the table. Awake. Waiting.

Sieun paused mid-step, something in his chest shifting before he could school his face back to stillness. He should have expected it. Of course Suho would wait, of course his energy was too restless to let the night go unremarked.

The sharpness in his voice came immediately, cutting into the quiet like glass.
“Did you go out with that polite-enough-to-give-you-a-ride lady?”

The question wasn’t surprising. The bitterness threaded through it was.

Sieun kept his expression even, his tone measured. “Yes.”
He added, before Suho could pounce: “No. Not a date. Just a thank you.”

Simple. Honest. Even.

But when he looked up again, he saw it — the shift in Suho’s eyes. The bite in his voice had broken on the way out, fraying into something rawer, something it seemed to hurt him to give voice to. Hurt, not anger. A flash of vulnerability unguarded, bleeding through where it shouldn’t have.

And Sieun, who had thought himself immune, who had spent years armoring against every possible hurt, felt something twist sharp inside his chest.

It wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t guilt. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

It was something quieter. Something softer. And infinitely harder to bear.

Because he didn’t want to see that look in Suho’s eyes again. Didn’t want to hear that catch in his voice. Didn’t want, inexplicably, to be the reason for it.

He didn’t know why. He only knew that the sight left him unsettled, standing in the low light of the apartment with a weight in his chest he couldn’t shake.

---

That night, in his room, the silence pressed against him like a weight. It was late, far past the hour he usually let himself rest, but he sat on the edge of the bed with his phone cold in his hand. The screen glowed, blank, but in his mind it wasn’t empty. It was filled with the sound of Suho’s voice at the table — sharp at the start, yes, but breaking by the end, raw in a way that cut deeper than it should have.

Bitter. Jealous. But above all — hurt.

He didn’t want that look again.

Before he realized he was moving, he was already pressing the call button. The garage picked up, groggy at the late hour, but Sieun’s voice was steady, firm. He asked. Then pressed. Then pressed harder, until they relented and promised — the car would be ready at opening.

He ended the call and set the phone down on the nightstand. His hand lingered over it a moment longer, fingertips brushing the glass as though reluctant to let go.

It was irrational. He knew it. He could have waited another few days. The rides were efficient, practical, convenient. A small disruption, nothing more.

But none of that mattered anymore.

Because he didn’t want to step out of that car again and see Suho’s shoulders tense, hear the clipped edge in his voice, watch the hurt bleed through his eyes. He didn’t want to be the cause of it — not once more.

So he had made the call. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to.

Not because of her.

Because of him.

---

The next morning, he woke Minjae early even though it was Saturday. The boy grumbled, bleary-eyed, his hair sticking up in every direction, but perked up instantly when told they were going to pick up the car. He clutched the shark plush to his chest, yawning through every step of breakfast, his feet dragging but his mouth smiling.

At the garage, the car was waiting, familiar again, gleaming under the pale light. Ordinary, unremarkable. Yet when Sieun signed the paperwork, a quiet relief sank into him, as though order had been restored. He slid behind the wheel, fingers tightening briefly on the leather, breathing in the faint scent of the interior that had been his for years. It was steadier here, this seat. His place.

In the mirror, he caught Minjae slumped in the backseat, the shark plush smothering half his face, his small body folded toward the window, lips curved faintly in a drowsy grin.

Something in Sieun softened, unguarded.

He reached for his phone. The photo was quick, almost careless — Minjae with the toy under his chin, the morning light spilling across his face. He typed the words as simply as always, stripped bare of flourish:

The car is fixed. No need for a ride from today.

But as the road stretched ahead, his thoughts slipped back — to the kitchen table, to Suho’s voice the night before, sharp on the edges but fraying in the middle. To eyes that had looked at him with something raw, something that felt like both an accusation and a plea.

Sieun’s grip shifted on the wheel, his mouth tightening faintly. He hadn’t needed to do this. But he wanted to.

He glanced once more into the rearview mirror. Minjae’s lashes fluttered against his cheeks, his grin lingering even in sleep.

And beneath that image, layered soft but certain, another surfaced — Suho, waiting at the table, eyes shadowed and unguarded.

For reasons Sieun hadn’t yet dared to name, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Suho woke late, sunlight spilling in through blinds he’d forgotten to close, the kind of brightness that made it impossible to pretend it was still early. His body was heavy from a night of half-sleep, the kind that teased but never fully gave, and he groaned into the pillow before dragging a hand across the nightstand for his phone.

The screen lit up with a message.

The car is fixed. No need for a ride from today.

For a moment he just stared at it, vision blurring as though he’d read it wrong. Then he read it again, and again, until the words carved themselves into his chest. His thoughts stumbled over themselves, tripping into spirals he couldn’t stop. Why tell him? Why would Sieun think to update him about something as dull as the state of his car? Unless—

Unless he had noticed. Unless every mutter Suho had thrown out these past days, every sharp jab about garages and bribes and women lingering too long, had landed. Unless Sieun had seen right through him.

The realization made him burn. He rolled onto his stomach and shoved his face into the pillow, heat rushing into his ears until he thought he might combust. Did I really look that obvious? Did I look jealous? Was I jealous? The answer hovered just out of reach, terrifying and undeniable all at once.

And yet, even as he cursed himself, his mouth refused to stop curving. The grin that spread against the pillow was so wide it hurt, reckless and impossible to contain, because if Sieun had noticed, then he had acted on it. He had ended the rides. He had stopped the whole thing. Not because he had to, but because—what? Because he wanted to? Because he cared?

Suho flipped onto his back, pressed his phone to his chest, and laughed under his breath, sharp and disbelieving. He didn’t have to be anywhere today. It was Saturday, no nanny shifts, no obligation, no excuse. He should have closed his eyes again, wasted the morning like every other twenty-year-old with no classes and too much time.

But the thought of staying away felt unbearable. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, the text glowing still in his mind, and something twisted low in his chest. It wasn’t just relief — that sharp weight gone from his ribs — it was an ache he couldn’t name, an urge that caught him by surprise. He wanted to see him. Hot boss, with his pressed shirts and sharp lines, with those ocean eyes that cut and softened all at once, with lips too full for a man who never wasted words.

The urge pulled him upright before he could argue. He didn’t know why — or maybe he did, and just didn’t want to admit it. But after the text, after the proof that Sieun had noticed, had acted, had cared enough to fix the car just to stop those rides, Suho couldn’t stay away.

Before he could change his mind, he was already on his feet, tugging on jeans, raking his fingers through his hair until it stood just messy enough to look deliberate. His heart raced in that stupid, reckless way it always did when he thought of Sieun, and by the time he was standing outside the apartment pressing the doorbell, he was half convinced he’d lost his mind.

The door opened.

And there he was — hair tousled from a lazy morning, no tie, no starched edges, just soft cotton and ocean eyes widening slightly at the sight of him. The stillness lasted only a breath, but Suho felt it echo through him.

He scratched at the back of his neck, forcing a grin. “I, uh… thought you could use some rest. I can take care of Minjae.”

For a heartbeat, Sieun only looked at him, gaze unreadable but heavy. Then he stepped aside, holding the door open. His voice was calm, even, but there was the faintest softness woven into it. “Come in.”

Inside, the apartment smelled of toast and tea. Minjae’s voice floated from the living room, high and animated as he narrated whatever cartoon was flickering on the screen. Sieun turned back to the kitchen, moving with the same precise efficiency as always, but Suho couldn’t stop himself from leaning against the counter, arms folded, eyes fixed.

“I got the text.” he said lightly, grinning. “So the car magically got fixed this morning. After all those days.”

Sieun rinsed a plate, the water running steady. When he looked up, his face was as composed as ever, but Suho swore he caught something else in the edges of his expression, something almost amused.

“It was due,” Sieun said simply.

Suho tilted his head, pressing, the grin widening. “Right. After days of rides, it just happened to be ready very early in the morning after I…” He trailed off, heat sparking in his ears, and masked it with a scoff. “Coincidence. Sure. Totally believable.”

One brow lifted, ocean eyes glinting faintly. “You’re giving yourself too much credit.”

But his voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t dismissive, either. It was smooth, steady — indulgent, even. Like he was allowing the game, letting Suho needle and pry, instead of closing him off.

The shift made Suho’s heart stumble. He turned quickly, pretending to inspect the fridge, but the grin tugged at his mouth anyway.

The morning, after that, bled into something easier, a rhythm he hadn’t realized he missed until he was in it. Minjae squealed when Suho flopped onto the rug beside him, demanding help with Lego towers that collapsed the second they grew taller than his arm. Suho laughed until his sides hurt, let himself sprawl like a kid, let Minjae boss him around like an architect with a useless intern.

In the kitchen, he stole bites of toast, tearing off corners as he passed, pretending not to notice the faint lift of Sieun’s brow. It was almost fun, seeing how far he could push it before Sieun said anything. He brushed shoulders with him in the narrow space, not entirely accidental this time, lingering just a fraction too long before pulling away.

And when Sieun sat on the couch later, a book in hand, Suho threw himself down beside him, slouched low until their knees nearly touched. He leaned in shamelessly, chin angled toward the page.

“How can you read something this boring?” Suho drawled, eyes flicking to the neat lines of text. “Is there seriously nothing more interesting in the world?”

Sieun didn’t look up. “It helps me resist writing yummy in professional documents.”

Suho froze, his grin faltering into a gape. “Wait—” He sat up straighter, pointing an accusatory finger. “You remember that?”

Finally, Sieun turned a page, unbothered, his voice steady as ever. “Of course. It was in bold. Underlined, if I recall correctly. Had to tell you to cross it off.”

Suho groaned, flopping back against the couch dramatically, dragging a cushion over his face. “It was one time. One! And it was late, and I was hungry, and it was a draft.”

“Draft or not,” Sieun murmured, cool but faintly amused, “it was still submitted.”

Suho peeked out from under the cushion, grinning now despite himself. “You sound like you’re scarred for life.”

“I am,” Sieun said, deadpan, but the corner of his mouth twitched just enough to betray him.

Suho laughed, leaning closer again, shoulder pressing into his arm, eyes bright. “You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

“No,” Sieun said simply.

And though the word was flat, there was warmth under it — the kind that made Suho’s chest fizz, giddy and restless, because it wasn’t just mockery. It was memory. Sieun had remembered, carried it, even teased him with it. His eyes flicked to Sieun’s profile, calm and infuriatingly composed as he turned another page.

“So,” Suho started, tone light, testing. “The car. Kind of funny how it suddenly got fixed first thing in the morning.”

Sieun didn’t glance up. “Told you, the garage called.”

“Mm.” Suho tilted his head, studying him. “That’s it? Just coincidentally today? After a whole week of you getting chauffeured around like a VIP?”

A faint breath — not quite a sigh — left Sieun. “Machines get repaired. That’s all.”

But Suho heard something in the evenness of his voice, something that wasn’t quite as flat as the words. He grinned wider, reckless now. “You sure? ‘Cause it kinda feels like you pushed them. Like you wanted it done. Urgently.”

This time, Sieun did look up, ocean eyes meeting his. Steady. Cool. But softer than Suho expected. “You’re imagining things.”

Suho’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. He covered it with a laugh, throwing his head back against the couch. “Yeah, probably. My imagination’s the worst.”

But inside, the thought burned bright: what if I’m not imagining it? What if he really did notice?

He didn’t dare ask more. Didn’t even know what answer he wanted. But the idea that Sieun might have done it for him — for his sake — lingered, heavy and warm, until his grin refused to fade. Even after Sieun had looked up with those steady ocean eyes and dismissed him with a quiet, You’re imagining things, Suho couldn’t shake it. The words might have been flat, but the gaze hadn’t been. Not sharp, not cold, not dismissive in the way Sieun could be when he wanted to cut something off. No, there had been a softness there, just for a moment, like an answer he wouldn’t put into words.

And that tiny sliver of softness was enough to burn under Suho’s skin, buzzing through him like caffeine.

---

By noon, Sieun closed the book, set it neatly aside, and said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “Let’s go out for lunch.”

The grin broke across Suho’s face before he could stop it.

In the newly fixed car, Minjae buckled himself in with his shark plush, chattering about noodles, dumplings, burgers, fries — his imagination running ahead of the menu. Sieun drove with one hand steady on the wheel, expression calm, focused, sunlight brushing along his cheekbones.

Suho sat in the passenger seat, grinning like an idiot at nothing. At everything. He had to force himself to look out the window so it wasn’t too obvious, but his eyes kept pulling back, tracing the clean line of Sieun’s jaw, the way his shirt collar sat just slightly askew, the way he looked so ordinary and yet not ordinary at all.

“Why are you smiling at nothing?” Minjae piped up from the back, suspicious, his small voice puncturing Suho’s reverie.

“I’m not,” Suho said quickly, twisting in his seat to tickle his side. Minjae squealed and pushed him away, laughing, and when Suho turned forward again, he caught the faintest flicker in Sieun’s expression — not quite a smile, but something that warmed dangerously close.

The restaurant was busy but not loud, filled with the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of families tucked into booths. They found a corner table, Minjae wedged happily between them, already demanding fries.

Suho let him chatter, nodding along, sneaking fries when they came. He teased Minjae until the boy huffed and threatened to guard his plate with the shark plush, and Sieun, across the table, only lifted a brow as if to say children, everywhere. But his eyes lingered longer on Suho than usual, calm and assessing, and every time Suho felt that gaze, his heart leapt stupidly in his chest.

It was so ordinary — a child’s laughter, the smell of frying oil, sunlight slanting across the table — and yet Suho couldn’t stop glancing at Sieun, couldn’t stop thinking how much he wanted to freeze this moment. How much he wanted to believe it meant more than it did.

The waitress stopped by once to top off their drinks, her smile lingering as she glanced at the three of them together. “You’ve got a lovely family,” she said warmly, before moving on without waiting for a reply.

The words detonated inside Suho’s chest. He choked on his soda, coughing so hard Minjae started giggling at him. His face burned, and he risked a glance across the table, panic and exhilaration tangling together.

Sieun’s expression didn’t falter. He lifted his glass calmly, took a measured sip, and set it back down. No denial, no correction, no sharp dismissal. Just silence — deliberate, steady, as if he’d decided not to break whatever illusion the waitress had seen.

And that silence made Suho dizzy. His grin cracked wide and helpless, unstoppable, even as he ducked his head to hide it. His heart thudded against his ribs, so loud he was sure Sieun could hear it.

Because maybe it wasn’t true. Not yet. But for the first time, it felt like it could be.

Chapter Text

Suho announced it on a Sunday evening, halfway through folding Minjae’s paper planes into a lopsided fleet across the living room floor. “Department trip,” he said, tossing a finished plane into the air and watching it nosedive immediately. “One week. They’re calling it a field excursion, but really it’s just a lot of students pretending to learn geology while sneaking alcohol into the mountains.”

Minjae’s head snapped up from his shark plush, eyes wide. “One week?” His small voice cracked with outrage. “Then who’s gonna pick me up? Who’s gonna cook for me and Daddy?” His lip jutted, trembling with real despair. “I’m gonna miss you, Hyung!”

The boy launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around Suho’s neck like a life preserver, shark plush squeezed between them.

Suho laughed, hugging him back with exaggerated drama. “Miss me? Already? I haven’t even packed yet!” He tried to pry the boy off, but Minjae clung tighter, whining into his shoulder.

From where he sat at the table, Sieun adjusted the papers in front of him until the edges were too neat. He kept his expression steady, unreadable, but his chest tightened at the sound of I’m gonna miss you.

Because the thought had already come to him, unbidden, sharp and quiet: he would miss him too. The clatter in the kitchen, the uneven humming down the hall, the clumsy dinners that left the sink crowded with dishes. It was absurd to admit — even to himself — that the absence of such chaos could feel heavier than its presence.

So he only said, without looking up, “It’s one week. We’ll manage.”

But his hand stilled on the papers when Suho grinned at Minjae and promised, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

And Sieun thought, not for the first time, that promises could be dangerous things.

---

The week began as though nothing had changed. Monday morning, Suho’s sneakers were gone from the doorway, the counter clear of his breakfast clutter, the air strangely obedient. Minjae pouted on the way to kindergarten, asking again if Hyung really had to go for so long, and Sieun told him they’d be fine. He told himself the same.

By Tuesday he noticed it in the small, stupid ways: the pair of chopsticks he reached for and then put back; the pan he took down and returned to the shelf because there was no one here to burn the rice; the way the sink stayed empty but the air felt overfull. Minjae ate what he was given and didn’t ask where Suho was, which was worse than the asking. He pushed his rice in slow circles, yawned too early, and curled around the shark with the kind of sigh that made Sieun rub at his chest when no one was looking.

Wednesday, work ran late. The hallway light outside the apartment flickered, humming like it had a fever of its own. Inside, the television glow breathed across the living room; Minjae had fallen asleep on the couch, cartoon figures frozen mid-leap. There was a space beside him that should have held a boy sprawled in the most inconvenient position possible, pretending not to watch the show he’d chosen. Instead there was the neat rectangle of a folded blanket, exactly where Sieun had left it. He stood there too long, listening to the manufactured laugh track still murmuring through the speakers, then turned it off and carried his son to bed.

Thursday he grew irritated—at himself, at the way the apartment’s order made the ache louder. This was his life; he had chosen it. Work, then Minjae's kindergarten, home, then work again; a boy to tuck in; a ledger to balance that did not include anyone else. He tried to lean back into that rhythm the way you lean into an old habit, but his body had learned new steps, and every room reminded him. The fridge was too tidy. The shoes lined up by the door were all his. His phone stayed quiet at the hours when it had learned to buzz with a photo of something ridiculous: a dinosaur drawn with seven legs, a plate of pasta Suho swore had “restaurant vibe,” a selfie taken at an angle that made Suho’s grin too big for his face. He told himself he didn’t miss any of it. He told himself a lot of things.

Sieun sat at his desk with his laptop open, work spread before him, but the numbers blurred faster than he could catch them. His hand drifted before his pride could stop it, unlocking his phone with muscle memory.

The app was already there, the one he’d sworn he had no reason to open. Suho’s page filled the screen in a rush of color and light: messy group photos from the field trip, wide landscapes with crooked captions, selfies pulled too close that cut half his grin off.

Sieun scrolled slower than he should have, eyes lingering on details he told himself he didn’t care about. The way Suho’s hair stuck up under a cap, the curve of his mouth caught mid-laugh, the bright press of his hand flashing a peace sign. In one photo, he was holding a plate of food, chopsticks clutched wrong, grin wide as if to say don’t tell me how to use these, I know already.

It was ridiculous. Childish. And yet Sieun felt his ears warm, the tips of them prickling, his chest tightening as if the photos had reached through the screen to press against him.

He set the phone face-down on the desk, exhaled hard, rubbed a hand across his eyes. But the silence only pressed closer.

Minutes later, he reached for the phone again.

This time it was a tagged photo — Suho in the background of a crowd, laughing at something just out of frame. His face soft, unguarded, like the boy Sieun had left in his kitchen a dozen nights.

Heat rushed across his face before he could stop it. He dropped the phone onto the desk and pushed back from the chair as if it had bitten him.

Ridiculous. Absurd. He was a grown man. He had no business letting his pulse stumble over something so small.

And yet when he finally fell into bed, he lay on his side staring at the ceiling, his phone inches from his hand, his chest still aching with a truth he couldn’t force into words: He missed him.

Friday after taking Minjae home and feeding him, Sieun worked so late again, enough that the laptop screen mirrored back a stranger— hair tousled, eyes overused. For years that blankness had meant relief: nothing to clean up, nothing to untangle, nothing to explain. Now it only meant that every sound he made bounced back at him with interest. He picked up a packet of instant ramen, set it down again, and reached for his phone without deciding to.

He typed and deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. He was not a man who sent foolish messages for the sake of relief; he had trained the impulse out of himself. When he finally let his thumbs move, the words came out crooked anyway.

I’m craving your salty pasta.

He frowned at it—too personal, too exposed—then hit send before he could turn the sentence back into stone.

The reply landed so fast he pictured Suho with his phone in hand, waiting like a fool.

You said it was fine…

He hadn’t meant to smile, but it pulled at his mouth, small and involuntary. He leaned his hip against the counter and typed, fingers steady now.

Didn’t want to hurt you back then.

Three pulsing dots, then: Two more days. I’ll be back and haunt you with salty pasta again.

The words settled warm in his chest. He set the phone down on the counter and exhaled slowly. For the first time that week, the silence didn’t press quite so hard.

By Sunday evening, he knew Suho was back in town. The trip had ended, the bus had returned. But Sieun expected him on Monday, as scheduled, to pick up Minjae from school. Not tonight.

So when the doorbell rang, he was caught off guard. He opened it to find Suho standing there, hair mussed from travel, a thermos bag dangling from his hand. The grin was less posture than tired—lopsided, honest. “My grandma made too much soup,” he said, as if the city required proof of his entry. “And I figured you’ve been living on instant ramen and coffee all week.”

Ocean eyes widened for a breath, then steadied. He stepped back and held the door, and it felt like the simplest kindness he had offered anyone all week. “Come in.”

Suho moved through the kitchen like he’d never left it, setting the bag on the counter and taking bowls down from the correct cupboard without looking. “It’s not fancy,” he said, peeling the lid and releasing steam that smelled like chicken and scallion and the kind of patience that takes all afternoon. “But it’s real soup, not the ghost of soup.”

“I’m aware of the difference,” Sieun said, though his voice came out softer than his words. He found himself watching Suho’s hands—the way he cupped the bowl with a folded towel to keep from burning his fingers, the way he nudged a spoon toward Minjae’s seat like muscle memory, the way he tasted the broth and made a face at its lack of crime.

“Needs salt,” Suho said, then caught himself and barked a laugh. “Actually—don’t listen to me. My palate is… morally compromised.”

“Your palate is a hazard,” Sieun murmured. He poured the soup into bowls and set them on the table, and Suho called down the hall—“Minjae! Food! Real!—and a small boy thundered in on socked feet, shark in tow, the week’s subdued edges cracking around his grin.

Dinner should have been ordinary. It was soup and rice and a plate of kimchi that had been waiting in the back of the fridge. It was a child narrating between mouthfuls about how sharks would definitely eat soup if they had spoons. It was Suho telling a story about a bus driver who named every mountain they passed like an old friend. It was Sieun blowing across a spoonful and testing the temperature on his wrist without thinking, then catching Suho’s quick glance and looking away. It was laughter that didn’t have to be loud to fill the room.

Somewhere between seconds and thirds, Suho said, “So. Did you survive without me?” as if it were a joke.

“No,” Sieun said, and only when Suho’s eyebrows shot up did he add, “The kitchen did.”

Minjae snorted and nearly lost a noodle up his nose. Suho leaned back, hand to his chest. “I see how it is. One week and you forget I’m a vital organ.”

“You’re more of a recurring condition,” Sieun said dryly. “Inconvenient. Persistent.”

“Charming,” Suho declared, delighted. “Incurable.”

The soup was rich enough to slow your breathing. It kept Sieun at the table longer than his habits allowed, long enough for Minjae to begin listing to one side, murmuring things about sharks that didn’t exist. Suho carried the boy to bed with a gentleness so practiced it looked like instinct, and when he returned to the living room, the apartment had gone soft around the edges.

“Grandma said to return the thermos or she’ll return me, as if she had a place where she could do that,” he said, dropping onto the couch with the heavy sigh of someone finally offstage.

“You’d deserve it,” Sieun said, and then, because the night invited a kind of courage that wasn’t loud: “Thank you for bringing it.”

Suho turned his head. Close up, he was flushed from the heat, hair refusing to obey his hand. “For soup?”

“For coming,” Sieun said. The words felt like stepping into a room without turning on the light, trusting the shape of it by memory.

Something flickered over Suho’s face—surprise first, yes, but then something gentler, like relief allowed to show itself. He tipped his head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling as if it might provide instructions. “I was going to wait until tomorrow,” he admitted. “Then you said you were craving my terrible pasta and I thought—maybe you were also craving edible food. Radical thought.”

“I said salty,” Sieun corrected.

“You said craving,” Suho countered, quick as a penny flipping. “I read the subtext.”

“I didn’t write any,” Sieun said. It was almost true. It wasn’t.

They sat with that. The television stayed off. The apartment hummed in the way buildings do—plumbing whispering in the walls, an elevator far away grumbling to itself. Suho pulled a stray thread from the knee of his jeans and wound it around his finger, then unwound it as if he’d remembered the rules on threads and wishes.

“Your grandma’s soup is good,” Sieun said at last, because praise was safer terrain.

“She’d adopt you if you said that to her face,” Suho replied. “Then you’d be stuck eating her medicinal stews for eternity. Which—hey—better than my pasta.”

“No argument,” Sieun said, and Suho looked wounded on principle.

“You’re supposed to be diplomatic,” he said. “You’re the boss.”

“I’m off-duty,” Sieun said. He didn’t mean to let the next part out: “And I’m tired of diplomacy.”

Suho turned to look at him properly. There it was again—that steadiness, that careful attention he offered the people he liked. “Long week?”

“Longer than it should have been,” Sieun said, and was quiet.

The couch dipped where Suho shifted nearer; not touching, not yet, but close enough for warmth to cross the inch between their knees. Close enough for the scent of soup to be replaced by laundry soap and whatever cologne Suho had borrowed and overused. When he spoke next, his voice had dropped into the careful register he reserved for Minjae’s bad dreams and delicate glass.

“You could’ve told me you hated the pasta,” he said. “You don’t have to protect my feelings from seasoning.”

“I wasn’t protecting yours,” Sieun said, and watched the understanding land. Suho’s mouth parted, closed. He looked down at his own hands like they’d handed him something fragile.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Then I’ll make it worse when I get back. For fairness.”

“Don’t,” Sieun said, and the word sounded enough like please in his own ears that he looked away. He followed the line of the bookshelf to the corner where a stack of Minjae’s drawings leaned dangerously. A green dinosaur with seven legs and an enthusiastic smile beamed inefficiently at the room.

Suho shifted again, closer by half a breath. “I, uh,” he said, then laughed at himself. “I’m bad at shutting up, but I also don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t,” Sieun told him, which was mercy on both their throats.

They let the quiet do the work. The inches between their bodies recalculated until the distance felt intentional. Suho’s knee bumped his when he reached for the remote neither of them used, and this time Sieun didn’t move away. The electricity of the contact wasn’t a spark so much as a low, steady current—the kind you don’t notice until someone reminds you what dark feels like.

“Can I ask something?” Suho said finally, his voice low in the softened quiet of the living room.

“No,” Sieun said out of habit, then, because the boy had earned more than stone: “You can ask.”

Suho leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes steady. “Did you really push the garage?"

The question landed between them like a stone in water, sending ripples outward. Sieun held his gaze for a moment too long, felt the pull of it, then answered evenly, “Yes. I called at night. I pressed. I didn’t want… the rides.”

"Why?"

He could have stopped there, left it buried. But the truth loosened something in him. “Not because of her.”

The silence stretched, taut, until Suho broke it, his voice softer now. “And not because of the car.”

The words weren’t a question, but an understanding, and Sieun heard it in his chest more than in his ears. He didn’t look away. If he had been younger, he might have fled the gaze; if he had been crueler, he might have ignored it. Instead, he held it.

A smile tugged at Suho’s mouth, slow and unrestrained, his eyes brightening like dawn breaking. “Okay,” he breathed, the word trembling between laugh and vow. Then, with a tilt of his head, he added, “So when you texted about my salty pasta…”

Sieun’s lips pressed thin, but Suho leaned closer, grin widening. “I’ll take that as you missed me.”

Heat flared low in Sieun’s chest, sharp and dangerous. He should have shut it down, cut him off, dismissed the boy’s grin with one dry word. Instead, he said nothing, ocean eyes steady, letting Suho’s laughter fill the room.

And for Suho, it was answer enough.

Chapter Text

The week after the soup slid forward in a gentler key, as if someone had reached over and turned the volume down on the world. Suho started showing up even when he wasn’t “on-duty.” He texted before lunch—Are you alive or just pretending?—then on weekends he appeared in the evening with mandarins in a netted bag, or with nothing at all except his noise. Minjae ran louder because of it, a comet with socks, and Sieun found himself doing nothing to stop the orbit.

At the table, their arms brushed when passing dishes. On the couch, their knees bumped and neither moved. Once, when Suho leaned in close to peer at the article open on Sieun’s phone, chin nearly touching his shoulder, he whispered, “You really read things with no pictures? That’s some serial killer behavior.”

Sieun didn’t look at him, only scrolled. “It helps me resist stabbing people who hover over my shoulder.”

Suho groaned, collapsing against the couch cushion, his knee grazing Sieun’s again. “You’re never letting me win, are you?”

“I’ve tried,” Sieun murmured, and against his own better judgment, he let the faintest smile slip into view.

Suho caught it and looked like he’d just won the lottery. The boy shone with a kind of light Sieun couldn’t name, and he had to look away before it burned him.

The apartment learned them this way—two voices at the sink, the clack of Lego underfoot, Minjae narrating the life plans of a shark that wanted a job. At the door, when Suho put his shoes back on too slowly, Sieun found his hand lifting of its own accord to straighten a collar or flick lint from a sleeve. Suho stilled every time as if those fingers were a bright animal coming toward him that he didn’t want to startle; his breath seemed to widen in his chest and then he’d grin at nothing, at everything.

“Hyung is here so much,” Minjae announced one morning, solemn as law. “It feels like he lives here.”

Sieun said nothing. Suho looked at him with a retort in his mouth and chose, for once, not to use it.

The talk came on a Thursday, late, because late is when the armor slides. Minjae had surrendered early after a bath, falling asleep with damp hair and the shark plastered to his cheek. In the living room the lamp threw a small and serious circle of light; the windows held back a city that went on without them. Suho sprawled across one end of the couch, socked feet tucked under him, hair flattened at the crown where Minjae had patted it with wet hands.

They began with nothing. The weather, the bus driver who named mountains. A text from Suho’s group chat—Baku had apparently lost a shoe to “scientific inquiry.” Sieun listened and did the small work of a house at rest—mug on coaster, blanket folded back over the armrest; the domestic choreography he had learned without witness. When the talking thinned, quiet settled with them without being heavy.

“Tell me something true,” Suho said finally. His voice had that careful edge he used for fragile things. “Not about work. About you.”

“Pass,” Sieun said, automatic.

Suho hesitated, and Sieun could feel the boy choosing which road to take: joke or insist. He didn’t joke. “Was it always just you and Minjae?” he asked instead. “From the start?”

The question found the tender place with the accuracy of someone who had been mapping it for months. For a heartbeat, Sieun considered the clean option—a shrug, a deflection, the efficient closing of a door. He could do it; he had done it for years and called it survival. But the week without Suho had taught him what silence could cost, and the week with him back had taught him what it might give.

“It wasn’t,” he said, and tasted how strange that sounded in his own mouth. “At the very start, it was my sister and me.”

Suho didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He only set his phone face-down on the table and turned in, that undivided attention he wielded like a warm hand.

“My twin,” Sieun said. The lamp linted his breath. “We were born four minutes apart. She liked to count it as four years when it suited her. She…” He had chosen his words so carefully for so long that letting them come unguarded felt like stepping into water at night. “She got sick during the pregnancy. It was fast. No one could make the doctors say anything simple. She held him once.”

He didn’t mean for his voice to thin. He fixed it by looking at the corner of the room and naming objects: the plant, the framed drawing of a seven-legged dinosaur, the new scuff in the skirting board where Suho had misjudged a turn with a laundry basket. The inventory gave him back the grip to keep going.

“I was barely 20 back then, in my last year because I skipped a couple of grades thank to this brain.” he said. “There wasn’t… a plan. For it. For any of it. But they put him in my arms, and nothing after that looked like a choice. There were forms. I signed all of them. I told the woman at the office to write my name where father went because there wasn’t an option for the right thing.”

He stopped, the silence heavy, as if the words themselves had stripped him bare.

Suho shifted closer, elbows on his knees, gaze steady and unflinching. “Twenty,” he said softly. “You were twenty, even a bit younger than I am now. Still a kid yourself.”

Sieun let out a shaky breath. “My scholarship didn’t cover formula. Or diapers. Or medicine when he caught his first fever at three weeks old, when I thought he was going to stop breathing. I worked two jobs, sometimes three — cafeteria shifts, tutoring, deliveries, whatever I could find. And then I studied, because if I lost that scholarship, we lost everything. I went days on black coffee and crackers from vending machines. I memorized the addresses of every after-hours clinic within three kilometers. I bartered favors I couldn’t afford, begged for help I didn’t deserve. Minjae went through diapers faster than I could buy them, and there were nights I sat on the floor with a calculator, trying to decide which bill I could pay late without getting the power cut.”

Suho’s eyes softened, but he didn’t speak. He just listened, quiet and unflinching, like a rope thrown across the dark.

“I carried him into lectures,” Sieun continued, voice lower now, more ragged. “I took notes with one hand while rocking him with the other. People stared. Some pitied. Some judged. I couldn’t afford to care. All I thought was: make it to the next day. Keep him breathing. Feed him. Don’t stop.”

The confession cracked something in the air.

Suho swallowed hard, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke. “So that’s why,” he said softly. “Why you’re always braced, like the world will fall apart the second you let your guard down.” His gaze was fierce, pained. “Why you never let yourself want anything."

Sieun’s fingers twitched against his knee, but he didn’t deny it.

“I did what I had to,” he said flatly, forcing his voice back into something practical because if he didn’t, it might break. “I learned to be steady. Predictable. Sharp only where I had to be. It’s better, for a child. If the adult is a stable surface. I stopped wanting… noisy things. Bright things. Things that would get in the way.” He flicked a glance at Suho, and the boy absorbed the dry barb without flinching. “Mostly.”

Suho gave a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. “So you made yourself stone. Untouchable. All so no one had to carry you.”

Sieun’s lips tightened. He didn’t answer.

After a beat, he went on, quieter: “It seemed… efficient to become a person no one else had to accommodate. I didn’t think there would ever be room for someone else in my life. Who would want a man already carrying a child like a parcel he couldn’t set down?”

The honesty startled even himself. He waited for shame to bloom and found none. Perhaps the years of silence had burned it away.

Suho’s knee nudged his, deliberate and grounding. His voice gentled. “You really think that makes you unwanted? That choosing your baby, raising him right, makes you less?”

“It means I chose him instead of anything else,” Sieun answered. His voice didn’t shake, but his eyes burned.

Suho considered that. His mouth worked, but when he spoke, everything light in him had been set aside. “You were barely 20 and the only adult in the room,” he said. “You did more than anyone had a right to ask. You kept him safe. You kept yourself… whole enough to do it again the next day. And the next.” He leaned in, the brightness tamed into something steadier. “You call that instead, like it’s a detour. It’s not. It’s a road people write whole lives trying to find.”

Sieun didn’t know what to do with praise when it had no flattery in it. He took it, because refusing would have been cruelty to them both. The warmth it lit was not triumph; it was relief with a pulse.

Suho’s hand moved then, not dramatic, not rehearsed, simply a reaching that had waited a long time to be brave. He laid it over Sieun’s where it rested on his knee. Warmth went through both of them like a current finding a circuit. Sieun felt his first instinct—retract, recompose, return to edges—and did not obey it. He turned his palm just enough that their fingers aligned, then let the boy’s hand cover his.

They didn’t look at their hands. Looking would have made it too large; not looking made it real.

“Was there…?” Suho began, then swallowed the rest. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“There wasn’t,” Sieun said. “No father in any way that mattered. No grandparents who wanted the fight that came with the child. Just me and a flat that smelled like boiled cabbage and the sound of someone I couldn’t afford crying,” and he laughed once, quick and without humor. “I learned to be tired and I learned to be efficient. I did not learn to be… good at being wanted.”

“Practice,” Suho said, the word so immediate and sure it startled a breath out of him.

“At what.”

“At letting someone want you,” Suho said, and he didn’t blush saying it, or if he did, he didn’t look away. “You keep assuming anybody who steps near you will step back because of the kid. I’m telling you that anyone worth your time is exactly the person who steps closer because of him.”

The boy didn’t move his hand. He didn’t squeeze. He just kept it there, warm weight, an anchor he had offered without terms. The room felt newly mapped around that point of contact.

“You think you’re loud,” Sieun said. “You’re not. You’re… alive. I forgot the difference.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Suho whispered, a smile sliding in and stopping before it got cocky. “Don’t take it back later.”

“I will consider it.”

They sat like that while the building played its night music—the elevator’s hush, a neighbor’s laugh two floors down, the soft hydraulic sigh of a door. Time changed texture. Words came and went in low loops: a story about Suho and his grandmother’s litany of cures, a memory that surprised Sieun with its tenderness—a tiny Minjae asleep in a laundry basket while he filled out a form with his free hand, the pen leaving dents in paper because he pressed too hard when the world pressed back.

At some point Suho’s thumb moved without thought, a small arc against the back of Sieun’s hand, and Sieun felt something in him answer that he hadn’t known was listening. He didn’t chase the feeling. He let it be.

“You ever think,” Suho said at last, voice nearly gone to sleep, “that maybe it wasn’t that no one would want you. Maybe it was that you were too busy wanting one small person hard enough to hold the ceiling up.”

“I have considered it,” Sieun said.

“And?”

“And I would do it again.”

“I know,” Suho said, with a pride that didn’t belong to him and somehow did. He shifted, closer again, the line of his shoulder near enough now that turning his head would make contact. He didn’t turn his head. “I’m not asking you to stop being you.”

“That is fortunate,” Sieun said, dry to keep from unsteady.

“I’m just—” Suho exhaled, a laugh caught in it. “Practicing. The being-near thing. In case you want that.”

“I’m learning,” Sieun said, and that was the truest thing in the room.

They let the hour carry them, hand in hand. The warmth seeped into Sieun's skin, traveled upward, and settled somewhere in his chest that hadn’t felt alive in too long.

They didn’t look at each other. Looking would have made it fragile, would have forced the moment to break under the pressure of definition. Instead, they let it exist in the space between them, solid and undeniable.

At some point, Suho shifted even closer, as though gravity itself had tilted. Their shoulders brushed, barely, the contact light as breath. Neither moved away.

Sieun’s eyes lowered to the hand covering his. It wasn’t a tight grip, wasn’t demanding. Just presence. Just care. He turned his palm fractionally, enough that their fingers rested more securely together, interlaced but not locked. It was the smallest concession, and yet it shook something loose in him.

Suho drew in a breath, sharp but quiet, as if he’d felt it too. Then he leaned back against the couch, his body relaxing, head tilting until his temple nearly touched Sieun’s shoulder. He didn’t press it down, didn’t dare take more than what was given, but the nearness was enough to send Sieun’s pulse into his throat.

Sieun let his gaze drift to the hallway, where Minjae slept in a small bed that had once been too big for him. For years, his nights had been filled with nothing but exhaustion, calculations, and the quiet determination to make it through. Tonight, the silence felt different—softer, warmer. For the first time, he wasn’t carrying it alone.

“You’re warm,” Suho muttered suddenly, the words mumbled like a half-thought, as if he hadn’t meant to speak them aloud.

Sieun’s lips twitched. “You’re heavy.”

Suho laughed, low and breathy, but didn’t move away. “Guess we’re even, then.”

The laugh faded, leaving quiet in its wake, but not the old quiet. This one stretched wide, comfortable, the kind of silence Sieun could imagine living inside.

When it grew too late to pretend it was early, Suho rose. Their fingers slipped apart with a reluctance that the air registered, like a sound too low to name.

At the door, Suho moved slowly, as if every step toward his shoes was an interruption. He bent to tug one on, then hesitated with the other in his hand, glancing back. His eyes still held the shimmer of what had passed between them, a softness Sieun couldn’t look at too directly without feeling undone.

“Go,” Sieun said quietly, though there was no real edge to it.

Suho’s mouth curved, unsteady but real. “Right.” He slid his other shoe on, shouldered his bag — yet still lingered, caught by the space between leaving and staying.

As he stepped into the hallway, Sieun added, almost under his breath, “Your pasta is still salty. But if it’s the price of a homemade meal, I suppose I can endure it.”

Suho turned, startled, only to see the faintest smile tugging at Sieun’s lips. Not sharp, not mocking — but softened, indulgent, as if hidden warmth had finally found its way to the surface.

Something flickered across Suho’s face — giddy, wrecked, as though those few words were enough to carry him for miles. “Okay,” he whispered, the word trembling between promise and relief.

Then he was gone, the hallway swallowing his footsteps, lighter than they had any right to be.

The apartment sank into quiet again, but it wasn’t the same silence Sieun had known for years. This one hummed, threaded with warmth, carrying the echo of laughter, of a hand that had fit over his own like it belonged there.

He switched off the lamp, the room folding into dark, and found his hand still curved at his side, remembering the weight of Suho’s. He lifted it absently, brushed his thumb across his palm, then let it rest against the couch where their fingers had laced together. The dent of Suho’s presence lingered there, small but undeniable.

Passing Minjae’s door, he paused, listening to the steady breath of a child who would never know how much had shifted in the quiet hours.

And when he finally stood alone in the stillness, Sieun allowed himself the smallest smile — soft, private, unguarded — at nothing and at everything.

For once, silence did not feel like absence. It felt like waiting.

Chapter Text

The night air hit colder than it should have, sharp against Suho’s skin, but his body felt too warm to care. He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking fast, then slowing, then speeding up again. His steps were restless, his whole body caught between the need to move and the need to stop, to just stand still and let the storm in his chest wash over him.

He couldn’t stop replaying it. The lamplit living room, small and steady in the hush of night. The circle of light that had held them as though nothing else existed. And Sieun’s voice — measured, quiet, but carrying years of weight. Every word had been like a lock unlatched, a door pushed open.

He saw him in his mind — not the man sitting across from him tonight, but the boy he had been at twenty. Shoulders still narrow, sharp with youth, too young to carry anything heavier than his own ambition. And yet he had carried everything.

Suho imagined him stumbling through days with a baby in his arms, exhaustion carved into his face. Rushing from lecture hall to cafeteria shift, then home again to formula cans stacked like unpaid bills. He imagined him scribbling notes one-handed while rocking Minjae with the other, jaw set against the stares of people who couldn’t understand. He imagined him on a cold floor, calculator balanced on his knee, eyes burning as he worked out how to stretch a scholarship and two part-time jobs into milk, diapers, rent, and medicine when the child spiked a fever in the middle of the night.

The images twisted something sharp inside Suho, made his throat tighten until it was hard to breathe. He had always thought of Sieun as strong, but in that untouchable way — cold steel, stone walls, a man impossible to shake. But now he saw it for what it really was. Not stone. Fire. Not coldness. Endurance. The kind of strength that wasn’t innate but forged, over and over, in the most brutal of ways.

And God — Minjae.

Not even his by blood. Not really. And yet Sieun had still claimed him, put his name where father belonged, dared anyone to tell him otherwise. He hadn’t just raised a child. He had rewritten the rules. He had turned responsibility into love so absolute it had carried them both through years that would have broken anyone else.

Suho’s chest ached with it. Admiration so fierce it felt like pain. He had never looked at anyone the way he looked at him now.

He let out a sudden laugh, sharp and startled, so loud a woman walking her dog gave him a wide berth. He waved vaguely, embarrassed, but couldn’t stop grinning. Because alongside the ache, another feeling had struck him hard and fast — ridiculous, selfish, dizzying relief.

There had been no woman. No secret love. No ghost of someone else who had once held Sieun the way Suho wanted to. No hidden family, no story of a girl he’d loved enough to keep. Only his sister. Only sacrifice. Only the stubborn, staggering choice to raise a child because no one else would.

The relief loosened knots Suho hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. His stomach fluttered with it, his lungs opened wider. Because it meant the man sitting across from him tonight hadn’t built a life with someone else. He hadn’t once given himself to anyone else. All he had given had gone into Minjae. And now Suho knew.

It humbled him. It lit him up. It terrified him.

He slowed his steps, tilted his head back, and stared at the dark sky until his eyes blurred. He felt laughter bubbling again, softer this time, helpless. Because the truth was simple and unbearable: I’ve never met anyone like him. I never will again.

The thought burned through him.

And then — the hand.

God, the hand.

The memory seared so sharply through him that he almost stopped walking. Suho shoved both fists deep into his pockets as if to hide them, as if the ghost of Sieun’s touch was too much to leave bare. But it didn’t help. The heat lingered stubbornly, blooming up his arms, into his chest.

He could still feel it — the steady weight, the quiet warmth, the way Sieun’s fingers had shifted, almost imperceptibly. Not away. Never away. Closer. Just enough to fit, as though accident had become permission.

It had been nothing. Nothing that anyone else would notice. No kiss, no embrace, just fingers against fingers in the low light of a tired apartment. But to Suho, it was everything. His stomach flipped again just thinking of it, breath catching, pulse stuttering like a kid’s. He pressed his palms hard against his thighs, as though that could smother the ridiculous rush climbing higher and higher in him.

He wanted to laugh at himself — at how undone he was over something so small. But the giddiness refused to be laughed down. It swelled instead, filling his chest until he felt buoyant, unsteady, weightless.

Suho tilted his head back, eyes on the night sky. The stars blurred overhead, his grin so wide his jaw ached. He must have looked insane to anyone passing by. He didn’t care.

Because tonight, for the first time, he’d seen Sieun not just as the cold, sharp boss who kept the world at a distance. He’d seen the boy he had been — a boy who had carried fire in his arms and still chosen to love, a boy who had fought through exhaustion and hunger and silence and somehow survived it.

And tonight, that man — tired, guarded, ocean-eyed and impossible — had let Suho hold his hand.

It struck him then, hard enough to stop his breath: this wasn’t admiration anymore. It wasn’t just awe, or relief, or gratitude. It was something deeper, something heavier, something that scared him in the best way.

Because somewhere between the pasta and the Lego towers, between the sharp words and the quiet glances, Suho had started falling. And tonight, with that hand fitting against his, he realized there was no stopping it.

It looped in his head with every step, every breath, until it was all he could hear. By the time he reached his apartment, he was vibrating with it, grin stretched so wide it hurt, chest too full to contain. He kicked his shoes off in the hallway and collapsed onto his bed still wearing his jacket, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.

Sleep was impossible. He turned over, pressed his face into the pillow, then rolled onto his back again, laughing into the empty room like a fool. His hand twitched restlessly at his side, as though still reaching for Sieun’s. The weight of it, the warmth of it — that subtle shift closer — replayed again and again until his stomach fluttered with butterflies so relentless he thought he might be sick from happiness.

God, he was gone.

He grabbed his phone, the glow searing in the dark. His thumb hovered, hesitated. Then recklessness won, and he opened the group chat.

Suho: HOT BOSS IS TOTALLY GREEN. NO WOMAN. NO SCANDAL. I’M GONNA LIVE FOREVER YOU FUCKERZ.

The replies came fast.

Baku: bro wtf are you even saying
Seongje: GREEN??? like lettuce???
Beakjin: it’s past midnight. please seek medical help.
Baku: WAIT HE MEANS CLEAN LMFAOOO
Suho: YES. CLEAN. PURE. NO BABY MAMA.
Beakjin: okay but?? that doesn’t mean he wants you, idiot 💀
Suho: HE HELD MY HAND.
Seongje: wow congrats on physical contact 🎉 what’s next, a high five??
Baku: bro you sound like you just proposed to him 💍
Beakjin: did you at least kiss?
Suho: no. it was better.
Baku: …better than a kiss??
Suho: HIS HAND WAS WARM OKAY
Seongje: this is so much worse than when you cried at the golden retriever ad
Suho: FUCK OFF. I THINK I’M IN LOVE.

Suho flung the phone aside and buried his face in the pillow, laughter bubbling uncontrollably in his chest. He kicked his legs once like a teenager, helpless against the giddy high. Sleep didn’t come, not even close. He lay awake long into the night, smiling into the dark, heart drumming like he’d sprinted all the way home.

Because Sieun had let him in. Because Sieun had let him hold his hand. Because Suho had finally admitted to himself — there was no stopping this anymore. He was falling. Hard.

---

The hours bled uselessly into each other. One a.m. became two, then three, and Suho was still wide awake, rolling from one side of the bed to the other, laughter catching in his throat every time he thought of it again. The lamplight. The story. The hand.

His chest was a mess of sensations he couldn’t untangle — pride and hurt for the boy Sieun had been, admiration so sharp it left him breathless, giddy relief that there had never been anyone else, and that wild, fluttering joy that came every time he remembered the deliberate weight of those fingers against his own. He pressed his palms to his face, grinning so wide it hurt, muffling the ridiculous sound that escaped him.

When sleep finally took him, it was shallow, restless, punctured by half-dreams of ocean eyes and small hands fitting into his.

He woke late, sunlight cutting sharp across the sheets. His body was heavy, but his grin was still there, curling before he even knew it. He rolled out of bed humming tunelessly, dragging himself to the kitchen, and nearly collided with his grandmother already seated with her morning tea.

She eyed him as he passed, squinting over the rim of her cup. “What’s wrong with you?” she said at last. “You look like you slept with a hanger in your mouth.”

Suho barked out a laugh, grabbing toast from the counter to hide his face. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said too quickly, voice embarrassingly high. “Nothing at all.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked him up and down, suspicious. “Nothing makes you look that stupid. Did you win the lottery? Or get a girl pregnant?”

He choked on his toast, sputtering, and fled toward the door with his grandmother muttering behind him about “crazy boys and their secrets.”

The grin didn’t leave. It clung stubbornly as he tied his sneakers, as he stepped outside into the morning air, as he walked light-footed down the street. He’d spent half the night telling himself it was ridiculous, impossible, too soon. And yet the truth pulsed steady under his ribs:

He was falling.

And for the first time, the fall didn’t scare him at all.

Chapter Text

Since Suho’s return from the field trip, the apartment had been different. Warmer. Louder. Somehow lighter in ways Sieun hadn’t known a space could be.

It wasn’t only Minjae, though the boy had been incandescent with joy — clinging to Suho’s sleeve as though afraid he’d vanish again, tugging him into games, his laughter brighter and wilder than it had been all week. No, it was more than that. It was Suho himself.

He had come back changed. Bolder. As though the distance had shaken something loose, as though he had decided — without asking permission — to claim a little more space in their lives. He brushed close in the kitchen without apology, shoulder pressing into Sieun’s as he reached for the kettle. He leaned over his chair to peer at his phone, chin nearly grazing his shoulder, body heat spilling across the small gap like it had a right to be there. He sprawled on the couch with shameless ease, legs thrown wide, remote in his hand, as if the cushions had been waiting for him alone.

And the strangest part — the part Sieun kept turning over in his mind — was that he let it happen. He let Suho hover and tease, let the laughter fill corners that had long ago grown used to silence. When their knees brushed and stayed that way for half an hour, he hadn’t shifted away. He hadn’t reminded him of boundaries. He had stayed.

He hadn’t realized how much he had been letting Suho in until the night everything slipped further — the night the words came.

He replayed his own words, astonished that he had spoken them at all. For years he had held his story like a sealed file: his sister’s death, the sleepless nights, the shame of counting coins for formula, the relentless pressure of keeping his scholarship while his hands reeked of dish soap from yet another shift. He had never told anyone the whole of it. Not professors, not colleagues, not even friends. And yet last night, he had placed it in the hands of a young man barely more than a boy — a part-time helper who had drifted into his life by accident.

Why?

He turned on his side, restless. The answer sat in the shape of memory: Suho listening, not with pity, not with intrusion, but with that disarming steadiness. As though he were worthy of being heard.

And then the hand.

God. The hand.

The memory of it wouldn’t leave him — Suho’s palm warm over his, the faint, deliberate shift of fingers closer, not away. Permission disguised as accident. No demand, no insistence. Just presence. And yet it had steadied something in him that had been wavering for years.

It had been nothing. Barely a touch. But Sieun hadn’t felt that kind of contentment in a decade. He had survived on silence, on distance, on control. But last night, with the weight of a hand anchoring his own, he had felt… not alone.

The thought unsettled him. It also softened him in ways he didn’t want to examine.

When sleep finally came, it was shallow, fractured by images of lamplight and Suho’s grin, by the sound of Minjae’s laughter echoing in the same room, by the ghost of warmth across his palm.

---

By morning, his routine was unchanged.

The apartment was hushed, the kind of silence that felt less like absence and more like a blanket drawn close. He moved through it as he always did — brewing coffee, the rich scent filling the small kitchen, setting out bowls with a quiet efficiency. No tie today, no briefcase waiting by the door, only a T-shirt and loose sweats, but the motions of care remained the same.

Minjae padded out, hair sticking in all directions, rubbing his eyes as he climbed into his chair. He spooned cereal into his mouth with the sluggish stubbornness of a child not fully awake, then blinked up at Sieun as though the question was obvious.

“Hyung will come later, right? Hyung should always eat breakfast with us.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Something tightened in Sieun’s chest. He reached across the table to ruffle his son’s messy hair, masking the warmth that threatened to climb into his face. “It’s Saturday,” he said evenly, pouring himself coffee. “Suho-hyung should rest. He has his own work to do. His own life.”

But Minjae only pouted, cereal spoon clinking against the bowl. “But hyung was here last Saturday. And the Saturday before that…”

Sieun sipped his coffee, letting the steam blur his vision. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The truth had already settled in his chest, stubborn and undeniable: he expected him too.

The rest of the morning slid into habit. Dishes washed and stacked, shirts folded into neat lines, Minjae set up at the table with crayons and a half-finished dinosaur that demanded his attention. Sieun settled in with his laptop, numbers scrolling across the screen, words drafted and redrafted. He had done this a hundred times before: carving order out of quiet, maintaining the machinery of their lives through discipline.

But discipline wavered. His eyes strayed to the door more than once, as though the bell might ring after all. He found himself listening — absurdly, unwillingly — for the careless thud of sneakers in the hallway, for the burst of laughter that always preceded Suho barging in without ceremony.

Nothing.

He pressed his fingers harder to the keyboard, jaw tight. Work. Focus. He had survived years of silence; one Saturday morning should not feel this empty.

And yet.

Everywhere, reminders lingered. The dent in the couch had not smoothed itself. The shoes by the door waited like a promise not yet claimed. Even the smell of the kitchen seemed incomplete, missing the clatter of Suho stealing pieces of toast with shameless excuses.

When Minjae tugged his sleeve mid-morning, holding up a crooked drawing of three stick figures, Sieun froze. One tall, one small, and another with hair scribbled like Suho’s ridiculous mop. “It’s us,” Minjae said proudly. “Daddy, me, and Hyung.”

Sieun smoothed the boy’s hair, throat thick. “Finish your dinosaur,” he said, voice even.

But when Minjae ran off, Sieun sat staring at the page longer than necessary.

By afternoon, the apartment grew heavy. Sunlight slanted across the floor, catching dust in the air. He brewed another pot of coffee he didn’t need, let the steam rise, and thought of the night before: the lamplight, the words he had spoken, the warmth of a hand fitting against his own. He had not been that unguarded in years. And instead of shame, what he felt now was… longing.

For more.

He rubbed his thumb absently across his palm, remembering the weight that had rested there. Remembering how silence had felt not suffocating, but full. He caught himself, startled, and drew his hand back as if from flame.

Evening came. Dinner was quiet. Minjae asked once more, as if the question was routine now: “Hyung’s not coming today?”

“No,” Sieun said, sharper than he intended. He softened a moment later, setting down his chopsticks. “He has his own things. He’ll come when he can.”

Minjae pouted, but ate.

When the boy was finally asleep, Sieun lingered at the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes he had already cleaned once. The silence pressed in again — but not with the emptiness he remembered. It pressed with expectation, with the ghost of laughter that should have been here, with the ache of someone who had taken root in their days without permission.

He dried his hands slowly, stared at the darkened window, and admitted — if only in the privacy of his own chest — that he had grown used to waiting.

For him.

---

Suho dragged on a clean hoodie and paused in front of the mirror, toast still clamped between his teeth. His reflection grinned back at him like an idiot.

“I really do look like I slept with a hanger in my mouth,” he muttered around the bread, tugging at the corners of his lips as if that would help. It didn’t. The grin wouldn’t leave.

But he knew the truth: he hadn’t slept with a hanger. He’d slept with the memory of a warm hand resting over his own, of fingers shifting closer instead of away, of ocean eyes gone softer than he’d ever seen them.

“God, I’m cheesy,” he groaned, dropping his head against the cool glass. “This is embarrassing.”

And yet he was still smiling when he straightened, bag slung over his shoulder. It was Saturday. He didn’t have to go. But the pull was there anyway — to Minjae’s laugh, to the kitchen where Suho always stole bites of toast, to the couch dented by the shape of two bodies sitting too close. To Sieun, sharp and steady and impossible, who last night had let him listen and let him stay.

He stepped out into the crisp morning air, sneakers barely tied, bag slung loose over his shoulder. The street was alive with weekend noise — shop shutters rolling open, motorbikes weaving through traffic, the smell of grilled fish cakes from the stall at the corner. He barely noticed any of it. His head was still caught in the memory of last night: lamplight washing over Sieun’s face, the weight of a hand fitting against his own, the way his chest had felt both steady and light in the same impossible breath.

He was grinning again, stupidly, picturing the look on Sieun’s face when he showed up unannounced — that furrowed brow, the quiet disapproval that never quite reached his eyes. Suho could almost hear him already: It’s Saturday. Don’t you have better things to do? He’d say it cold, but he’d still let him in. He always did.

Ocean eyes, Suho thought, and his stomach fluttered.

And then an arm hooked hard around his neck.

“Gotcha!”

He staggered sideways, choking out a laugh, half in protest, half in surprise. Baku’s voice was in his ear, loud and triumphant, and a second later Seongje materialized on his other side, shoving him forward with both hands.

“The hell—” Suho twisted, but Baku only tightened the arm-lock, knuckling his hair like they were twelve again.

“Where do you think you’re going, lover boy?” Seongje demanded, grin wicked.

Before Suho could answer, a car horn honked, and Beakjin leaned out of the driver’s window, sunglasses crooked on his nose, smile sharp as a blade. “Get in, loser. We’re buying you lunch.”

Suho dug his heels in, laughing despite himself. “I have plans!”

“Plans, he says,” Baku scoffed, dragging him bodily toward the curb. “What plans? Sitting around, staring at your phone, writing poems about your hot boss?”

“I don’t write poems!” Suho spluttered.

“Not yet,” Seongje said. “But give it another week and you’ll be out here rhyming about ocean eyes and tragic backstories.”

The heat shot straight up Suho’s neck. “Shut up—”

“Lunch,” Seongje declared, cutting him off, and shoved the back door open. “Team bonding. No excuses.”

Suho twisted toward the street, desperate. “Seriously, I—”

Beakjin cut in smoothly, tapping the roof of the car with one long finger. “Get in before we make a scene.”

And then Baku, the brute, simply hauled him off his feet. Suho yelped as he was tossed half into the car, scrambling to catch his balance. Seongje shoved from behind, and suddenly he was sprawled across the backseat, Baku sliding in beside him like a human boulder, arm slung smugly over his shoulders.

The door slammed. The car lurched forward.

Suho groaned, pressing his forehead to the window like a prisoner. “You guys are the worst.”

“Correction,” Seongje said cheerfully from the front seat, twisting around with chopsticks already in his hand like he was born ready to eat. “We’re the best. You’ll thank us later.”

“Thank you for what? Kidnapping?” Suho muttered, trying to wriggle free from Baku’s iron grip.

“Saving you,” Beakjin said smoothly, turning the wheel. “From yourself.”

“From your tragic, star-crossed romance,” Seongje added.

“From texting your boss something stupid before noon,” Baku finished, ruffling his hair.

Suho shoved his hand away, laughing and cursing all at once. “God, you’re unbearable.”

But beneath the banter, his chest still buzzed with the warmth of where he’d been heading. He slumped back into the seat, caught between irritation and reluctant amusement, staring out at the passing streets. He had wanted ocean eyes and lamplight. Instead, he had hyungs and barbecue smoke.

For now.

---

The restaurant was already alive when they pushed through the doors — sizzling grills, the clatter of chopsticks, voices raised over smoke and laughter. The air was thick with the smell of charred beef and garlic. They squeezed into a corner booth, Baku immediately commandeering the tongs, Seongje flagging down a server with the authority of a man twice his age, Beakjin sliding effortlessly into the role of treasurer, already calculating how much Suho owed before the meat even hit the grill.

Suho slouched into his seat, sulking, arms crossed. “I was kidnapped.”

“You were rescued,” Baku corrected, slapping down slices of pork belly like he owned the place.

Seongje poured soju into tiny glasses. “From yourself. From becoming a tragic cliché.”

“I’m not—” Suho began, but Beakjin cut in, calm as ever.

“Last night you said you were in love.” He passed a glass down the table like it was evidence. “With your boss. Your male boss. Who also has a kid. And you said it like it was the best idea you’d ever had.”

Suho groaned, covering his face. “Maybe I was drunk.”

“Drunk my ass,” Seongje corrected, grinning over his glass. “You were lovesick.”

Baku leaned in, grin wide. “You even called him ‘hot boss’ like three times. I could imagine your stupid face through your text, like you were about to cry.”

“I did not!” Suho spluttered, ears burning.

“Oh, you did,” Seongje said solemnly. “Hyungs don’t lie.”

The table roared with laughter. Suho grabbed his chopsticks and pointed them like weapons. “You guys are the worst. All of you.”

“Correction,” Beakjin said, calm as a judge. “We’re the best. The only reason you’re not writing bad poetry about ocean eyes right now is because we dragged you here.”

That word — ocean — made something flicker sharp in Suho’s chest. He stuffed it down with a mouthful of pork belly, chewing too fast.

The teasing should have ended there, but the laughter tapered into a heavier silence. Beakjin set down his glass, looking at him with something almost brotherly. “We get it, Suho. He’s hot. He’s—whatever he is to you. But he’s also a grown man. With a child. And you’re—” His gaze lingered, serious now. “You’re still just a kid yourself. Don’t get in too deep.”

Suho bristled, slamming his glass down. “Kid my ass. You’re barely older than me.”

“Barely older,” Baku agreed, flipping the meat with a practiced hand, “and still smarter. Look, we’re supposed to be having fun right now. Drinking too much, dating recklessly, failing classes. Not…” He waved his tongs vaguely, searching for the right words. “…raising someone else’s kid.”

Suho’s chest tightened. He laughed, sharp and defensive. “You make it sound like I’m about to propose.”

Seongje smirked, leaning back. “Last night, you sounded like you would.”

The table cracked up again, but there was an edge to it this time, a seriousness beneath the noise.

Suho leaned back too, grinning because it was easier than showing the twist in his chest. “Relax. It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” Beakjin asked softly.

That landed heavier than the soju. For a moment, none of them spoke. The sizzle of meat on the grill filled the silence.

And then Baku, unable to sit in seriousness for long, dropped the bomb with a grin too wide to be innocent. “Doesn’t matter. I fixed it. Next Saturday, group blind date. Four girls from English Lit. Cute, smart, bookish. Perfect for us. Suho, I’ll take no for an answer.”

Suho’s jaw dropped. “You’re insane.”

“I’m a genius,” Baku countered, already refilling everyone’s glasses. “It’ll be fun. No pressure. Just drinks and laughs. Exactly what you need.”

“Exactly what you need,” Seongje echoed, clinking his glass against Suho’s.

Suho laughed too, shaking his head, but there was a sharp edge behind it. He knew they meant well. He knew they were worried. But they didn’t understand. Not the way he felt last night. Not the way his chest had steadied and fluttered all at once when Sieun’s hand had rested against his. Not the way the silence in that apartment had felt full instead of empty.

The meat sizzled loud enough to drown out the chatter at first, fat popping against the grill. Baku wielded the tongs like a weapon, flipping each strip with exaggerated flourish.

“Careful,” Seongje drawled, sipping his soju. “You burn that and I’m making you eat every piece.”

“Please,” Baku scoffed. “I was born to grill. Look at this color.” He held the tongs up like a trophy, meat dangling, grease dripping dangerously close to Suho’s sleeve.

“Born to grill,” Suho muttered, smacking his arm away. “Born to annoy, more like.”

The others howled. Baku only grinned wider. “You’d miss me if I were gone.”

“Not if you catch me on fire,” Suho shot back.

The server brought another round of side dishes, clattering bowls down, and chaos broke out as everyone reached for the kimchi at once. Seongje’s chopsticks clashed with Suho’s, both of them wrestling over the same piece until Beakjin sighed, reached across, and split it in two with a precision that made them both groan.

“You’re like children,” he said, stacking lettuce leaves neatly.

“Children don’t drink like this,” Seongje retorted, raising his glass.

“Some of us are children,” Baku said pointedly, elbowing Suho.

Suho groaned, tossing his head back. “Not this again—”

“Oh, it’s this again,” Seongje cut in. “Tell the table, Suho-ah, what were your exact words last night? I think it was, ‘I think I’m in love.’” He pitched his voice higher in a mock falsetto. “‘He’s so cold but so hot, I don’t know what to do.’”

The table exploded in laughter. Suho grabbed a lettuce wrap and shoved it into his mouth just to shut himself up.

“Don’t choke,” Beakjin warned mildly, pouring him water.

“Better to choke than listen to you idiots,” Suho muttered around a mouthful, ears burning.

“Oh, he’s blushing!” Baku crowed, slapping the table so hard the grill rattled. “Look at him. Our boy’s gone.”

“I’m not gone,” Suho argued, gulping water, but his grin betrayed him.

“Gone,” Seongje confirmed solemnly. “Buried six feet under in the grave of Hot Boss’s ocean eyes.”

“Rest in peace,” Baku added, bowing his head theatrically.

Suho threw a napkin at him, laughter breaking through even as heat coiled in his chest.

They drank more after that — rounds of soju poured with no one keeping count, meat disappearing as fast as it hit the grill. The noise around their table grew louder, their laughter drawing stares from other diners. Seongje started telling old stories, the kind that made Suho bury his face in his hands.

“Remember the time Suho bombed his oral presentation and just stood there saying, uh, uh, uh, like a fish for five minutes straight?”

“It was in my first year!” Suho shouted, face red.

“You’re still a fish,” Baku said. “Except now you’re a fish in love.”

Suho groaned, reaching for the bottle. “Pour me more so I don’t remember this conversation.”

“It's okay. The boy just had a minor crush,” Beakjin said calmly, refilling his glass anyway. “Don't make him think he's really in love.”

The teasing rolled on like that — story after story, jab after jab, laughter so loud Suho’s stomach hurt. But between the jokes, the warnings slipped in again, softer, weighted.

“You know we’re just looking out for you,” Beakjin said at one point, tone steady as he arranged another wrap. “We don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Or stuck,” Seongje added, less gently.

“Or forgotten by Hot Boss when he realizes you’re just a kid,” Baku said, trying for light but landing closer to serious.

Suho lifted his glass, hiding behind the rim. “I’m not just a kid,” he said, too quiet under the noise.

The others didn’t press. The grill hissed. The soju burned. Their laughter rose again, but the words stuck anyway.

---

The street was cooler by the time Suho left the restaurant, the heat of the grill and the haze of soju still clinging to his skin. His friends’ laughter echoed behind him, rowdy and relentless even as the door swung shut. Outside, the noise thinned, replaced by the hum of traffic and the occasional bark of a dog.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, head bent against the breeze. The buzz of alcohol softened the edges of everything, but not enough to drown out the words still rattling in his skull.

He’s a grown man. With a child. You’re still just a kid yourself.
Don’t get in too deep.
You sounded like you were going to propose.

Suho snorted under his breath, shaking his head. They were idiots. They didn’t get it. They couldn’t.

And yet.

The doubts pressed anyway. He was young. He was supposed to be careless, supposed to stumble from one easy laugh to the next. That was the story his friends lived and expected him to live too. A group blind date with four girls from the English Lit department — that was the kind of memory they thought he should be making. That was normal.

So why did it feel so hollow, so absurd? Why, when he pictured it, did he only see boredom tugging at his mouth, only feel the absence of lamplight and soft, ocean-colored eyes?

His chest tightened. He slowed his steps, tilting his head back to stare at the darkening sky. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. Barely twenty, already tripping headfirst into something he couldn’t name.

But then he remembered last night. The weight of a hand resting over his, fingers not pulling away but aligning closer. He remembered the steadiness of Sieun’s voice, the exhaustion woven into every word, the quiet strength of someone who had carried more than anyone should at that age. And suddenly the warnings didn’t matter.

Because whatever this was — kid or not, smart or not — Suho knew what he wanted.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, thumb hovering over Sieun’s name. For a long moment, he hesitated, chewing his lip. Then he typed quickly, before he could overthink it:

Got ambushed by bastards I call friends. They signed me up for a blind date next week lol. Don’t know why they think I need one.

He stared at the screen. It looked stupid. It was stupid. But his thumb hit send anyway.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a joke, a way to laugh off his friends’ interference. And in a way, it was funny — the thought of them lining up girls like he was in some campus drama.

But underneath the laugh was something else, something he didn’t want to name: a test.

Would Sieun care? Would he even reply? Would those ocean eyes narrow just slightly at the thought of Suho across the table from someone else?

Suho laughed once, sharp and breathless, and shoved the phone back in his pocket. His pulse was racing like he’d just confessed something, even though he hadn’t confessed anything at all.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The message arrived when the apartment was quiet. Minjae was asleep, the only sound his faint breathing through the crack of the bedroom door. Sieun sat at the desk with a file open, glasses perched low on his nose, when the phone buzzed once at his elbow.

He almost ignored it. Work was safer, steadier. But habit pulled his gaze down anyway.

Got ambushed by bastards I call friends. They signed me up for a blind date next week lol. Don’t know why they think I need one.

The words glowed against the dark screen. He read them twice, then a third time, as if repetition could change them, as if they might rearrange into something harmless.

A blind date.

The soundless phrase pressed into his chest, hollow and sharp all at once.

Of course Suho should be doing things like this — stumbling into setups with his friends, laughing over beers, fumbling through awkward introductions and easy flirtations. He was twenty, still all bright edges and restless energy. It was the kind of story boys his age were supposed to collect, the kind they would laugh about years later.

That was right. That was good.

It was Sieun who was out of place.

Not old — twenty-six wasn’t old, though it felt like it sometimes — but older in ways that mattered. Older in the weight he carried, in the years carved into his shoulders. While his classmates had moved easily through college parties and internships, he had been working two, three jobs, rushing from campus to home with formula milk and fever medicine tucked into his bag. While others had been fumbling through first loves, he had been pacing hospital corridors, signing papers, holding a baby who wasn’t his but needed him more than anyone.

He had traded freedom for responsibility before he’d even graduated. And though he would never regret Minjae — never, not for a heartbeat — it meant he looked at messages like this one and felt the divide widen.

Suho belonged on the other side of it. Young, unburdened, wanted in places Sieun could no longer reach.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could type something — casual, maybe teasing, the kind of brusque acknowledgment Suho expected from him. He could make light of it. Or he could ask questions he had no right to ask.

Instead, he did nothing. Locked the phone, pushed it face down on the desk.

But it didn’t matter. The words still burned through the dark, stamped behind his eyelids. And the ache — strange, small, uninvited — refused to leave. It settled in his ribs like a stone, heavy and stubborn, whispering that he had been left outside of something he didn’t even know he wanted to enter.

And when the apartment pressed quiet around him again, Sieun told himself he was glad. That this was the way it should be. That he should want Suho to be free.

But his hands stayed still on the desk, his eyes fixed on nothing, and the silence only grew heavier.

---

The new week arrived the same as always. Sieun rose before dawn, brewed his coffee in the half-light, buttoned his shirt and knotted his tie with the same practiced precision. Outwardly, nothing had shifted.

But when the afternoon came, he caught himself glancing at the clock more often, listening for the small vibration of his phone that told him Minjae had been collected from kindergarten. It had become part of his routine now, that text from Suho — short, sometimes just a single word, but threaded with a steadiness Sieun hadn’t known he relied on until it was there every day.

And there it was.

By the time he returned home, he could picture the scene before he opened the door. Minjae sprawled on the living room floor, crayons scattered like confetti across the rug, drawings curling at the edges. Suho sitting cross-legged beside him, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, hoodie strings uneven, hair falling into his eyes. His laugh would rise too loud in the small space, and Minjae’s would follow, brighter and freer than it had been during the week Suho was gone.

The kitchen would smell of something — garlic, soy sauce, sometimes faintly burnt rice — a chaos of pots and pans and a crooked apron tied over Suho’s clothes. The sink half-full, the counter cluttered, but the table set with an optimism that almost made Sieun smile when he walked in, tired and heavy, and found it waiting.

And Suho lingered now. More than before. Even after dinner was done, dishes washed, Minjae tucked into bed with his plush shark, Suho stayed. Leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone, tossing out lazy remarks in that half-teasing voice that made the apartment feel less like a shell and more like a place someone lived. Sometimes he sprawled on the couch, sometimes he prowled into the kitchen just to steal another bite of food, sometimes he said nothing at all and just was — filling the silence that used to press too tightly.

And Sieun let him.

That was the strangest part. He didn’t push him toward the door, didn’t remind him of the hour, didn’t sharpen his tone to cut the evening short. He let him linger, let him fold himself into the corners of their life as if he had always belonged there.

It should have unsettled him more than it did. Instead, he found himself listening for the sound of Suho’s laugh when he unlocked the door. He found himself watching the boy’s hands move too quickly between stove and sink, shoulders too broad for how clumsy he was with a ladle. He found himself measuring the evenings not by what he finished at work, but by whether Suho stayed just a little longer.

And he realized, in the quiet after, that the line between tolerating Suho’s presence and wanting it had already blurred.

He let him.

And he wasn’t sure, anymore, if he could stop.

It was Wednesday when the words came. Dinner plates still cluttered the table, the air still warm with the faint smell of garlic and soy. Minjae had already drifted off, shark plush tucked under his chin, the apartment quiet except for the hiss of water at the sink.

Sieun stood rinsing bowls, his sleeves pushed back, movements efficient, controlled. Behind him, Suho leaned against the counter, too still for once, restless energy coiled tight in his shoulders.

“So…” He drew the sound out, casual on the surface, but the pause that followed betrayed him. His eyes were sharper than his voice. “I’m going on the blind date this Saturday. A group thing. With my friends.”

The bowl slipped a fraction in Sieun’s hand before he caught it. His face didn’t change, but something in his chest did, a tug he hadn’t braced for. He placed the bowl carefully into the rack, kept his voice level, cool. “Yeah. I remember. You told me about that. A few times.”

Suho laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. The sound was too light, too forced. “I’m not that eager. But…” His shoulders lifted, fell, as if shaking off weight. “Is it okay? That I’m going?”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Sieun turned off the tap, drops of water sliding down his fingers, dripping into the sink with sharp, steady rhythm. He didn’t look at him when he answered. “Why not? It’s good, right? Hanging out with your friends, seeing girls. You’ve been working hard. You deserve to have some fun.”

The silence stretched. Suho shifted, the grin on his face still present but fragile at the edges. His gaze lingered on Sieun, searching. “…I just wanted to make sure. If you think it’s okay.”

Something tightened around Sieun’s ribs. His throat felt too tight, as though his body wanted to shape words he had no right to speak. He wasn’t Suho’s keeper. He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t anything that could claim that authority. He had no claim at all.

And yet the thought of Suho sitting across from someone else, leaning in with that grin, laughter spilling too bright — it clawed through him in a way he hadn’t prepared for.

So he said nothing. Only dried his hands slowly on the towel, each movement deliberate, his gaze fixed down.

But silence has weight. Heavy, unmistakable.

And Sieun knew, from the way Suho’s eyes lingered on him, that silence had spoken more than any answer could have.

When Suho finally gathered his things, tugging his hoodie straight and muttering a soft goodnight, Sieun only nodded. He didn’t trust his voice to be steady. The door clicked shut, his footsteps fading down the hall, and the apartment fell into silence again.

It should have felt like peace. It always had before.

Instead, the quiet pressed against him like a weight. He stood in the kitchen longer than necessary, towel still in his hand, staring at the sink as if it might give him back the words he hadn’t said.

The question replayed, low and careful: Is it okay? That I’m going?

And his own answer, too sharp in its restraint: Why not? It’s good, right?

The lines tangled in his chest, leaving behind something rawer than he wanted to face. He moved through the motions — turned off the light, checked Minjae’s door, loosened his tie — but each step carried that silence with it, heavier and heavier.

He sat on the edge of his bed, phone face down on the nightstand, and pressed a hand against his chest as though he could steady the rhythm inside.

It had been years since he allowed himself the luxury of wanting. Everything he did, every choice he made, had been for Minjae. There had never been room for anything else. And yet tonight, watching Suho grin too brightly and ask permission he shouldn’t need, Sieun had felt something crack through him.

He didn’t want him to go.

The realization came slowly, then all at once, undeniable. He didn’t want Suho across a table from someone else, flashing that lopsided smile, leaning close with the warmth he carried so easily. He didn’t want to imagine Suho’s laughter filling another space, his careless affection spilling toward someone else’s waiting hands.

It was selfish. Irrational. Dangerous. He had no claim, no right, no promise from the boy who had stumbled into his apartment one afternoon and never really left.

But when he closed his eyes, the thought rose unbidden, steady and relentless:

Don’t go.

He didn’t speak it. Didn’t send it. He lay back against the sheets, jaw tight, staring at the dark ceiling until it blurred. The silence felt different now — not empty, but restless, thick with what he refused to name.

And for the first time in years, Sieun admitted to himself that what he didn’t say mattered as much as what he did.

Chapter Text

Suho should have felt in his element. The restaurant was packed and loud, all smoke and chatter, grills hissing as meat seared, soju bottles clinking against small green glasses. A night buzzing with the kind of energy twenty-year-olds were supposed to thrive on.

He sat among his friends, squeezed shoulder to shoulder on one side of a long table, the girls across from them already laughing too brightly. Baku had taken charge of introductions, Beakjin was ordering half the menu, and Seongje leaned on the back of Suho’s chair like a hawk, nudging him forward whenever the conversation lulled.

“Suho’s the youngest, but don’t be fooled,” Seongje announced grandly, sloshing soju into Suho’s glass like a proud uncle at a wedding. “He looks dumb, but he’s in the top ten percent of his class.”

“From the bottom,” Baku cut in without missing a beat, smirking as he reached for the grill.

“Failed two credits last semester,” Beakjin added helpfully, flipping a slice of pork belly with all the solemnity of delivering a eulogy.

The girls across the table burst into laughter, one covering her mouth, another leaning forward eagerly. “Really?” the one seated directly in front of Suho asked, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Top ten or bottom ten, which one is it?”

Suho groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Don’t listen to them. They live to slander me.”

“Yeah, but have you seen his free throws?” Baku crowed. “Kid couldn’t land one if the hoop begged.”

The girl giggled, clearly entertained. “So he’s smart, athletic, and humble? That’s not fair.”

“Smart is debatable,” Beakjin muttered.

Suho forced a laugh, ducked his head, tried to brush it off. “Don’t listen to them. They exaggerate.”

But she leaned closer still, chin propped in her palm, genuinely curious. “What kind of food do you like? What music? Are you more into movies or books?” She rattled questions like stones bouncing down a hill, and her laugh rang out too loud at his half-hearted replies.

“See? She’s interested,” Baku crowed, slapping Suho on the back. “Good taste, huh?”

The girl flushed but didn’t look away, her gaze warm and fixed on him.

Suho smiled back out of habit, let a few jokes fall from his lips, the kind that would usually make people lean closer. But tonight, his heart wasn’t in it.

Every time the table roared with laughter, he felt himself pulling back. The words around him blurred, conversations overlapping into noise that didn’t reach him. His friends teased and pushed, the girl’s perfume curled through the smoke, her laugh trailed like a net tugging him in — but his focus slipped elsewhere, stubborn and unyielding.

Back to a small apartment that always smelled faintly of coffee and detergent, Minjae’s crayons scattered like confetti across the rug, the crooked apron Suho tied every evening, and Sieun’s ocean eyes steady in the quiet.

The more the girl leaned toward him, eyes shining as though he were the most fascinating thing in the room, the more restless Suho grew. His patience thinned, his grin faltered.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Seongje teased, elbowing him. “Cat got your tongue?”

Suho grinned back weakly. “Just listening.”

“So…” the girl across from him twirled her straw in her glass, eyes flicking curiously toward Suho. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Before Suho could open his mouth, Baekjin jumped in, grinning like a cat that had caught a mouse. “No girlfriend yet. He’s got a boss fetish though—”

The words dropped like a stone.

Suho choked on his drink, slamming the glass down too hard. “Yah!”

Baku immediately swatted the back of Baekjin’s head. “Idiot. Shut up.” He leaned across the table, flashing the girl a smoother smile. “No girlfriend. Free as a bee. That’s why we’re here tonight, right? So he finally stops moping and meets someone.”

The girls giggled, and the one in front of Suho tilted her head, gaze sharpening with interest. “So you’re really single?” she asked softly, her voice cutting through the laughter.

Suho managed a strained laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “I—yeah, I’m single.”

“And looking,” Baku added pointedly, elbowing him in the ribs.

“I didn’t say that—” Suho started, but his protest was drowned out by another round of cheers and clinking glasses. Meat hissed on the grill, the air thick with smoke and chatter, and the girl leaned closer, her perfume curling into his lungs.

It should have been easy. She was pretty. Nice. Interested. His friends had all but gift-wrapped her for him.

But his patience was thinning fast. Every laugh, every shove, every expectant glance only made the noise sharper in his ears, the room smaller around him. His chest ached with the sudden urge to be somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

He dropped his gaze, hand sliding under the table almost without thought. His phone lit beneath his thumb, and just like that, the noise dimmed, his focus narrowing to the blank message window waiting for him.

---

Back in the apartment, Sieun had tried to fill the hours.

Morning began as always, methodical and quiet. He woke early, brewed coffee, boiled eggs, laid out toast and milk. Minjae wandered in with his hair sticking up, rubbing his eyes, shark plush dragging against the floor. They sat together at the table, father and son in their familiar seats, but the balance was off. One chair remained empty — the one Suho usually slouched in, making a mess of jam or sneaking bites of Minjae’s food while pretending not to.

Minjae noticed first. He sat staring at his bowl, spoon stirring circles instead of lifting. Then, soft but accusing: “Hyung didn’t come again. Daddy, you didn’t tell him to stop coming here on Saturday, did you?”

The question landed like a dart.

“No,” Sieun answered, sharper than intended, and then, because Minjae’s eyes widened, he softened the edges. “He just has things to do. He’s young. He should be out with his friends.”

Minjae pouted, lips trembling around words that didn’t quite come. He lowered his head and spooned another bite into his mouth without enthusiasm.

Sieun sipped his coffee, letting the steam cloud his glasses, hiding the tightness in his throat. It was true. Suho was twenty. Bright. Way too good looking. Reckless. He should be laughing across tables, stumbling into dumb setups, drinking too much, joking too loud. He should be building stories he’d later tell with a grin. That was right. That was good.

So why did the words feel like ash in his mouth?

All day, he tried to push the thought aside, but it trailed him like a shadow. In the grocery aisle, he caught himself wondering what Suho might be eating instead — spicy chicken, barbecue, beer he’d drink too fast. On the walk through the neighborhood, while Minjae skipped ahead, he imagined Suho at some crowded table, leaning in with that grin, his friends egging him on.

And then, inevitably, came the thought that made his ears heat: did they mention him again?

Hot Boss. The memory of the nickname across his mind, unwanted. Sieun had brushed it off at the time, clipped the moment short — but now, alone, it returned sharper. His cheeks grew warm against his will. That ridiculous nickname, passed around Suho’s circle of friends like some cheap secret.

He pressed a palm against his face, irritated at himself. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t imagine Suho’s friends laughing over it now, shoving Suho toward some girl with jokes that cut too close to the bone. He shouldn’t think about Suho’s own grin, crooked and embarrassed, denying but not denying.

And yet he did. Again and again, until the thought of it gnawed at him as much as the silence did.

---

Suho tried. He really did. He let the girl’s questions roll, nodded when she asked about classes, about basketball, about music. He answered just enough to keep the conversation afloat, but each word felt thinner, more forced.

She leaned closer, chin resting on her hand. “So what do you usually do on weekends?”

Baku grinned like a shark. “Don’t ask him that. He’s domesticated these days. Picks kids up from school, cooks dinner. Housewife Suho.”

Laughter rippled across the table. The girl’s brows arched, intrigued. “Really? That’s… unexpected.”

“Unexpectedly hot,” Beakjin muttered into his glass.

Suho groaned, dragging a hand over his face. Heat prickled the back of his neck. “They’re exaggerating. I work part time on weekdays, not weekends.”

But the girl’s smile lingered, curious, like she wanted to ask more. And suddenly, the smoke in the air felt thicker, the laughter sharper, the chair beneath him less steady.

He didn’t want to explain himself here, to these strangers, with his friends jabbing elbows into his side. He didn’t want to grin at a girl who leaned too close, perfume curling between them.

What he wanted—

The thought rose so quickly it startled him. What he wanted was the easy chaos of the apartment. Minjae sprawled on the rug, crayons rolling off the table. Dinner half-burnt but still eaten. The crooked apron he tied every evening. Ocean eyes that said more in silence than this table had said all night.

His chest tightened. He reached for his phone almost before the thought finished.

What did my little champ draw today? Please don’t say another shark wearing blue Nikes. Kid’s obsessed with brainrot memes, I swear.

Send.

The corner of his mouth curled. That sounded right.

The girl was saying something again, laughing too loudly, but Suho’s attention was gone. His thumb moved fast, chasing what he really wanted.

And you— don’t tell me you skipped dinner again. Coffee doesn’t count, boss. Even CEOs eat real food sometimes.

Send.

The warmth that filled his chest had nothing to do with the soju. He leaned back, smirk pulling wider. He could almost hear the scoff, the sharp retort Sieun would throw back at him.

And then, reckless — because if he didn’t laugh he might just sink under the noise — he typed the third:

SOS. Group date is a scam. Rescue mission required. Send Team Yeon immediately.

Send.

The gang cheered, the girls giggled, the table pressed closer. But Suho leaned away, back against the booth, phone clutched like it was the only thing tethering him to somewhere real.

The screen stayed dark. He stared anyway, waiting.

---

The phone buzzed against the desk, breaking the stillness. Sieun’s eyes flicked toward it before he could stop himself. Three messages lit up in sequence, Suho’s voice clear in his head, the words carrying his careless cadence.

What did my little champ draw today? Please don’t say another shark with blue Nikes.

The first softened something in his chest — Suho teasing about Minjae’s drawings, the way he always noticed the boy’s obsessions as though they were his own. The second sent heat crawling under his collar — Suho scolding him, casually, like he had the right. As if anyone else ever dared to. And the third… the third made him press his lips tight, fighting the way his chest wanted to lift.

SOS. Group date is a scam. Rescue mission required. Send Team Yeon immediately.

His chest tightened, a sharp ache masked as annoyance. Ridiculous. Childish. It was just Suho being Suho, restless and playful, never serious. But the words lodged under his ribs anyway, a pressure he couldn’t release.

He didn’t reply. Not right away. He set the phone aside, deliberately, as if distance could weaken the pull. But the glow lingered against his skin, the words echoing too loudly in the quiet apartment. His hand twitched, restless, and before he could stop himself, he opened Suho's Instagram account.

Habit. Compulsion.

And there it was — a new tagged post, with a location check-in. Sieun knew that place. He'd been there in one of the company's gatherings.

Chains of pictures, boys and girls crammed into a booth, shoulders pressed, soju bottles glinting under bad restaurant lighting.  The captions were loud with hashtags, the kind Suho never used himself. In every frame, the girls leaned in, laughter bright, their sleeves brushing his arm.

But Suho—

In each shot, he looked wrong. Arms folded, smile faint, gaze slipping down. Like he was sitting on the edge of the moment, never inside it. Detached. Distant. Out of place.

Until one picture. One careless frame, almost an afterthought. Suho’s head bent, thumbs moving fast across his phone, and on his face — that grin. Unpolished, unguarded, boyish.

Sieun’s throat went dry. He didn’t need to guess who Suho was texting. The truth bloomed sharp and undeniable: Suho’s attention wasn’t with the girl leaning in. It was here. With him.

He tried to reason. Suho was twenty. He should be here, drinking too much, joking too loud, fumbling into the kind of mistakes that belonged to youth. That was right. That was good. What claim did Sieun have? He was only the employer, the father with a child under his arm, the older man whose life had no space for recklessness.

But the longer he sat, the tighter it grew — the image of Suho boxed in by noise he didn’t care for, smiling only at a screen because that tether reached here. To this apartment. To him.

Sieun’s chair scraped against the floor before he realized he’d moved. Keys were already in his hand, phone slid into his pocket.

“Minjae, grab your jacket,” he said, his voice steady but quick.

Minjae blinked from the couch, shark plush half-slipping from his arms. “Why?”

“We’re picking up your Suho-hyung.”

For a beat, silence. And then Minjae’s cheer exploded, sharp and joyful. “Hyung! Hyung!” He scrambled for his jacket, feet thudding across the floor.

Sieun didn’t hush him. Didn’t clip the sound with a warning. He let it ring out, because the boy’s joy was too bright, too true.

And it mirrored the very thing Sieun could no longer pretend away.

He wanted Suho back.

---

The table roared with laughter again — glasses clinking, meat spitting on the grill, Baku slapping the table so hard the sauces trembled. But Suho barely heard it. He sat hunched low, shoulders tense, phone clutched tight in his palm under the table. The screen glowed with the words he’d sent minutes ago, playful, ridiculous, needy.

No reply.

Too long.

Long enough for doubt to creep in, curling sharp under his ribs. He imagined Sieun reading the messages with that infuriatingly calm stare, lips pressing into a line, and then — dismissing them. Deeming them childish, unworthy of an answer.

The thought sank heavy in his gut, souring everything around him. The laughter at the table became distant, jagged, cutting against the restless ache that had been thrumming through him all night.

And then — the vibration.

It hit like a shock, rattling through his bones. His head snapped up so fast the world spun.

He swiped at the screen too quickly, thumb slipping once, breath caught sharp in his lungs.

You’re sure you need rescue?

The words blurred as his vision stung, relief flooding his chest so fast it hurt. His fingers fumbled clumsily over the keyboard, mistyping twice before he managed to get the words out:

Yeah… this blind date is no fun.

He barely had time to exhale before the reply arrived, quick, steady, deliberate — a voice he could almost hear aloud, low and cutting through all the noise:

Then go outside. Team Yeon is on duty.

The room tilted. His heart slammed against his ribs, wild and unsteady, everything inside him ricocheting between disbelief and a giddy, helpless joy.

Suho didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He moved.

His chair screeched back, knee slamming the underside of the table. Glasses toppled, soju spilling in sharp green streams across the wood, plates rattling with the impact.

“Yah, Suho!” Baku barked, grabbing at the edge of his sleeve. “Where the hell—”

But Suho was already twisting free, muttering a distracted, “Sorry,” as he shouldered past. Seongje called something sharp behind him, Beakjin cursed as sauce splashed across his shirt, the girl blinked wide-eyed, half-rising from her seat.

He didn’t look back.

His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the voices, the smoke, the laughter. All of it blurred to static, meaningless, as if the world had narrowed to a single point — the glow of his phone still clutched in his hand, and the words still burning on the screen.

Then go outside. Team Yeon is on duty.

He shoved past a waiter carrying trays, ignored the startled complaints, and burst through the restaurant doors.

Cool night air slammed into his lungs. Neon hummed above the awning, painting the street in garish color. And there—

And there—

Sieun.

For a heartbeat, Suho thought he’d imagined him — a figure cut too sharply from the blur of strangers, as though the city itself had parted to leave him standing there. The crowd streamed around him but never touched him, their noise scattering against the stillness he carried like armor.

Soulful eyes, deeper than ocean, sharper than glass, seemed to hold the glow without ever breaking it. His hair, pushed carelessly back, stirred with the breeze, soft against the clean line of his jaw. The collar of his coat was turned up against the wind, but his shoulders stayed straight, his stance unflinching, as though he had all the time in the world.

No lecture. No scowl. Not even the clipped sharpness Suho had braced for. Just presence — calm, certain, waiting. A steadiness that rooted Suho to the ground harder than any hand could have.

And beneath that stillness, something else. A quiet pull. Like gravity. Like the eye of a storm where, for one impossible second, everything held.

Beside him, Minjae was all motion — bundled in a jacket too big, shark plush squashed under one arm, bouncing on his toes like he’d been waiting forever.

“Hyung! Hyung! Let’s go home!” the boy shouted, voice cracking in its urgency, carrying across the pavement like a flare.

Suho’s chest cracked open. His laughter tumbled out, wild and breathless, catching on something raw that almost felt like a sob. His vision blurred, not with tears but with the dizzy rush of something larger than relief, heavier than joy.

The restaurant’s clamor melted behind him, fading like static. The night pressed close, neon humming overhead, and all he saw was this: a man with ocean eyes, a boy waving his shark plush, the two of them framed in a way that felt unbearably right.

And in that single instant, Suho knew.

This was what he had been waiting for.

Not noise. Not shallow smiles. Not the empty clatter of tables where he didn’t belong.

But here. Them.

Home.

Chapter Text

The drive back from the restaurant was anything but quiet — at least, not for Suho.

He sat in the passenger seat grinning so wide it hurt, every muscle buzzing. He kept sneaking glances at Sieun’s profile, lit by the passing streetlights, and every time the corners of his mouth tried to stay straight, they betrayed him, tugging upward again.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Sieun asked finally, eyes on the road. His voice was flat, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

“Because Hyung looks stupid,” Minjae said from the back, kicking his legs against the seat.

Suho twisted to gape at him, mock wounded. “Yah! Whose team are you on?”

“Team Yeon!” Minjae shouted, shark plush clutched triumphantly to his chest.

Sieun’s knuckles flexed on the wheel, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. “Smart boy.”

Suho groaned, throwing his head back against the seat, though the grin refused to leave. “Traitors, both of you. Saving me only to bully me in the car.”

“You didn’t need saving,” Sieun said smoothly. “You asked for it.”

“I didn’t ask for mockery,” Suho shot back, but his laughter betrayed him.

The banter rolled easy, warmer than the hum of the engine, until Minjae piped up again, voice small but certain: “I’m hungry.”

Suho twisted around. “Didn’t you eat before?”

“I want noodles,” Minjae said, pouting. “Late-night noodles.”

Suho grinned, already turning back to Sieun. “See? Team Yeon knows how to treat its VIP members.”

Sieun sighed, long-suffering, but the car turned smoothly at the next corner.

The noodle shop was a hole in the wall, steam fogging the windows, tables cramped too close together. They squeezed into a booth, Suho and Sieun shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing beneath the table. Neither moved.

Minjae dug into his bowl with eager focus, noodles dangling from his chopsticks. Suho, meanwhile, leaned sideways, chopsticks darting boldly into Sieun’s bowl.

“Hey,” Sieun murmured, but there was no real protest.

Suho grinned, chewing noisily. “Yours tastes better.”

“You ordered the same thing.”

“Exactly,” Suho said, smug, and stole another bite.

Sieun let him.

The heat in the shop, the warmth of their bodies pressed a little too close, the way Sieun didn’t shift away—it made Suho’s grin stretch until he was sure he looked like an idiot. But he didn’t care. He wanted to sit here forever, knees touching, Sieun’s quiet presence steady at his side.

---

After, with Minjae full and drowsy, they piled back into the car. His head lolled against the window, shark plush tucked under his chin, breaths evening out before they’d even pulled onto the road.

Sieun’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “I’ll drive you home.”

Suho blinked. “My home?”

Sieun didn’t look at him. “Yes.”

It was the first time. Usually, Suho walked, or caught a late bus, or simply stayed until it was inconvenient to leave. The offer sent something wild tumbling through his chest.

The city passed in blurs of light. Suho fidgeted, restless, too full of everything he couldn’t say. Finally, he burst out, “Wait. How did you even know where the blind date was tonight?"

Sieun’s jaw tightened, the faintest pause before he said, perfectly calm, “That’s Team Yeon’s secret.”

Suho barked a laugh, tipping his head back against the seat. “Unbelievable. Even in espionage mode, you’re cool.”

The car idled at the curb, its engine a low hum beneath the quiet. Minjae had long since slipped into sleep in the backseat, cheek pressed to his shark plush, lips parted in the deep trust of children who know they are safe. The street outside was washed in faint neon, a thin drizzle feathering across the windshield. Inside the car, however, everything held still.

Suho lingered, shoulders tense with a restlessness he couldn’t laugh off. He turned his head, eyes fixed on Sieun’s profile — the steady lines of his face caught in the dashboard’s glow, ocean eyes narrowed at nothing in particular. Suho’s chest swelled at the sight, so full it almost hurt. He wanted to say something clever, something light, but the words stuck. His grin wouldn’t leave him, though, tugging helplessly at the corners of his mouth.

“You know,” he said softly, breaking the hush, “if every blind date ended like this, I’d sign up for one every week.”

Sieun’s head turned slightly, eyes cutting to him, expression unreadable. “You’d better not.” The words should have been sharp, but they landed softer, colored with something Suho couldn’t name.

And before he could second-guess himself, Suho’s hand moved. Hesitant at first, brushing lightly over the console — then deliberate, sliding into the spaces between Sieun’s fingers. His heart thundered so hard he almost expected the whole car to shake with it.

For a moment Sieun froze, silence tightening like a held breath. Every instinct in him screamed to retreat, to reclaim the distance that had always been his shield. But Suho’s hand was warm, steady, trembling only a little, and something inside Sieun gave way. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his palm curved to fit. His fingers closed, not in rejection but in acceptance, quiet and wordless.

The shift was small. Barely anything. And yet it cracked the air open between them.

Suho felt it like a jolt through every vein, his grin breaking free, too wide, too foolish, but unstoppable. His entire body felt buoyant, as though this one alignment — this permission — had been what he was waiting for all along.

For Sieun, it was unbearable and yet bearable. Dangerous and yet necessary. His silence was no longer empty armor but a silence humming with something unnamed, something sharp and soft at once. He thought of the noodle shop’s steam, the foolish grin Suho wore stealing food from his bowl, the faint smile he himself had allowed to slip past his guard — and now this hand, warm and insistent in his own. Too close. And he didn’t want it to stop.

Neither spoke. The car ticked quiet, Minjae’s breathing steady in the back. And in that stillness, something shifted — undeniable, unspoken, pressing at them both.

Later, when Suho finally climbed the steps to his apartment and shut the door behind him, the silence hit differently. Not heavy, not suffocating — alive. He dropped his bag carelessly, kicked off his shoes, and fell backward onto his bed with a groan that broke into laughter.

His hand rose to his face, covering the grin that split him wide, but it was useless. He was smiling so hard his jaw hurt, so giddy he felt drunk. He pressed his palm over his chest like it might steady the fluttering inside, but it only made it worse — because he could still feel it. The press of Sieun’s fingers, the deliberate curl of his palm fitting against his own.

“God,” he muttered into the dark, muffled against his pillow. “I’m ruined.”

He rolled over, face buried, laughter muffled and helpless. His phone buzzed somewhere on the desk, but he ignored it. No message could compete with the memory replaying in loops behind his eyes: ocean eyes softened in the dark, lips curved faintly, that warm weight of a hand choosing not to let go.

He hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted this until it happened. And now he knew — no matter how much he tried to act cool, no matter how much he joked — he was falling. Hard.

And he didn’t care.

The apartment was still when Sieun carried Minjae inside, the boy limp with sleep against his shoulder. He laid him gently in bed, pulled the shark plush under his arm, brushed back his hair until Minjae’s face softened again. That part of the routine was muscle memory by now. And yet, tonight, his hands felt unsteady, as though some rhythm had been broken.

When he closed Minjae’s door, the quiet pressed close. The living room glowed faintly with the lamp he’d forgotten to turn off, cushions still bearing the dent of Suho’s careless sprawl. He sank into the couch without meaning to, fingers brushing absently over the fabric — and stopped.

His hand stilled, curved slightly. As though remembering.

He stared at it. At the space between his fingers where another hand had been. Warm, insistent, young, trembling. He could still feel it, absurdly, the weight of it pressed into his palm, the silent plea behind the gesture.

For years, his silence had been his armor. He had lived in it, carried it, sharpened it into a blade when the world demanded too much. But tonight — in that car, with Minjae sleeping in the back and Suho’s grin lighting up the dark — the silence had been different. Not empty. Not defensive. Full. Humming. Dangerous.

Too close.

And he hadn’t wanted it to stop.

His throat tightened at the memory of it. The boy’s boldness. The way he grinned, helpless and giddy, as though that small connection had been enough to fill him. Sieun should have pulled away. He should have put the distance back where it belonged. But instead, he had curved his palm to fit.

He leaned back, eyes closing, the lamp throwing shadows across his face. In the quiet, he could hear Suho’s laughter still — not the loud, careless kind, but the soft one that slipped out when he teased noodles from someone else’s bowl, when he thought no one was watching. Foolish. Warm. Dangerous.

Sieun’s lips curved before he could stop them. A faint smile, gone almost as quickly as it came.

He opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing over him. He had no word for what any of this was, no definition he trusted, no future he dared imagine. He only knew one thing with any certainty:

His silence was no longer his own.

Chapter Text

Sunday morning.
Suho woke late, sprawled diagonally across his bed, face buried in the pillow. He should’ve been exhausted — he was, technically — but his body buzzed like it had been wired into a socket. Every time he shut his eyes, he felt it again: the slow curl of fingers against his own, the steady warmth of a hand that hadn’t pulled away.

He rolled over, still grinning at nothing. Then his phone vibrated. Once, twice, then relentlessly. He groaned, fished it from under the pillow, squinting at the flood of notifications.

The group chat was on fire.

Baku: WAKE UP dickface nanny. How dare you.
Seongje: I’m still humiliated. Running away from a blind date? FIRST in history.
Baekjin: Actually historic. I almost clapped when he bolted.
Baku: You don’t clap when your bro DESTROYS the system.
Seongje: He DESTROYED my reputation. Do you know how hard I worked to set that up???
Baekjin: Can’t believe the infamous Hot Boss actually came to pick him up.

Suho’s grin froze. His thumb hovered.

Baku: Yeah, I saw him. Just a glimpse. Man’s pretty. No wonder Suho can’t resist.
Seongje: Pretty? He looked like he walked out of a cologne ad. Suho, you’re screwed.

Suho shoved his face into the pillow, muffling the groan that cracked into helpless laughter. His ears burned. He typed back with reckless thumbs:

Suho: Correction: Team Yeon came to RESCUE me. Premium service.

The reply was instant.

Seongje: Premium service my ass. Rescue my ass. You ditched four girls for a boss with a kid.
Baku: HE HAS A KID. A WHOLE KID.
Baekjin: LMAOOOO Suho about to be stepdad at 20.

Suho choked on his own laugh. He typed fast:

Suho: He’s twenty-six. Looks younger than you, hyung. Don’t make him sound like a grandpa.
Seongje: TWENTY-SIX AND A KID. SAME DIFFERENCE.
Baku: HOW MANY BOTTLES OF SOJU DID YOU DRINK TO THINK THIS IS NORMAL?
Baekjin: Bro’s not drunk. He’s whipped. W-H-I-P-P-E-D.

Suho rolled onto his back, laughing until his stomach cramped. He couldn’t stop smiling, even as the flood of messages turned more chaotic:

Baku: I hate you.
Seongje: I hate you more.
Baekjin: We should kidnap him next Saturday too. Blind date 2.0.
Baku: Yeah, lock his ass in. No Hot Boss rescue this time.

Suho typed one last thing before tossing the phone onto his chest:

Suho: You guys are just jealous Team Yeon doesn’t offer you VIP packages.

The chat exploded again, a storm of swears, laughing emojis, and threats to kill him in his sleep. Suho laughed harder, pressing the heel of his hand to his burning face.

He lay there long after, breathless, chest aching with how much joy could fit inside it. Let them tease. Let them scream. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. Last night hadn’t been a joke, not to him. It had been the first time someone steady, someone untouchable, had let him in.

And God, he was ruined.

The Sunday light came pale and thin through the blinds. Sieun rose early, the way he always did, brewed his coffee, plated toast for Minjae. The apartment was quiet except for the boy’s bare feet pattering into the kitchen, hair sticking up like a startled chick.

“Daddy,” Minjae mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Hyung’s not here yet?”

The words caught somewhere under Sieun’s ribs. He stirred his coffee slowly, buying himself a breath. “It’s Sunday, Minjae ah,” he said evenly. “Let Suho-hyung have some rest. He has his own work to do.”

But Minjae only frowned into his cereal bowl. “Hyung should always eat breakfast with us.”

Sieun reached across the table to ruffle his hair, but the ache stayed. He sipped his coffee, too hot, and stared at the steam curling upward. He told himself it was right. Suho was twenty — he should be laughing with his friends, stumbling through nights too loud, collecting the kind of stories youth was meant for. And yet, as the silence stretched, Sieun found his own hand twitching faintly against the mug — remembering.

When Minjae wandered off to fetch his shark plush, Sieun set his cup down, reached for his phone almost without thought. He scrolled once, twice, then paused.

In the tagged section of Suho's IG account — chains of pictures so ridiculous Sieun blinked, then stared.

The first was Suho mid-chew, cheeks puffed, chopsticks frozen halfway to his mouth. The caption blared:

“World’s biggest blind date CRASHER/ESCAPER. Wanted DEAD or ALIVE.”

The next was Suho squinting into the neon light outside the restaurant, clearly trying to text, mouth tilted in concentration.

“Wanted!!! 20-year-old NANNY. Crime: running away from a blind date to a HOT BOSS. Reward: soju shots.”

The third was a blurry close-up of his profile, ears burning red, grin tugging wide as his friends shouted across the table.

“SEND THE DEMENTORS 🧙‍♂️💀 Betrayed his bros for a pair of ocean eyes.”

And below it all, a flood of fake-angry comments from Suho’s so-called friends:
“I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.”
“You broke the sacred code of blind dates.”
“Don’t show your face on campus again, traitor.”

Sieun stared, then, before he could stop himself, he laughed. A real laugh, sudden and sharp, breaking through the silence of the kitchen. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but the curve of his smile refused to fade.

It was absurd. Childish. But he could picture it — Suho hunched in that noisy restaurant, ignoring the girl across from him, grinning only when his thumbs flew across his phone. Grinning for him.

Heat rose in his chest, not the sharp kind of embarrassment but something softer, deeper. Satisfaction. A ridiculous, unguarded smirk tugged at his lips as he scrolled back over the captions.

He ditched the blind date. For me. Because of me.

He set the phone down, leaned back in his chair, and let the thought hum through him like a secret. “Try to make him go to another blind date again,” he murmured under his breath, eyes narrowing with something dangerously close to pride. “See what happens, boys.”

The amusement still lingered on his mouth when Sieun finally set the tagged pictures aside. It was absurd, the way those boys broadcast everything like a circus, but for once he was grateful. He had never thought their noise could reach into his quiet kitchen and shake a laugh out of him.

But when the feed refreshed, another post slid into view. This one wasn’t from the gang. It was Suho’s.

A photo snapped in motion — not staged, not deliberate. The center was the car’s gearshift, but what caught him instantly was his own hand resting on it, caught mid-curve, veins and tendons familiar to him in a way no one else should notice. Nothing else of him showed. Just that.

The caption read:

“Team Yeon Premium Service 🚗✨ (VIP package)”

Sieun froze. His pulse stuttered once, then rose fast enough to make him set the mug down before he spilled it. The picture wasn’t compromising, not really. It could’ve been anyone’s hand. But he knew. And Suho knew. And the thought of him posting this — that boyish grin curving as he typed out those words — made something flutter sharp and deep under his ribs.

He should have felt alarmed. Exposed. Instead, his lips curved again, softer this time. Foolish, dangerous. His thumb hovered as though he might double tap, but he didn’t. He only stared, long enough for the screen to dim, and the echo of warmth to spread in his chest.

His own silence filled with memory: a crooked grin in the noodle shop, a laugh that had pulled one from him too, the press of a warm hand against his own.

He shut the phone off at last, set it face down, but the image stayed behind his eyes. A gearshift. His hand. A caption too playful to be anything but reckless.

For years, he had told himself he wanted no one. Needed no one. But now, on a Sunday morning with coffee gone cold and Minjae humming to himself in the next room, he felt it — unmistakable, undeniable.

He had been chosen. And the knowledge made his chest ache in a way that was both unbearable and not nearly enough.

---

Suho had no business going back. That was what he told himself when he woke late, sunlight cutting hot across his sheets, his grin still plastered on from the night before. He tried to play games, do laundry, even nap. Nothing worked. Every time his mind went quiet, it was back there again — the weight of Sieun’s hand curving against his own, the lamplight catching in those impossible ocean eyes.

He lasted until the afternoon before giving up. He grabbed a bag of snacks from the corner shop — his excuse, flimsy as paper — and set out.

When the bell rang, Sieun answered in rolled-up sleeves and glasses, hair soft, eyes faintly surprised. He looked domestic in a way Suho’s chest couldn’t handle.

“Tribute for Team Yeon,” Suho said quickly, shoving the bag forward.

Minjae bolted into view, shouting “Hyung!” and nearly tackled him into the hallway. Sieun stepped aside, cool as ever, but didn’t hide the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

Inside, the afternoon slipped warm and easy. Minjae sprawled with crayons, shark plush balanced against his knee, tongue sticking out in concentration. Suho flopped onto the rug beside him, nudging colors into his hand, teasing until the boy dissolved in giggles. From the couch, Sieun pretended to focus on his laptop, though his gaze lingered too long.

It felt almost like family, Suho thought. Dangerous word. But he couldn’t shake it.

When Sieun finally rose for the kitchen, Suho followed, pretending it was to help.

The cupboard was just out of reach. Sieun stretched, fingers brushing uselessly at the box shoved too high. He could’ve fetched a chair, but he was already tired, already irritated at himself for storing things where his height betrayed him. His palm flattened against the counter for balance, shoulders tightening as he tried again.

And then — warmth. A presence at his back, sudden and sure.

Suho.

He stepped in without hesitation, chest brushing Sieun’s back as he reached up with ease, plucking the item down as though it weighed nothing. The motion was quick, careless — but he didn’t step back. He set the box on the counter, then left his arms braced on either side, caging Sieun in.

Sieun stilled. Breath sharp, hand gripping the counter. He should move. Should tell the boy off, step away, reclaim the distance he’d always insisted on. But he didn’t.

And Suho — reckless, grinning, heart pounding in his ears — leaned closer instead. His arms slipped forward, loose but sure, wrapping lightly around Sieun’s waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His chin hovered just above Sieun’s shoulder, his voice soft and teasing, lips brushing close enough for Sieun to feel the warmth of them.

“Dangerous, boss,” he murmured, amusement threaded with something deeper. “You keep stacking things this high, I might have to stick around forever just to help you reach them.”

Sieun’s throat tightened. His hands curled uselessly against the counter, every muscle caught between pulling away and staying exactly where he was. His silence hummed, not empty, but full — threaded with the pulse he couldn’t steady.

Suho grinned wider, giddy with the way he wasn’t being shoved back. Recklessness sparked again. He tilted closer, voice low and playful against Sieun’s ear:

“Careful. Premium Service comes with hidden fees. Kitchen rescues? That’s extra.”

Sieun exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing in the faintest side glance. “You talk too much,” he said, voice flat, controlled.

But his eyes curved when he said it. Just slightly. Enough to undo Suho completely.

Suho’s chest soared, his grin threatening to split his face. He lingered one second longer in that warmth, memorizing the feel of letting himself be so close, before easing back — not out of choice, but because if he stayed, he wasn’t sure he’d stop.

The air between them pulsed, charged. Neither of them named it. Neither of them needed to.

Evening settled soft after that. Minjae, full from dinner, curled on the couch and drifted off, shark tucked under his chin. The apartment was quiet. Suho stayed, sitting close beside Sieun, their shoulders brushing, the kind of silence that didn’t need to be broken.

When it was time to leave, Sieun surprised him. He picked up his keys. “I’ll drive you.”

Suho blinked, then grinned so wide it hurt.

The car ticked with the quiet hum of the engine, the city lights sliding across Suho’s face as they stopped outside his building. He didn’t move to unbuckle his seatbelt. Just sat there, turned slightly toward the driver’s seat, grinning in that way he couldn’t stop anymore.

“You know,” he said, voice low, almost testing, “if you keep driving me home like this, people will think I belong here.”

Sieun’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but his eyes flicked sideways. Calm. Assessing. The corners of his mouth curved, just barely. “You don’t?”

Suho’s heart lurched. He laughed, too quick, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I do. I mean, I’ve even got a toothbrush at your place.” He leaned in, grin crooked, playful but edged with truth. “Feels official.”

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t empty — it was charged, humming. Suho’s chest thudded as he dared to push again. “Next time… maybe I should drive. Premium service should go both ways.”

Sieun finally turned his head, ocean eyes catching his, steady in the dim light. “You’d crash my car.”

“Rude.” Suho’s grin softened into something helpless, almost tender. “I’d drive careful. You’re—” He cut himself off, pulse skittering. But the words had already brushed too close to the surface. You’re precious to me.

His hand moved before he could stop it, brushing Sieun’s wrist where it rested by the gearshift. Light at first, tentative. When Sieun didn’t pull away, Suho let his fingers linger, sliding until they aligned, warm against warm.

And then — because his mouth was always faster than his sense — he murmured, almost giddy, “Your waist is too thin, boss. You need to eat more.”

The words dropped like stones into the stillness. Suho felt the heat scorch his ears, his neck, but he didn’t take them back. He couldn’t. He thought of that moment in the kitchen, his arms around Sieun, how fragile he’d felt under his hands. And now he said it out loud, reckless, shameless, heart hammering in his ribs.

Sieun’s breath caught, subtle but there. He turned his face away, as if the windshield suddenly demanded his attention. But not before Suho caught it — the faintest flush at his cheekbones, the way his ocean eyes shimmered, tingling with something unspeakable. Not anger. Not annoyance. Shyness. A flicker of adoration he hadn’t managed to mask in time.

For once, the armor cracked, and Suho saw him — not the cold, untouchable boss, but the man beneath, caught off guard by a boy’s reckless words.

And then, in a voice so quiet it almost didn’t seem like him, Sieun murmured, “...Then try not to make your pasta too salty.”

Suho blinked. Then grinned so wide his jaw hurt, heart leaping to his throat. “Deal,” he whispered, giddy enough to choke on it.

Their hands stayed aligned on the console, warm and sure, the silence between them blooming fuller than any confession could.

Chapter Text

The apartment held a hush after Suho left — not empty, not cold, but humming with the echo of him.

Back at the table, Sieun leaned back in his chair, one hand covering his mouth as if he could press the thoughts back inside. But his body betrayed him again. He could still feel.

The warmth of Suho’s hand against his own, the way the boy’s fingers had pressed — not accident, not mistake, but sure. The faint scrape of calluses from basketball, rough and young, grounding against his skin. He could still feel the moment his own palm, almost against his will, curved to fit.

And that wasn’t all. His shoulders tightened at the memory of Suho brushing past him in the kitchen earlier, narrow space forcing them close, their arms sliding together in a fleeting, maddening touch. He remembered the heat of it, the way his body had flinched inward, not away.

But what rose most vividly was the cupboard — reaching high, the counter beneath his palms, and Suho behind him. Close. Too close. The boy’s chest pressed warm against his back as he reached over his shoulder, breath grazing the side of his neck, trapping him between solid heat and the counter’s edge. It had been only a second, a practical gesture. And yet…

His fingers trembled now on the table at the memory. Because in that second, he had felt it — the raw surge of wanting, the dangerous slip of imagining what it would be like if Suho didn’t step away. If those arms wrapped all the way around him, not by accident but by choice.

He bent forward, pressing his palms flat against the wood, trying to steady the thrum running through his veins. He had no right to think this. No space for it in the carefully ordered life he had built. And yet, his body remembered it all the same. Shoulder to shoulder. Breath to breath. Almost-embrace.

The thought clawed at him, relentless: I am falling.

And for the first time in years, he realized his silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full. Humming with every brush of contact, every grin, every reckless word Suho threw at him without hesitation. Full of things he couldn’t speak but could no longer deny.

He pushed his glasses higher on his nose, pulled the untouched water toward him. His throat ached, dry. He didn’t drink. He only sat in the quiet, fingers pressing the cool glass as though it could burn away what lingered under his skin.

But it didn’t. Nothing did.

Because no matter how fiercely he scolded himself, no matter how heavy the shame of selfishness, the truth pulsed steady in him, undeniable.

He was trembling still, and not from exhaustion.

He was falling.

He tried to busy himself. Gathered laundry from the rack, folded shirts into neat, exact squares. Precision had always been a comfort — an armor against the chaos that had once ruled his life. But tonight it betrayed him. His hands moved automatically, while his mind replayed Suho in the car — that crooked grin, the ridiculous comment about his waist, the way his hand had pressed so surely against his wrist. He cursed himself for the warmth blooming under his skin at the memory, for the way his chest had tightened when he caught his own reflection in Suho’s bright, reckless eyes.

At the sink, he scrubbed a dish harder than necessary, water splashing up the front of his shirt. His mouth curved, unwilling, at the thought: Would Suho tease me for this too? When he passed the couch, he stopped. The dent of Suho’s weight still marked the cushions. He set the folded laundry on the armrest and let his hand smooth over the dip, ridiculous, indulgent, before snatching it back.

He had not meant to let any of this happen.

Memory rose unbidden: twenty years old, standing in a hospital room too bright and too cold. His sister pale and still, the baby crying in the nurse’s arms. Signing papers with hands that shook, his name filling the line meant for “father.” His scholarship stipend gone by the end of every week — formula tins, diapers, fever medicine — leaving him to scrape meals out of instant noodles and vending machines. Days blurred by exhaustion, nights where he studied under dim lamps while rocking Minjae to sleep. He had built a wall of numbness around himself then, because to feel too much was to collapse.

He blinked and the present returned: the apartment now, small but steady. Bills paid, shoes replaced before they tore, the fridge stocked with something better than ramen. He was twenty-six, and they had survived. He could keep them alive. Barely, sometimes. But enough.

What he had not planned for — what he could not have anticipated — was Suho.

Wide grin, red windbreaker, apron always crooked. The boy had walked into their lives like he belonged there, filling the silence with laughter, with clumsy dinners, with the kind of reckless warmth Sieun had forgotten existed. And somewhere between burnt pasta and bedtime stories, between shoulder brushes and crooked smiles, something inside him had shifted.

Tonight, sitting alone in the hush, he felt the truth of it press close.

I’m falling.

The thought froze him.

Not gratitude. Not simple fondness. But something heavier, warmer, terrifying in its clarity. For the first time in his life, he wanted more than stability, more than survival. He wanted — shame burned through him — him.

But Suho was twenty. Bright, reckless, all sunlight and possibility. He should be free to make mistakes, to date carelessly, to stumble into foolish stories he would laugh about years later. Not tethered here, to a man already worn down by responsibility, already defined by duty to a child. The weight of that shame pressed tight against his throat.

He scolded himself silently: Don’t be selfish.

And yet, his chest ached with the memory of Suho’s hand on his, with the grin that had broken across his face when Sieun, uncharacteristically, let a teasing remark slip instead of pushing him away. That grin had lit him up like nothing else could. And Sieun had given it to him. He had chosen not to shut the door.

He rose at last, restless, and stood at Minjae’s doorway. The boy slept soundly, shark plush tucked under his chin, his breathing steady and even. Love surged in him, fierce and grounding. Minjae was everything — his reason, his anchor, his pride.

But behind that image now, dangerously close, lingered another: Suho in the car, his grin splitting wide, his hand pressing warm against Sieun’s wrist like it meant everything.

Back in the kitchen, Sieun touched the rim of the untouched water glass. His hand lowered slowly, fingers resting flat on the counter where Suho had stood too close earlier. The silence pressed around him, but it felt different now.

He let his eyes close, allowed himself one breath of truth.

I’m falling.

And though he would not say it aloud, not even to himself again, the words echoed through the quiet like a vow.

---

The night after his quiet admission — the thought he hadn’t dared give shape until now — Sieun moved through his routine as though nothing had shifted. Coffee poured, dishes stacked, Minjae tucked into bed with a story murmured low. Outwardly, everything stayed in place. Inwardly, it was different. Subtly, undeniably different.

He noticed it first in the little things. A gray hoodie draped over the back of a chair, sleeves twisted from being pulled on in a hurry. The faint trace of soap and soy sauce lingering in the kitchen, a smell that didn’t belong to him but had threaded into the air anyway. On the table lay Minjae’s workbook — numbers scrawled unevenly on one side, and beside them, a crooked cartoon shark with bulging eyes and sneakers, Suho’s untidy signature mark.

Sieun paused, fingers brushing the page. He should have scolded Minjae for letting someone draw in his assignments, should have flipped the book shut and returned it to the stack of things to be checked. Instead, he let the corner of his mouth tilt before he caught himself. Left the page open as he moved past, as if the scribble had earned its place.

He went to bed later than he should have, lying in the dark with the silence pressing close. Except it didn’t feel so empty tonight. It felt threaded, softened, warmed with echoes that refused to fade. He could still feel the brush of a shoulder in the narrow kitchen, the warmth of a chest pressing close at his back, the weight of a hand settling against his own. He turned onto his side, restless, telling himself sleep would come if he stopped chasing it. It didn’t. What came instead was the quiet thrum of anticipation: tomorrow Suho would come again.

And he did.

The following evening, Minjae was put to bed early after a day of restless energy, shark plush tucked under his chin. Sieun sat on the couch with a book balanced in his lap, glasses low on his nose, coffee cooling untouched beside him. He should have been reading — his eyes moved over the lines — but none of the words held. Not when Suho was stretched out across the rug, legs crossed, phone in his hands, humming tunelessly every so often, just enough to remind Sieun he was still there.

And then, slowly, without announcing himself, Suho shifted. He rolled once, twice, until his back pressed against the base of the couch. And then his head tipped sideways, resting lightly against Sieun’s thigh.

Every muscle in Sieun’s body went taut. His hand twitched on the page, his chest tightening as if the weight were heavier than it was. He should move. He should tell him to sit properly. But Suho lay there like it was the most natural thing in the world, scrolling through his phone, hair brushing against denim, warm and solid and unbearably present.

He didn’t move. He let it stand. His hand even hovered once, ridiculous impulse pulling at him — the urge to brush Suho’s hair back from his forehead — before he forced it still again.

“Hey,” Suho murmured, breaking the quiet. His voice was low, casual, as though he hadn’t just crossed a line. “This movie looks sick. The poster, at least.” He turned his phone slightly, as if Sieun might look, though Sieun’s gaze stayed locked on the same unread sentence. “Boss, you like watching movies?”

“Not really.”

Suho groaned, dramatic, like Sieun had offended him personally. “What? Who doesn’t like movies?”

Sieun’s eyes lingered on the book, not reading. His voice, when it came, was softer. “Back then, I couldn’t afford it. Couldn’t even buy popcorn.” His thumb smoothed the edge of a page. “Now I can manage, but all I watch are cartoons with Minjae.”

The words fell into the quiet. Suho stilled against his leg, his grin fading into something steadier, something that felt like it reached deeper. He tilted his chin up, not fully lifting his head, just enough to catch Sieun’s profile in the lamp’s dim light.

And then, with a suddenness that made Sieun’s throat tighten, Suho said, “Then come with me sometime. To a movie.” His grin returned, crooked, reckless. “I’ll buy you popcorn. All the flavors. You won’t even have to choose.”

Sieun’s hand stilled against the book. He looked down finally, caught in the open warmth of Suho’s gaze. His mouth wanted to form a refusal, a diversion, anything. But nothing came.

“Just us,” Suho added, quieter this time. Not a joke, not flippant. “I promise I won’t make you watch a cartoon.”

For a long breath, Sieun only looked at him — unreadable, quiet, his hand hovering still over the book. Suho’s heart thudded hard, reckless enough to be heard. And then Sieun’s mouth curved, just slightly, like a tide tugging.

“No chick flicks,” he said at last, voice dry, but the softness threading it betrayed him.

Suho blinked, then broke into a grin so wide it nearly split his face. “Noted, boss. Can’t stand them either.” He dropped his gaze back to his phone, pretending to scroll again, but his grin didn’t fade, couldn’t fade. Instead he pressed his head a little deeper into Sieun’s thigh, shameless, like he’d found his place and wasn’t about to move.

Sieun stared down at him, pulse skipping, warmth pooling at the edges of his restraint. He told himself it was nothing, just a joke, just Suho being Suho. But the heat rising in his chest insisted otherwise.

And Suho — giddy, glowing, reckless — thought that maybe no popcorn in the world would ever taste as sweet as this not-quite-yes.

Chapter Text

The week unfurled not in leaps but in the smallest adjustments, like a curtain inching open to let in more light. It began with the simplest thing: Suho staying even later, lingering even closer.

Where before he had slipped out after the kitchen was cleared and Minjae tucked into bed, now he lingered as though the apartment had quietly become his second address. Sometimes he leaned against the counter while Sieun typed at his laptop, absently scrolling his phone but never straying far. Other times he flung himself across the couch, sprawled long-limbed and careless, his knee brushing against Sieun’s and refusing to retreat.

Minjae noticed first. Perched on the rug with crayons fanned out around him like fallen fireworks, he squinted at the couch and declared with the bluntness only children could get away with, “Hyung, you’re always glued to Daddy.”

Sieun swatted gently at his hair, as if brushing the comment aside. “Eat your snack, Minjae.”

But Suho only laughed, tossing a grape into the air and catching it with a snap of his teeth. “Can you blame me?” he said, leaning until his shoulder nudged into Sieun’s. “Your dad’s magnetic.”

The boy giggled. Sieun’s lips pressed into a line that wasn’t quite disapproval, wasn’t quite amusement either. He didn’t answer. More importantly—he didn’t move.

Suho, reckless in the way sunlight is reckless — always spilling into places it wasn’t invited — had made himself a fixture in their evenings. He hovered while Sieun cooked, perched on the counter or sprawled across the couch, talking too much, laughing too easily. Somehow, his presence turned the quiet apartment into something alive.

He drifted close now, as he always did — brushing past Sieun in the kitchen with deliberate near-misses, leaning over his shoulder to peer at whatever glowed on his phone screen. He smelled faintly of soap and tangerines. His voice, when he spoke, was low, amused, too close.

“What are you watching?” he asked, peering down with the audacity of someone who’d long ago stopped pretending to have boundaries.

Sieun didn’t look up. “News.”

“Boring,” Suho declared instantly, and bent closer, chin nearly on Sieun’s shoulder.

Sieun exhaled through his nose, thumb scrolling. “If you’re this restless, go bother Minjae.”

“He said I talk too much,” Suho said, utterly unrepentant. “Which is rich coming from someone who narrates every bite of cereal.”

That earned him a tiny, almost invisible twitch of Sieun’s mouth. Suho caught it, triumphant.

Sieun didn’t even blink. “So, what happened to the girl from that blind date” he countered, voice deceptively mild. “Still texting, or did she finally ghost you?”

Suho straightened like he’d been poked. “Wow. Low blow, hyung. You saw me begging you to come get me out of there.”

Sieun’s gaze flicked up, one brow arched. “Hard to say. Maybe you were hoping to make her jealous.”

Suho pressed a hand to his heart, staggering back as though fatally wounded. “Unbelievable. I was a victim of circumstance.”

“Mm,” Sieun said, turning a page on his phone. “Tragic. And yet, you survived.”

“Barely,” Suho muttered. “I could still be emotionally scarred.”

“Highly unlikely.”

Suho leaned on the counter, eyes glinting. “You enjoyed rescuing me, admit it. You liked it too much.”

“Rescuing you?”

“Yeah,” Suho said, grin breaking wide. “You got to be the knight in shining armor. Admit it, hyung. It’s your secret hobby.”

Sieun finally set the phone down, head turning, expression cool but faintly amused. “If I’m the knight,” he said, “that makes you the damsel.”

Suho didn’t even hesitate. “Fine. But I’m the hot kind.” He leaned closer, whispering mock-dramatically, “The one worth rescuing.”

There was a small sound — a sharp, surprised laugh that escaped before Sieun could smother it. He turned away to hide it, but Suho caught it, eyes lighting up like victory.

And then, from the rug, came Minjae’s small, disbelieving voice: “You’re too loud to be a princess, hyung.”

Suho gaped. “Excuse me?”

Minjae lifted his crayon like a sword. “Princesses don’t yell. You yell a lot.”

“Wow,” Suho said, deadpan. “Betrayed in my own castle.”

“Technically,” Sieun murmured, dry as bone, “it’s my apartment.”

“Which makes me what?” Suho challenged. “The visiting noble?”

“The court jester,” Sieun said smoothly.

Suho clutched his chest in exaggerated despair. “Harsh, hyung. You wound me deeply.”

But the sparkle in his eyes gave him away, and when Sieun turned — despite himself, despite every instinct for restraint — there it was: that stupidly bright grin, all warmth and mischief and life. The kind that made Sieun’s chest feel too full, too unguarded.

Minjae broke the quiet first, piping up again without looking from his coloring book. “Daddy, hyung’s blushing.”

“I am not,” Suho said immediately.

Sieun made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “He is.”

Suho threw his towel at him, missed, and swore under his breath.

The apartment filled with the sound of laughter — Minjae’s high and delighted, Suho’s helpless and breathless, and Sieun’s low, reluctant, but real.

It was ordinary, loud, chaotic — and somewhere in the middle of it, Sieun realized he didn’t mind the noise anymore. Not when it sounded like this.

---

At night, when the apartment fell silent, Sieun felt the weight of it more sharply.

Suho’s traces lingered everywhere. A hoodie slouched across the back of the couch. A toothbrush tucked into the bathroom cup as if it had always belonged there. A neon sticky note clinging stubbornly to the fridge: Don’t burn the garlic, Boss!! scrawled in messy letters, a crooked smiley face grinning back at him.

They weren’t accidents. They were roots, subtle and sure, winding into corners of his life he had always kept empty. And the strangest part — the part that should have terrified him more than it did — was that he hadn’t stopped it. He’d let them settle. Worse, he found himself enjoying them.

Enjoying Suho’s attention, his adoration, his shameless flirtation. Enjoying the way a careless brush of his hand could leave heat humming in Sieun’s skin for hours after. Enjoying the weight of his laughter filling the apartment until even Minjae seemed brighter, lighter. Enjoying, too, the way his own lips betrayed him with smiles he never meant to show.

And yet — every night, when the lamp lit his desk and the silence pressed in, the questions came.

Suho was twenty. Twenty, with a world still wide open to him, reckless and bright, happy-go-lucky. He should have been out with friends, stumbling through blind dates, making memories untethered. Not here, wrapping himself so tightly into the narrow life of a man already burdened with bills and deadlines and a child.

The age gap alone looked absurd when he held it up to the light. A grown man with responsibilities stacked high, tethered to a five-year-old who depended on him for everything. And Suho — young, golden, with no obligations but the ones he chose. How could those lives ever align without one of them breaking?

And worse — what if Suho didn’t even mean it the way Sieun feared he did? What if this was just a crush? A boy’s fascination with someone older, steadier, respectable. Admiration tangled up with attraction, the kind of thing that burned bright but brief before he inevitably sought out someone freer, lighter, less weighted down by reality.

What if, to Suho, he was nothing more than a stand-in — a filler until he realized he deserved someone closer to his age, someone without the baggage of a child and a life already half-built?

The thought cut deeper than Sieun wanted to admit. He leaned back in his chair, glasses slipping down his nose, and stared at the crooked sticky note glowing faint in the fridge light.

He wanted to believe Suho’s affection was more than a passing whim. He wanted to trust the steadiness behind the grin, the warmth behind the teasing. He wanted — for the first time — to let himself receive and return it.

And even as the doubts circled, biting at the edges of reason, another truth pressed harder, sharper, undeniable: he still wanted.

He wanted the brush of Suho’s shoulder in the kitchen, the heat of him pressed too close at the counter, the ridiculous grin when their knees touched on the couch. He wanted the ease of his voice in the silence, the way his presence filled the spaces Sieun hadn’t realized were hollow. He wanted — against every rule, against every caution — him.

The fear remained. But beneath it, desire ran steady.

And that was the part Sieun didn’t know how to fight.

He pushed the doubts down like he always did. Pressed the lamp off, closed the file, forced himself to bed. But sleep never came easily. His mind kept circling, replaying every brush of Suho’s hand, every reckless grin.

---

By the next evening, the rhythm fell into place the way it always did — the kind of domestic choreography that required no words, just the steady exchange of noise and comfort that had built itself over months.

When Sieun came home, the apartment was already alive. Minjae lay sprawled across the rug in his usual kingdom of crayons, surrounded by a battlefield of color: sharks in sneakers, sharks in sunglasses, sharks wearing capes and wielding lightsabers. Every few minutes, he hummed a line of something tuneless and bright, lost in the world of his imagination.

From the kitchen came Suho’s voice, buoyant and warm over the sizzle of a pan. “That one needs a title, champ. ‘The Adventures of Sharkzilla’? No, wait—‘Sharkboy vs. Taxes!’”

Minjae dissolved into giggles, yelling back, “No taxes!”

“Fair. No one likes those.”

Sieun stood at the doorway for a moment longer than he meant to, briefcase still in hand. The smell of garlic and soy sauce, the clatter of utensils, the soft thud of Minjae’s crayons — all of it folded together into something he hadn’t realized he’d missed until he was standing in it. Home, not as a place, but as sound.

Suho leaned around the counter when he noticed him. His grin was immediate, as if the entire day had just tilted toward something better. “You’re back! Perfect timing — dinner’s only slightly overcooked this time.”

“Progress,” Sieun said dryly, setting his things down.

Later, after dinner and after Minjae’s last story and final protest before sleep, the apartment fell quiet again. Only the faint buzz of the refrigerator and the muffled hum of rain against the windows remained.

Suho sprawled across the couch like gravity didn’t apply to him, one foot hanging off the edge, phone glowing against his face. The light made his hair look softer somehow, haloed in silver-gold. And Sieun, ever predictable, settled into the armchair with his tablet, telling himself that he didn’t look up as often as he actually did.

“Hey, Boss. Hyung.”

Sieun hummed in acknowledgment, already wary of that tone — the one that sounded like trouble disguised as charm. “What.”

Suho rolled onto his side, chin propped in his hand, phone extended like evidence. The poster on the screen was sharp and shadowed: dark silhouettes, crimson title letters. A thriller. Nothing special. Except the way Suho’s grin tilted, half nervous, half mischievous, made it impossible to treat like nothing.

“This one,” he said. “It’s showing Saturday night. No cartoons. No chick flicks. Real movie. Real popcorn. Minjae can hang out with my grandma. You and me—” He paused, like he was testing the shape of the words. “Just us.”

Just us.

Two syllables, heavy enough to tilt the world.

Sieun’s breath caught, but his face — ever composed — stayed neutral. He should have brushed it off. Should have said something safe, something distant. But instead he found himself watching the gleam in Suho’s eyes, the hopeful spark that had always been his undoing.

“No chick flicks,” he said finally.

It wasn’t yes. But it wasn’t no, either.

And for Suho, that was everything.

He grinned — wide, boyish, irrepressible — then threw himself back against the couch cushion with a victorious sigh. “Knew it. You can’t resist my taste in cinema.”

Sieun’s mouth twitched. “I distinctly recall you saying ‘premium service’ about noodles that almost poisoned me.”

“That was gourmet,” Suho protested, feigning outrage. “You just don’t appreciate art.”

He rolled off the couch then, with no warning, and landed on the rug in a lazy heap. His back pressed against the couch — against Sieun’s legs — like gravity had delivered him exactly where he wanted to be. He stretched his arms overhead, phone forgotten somewhere near his knee.

“Comfortable?” Sieun asked, deadpan.

“Extremely.” Suho tilted his head back, looking up at him upside down. “You’re good furniture, hyung.”

Sieun sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“Admit it,” Suho said, eyes glittering. “You’d miss me if I stopped coming over.”

Silence. A dangerous kind. Because Sieun didn’t answer.

He didn’t move, either.

Instead, his hand hovered in the air — a war fought and lost in the span of a heartbeat — and then, carefully, his fingers slipped into Suho’s hair. The strands were soft under his touch, still faintly warm from the kitchen, and Suho went very still.

A beat. Two. Then he exhaled, melting so completely it made Sieun’s throat tighten.

“You’re gonna spoil me, Boss,” Suho murmured, voice quiet now, the playfulness thinned into something gentler.

“Then try not to make pasta that tastes like seawater,” Sieun said, and startled himself with the softness in his tone.

Suho barked a laugh, tipping his head back to look up at him. “You still ate it.”

“Against my better judgment.”

“And liked it.”

Sieun’s fingers stilled. “Don’t push it.”

But Suho didn’t look away. Not this time. His grin softened, his lashes lowering, and something in the air shifted — the laughter thinning into quiet, the quiet thickening into heat.

“Hyung,” Suho said softly, not teasing now. “If I fall asleep like this, you won’t kick me out, right?”

Sieun’s chest pulled tight. His hand moved again, threading gently through that dark hair, a motion too intimate to take back.

“No promises,” he said, voice low.

Suho smiled — slow, sleepy, utterly content. “Then I’m taking my chances.”

He let his head fall back against Sieun’s thigh, the glow from the lamp tracing the edges of his face. For a long, unhurried moment, neither of them spoke. The rain whispered against the glass, Minjae breathed softly from the other room, and the silence between them finally felt like it belonged.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that asked for words. It was the kind that said everything without them.

And when Sieun’s fingers brushed through Suho’s hair one more time — slower now, tender in a way that would have terrified him weeks ago — Suho’s lips curved faintly, his voice no more than a drowsy murmur.

“Told you, hyung. You’re my favorite place to rest.”

Sieun didn’t answer. But his hand didn’t stop, and that was answer enough.

They stayed like that until Suho blinked at the clock, reluctant. “I should head out,” he murmured, but he didn’t move right away.

Sieun’s hand was still in his hair; when he realized, he withdrew it quickly, fingers curling against his thigh. “It’s late,” he said, voice carefully even.

Suho rose slowly, stretching, reluctant to break the warmth between them. He lingered by the door, hand on the knob, grin lazy but soft. The lamplight haloed him in that same impossible brightness he carried everywhere, the kind that made Sieun’s chest twist without warning.

“Hyung,” Suho said quietly, almost conspiratorial, as if sharing a secret.

Sieun looked up.

“Don’t forget Saturday,” Suho murmured, the grin turning crooked. “I’m really—really looking forward to it.”

The words came out half a whisper, half a promise. And then he was gone, door clicking shut behind him, leaving only the hum of the lamp and the faint echo of his warmth in the room.

Sieun sat back, the silence closing gently around him. His fingers brushed his thigh, where Suho’s head had rested only minutes before. He told himself it was nothing. But the thought of Saturday pulsed like a quiet drumbeat beneath his ribs, steady, impossible to ignore.

---

Saturday arrived too quickly, as though the days between Thursday night’s invitation and now had folded in on themselves.

By late afternoon, the apartment was restless with the kind of energy Sieun hadn’t felt in years. Minjae ran from room to room, tossing socks into his backpack, dragging plush toys out only to shove them back in. The bag bulged absurdly, zipper refusing to meet. Sieun finally crouched, fingers steadying the mess, tightening straps while Minjae bounced from foot to foot, chanting, “Shark pajamas, shark pajamas!” as if the words themselves would fasten the bag.

When they pulled up outside Suho’s building, he and his grandmother stepped out, apron still tied at her waist. Her face split into a smile the moment she spotted Minjae, arms opening wide.

“There’s my boy!” she exclaimed, gathering him in as though he belonged there. “Come inside, quick, quick. I’ve been saving the kitchen just for you.”

“Really?” Minjae’s eyes went huge. “For me?”

“Of course. Tonight we’ll make kimchijeon, and pancakes shaped like sharks.” She winked at Sieun over the boy’s head. “Your Daddy won’t even recognize his own dinner.”

Minjae squealed, practically dragging her toward the door. “Shark pancakes! Daddy, did you hear?!”

“I heard,” Sieun said, lips twitching despite himself.

“She’s going to spoil him,” Suho murmured at his side, shaking his head with mock despair.

But there was fondness underneath, and when his hand brushed against Sieun’s sleeve as they turned back to the car, it was more than accidental. Just a light touch, brief enough to be dismissed — and yet Sieun felt it unlock something tight inside him. Not gone, but eased. Enough.

They climbed back into the car together, the engine humming to life. For a moment neither spoke, the air charged with the silence of a secret only they seemed to understand. Then Suho leaned back against the seat, his grin crooked in the dimming light.

“Just us” he said softly.

Sieun’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but his pulse betrayed him, quickening in a rhythm he hadn’t felt in years.

The car hummed low as they pulled out of Suho’s neighborhood, the streetlights flicking on one by one as dusk settled over the city. Inside, the air was quiet at first, the faint sound of tires on asphalt filling the silence. Suho, sprawled loose in the passenger seat, was anything but quiet.

“You always drive like this?” he asked, voice lazy with mischief. “All stiff and serious. You look like you’re about to get graded on your form.”

Sieun’s hands stayed steady on the wheel. “I’d rather keep us alive.”

Suho laughed, leaning an elbow against the window so he could tilt his face and watch him in profile. “Alive, sure. But do you have to look like you’re sitting an exam? Relax, boss. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself once in a while.”

“Enjoyment and safety are not mutually exclusive,” Sieun said dryly, but the corner of his mouth tugged, and Suho caught it.

He leaned in closer, chin propped on his hand, grinning like he’d just won something. “There. That. I swear you get ten times better looking when you almost smile. Terrifying, but in a good way.”

Sieun exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between amusement and dismissal, but he didn’t turn away. The traffic light glowed red, washing his ocean eyes in color, and for a beat too long Suho just stared, drinking him in like the city lights had been strung up just for this view.

The light flipped green. Sieun’s gaze cut back to the road, sharper now, but not before Suho caught the faint flush high on his cheekbones.

“Keep staring,” Sieun said evenly, “and you’ll walk to the theater.”

Suho laughed so loudly the couple in the next lane turned to look. “You’d never. Who else is gonna buy the popcorn for you?”

Suho leaned back, still glowing, but the giddiness wouldn’t let him stay still. His hand drifted to the console between them, brushing against Sieun’s knuckles where they rested light on the gearshift. Not by accident — not entirely. He left it there, close enough to feel the warmth, far enough that Sieun had the choice.

The choice never came. Sieun didn’t move his hand.

Suho swallowed, his grin faltering into something more helpless, almost shy. The silence stretched, filled with the hum of the road and the neon bleeding through the windshield, and Suho thought he could live in this single moment forever.

“You’re dangerous, boss,” he murmured finally, more to himself than to Sieun.

Sieun’s eyes flicked toward him once, steady, unreadable. “You talk too much.”

But his voice was softer now, his shoulders looser, as though the words cost him less than they once had.

Suho sat back again, heart thundering, smile breaking wide across his face. He didn’t care about the movie. He didn’t care about the popcorn. Right here, in the warmth of this car, with Sieun’s profile lit by passing headlights, felt more thrilling than anything waiting in the theater.

---

By the time they pulled into the theater lot, Suho was buzzing. Not from caffeine, not from anything ordinary — but from the way Sieun had let the quiet settle between them, from the heat that had lingered when their hands brushed, from the almost-smile that haunted his chest like a victory.

Inside, the theater lobby was all noise and light — neon signs humming, popcorn machines spilling their sugar-salt perfume, clusters of people laughing too loud as they queued at counters. Suho fell into step beside Sieun, close enough that their shoulders brushed when the crowd jostled them. He let it happen. He even leaned a little, grinning when Sieun didn’t step away.

“This is already better than the blind date,” Suho said, tipping his head toward the ticket counter. “At least you’re not fake-laughing at my jokes.”

Sieun’s brow arched, ocean eyes sliding toward him. “You assume I laugh at all.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it,” Suho shot back, smug. “It’s terrifying and beautiful at the same time. Like spotting a solar eclipse.”

That earned him the smallest sound — a breath through Sieun’s nose, almost a laugh. Suho wanted to frame it, keep it.

They reached the ticket counter, and Suho was already fishing out his wallet when Sieun’s phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then steady, insistent.

He frowned, glanced at the screen. Suho caught the shift in his expression instantly — the way his jaw tightened, shoulders stiffening like shutters closing.

“Work?” Suho asked, trying to keep his tone light even as his stomach dipped.

Sieun didn’t answer right away. He stepped aside, thumb swiping, voice clipped low as he answered. The hum of the lobby filled the space between them, too loud, too bright. Suho stuffed his hands in his pockets, watching the steady line of Sieun’s back, and something cold started to creep into his chest.

It didn’t take long. Sieun slipped the phone back into his pocket, his mouth a thin line. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, eyes steady on Suho’s, though regret threaded his voice. “They need me at the office. I can’t stay.”

For a second, Suho just blinked at him. He wanted to joke, to wave it off. But the weight in Sieun’s voice didn’t leave room for it.

“Oh,” he said instead, too flat. He forced a grin, crooked and thin. “Guess I’ll just eat all the popcorn myself.”

Sieun’s gaze softened, the kind of softness that only made Suho’s chest ache more. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Before Suho could reply, another buzz rattled against Sieun’s pocket. Urgent. Relentless.

Sieun gave a short bow of his head, the faintest tilt closer — as though he wanted to say more, do more, but the world had already pulled him away. Then he turned, striding out into the night, leaving Suho standing under the neon glow of the movie posters.

The line shuffled forward. Someone behind him coughed impatiently.

Suho stared at the two tickets in his hand, the paper cutting sharp against his fingers. Then, with a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he walked over to a couple waiting in line. “Here,” he said, holding them out. “My loss, your lucky day.”

They blinked at him in surprise, murmured thanks, but Suho was already walking away, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

Outside, the night air was cool. Too cool without the warmth of the car, without the weight of the shoulder that had brushed his in the crowd. He tilted his head back, staring at the garish glow of the marquee, and exhaled.

“Guess Team Yeon’s premium service doesn’t extend to movie nights,” he muttered to himself, and headed home.

---

When Sieun returned that night, the world had gone still. The rain had stopped sometime after sunset, leaving the streets washed clean and glistening under the sleepy glow of streetlamps. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the gentle rhythm of breathing from the back seat.

Minjae was asleep — deeply, peacefully — his head pillowed on Suho’s chest. The boy was wrapped in a blanket, small fingers curled against Suho’s hoodie as if he were the safest thing in the world. Suho sat perfectly still, one arm supporting Minjae’s weight, the other smoothing lazy circles across his back. He whispered something faint and fond — nonsense, maybe, but soft enough to make the air itself lean closer.

Sieun stopped beside the car, watching. The ache came first — that ridiculous, unnameable tug in his chest that had become far too familiar. Because Suho, all unfiltered energy and wild laughter in daylight, was now something quiet. Something careful. The way he held Minjae — like the child was made of light — felt like watching gravity find its favorite thing.

When Sieun opened the car door, Suho looked up, smiling through his whisper. “He didn’t even make it past the credits of a cartoon.”

“I can tell,” Sieun murmured. His voice came softer than he intended.

They transferred Minjae together, the boy stirring just once, mumbling something about sharks before settling again. Suho tucked the blanket higher around his chin, gentler than anyone his age had the right to be. By the time they’d buckled him into the back seat, the street was silent but for the low buzz of the streetlights.

And in that quiet — between two heartbeats — the air changed.

They stood by the car door, close enough that the warmth of Suho’s body bled through the cool night air. The scent of popcorn and cologne and rain mixed between them.

“I’m sorry,” Sieun said at last. His fingers brushed the metal frame, grounding himself. “It was an urgent case. They needed me there.”

Suho leaned against the car with mock injury, folding his arms like a sulky kid. “At least you came back,” he said, lips curving. “For a second, I thought I’d have to stage a rescue operation. Me, cape and all.”

That earned the faintest smile from Sieun — small, involuntary, the kind that slipped out before he could stop it. Suho caught it instantly and beamed, triumphant.

But he wasn’t done. He pressed a hand to his chest, dramatically mournful. “Still hurts though. I had to eat enough popcorn for two people, you know. If I choke on kernels in my sleep, the headline will say ‘Abandoned at the theater by my boss.’”

Sieun huffed, eyes soft. “Tragic.”

“Not tragic,” Suho countered, grin turning sly. “Heart-shattering.”

And then — before Sieun could breathe another word — Suho stepped closer. One step. Two. Until the night seemed to narrow down to the space between them, to the warmth that trembled in the air like a secret trying to escape.

Sieun’s back brushed the car door. Suho leaned in, bracing one hand above the roof, the other sliding around his waist in a motion that was both deliberate and impossibly gentle.

The city blurred out of focus.

Suho’s voice dropped, softer than the hum of the engine. “So,” he whispered, eyes gleaming under the lamplight. “How’re you gonna make it up to me, hyung?”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The night stretched, taut and electric. Then Sieun’s lips curved — small, knowing, devastatingly calm. “Maybe I’ll set up another blind date for you.”

Suho choked on a laugh, half-offended, half-delighted. “Wow. Cold. Real cold.”

But his grip didn’t loosen. He pulled Sieun just that bit closer — chest to chest, breath to breath. “Then I guess you’d have to rescue me again,” he said, his voice turning lower, rougher, giddily fond. “And this time, I’m not letting you pretend you don’t want to.”

Sieun’s composure faltered. His eyes flicked to Suho’s mouth before he could stop himself. His hand — traitorous thing — lifted, hesitating for the briefest second before finding the front of Suho’s shirt. The fabric was warm beneath his fingers, the steady thrum of a heartbeat right under his palm. He gripped it, fingers curling in, anchoring himself to the dizzying reality of this boy who never stopped shining, who never learned the meaning of restraint.

His breath escaped in a quiet surrender. “Then I’ll take you to another movie,” he murmured, the words trembling between them. “Buy you popcorn. All the flavors, if that’s what it takes.”

Suho’s grin bloomed — helpless and dazzling, the kind that seemed to pull light toward him. It reached his eyes, that reckless joy that could fill an entire night. “Deal,” he said, his voice breaking on a laugh that was too full of feeling to hide.

And then he bent — not enough to cross the line, but close enough that his chin brushed the crown of Sieun’s hair, breath spilling warmth across his skin, close enough for Sieun to feel the faint hitch in it.

The world went still.

Minjae shifted once in his sleep, sighing softly in the back seat. The streetlamp buzzed overhead, pouring a soft gold over them, stretching their shadows long and joined across the pavement. The breeze stirred — faint, almost shy — and carried the faint sweetness of rain and popcorn sugar.

Suho didn’t speak. He just let his arms fold tighter around Sieun’s waist, the movement slow, deliberate, until there was no space left between them. His hand found the small of Sieun’s back and lingered there, steady and sure, like an unspoken promise.

And Sieun—he didn’t pull away. He could have. Every muscle in him knew how to step back, to deflect, to retreat behind the safety of distance. But not tonight.

Tonight, he stayed.

His breath brushed against Suho’s shoulder. His fingers, still caught in the fabric of Suho’s shirt, loosened—only to slide up, trembling slightly, until they rested flat against Suho’s chest. He could feel the heartbeat there, steady and fast, like a secret pounding against his palm.

Suho’s breath hitched, a quiet, disbelieving sound. “Hyung,” he whispered, so softly it nearly vanished into the night.

Sieun’s answer was wordless. He pressed closer, just a fraction—enough that his forehead found the space between Suho’s collarbone and shoulder, enough that their breaths tangled. 

Suho exhaled shakily, his hold tightening as if to memorize every angle, every small surrender. He lowered his head slightly until his cheek brushed against Sieun’s hair. The scent there—soap and rain and something faintly familiar—made his chest ache.

For a long, suspended moment, they simply stood there. Two heartbeats pressed together under a streetlamp’s golden hum. The world blurred into background noise: the far-off hum of traffic, the sigh of wind through trees, Minjae’s even breathing.

Sieun’s walls—those careful, deliberate barriers he’d built around himself—didn’t fall all at once. They eased open, one breath at a time. Enough for warmth to slip through.

And Suho, caught between laughter and awe, closed his eyes.

He felt Sieun’s heartbeat answer his own, steady, matching pace. He felt the slight tremor of a sigh against his shoulder. And for the first time, he didn’t need to chase or ask or hope. Sieun was here. In his arms. Choosing to stay.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. But the smile that curved against Sieun’s hair said everything words couldn’t.

And for Suho, that was everything.

He stood there for a long while, the night humming soft around him, until the corners of his mouth — stubborn, slow — lifted into a smile he didn’t bother hiding anymore.

Home, right there, wrapped in the sweet, dangerous quiet between them.

Chapter Text

The drive home was quiet — but not the kind of silence Sieun was used to.

Both hands gripped the wheel, steady, deliberate, the way he’d done every late-night drive home. But his palms still remembered the warmth of Suho’s arms, the press of that fearless body against his own. It lingered, faint and stubborn, like the imprint of sunlight long after dusk had fallen.

In the rearview mirror, Minjae slept soundly, mouth parted in dreams, shark plush tucked under his chin. Sieun’s gaze should have stayed there — anchored to that soft, safe weight in the backseat. But instead it betrayed him, again and again, glancing at his own reflection in the glass: the faintest ghost of a smile threatening to give him away.

He tried to smother it, tried to make his face blank again, but it slipped through — small, foolish, unstoppable.

By the time he tucked Minjae into bed, the city had gone dark and hushed. The apartment, too, had fallen into that gentle stillness that usually comforted him. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, the silence didn’t feel like peace — it felt like waiting.

He sat at his desk because it was what he did when the world got too loud. The lamp glowed amber over a neat spread of papers, glasses perched on his nose, everything as it should be. Only his mind wasn’t. Numbers blurred into shapes, letters into meaningless clusters, and no matter how long he stared, all he saw was Suho — laughing, leaning close, whispering against his ear with the reckless ease of someone who’d never learned to be afraid.

He closed his eyes for a second and the memory played itself out again — Suho stepping closer, his breath warm, his arms wrapping around him like a promise he hadn’t known he wanted. And the worst part: he’d leaned in. He’d stayed.

Sieun exhaled, pressing both palms against the desk, steadying himself. But the ache in his chest didn’t hurt; it hummed — bright, effervescent, embarrassingly alive. He was still smiling when he whispered under his breath, “Popcorn. All the flavors.”

His voice startled him — half a laugh, half a confession. The sound felt too human in the quiet room. He was still shaking his head at himself when the phone buzzed against the desk.

Suho: Still awake? Just checking if my premium popcorn promise is binding.

Sieun stared at the message, pulse skipping. Binding. Of course it was. Everything with Suho felt binding, like gravity had chosen him personally. He typed slower than necessary, buying time his heart didn’t seem to want.

Sieun: You’re supposed to be asleep. Don’t you have basketball practice early tomorrow?

Suho: Priorities, hyung. Sleep comes after popcorn debts and quality assurance checks.

Sieun huffed a soft laugh, the corners of his mouth betraying him.

Sieun: You need hobbies that don’t involve bothering me.

Suho: Who needs hobbies when I’ve got Team Yeon Premium Service™?
Suho: Unlimited rescues. Popcorn in every flavor. Back hugs on request.

Sieun stilled, warmth flooding the tips of his ears. He typed slower this time.

Sieun: Careful. Keep running your mouth and I’ll revoke your membership.

Suho: Bold of you to think I’d ever let you.

That did it — a soft, traitorous laugh escaped him. He covered his mouth, but the warmth in his chest was already unstoppable.

Then came another ping.

Suho: How about tomorrow? Saturday was ruined. Let’s try again. Properly.

Sieun blinked at the message, the words sinking in one by one. Tomorrow. Not next week. Not eventually. Just—tomorrow.

Sieun: Tomorrow? You want to ask your grandma to take care of Minjae two days in a row?

Suho: She’d love it. She told me she misses her “little shark king.” I think she’s just trying to bribe him with snacks again.

Sieun: So you’re using your grandmother for alibis now?

Suho: Only for noble causes.

Sieun shook his head, the smile already pulling wider.

Sieun: You’re impossible.

Suho: Correction: I’m efficient. Why wait when I could have you and all the popcorn flavors tomorrow?

The words hit like a pulse of warmth through the quiet room. You. Not you guys. Not you and Minjae. Just you.

Sieun’s thumbs hovered, then tapped out carefully, betraying nothing and everything all at once.

Sieun: You really don’t know when to stop, do you?

Suho: Not when it comes to you.

The air left his lungs too fast. He stared at the message, lips parting, heartbeat rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back. He should have scolded him, changed the subject, done anything but smile. And yet—

He typed.

Sieun: You’re insufferable.

Suho: You like me that way.

Sieun: Don’t test it.

Suho: Too late. I already did. Verdict: you smiled.

Sieun froze, caught. His reflection in the black glass of the window betrayed him — soft eyes, lips curved. He sighed and gave up the pretense.

Sieun: You should sleep, Suho.

Three dots flickered, then Suho’s response burst through.

Suho: So boss, tomorrow, is that a yes?

Sieun leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly. His smile was small but unguarded.

Sieun: It’s not a no.

The typing bubble flared instantly.

Suho: Then it’s settled. Tomorrow. A date.

Sieun stared at the words, the final line glowing like it might burn through the screen. A date. Bold. Too bold. And yet his lips curved, helpless against it.

He didn’t reply this time, not directly. Only set the phone down face-up and let the message shine in the dark, his smile lingering as long as the glow did.

---

Suho woke early on Sunday, restless in a way that made him think of game day. His heart thudded against his ribs as if he were about to step onto the court, though the only thing waiting for him now was popcorn and a darkened theater. Not a maybe, not a wish — today was the make-up. Today, he and Sieun were really going.

He told himself to calm down, that it was nothing — just a promise kept, nothing more. And still, he stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary, tugging one hoodie off only to pull another on, debating over sneakers like he was meeting a scout instead of his boss. By the third change, his reflection smirked back at him, his cheeks already flushed.

“Relax,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. His grin gave him away. “It’s just popcorn. With the boss.”

The kitchen smelled faintly of barley tea when he padded in. His grandmother sat at the table, sipping with quiet dignity, eyes sharp enough to see through him instantly. She watched him adjust his hood for the third time, fussing at the hem like a teenager.

“You look like you’re going to propose, not to the movies,” she remarked dryly.

Suho nearly choked on air. “Grandma!”

She hummed, unimpressed, going back to her tea with a soft smile that only made him redder. Suho shoved his hands into his pockets, hood tugged up to hide his grin, but it refused to leave his face.

---

When Sieun turned into the narrow lane leading to Suho's building, the scene waiting by the gate made him ease off the gas, his chest tightening without warning.

Suho was there, standing tall under the sunlight, hood tugged up but grin unconcealed. Beside him, his grandmother waved with both hands, her smile as steady and bright as the sun climbing behind them. The sight was so domestic, so effortless, that for a moment Sieun simply sat with his hand still on the gearshift, watching.

The car hadn’t even stopped before Minjae flung the door open, shark plush bouncing against his chest as he bolted forward. “Hyung!!” he cried, his voice ringing down the quiet lane.

Suho bent with perfect timing, catching him mid-leap, lifting him off the ground in a single sweep. He spun once, twice, Minjae’s laughter echoing high and free as his small arms clutched tight around Suho’s neck. The sound carried, bright enough to reach the corners of Sieun’s chest he kept locked away.

By the time Sieun stepped out, Grandma was already fussing fondly, shooing them toward the house with a mock sternness that fooled no one. “Go, go. Leave him with me. Today I’ll make teokbokki and fish cake. By the time you pick him up, he’ll be a proper chef.”

Minjae gasped in delight, clapping. “Daddy, I’ll cook for you too!”

Something in Sieun’s composure cracked, just a little. His lips curved before he could stop them, helpless, quiet.

And then Suho’s gaze found his — over Minjae’s small shoulder, across the little space between them. A grin stretched wide over Suho’s face, but his eyes… his eyes were different. Shining with something playful, yes, but also tender, threaded with warmth so open it made Sieun’s chest ache.

It hit him then, sudden and sharp: this looked like family. The image was so clear — Minjae’s laughter, Suho’s arms holding him steady, Grandma’s fond tutting in the background — that it burned itself into him, dangerous in its simplicity.

And instead of pushing the thought away, Sieun let it linger. Just for a moment.

“Premium Service 2.0,” Suho announced smugly when they reached the car, jingling the keys Sieun had reluctantly handed over. He swung into the driver’s seat like a man settling onto a throne. “Passenger seat for you, Boss. Sit back and relax.”

Sieun fastened his belt with deliberate calm, gaze steady. “Relaxation doesn’t come naturally when you’re behind the wheel.”

“That’s slander.” Suho patted the dashboard as if it were alive. “She loves me.”

“You’re talking to a car,” Sieun said flatly.

“A very important car,” Suho countered, grinning. “And clearly she’s on my side. You’ll see.”

The engine hummed to life, pulling them into the slow Sunday traffic. Families clustered on scooters, vendors hawked roasted chestnuts at corners, the city already warm with weekend energy. Inside the car, though, the air felt tighter, charged.

Suho filled the space easily, restless as ever, humming along to the radio, tapping a beat against the wheel. The song was bright, noisy, nothing Sieun would have chosen.

“Volume,” Sieun said, not even glancing his way.

“What, you don’t like classics?”

“This came out last year.”

“Exactly. A classic.” Suho turned the knob down a notch, like he’d made a monumental concession. “Fine. For you, Boss. Premium Service comes with custom playlists.”

“Premium Service sounds like false advertising.”

“Hey.” Suho placed a hand over his heart, feigning outrage. “This is the deluxe package. Passenger doesn’t even have to lift a finger.” His hand dropped to the gearshift — and brushed Sieun’s. He didn’t pull back right away.

The third time it happened, his palm settled squarely over Sieun’s knuckles, warm and certain. He should have expected the sharp rebuke, the cutting remark. But Sieun stayed still. His hand didn’t move.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It hummed, threaded with something that made even the engine sound different, like background music to a scene neither of them dared name.

Suho’s grin widened, reckless with glee. “Passenger interview time,” he said, leaning into the tension. “Review so far? Out of ten.”

“Three.”

“Three?!” Suho clutched at his chest as though mortally wounded. “Unbelievable!!! I got abandoned, then came back home, take care of your kid, carried him like a prince, and fed him pancakes. That’s at least a seven.”

Sieun finally turned, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “That was Grandma.”

“I supervised,” Suho shot back, grinning wider. “Quality control. Do you know how hard it is to keep a pancake shark looking like a shark? That takes dedication.”

“Focus on the road,” Sieun repeated, but this time his voice was softer, colored with the faintest warmth.

Suho leaned in closer than necessary as he shifted gears again, knuckles brushing Sieun’s hand where it rested on the console. This time, he didn’t even bother pretending it was an accident. His fingers lingered, warm and sure, before curling back around the wheel.

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It thrummed, alive, like the low bass of the song still playing through the speakers.

And when the theater’s bright marquee finally came into view, Suho almost groaned in disappointment. He could’ve driven another hour like this, teasing, pressing, chasing the flickers of softness that broke through Sieun’s calm.

---

The lobby buzzed with the easy chaos of a weekend evening. The smell of butter and sugar syrup clung to the air, the neon menu boards flickering above the concession counter. Teenagers clustered in groups with sodas bigger than their heads, kids skipped ahead of their parents, and somewhere down the hall a staff member called out last-minute announcements for another screening.

Suho looked utterly in his element. He marched to the counter, ordered with the casual decisiveness of a man who had planned this moment all along, and returned triumphantly with a tub of popcorn so large Sieun almost questioned the laws of physics.

“One size fits all,” Suho said smugly, thrusting it into his arms. “Premium Package. Comes with extra butter.”

Sieun looked down at the glistening mountain, deadpan. “This will last us until next week.”

“Perfect,” Suho grinned. “Means you’ll have to keep seeing me until it’s finished.”

The lights dimmed as they slid into their seats, the world shrinking to the golden hush of a theater. The smell of butter drifted between them, warm and heavy, and Suho balanced the tub of popcorn on the shared armrest — closer than necessary — so every time he reached in, his elbow brushed Sieun’s.

Each brush made him grin wider. He kept waiting for the familiar warning glance, for the tiny frown that meant behave.
It never came.

When their hands collided in the tub, fingers bumping through a mess of kernels, Suho froze. His heart stuttered. He panicked, shoved a handful into his mouth, and nearly choked. Out of the corner of his eye, Sieun wasn’t looking at him, but the faint twitch of his lips gave him away — not annoyed, not distant, just… amused. And maybe, just maybe, fond.

The trailers thundered on. In the flicker of light, Sieun’s face glowed and dimmed, lashes long, profile sharp and soft all at once. Every time their knees touched, Sieun didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. The quiet permission of it made Suho’s chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.

He leaned a little closer, breath brushing Sieun’s ear, voice barely audible over the screen.
“Hey, Boss,” he whispered, pretending to look straight ahead. “You okay? Not too scary for you?”

Sieun’s reply came after a beat, low enough to make Suho’s stomach flip. “I’m fine. Why? Planning to protect me?”

Suho swallowed, smiling into the dark. “If it comes to that. Premium service, right?”

That earned him the smallest, most dangerous thing — a quiet hum that might have been laughter. The kind that curled through him like heat.

And then… nothing else needed to be said. The movie played, forgotten. Their shoulders stayed pressed, their knees touching lightly through every scene. Once, Suho reached for the popcorn and felt Sieun’s fingers graze his again — this time, neither pulled away.

When he dared glance sideways, Sieun’s eyes flickered toward him, blue-gray in the dim light, and Suho thought — wildly, foolishly — that maybe this was how falling in love was supposed to feel: quiet, inevitable, soft enough to hurt.

He forced himself to look forward, but the smile stayed, spreading helplessly until it hurt to hold back.

And Sieun, still watching the screen, let their knees stay pressed — steady, warm, unspoken.

When the credits rolled, neither of them moved at first. The world felt hazy, wrapped in that comfortable hush that came after laughter and popcorn and stolen glances. It wasn’t until the ushers began sweeping through the aisles that Suho stirred, blinking like he’d forgotten where they were.

“Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured, standing and brushing the popcorn dust from his jeans.

Sieun rose too, smooth and composed as always, but Suho caught the faint trace of a smile that hadn’t left his lips all evening. They stepped into the corridor together, the murmur of the exiting crowd swelling around them — laughter, chatter, the shuffling of feet. The smell of butter and soda clung to them as they pushed through the doors into the night.

Outside, the air was crisp. A light breeze tugged at Suho’s hair and carried the faint hum of traffic, the distant hiss of the city still alive and endless. Streetlights spilled their glow across the pavement, the same warm gold as the screen had been, and it felt — stupidly — like they’d carried the light with them.

Suho held the door open as Sieun stepped out, their arms brushing. The touch was fleeting, but it lingered like something deliberate.

“So?” Suho asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Worth the price of admission?”

Sieun glanced at him sideways. “For the movie? Debatable.”

“For the company?”

That earned a low sound, halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “Tolerable,” Sieun said, but the word came out too soft to have any real bite.

“Tolerable,” Suho repeated, his grin blooming. “That’s progress. I’ll take it. Refund policy not included.”

They started walking toward the parking lot, their steps falling in sync. Suho’s shoulder brushed his once, twice, and each time he didn’t move away. Somewhere between the silence and the hum of the city, Suho felt the air shift — not heavy, just charged, like something could happen if either of them dared to speak first.

He looked at Sieun then — really looked. The way the streetlight caught in his hair, the faint smile he tried to hide, the calm that made Suho’s heart thrum louder than any soundtrack could.

“Hyung,” Suho said softly, almost to himself.

Sieun hummed in question but didn’t look up.

Suho didn’t finish the thought. He just let the word hang there, weightless, reverent. He didn’t need to. The look Sieun gave him — small, questioning, impossibly gentle — was enough.

For a few seconds, the city fell away. Just two silhouettes under the streetlamp, moving closer with every step.

Suho wanted to reach out, to tangle their fingers the way he’d imagined a hundred times. But he didn’t. Not yet. He wanted to make it last — this slow, dizzy sweetness of almost.

So he settled for brushing his knuckles against Sieun’s hand, pretending it was an accident, and smiling to himself when Sieun didn’t pull away.

---

By the time they pulled back into Suho’s lane, the night had folded itself quiet. Streetlamps spilled warm pools of gold across the pavement, throwing long shadows of the parked car. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked once before settling. Even the cicadas had hushed.

Sieun eased the car to a stop outside the gate. Neither of them moved. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, filling the stillness that pressed between them. The air in the car was heavy, not suffocating, but weighted with the residue of the evening — the laughter over shared popcorn, the brush of knees in the dark, the lingering scent of butter clinging to their clothes.

It should’ve been an ending — drop-off, goodnight, the usual script. But Suho couldn’t make himself open the door. Not yet. Not when every second inside that car still shimmered with the faint echo of their laughter from the movie, of shared popcorn, of fingers brushing and knees pressing together, both of them pretending not to notice.

He turned slightly, eyes catching the glow of Sieun’s profile — the curve of his jaw, the faint reflection of gold from the streetlight tracing the edge of his face.

“You’re quiet,” Suho said, voice soft, a smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s dangerous, you know. Means you’re overthinking.”

Sieun’s eyes flicked toward him. “Someone has to. You clearly don’t.”

“Hey,” Suho murmured, grinning. “It’s a talent. The world needs reckless people too.”

“Reckless,” Sieun repeated under his breath, but there was no real bite. His lips twitched, betraying him.

Suho leaned in before he could stop himself — close enough to smell the faint trace of cologne and the butter still clinging to Sieun’s sleeve. “Hyung,” he said, quieter now, sincere under the teasing, “you have no idea how hard it is to be next to you and not—”

Sieun’s breath caught. “Not what?”

Suho’s grin faltered into something smaller, something that trembled at the edges. “Not falling hard.”

The silence that followed was a living thing, heavy, fragile. Sieun didn’t move. His knuckles tightened once on the steering wheel, then loosened. Slowly, carefully, he turned to face him fully.

It was Suho who broke first. He shifted deliberately, as though giving Sieun every chance to draw a line, to put the wall back up. His arm lifted, bracing against the headrest, his other hand sliding across the space between them, slipping around Sieun’s waist with a careful certainty that betrayed how badly he wanted this. Inch by inch, he closed the distance, chin dipping until it brushed the soft crown of hair by Sieun’s temple. His voice, when it came, was low, unsteady, laced with the kind of giddy truth that tumbled out only when he couldn’t stop himself.

“Boss… hyung…” His voice came low, unsteady, giddy with nerves. “You smell so good.”

Sieun’s breath caught audibly, shoulders tightening. His gaze flicked away fast, ocean eyes darting to the windshield, anywhere but Suho’s face. But the color rising along his cheekbones betrayed him. He didn’t push him off.

Encouraged, reckless, Suho tightened his hold. Both arms looped now, pulling him in until Sieun’s chest pressed flush to his own. The warmth spread through him in a rush, so real, so solid that it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. He laughed softly, helplessly, against Sieun’s hair. “You’re so warm,” he murmured, voice breaking on the truth of it. “How come you fit so perfectly here? Like you were made for it.”

“Suho—” Sieun began, voice low, strained, but unconvincing. His hands lifted, hesitating midair, fingers twitching with indecision. And then, with a final surrender, they pressed against Suho’s back. Not to push him away. To hold.

The world lurched. Suho’s grin curved into something softer, rawer, dizzy with permission. A laugh bubbled up in his throat, muffled into Sieun’s hair. “Careful, Boss. If you let me hold you like this, I won’t ever want to stop.”

For a long moment, there was nothing — only the rhythm of their breaths, the steady beat of hearts pressed too close together, the quiet night holding them in its palms. And then Sieun’s lashes lifted, catching the lamplight, and his ocean eyes tilted up, shyness and fire mingling in their depths. His lips parted, and when the words came they were softer than any blade, quiet enough to feel like confession.

“Then don’t stop.”

The world collapsed around Suho, leaving only this. The weight of those three words, the crack in Sieun’s armor, the impossible gift of being let in. He laughed, but it was a laugh thick with disbelief, with fullness, with something so fierce it almost hurt. He moved even closer until their foreheads met, until the heat between them filled every inch of air. The world went silent again. His next breath ghosted across Sieun’s lips — not quite a kiss, not yet, but close enough that Sieun could taste the sweetness of it when he swallowed.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

That earned him the faintest laugh — quiet, helpless. Sieun’s hands, as if acting on instinct, came up from Suho's back to his shoulders, then slid slowly to the back of his neck. The touch was careful, tentative, but it was there.

“Maybe I do.”

Suho pulled back just enough to see his face — flushed, softened, those ocean eyes flickering with a kind of light that felt dangerously close to affection.

The words hit him so hard he couldn’t even smile. He just breathed — unsteady, full — and leaned in again, closing the space between them until their foreheads touched once more.

And Suho held him tighter, arms locking, as if he could brand the moment into his skin. The world outside — the gold-streaked street, the faint hum of cicadas — all of it fell away. There was only the warmth, only the permission, only the unbearable sweetness of Sieun’s body pressed against his own, staying.

For once, Sieun didn’t resist. Didn’t draw a line. Didn’t move away. He let the embrace close around him and remained there, ocean eyes lowered, lips curved into something that wasn’t denial but acceptance.

And Suho, reckless and overflowing, high on the impossible truth of it: that Yeon Sieun was in his arms, holding him back and that he never wanted to let go.

---

Sieun finally pulled away, only enough to reach for the wheel, his chest still faintly unsteady. Suho’s arms loosened with obvious reluctance, his grin irrepressible even in the dim glow of the streetlamp. “Drive safe, Boss,” he said, as if the words weren’t giddy nonsense after what they had just done.

The lane disappeared in the rearview, but Suho’s warmth clung stubbornly to him — in his shirt, in the phantom weight around his waist, in the echo of that laugh pressed against his hair.

Minjae slept soundly in the back, his plush toy wedged against his cheek. The steady rhythm of his breathing filled the silence. It should have calmed him. It didn’t. Sieun’s hands on the wheel tingled, remembering the way they’d curled around Suho’s back, not to push away but to hold. His fingers flexed against the leather now, uselessly, as if chasing the same grip.

The road stretched quiet, familiar, but tonight it felt different. Every passing lamp caught in his periphery like a reminder — the way Suho’s eyes had glowed beneath the same light, the way his voice had cracked soft with don’t stop.

And Sieun hadn’t.

The memory made his chest tighten and loosen all at once. Dangerous, unbearable, but sweet — unbearably sweet. His mouth betrayed him with a curve he didn’t notice, faint but there, tugging at the corner of his lips.

When he finally pulled into their lot and carried Minjae upstairs, the apartment felt too still, too empty. He set his son down gently, smoothing the blanket, brushing hair from his forehead with a tenderness that came easy. Yet as soon as he stepped back into the hallway, the silence closed in again, loud with absence.

Suho’s absence.

He should have gone straight to bed. He should have showered, folded the day neatly into the drawer of his mind and locked it there. Instead, he sat on the couch in the dark, phone in hand, thumb moving by habit into a ritual he no longer bothered denying.

Suho’s feed opened, the glow of it stark in the dim room.

The first post he hadn’t seen before made his lips twitch before he could stop it. A photo taken in low light — a half-collapsed bag of popcorn sprawled across Suho’s lap, kernels scattered like a miniature tragedy. The caption read: Premium Service abandoned. RIP to a good man. And beneath it, the familiar chaos of his friends:

Muahhhhaahhaa 🤌 got rescued and then ditched by the Hot Boss!! Serve you right!! 🤣

Bro this is karma. don’t drag popcorn into your love life.

Ngl even the bag looks disappointed in you.

Normally, Sieun would have scoffed. Tonight, he only exhaled through his nose, head shaking once. Reckless idiot. And yet something in his chest pulled tight — not irritation, not quite guilt either, but something warmer, sharper, the faintest ache at the thought of Suho alone in that theater and still making a joke out of it.

He scrolled further and stopped dead.

Another post. Tonight. A blurry snap of two drink cups and an absurd tub of popcorn wedged between seats, butter staining the rim. And there — just at the edge of the frame, barely an accident but far too careless to be coincidence — the neat line of his own sleeve. The caption beneath: Premium Service 2.0: Refund policy not included 😉

His mouth went dry.

Sieun stared too long. His sleeve. His presence, unhidden, unedited, not erased. Suho had put it out there for everyone to see, bold as ever, as if he had nothing to hide, as if the whole world could guess and he wouldn’t care.

He should have rolled his eyes. Should have dismissed it as more noise. Instead his lips betrayed him, curving upward, small, helpless, private.

The smile felt foreign on his face, too tender, too unguarded. He set the phone down quickly, locked the screen, pressed it face-down to the table like it might reveal too much if he kept looking. But the warmth lingered.

His chest ached with it, full to bursting — the memory of Suho’s arms tightening around him, the heat pressed into his side, the laugh muffled into his hair. It had been years since anyone had held him like that, years since he’d felt adoration so open, so unashamed, poured over him without demand or restraint. It left him unmoored, giddy in a way that frightened him. Giddy, and unwilling to let it go.

For once, he didn’t fight the feeling. He leaned back into the couch, eyes closing, breath leaving him in one long, slow exhale. He let the memory play on loop, the softness of it wrapping around him like a blanket, dangerous and unbearably sweet.

And alone in the dark, Yeon Sieun smiled — small, secret, drunk on a kind of affection he had forgotten could exist.

---

Sleep was impossible.

Suho had thrown himself onto his bed hours ago, sprawled on his back, arms flung wide, but his body buzzed like he’d just come off a game-winning run. He couldn’t stay still — kicking one leg, rolling to his side, then to his stomach, then back again, his hoodie twisted at the hem from all his tossing.

The streetlamp outside painted slants of gold across his wall, and every time he blinked, he saw it again: Sieun lit by that same glow, lashes catching the light, ocean eyes tipped up at him, voice soft and steady as a confession. Then don’t stop.

Suho groaned into his pillow, grinning so wide it hurt. “God, I’m insane,” he muttered to himself, but it came out high, breathless, gleeful. He could still feel the weight of him pressed close, could still smell that clean, sharp scent that had made him lose his head in the car.

He rolled over, grabbed his phone. For the tenth time.

His own post stared back at him — the blurry shot of popcorn and drinks, the corner of a sleeve he hadn’t cropped out, hadn’t even thought about hiding. The comments were chaos, Baekjin yelling in caps, Seongje declaring history, Baku claiming it screamed date energy. He’d played along, smug as ever. But underneath, it wasn’t smugness. It was truth. He hadn’t wanted to erase a single trace of it.

His thumb hovered over their chat window. He typed: Home safe? then deleted it. Typed again: Refund policy still valid btw 😏 then deleted that too. He pressed the phone to his chest, laughing helplessly, muffling the sound so his grandmother wouldn’t scold him through the wall. Finally, grinning helplessly, he let the recklessness win.

Suho: did you know you smell ridiculously good
Suho: premium service review: 1000/10. would hug again

The dots blinked, slow and deliberate. His pulse stuttered.

Sieun: go to sleep.

Suho bit down on his laugh, rolling onto his back.

Suho: can’t. adrenaline too high. feels like after a championship game.
Sieun: then you’ll tire yourself out. eventually.
Suho: not if i keep thinking about u 😌

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, reappeared.

Sieun: reckless.
Suho: accurate. 🫡
Suho: admit it though. u didn’t hate it.

Silence stretched. Suho nearly caved and typed again when the reply came.

Sieun: if i hated it, you wouldn’t still be talking.

Suho’s laugh exploded, muffled into his hoodie sleeve, so bright he almost fell off the bed.

Suho: okay but that’s not an answer 😏
Suho: c’mon. gimme one real compliment. just one. i’ll sleep like a baby.

The dots blinked. Stopped. Blinked again. He stared like his life depended on it.

Sieun: persistent.
Suho: hyung that’s not a compliment 😩
Sieun: determined.
Suho: better. still not enough.
Sieun: …warm.

Suho froze, his grin breaking so wide it hurt. He kicked the blanket clear off the bed, laughing helplessly into the dark.

Suho: WARM??? omg u like hugging me 🥹🥹
Sieun: I didn’t say that.
Suho: u don’t need to. i heard it loud and clear 💖

There was a long pause. Then:

Sieun: good night, Suho.
Suho: best night ever. good night, Boss.

He clutched the phone to his chest, grinning into the ceiling like a fool. He didn’t care that it had been only one word. Warm. That was enough to keep him floating until morning.

Chapter Text

The scent hit him first — sweet and buttery, laced with something faintly citrus. It was not the usual sharp bite of garlic or the sizzle of oil, but a gentler sort of welcome. Something that hummed warmth through the narrow hallway, that wrapped around him like memory and promise all at once.

And then the voice came, bright and utterly unrestrained.

“—and now,” Suho declared from the kitchen, “we fold the dough with utmost precision, the way true artists do. Chef Ahn Suho, live at work!”

“It’s sticking!” Minjae shouted from somewhere near the counter.

“That’s called texture!”

“It’s called messy!”

“Art is messy!”

Sieun had barely pushed the door open before Suho’s head popped out from behind the kitchen wall, eyes gleaming, flour streaked across his cheek and jaw like war paint. “Hyung!” he blurted — voice half-laugh, half-relief. “Welcome home.”

And just like that, the air shifted. The word shouldn’t have felt like anything special, yet it lodged somewhere deep in his chest. Home.

Before Sieun could manage a word, Suho wiped his hands hastily on a towel, darted out from the kitchen, and grinned so wide it reached his ears. He looked incandescent — the kind of glow that could make winter look like spring. “Perfect timing,” he said, a little breathless. “Cookies are in their final stage of transformation.”

“Cookies,” Sieun echoed, setting his bag down. “You’re baking.”

“Attempting,” Suho corrected, eyes bright with the kind of pride that didn’t need permission. “Minjae’s supervising.”

“Quality control!” Minjae called, voice muffled by a cookie-shaped oven mitt.

The kitchen looked as if a small storm had decided to pass through: flour dusted the counter, a bowl sat half-submerged in melted butter, and chocolate chips had migrated in surprising directions. The chaos should have driven Sieun mad, but instead something in him eased. He hadn’t realized how cold the day had been until warmth — this warmth — met him at the door.

Suho bounded back toward the oven, peeked through the glass like a kid on Christmas. “Five more minutes. Maybe six if we pretend patience.”

“Pretend harder,” Sieun murmured, hanging up his coat. But his voice was softer than the words deserved.

Suho caught it. He always did. “Rough day?”

“Long.” Sieun loosened his tie, stepped closer to the counter. “You’re making a mess.”

“It’s a comforting mess,” Suho said cheerfully. “You’re welcome.”

He said it like he meant it — like he’d planned all along to fill this quiet apartment with laughter and warmth before Sieun even arrived. And maybe he had.

Minjae, perched on a chair too tall for him, grinned around a spoon. “Daddy, I helped. I cracked the egg.”

“Only one shell casualty,” Suho added, holding up the whisk like a victory flag.

Sieun’s hand reached out — maybe to tidy something, maybe just to be near. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Both of you.”

Suho’s grin faltered for just a heartbeat. Then it softened, something like pride slipping beneath the playfulness. “Anytime, hyung. You should see how serious Minjae gets when we bake. Like father, like son.”

“Except one of us reads the recipe,” Sieun said, moving closer to the oven to peek in. The smell was heavenly — butter melting into sugar, crisp edges forming along the trays.

Suho leaned a hip against the counter, shoulder brushing Sieun’s as if by accident. “You mean the suggestions. Recipes are just guidelines.”

“Chaos,” Sieun said.

“Improvisation,” Suho countered.

He was still wearing the ridiculous apron — pale yellow with a cartoon whale on it, borrowed from Minjae’s art kit. There was a streak of flour across his wrist, a smudge on his neck. Sieun stared at it a second too long before turning away.

When the oven dinged, Suho jumped like it had announced a miracle. “Moment of truth!”

Minjae clapped, and Sieun — God help him — found himself smiling, unguarded, watching as Suho carefully pulled the tray out, set it down with exaggerated caution, and fanned the cookies with the oven mitt as though they were royal jewels.

“Presentation: perfect,” Suho said, inhaling the scent. “Execution: brilliant. Audience reaction: pending.”

“Cool them first,” Sieun reminded automatically.

“Science again,” Suho sighed, mock-tragic. “You and Minjae and your relentless logic.”

“Science is cool,” Minjae mumbled, licking a dab of dough off his thumb.

Suho handed him a cookie anyway. “Then here’s your reward for academic excellence.”

It crumbled perfectly between Minjae’s teeth. The boy’s eyes widened. “It’s good!”

“Good?” Suho gasped. “Only good?”

“Very good,” Minjae amended quickly. “Best ever.”

Suho turned toward Sieun, expectant. “Critic number two?”

Sieun took a piece because refusal wasn’t an option — not with Suho’s eyes shining like that. The first bite melted — soft, warm, slightly uneven but full of something undeniably good. He blinked once. “It’s edible.”

Suho beamed. “High praise.”

“Sweet.”

“Like me?”

“Don’t push it.”

Minjae giggled into his cookie.

They ate standing there by the counter, crumbs and laughter and quiet light filling the room. It was nothing special — just evening, just cookies, just the steady rhythm of being together — and yet it was everything. When Sieun finally looked up, Suho was watching him, expression gentler now, as though the jokes had all been prelude to something quieter.

“Welcome home,” Suho said again. This time, softer.

And it wasn’t a line. It wasn’t a performance. It was the truth, bare and shining between them — that Suho had baked something imperfect and lovely, that Minjae had hovered like sunlight, that Sieun had stepped through the door and found the air warmer for it.

Suho was still grinning, cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat, a dusting of flour softening the curve of his jaw. It made him look impossibly young, impossibly alive. Something in Sieun stuttered; his chest tightened, unprepared for the sheer rightness of it.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

Suho blinked, confused, until Sieun reached up — fingers brushing lightly against his chin. His thumb swept across the smear of flour in one slow stroke. The touch lingered a second longer than necessary, warm skin meeting warmer.

Suho went still. The brightness in his grin softened into something quieter, a curve caught between surprise and hope. “Got it?” he asked, voice lower now.

Sieun’s hand fell back to his side, but the warmth stayed. His throat felt dry when he finally managed, “Yeah.” Then, after a beat, softer — an admission disguised as a sigh — “It’s good to be home.”

The smile Suho gave him at that moment was nothing short of sunlight breaking open.

And for once, Sieun didn’t look away.

---

Dinner happened in a glow of small, steady happiness.
The cookies became dessert. Minjae, sugar-drunk and sleepy, narrated his shark saga while Suho pretended to take notes like a sports commentator. The rain outside grew louder, tapping first against the windows, then gathering force until it blurred the city in steady sheets.

By the time dishes were stacked and Minjae was tucked beneath his blanket — a tiny, exhausted bundle of limbs and dreams — thunder rumbled somewhere far away. The lights flickered once, a brief pulse through the apartment, and the room seemed to draw in its own breath.

Rain came down with a conviction that turned the night into a private world. It roared in silver sheets past the windows, stitched the streetlights into smears, and filled the apartment with a soft continuous hush that made every other sound feel intimate by comparison—the click of a mug on the counter, the slide of fabric on the couch, the quiet, open-mouthed breaths of Minjae asleep under his shark blanket.

Sieun tucked the blanket a little firmer around his son’s shoulders, brushed his hair back with a passing touch. He told himself he was only checking, but his hand lingered anyway, as if asking the peace in the room to hold steady. When he straightened, he found Suho watching him from the doorway—barefoot, hair a little damp from when he’d stepped onto the balcony to admire the storm, the hem of a borrowed T-shirt grazing his hips. The shirt was his. It hung loose on Suho, soft and familiar in a way that shouldn’t have knocked anything loose in his chest and absolutely did.

“Bus is going to be a mess,” Suho said. He tried for casual. The effort showed in the way his fingers twisted the towel draped around his neck, in the little twist to his smile. “Roads too.”

Sieun looked toward the window. The rain looked back, unbothered by the question. He could see the late hour reflected in the glass, his own face a ghost over the city’s blur, Suho bright beside him like a second streetlamp in the pane. He swallowed, and the words came out before the caution could argue them back down. “Stay.”

The towel stilled in Suho’s hands. “Stay,” he repeated, as if the shape of the syllable might change if he tasted it again.

“It’s late,” Sieun said, aiming for practical, fighting how his pulse climbed anyway. “I’ll drive you to school in the morning.”

Something unfurled right behind Suho’s eyes, quick and helpless. The grin that followed was too wide to be polite, too honest to be contained. “Boss,” he said, a laugh threading through the word, “did you just ask me to sleep over?”

“I asked you not to take the bus in a storm,” Sieun said, already moving to the hall closet. He pulled out a pillow and an extra blanket, the same ones he kept for his sister when she visited. “Same outcome.”

“Better outcome,” Suho corrected, receiving the bundle like a prize he’d won by accident and already loved. “Zero percent risk of tragic rain-spiral. And—” He glanced toward Minjae, softened. “We won’t wake him.”

They didn’t. They did everything else.

While the kettle hummed to life on the stove, Suho made a nest on the couch, fussing with the pillow as if its exact angle was a technical problem only he could solve. He fluffed, tested, adjusted, tested again. He arranged the blanket, stepped back, tilted his head, then tucked the corner one more time. When he finally looked up, his grin had smoothed into something smaller, a little shy around the edges.

“You’re impossible,” Sieun said, and it came out affectionate by mistake.

“And you’re letting me stay,” Suho said, not bothering to hide the wonder in it. He drifted to stand beside him at the counter, shoulder close enough that the heat of his skin lifted under the cotton. The kettle clicked off. Steam lifted from the spout in a satin ribbon. “Tea?”

“You’ll be awake all night,” Sieun said, which was a refusal that contained more assent than he meant it to.

“Then you’ll have to make me behave,” Suho answered, and the way he said it turned the small kitchen into a secret.

They brushed teeth side by side in the bathroom because there wasn’t anywhere else to do it. Their reflections stood shoulder to shoulder in the fogged mirror, so close that the familiarity hit a note that vibrated down Sieun’s spine. Suho hummed around the toothbrush—some upbeat melody he always defaulted to when his hands were busy and his heart was excitable. When his hand reached for the towel, the terry cloth dragged over the back of Sieun’s knuckles. They both paused. It was nothing. It was everything.

“This feels illegal,” Suho said through the towel, voice muffled, eyes bright above it.

“Then don’t get caught,” Sieun replied, and he did not look at their reflections when he said it.

Back in the living room, the storm pressed its broad palm against every window. Minjae had rolled to his side and was now snoring with a small, dignified snort every third breath. The city beyond had receded to a collection of smudged lights and the suggestion of trees thrashing happily in all that wet. Inside, the lamps were low, the tea was warm in their hands, and the couch had an expectation to it—like a stage waiting for people who had already learned their lines.

“Sit,” Suho said, patting the cushion beside him.

“I know how couches work,” Sieun said, but he sat, and the cushion gave that small, contented sigh couches made when they recognized a familiar weight. He and Suho turned their mugs in their hands at the same time, not looking at each other, the ceramic clink identical when they set them down. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so intimate.

“You’re stealing all the blanket,” Sieun murmured, because someone had to keep the old rhythm, even if the melody had changed.

“Then stay closer,” Suho said, as if that were the obvious solution to every problem. He lifted the edge of the blanket in invitation. The invitation warmed the edges of the room.

Sieun didn’t move at first. The old logic flared, the one that said step back before the ground moves under your feet, the one that had kept him neat and quiet for years. And then—he let it go. Not the whole armor, just a plate or two. He slid half an inch closer. Then another, because stopping halfway had never actually helped anyone. Suho made a small, uncontrollable sound, something like relief trying to behave itself, and draped the blanket over both their laps.

Suho tugged Sieun closer without asking, because at this point asking was unnecessary. His arm curved around him with practiced ease, palm spanning the small of his back. The couch was too small, but that was the point — they fit anyway, the way mismatched puzzle pieces sometimes do when they insist hard enough.

Sieun had meant to sit straight, to maintain at least one boundary, but the steady rise and fall beneath his cheek made it impossible. He found himself resting there, on Suho’s chest, the sound of the boy’s heartbeat thudding steady and calm against his ear. A living lullaby.

Suho’s fingers drew idle shapes along his spine, light and unhurried. Every few moments, his thumb would press in a little deeper, tracing warmth through fabric. The weight of it was hypnotic. The kind of contact that stripped away thought.

“You’re comfortable,” Sieun murmured, half into his shirt, half into the space between them.

Suho’s laugh rumbled low under his cheek. “That’s because you’re using me as a pillow.”

“Mm.” Sieun didn’t lift his head. “Functional.”

“I prefer ‘premium,’” Suho said, voice lazy, affectionate. “You should really leave a five-star review.”

That earned him a quiet hum of amusement, small but real. Suho tilted his head, grinning into the top of Sieun’s hair. “You’re laughing. That’s new.”

“I’m not,” Sieun said, which was, of course, a lie.

Suho’s breath brushed against his temple. “You are. And I like it.”

The words landed gently, folding between them. And then Suho bent his head, not thinking, just following instinct — lips brushing through Sieun’s soft hair, a slow, unspoken thank you for being allowed this close.

Sieun froze for half a heartbeat, then melted. The contact wasn’t shocking anymore; it was familiar, like something they’d been circling toward for months. His hand came up, unthinking, resting on Suho’s chest where it rose and fell beneath him. The heartbeat quickened under his palm.

“Don’t move,” Suho whispered.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Sieun murmured.

“You smell good,” Suho said, the words tumbling out before he could censor them. “Like rain and… home, maybe.”

“Your flattery’s getting sloppy.”

“Not flattery. Research.” Suho smiled into his hair again. “I’m studying what happiness smells like.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Scientific,” Suho countered, his grin audible.

Sieun wanted to roll his eyes, but the warmth in his chest betrayed him. “And your conclusion?”

Suho hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly around him. “That it smells like you.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward — it was full. The kind that made the air shimmer. Sieun breathed in once, slowly, deeply, and something in him yielded. He shifted closer, half across Suho now, one knee hooked over his leg, his hand still splayed against his chest.

Suho’s free hand slid up, fingers threading through his hair, a slow, reverent touch that made Sieun’s pulse skip. He traced the curve of his jaw, then his cheek, his thumb brushing once across the skin beneath his eye — soft, deliberate, adoring. “You’ve got ocean eyes,” Suho murmured, voice thick with feeling. “You know that?”

“I’ve heard,” Sieun replied quietly, his breath catching when Suho’s thumb stayed there, stroking lightly.

“They drown me every time,” Suho said, not shy now, not teasing. Just honest. “Every single time.”

Sieun’s lips parted, a retort forming and dying all in the same second. His throat was too tight for wit. Instead, he tilted his face up, enough that their noses brushed, soft and accidental. The world outside the window flickered with lightning — a brief wash of white that made the gold of the room seem warmer by contrast.

“Tell me something good about today,” Suho said, voice low and companionable, the way people spoke when there were already two empty mugs on the table and the night had stopped keeping track of time. “One thing.”

Sieun considered the polite answer. Considered the deflection. Found himself unwilling to perform either. “You came early,” he said. “He liked that.”

“Minjae?” Suho smiled, made of pride and tenderness at once. “He beat me at a memory game. I wanted to lodge an appeal. He told me I could talk to management.” He tilted his head toward Sieun. “Is that you?”

“I’m understaffed,” Sieun said, and almost laughed because he felt like it.

“Okay, another?” Suho nudged his knee against Sieun’s leg, playful but intentional, lips tilting into a dare. “Something that’s not about him.”

“The cookies tasted… good,” Sieun said. “Satisfying.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about my cooking.” Suho beamed. “I’m insufferable now.”

“You already were.”

“True.” The smile softened. “Another.”

“You’re greedy.”

“Only for this,” Suho said simply, and it was such an earnest sentence that it stole every good comeback from Sieun’s mouth.

He bought himself time by looking at the window. The reflection of the room hovered there—their two shapes under the blanket, the soft lamp, the boy asleep in his own room like a punctuation mark that made everything safer by existing. When Sieun spoke, his voice had dropped a half-step lower. “I liked… the way you looked at him when you were teaching him how to bake. Like he was the only thing happening.”

“He was,” Suho said, and then he didn’t let the silence run away with the entire truth. “And then you walked in and ruined my focus completely.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Sieun said.

“Terrible,” Suho said cheerfully, and brushed the back of Sieun’s hand with his thumb in a slow, absent-minded circle that felt like his body’s way of confessing what his mouth was still trying to phrase.

They finished their tea in companionable quiet. The mugs grew cool, then cold. Suho's arm wrapped around Sieun’s waist event tighter, with caution, with care. Sieun’s shoulder became the natural rest for his chin.

“You’re always so composed,” Suho murmured, breath stirring a whisper at Sieun’s ear. “I like it when you… stop fighting the couch.”

“That’s not how you use that verb,” Sieun said, his voice steady on the surface — but barely. The correction dissolved halfway through his mouth when Suho leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath warm, his nose brushing the side of Sieun’s temple in an unhurried, thoughtless sweep. It wasn’t a kiss, not really — too subtle for that, too careful — and yet every nerve in Sieun’s body recognized it as something perilously close.

The touch was soft, barely there, but it rewired his balance. His pulse skipped, heart rising to his throat before he could swallow it down. He could feel the heat of Suho’s skin, the faint tickle of a breath that smelled faintly of tea and sugar, the way his own face betrayed him by leaning — just slightly — into the warmth instead of away.

They eased in and out of talk. Not the kind that moved plot or argued facts; the small, bright kind that only happens when you’re pressed together and the night isn’t asking for performance. When the rest of the world felt taken care of, the room gave them permission to look at each other instead. At first, only sidelong—Suho stealing glances as if he’d always been a thief, Sieun catching him and pretending it hadn’t happened. Then directly.

“Don’t do that,” Sieun said at last, because Suho had been staring for a stretch of seconds that should have been illegal.

“Do what?” Suho didn’t stop.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like you’re the only thing in the room I can see?” Suho asked, easy and unashamed. “That’s not on purpose, hyung. That’s just what happens.”

The words slipped under Sieun’s skin and lived there. He swallowed. His reply arrived closer to confession than he liked. “You’re very bright.”

“That sounds like a complaint,” Suho said softly.

“It isn’t.” His fingers, almost of their own accord, tightened around Suho’s forearm. “It’s… a lot.”

“I can try to dim,” Suho offered, earnest enough to be ridiculous, ridiculous enough to be endearing.

“Don’t,” Sieun said, and the speed of the answer surprised them both.

“Okay,” Suho whispered, and he folded himself around Sieun a little more, as if the body understood grammar before the voice did.

The air thickened with calm. The storm’s rhythm softened to background heartbeat. The refrigerator hummed its quiet lullaby. And inside the blanket, their limbs found each other — not in fumbling touches, but in practiced ones. Suho’s thigh bracketed Sieun’s; Sieun’s fingers slipped under the fabric of his shirt, resting against the bare skin of his ribs, his palm rising and falling with each breath. It was unconscious, natural, right.

Suho’s toes brushed his ankle, a slow, gentle stroke that sent heat up his leg. “Is this too much?” he whispered.

“No,” Sieun said, firm and steady. Then, quieter: “Not tonight.”

“Good,” Suho murmured. “Because I’m terrible at pretending I don’t want to touch you.”

Sieun’s breath caught. He didn’t answer — not with words. Instead, he shifted, turning halfway in Suho’s arms until they were chest to chest, the blanket slipping a little, forgotten. He fit there easily, the crown of his head tucked beneath Suho’s chin, his fingers tracing absent shapes across his side. Their skin met at the edges, warm, smooth, alive.

“Tell me something you like,” Suho said, and there was a smile in it, but it wasn’t a tease. It sounded like a request he was honored to make. “About this.”

Sieun’s heart thudded hard enough that he felt foolish for a second. He looked past Suho to the rain, because the rain didn’t intimidate easily. When he found his voice, it was quieter than he meant. “Your… steadiness.”

“Steadiness?” Suho blinked. “I’m a chaos creature.”

“Not when you hold me,” Sieun said, the words shocking him by arriving in a straight line. “You’re… steady.”

Suho went silent a heartbeat too long to be casual. When he spoke, the sound came out rough with something he didn’t control. “I’ve never wanted to be anything so badly.”

The storm flared—as if agreeing—and the room brightened for an instant, then dimmed with the thunder’s long, satisfied exhale. In that momentary blackness, Suho bent his head. He did it slowly enough for refusal to find him if refusal wanted the job. It did not. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Sieun’s eye, feather-light. 

It wasn’t a playful kiss. It wasn’t a flourish. It was reverent and unhurried, lips at the crown like a vow, a promise delivered in the language of warmth. He lingered, enough for the heat to sink all the way in. When he lifted his head, he only managed a breath. Words needed the second breath to follow.

“You undo me,” he said into the space above them, as if afraid to aim the sentence directly. “I’m sorry. I keep trying to be cool about it and I fail every time.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sieun answered, and the answer turned the floor into something softer beneath both of them. He kept his palm against Suho’s forearm. He kept the blanket tucked at their waists. He kept breathing. “Just… don’t lie.”

“I don’t know how to, with you,” Suho said. He laughed, shaky, a little wild. “I come in the door intending to say normal things about weather and soup, and the second you look at me, I forget language. I just—” He broke off, eyes somewhere between bright and broken. “You make everything feel like it’s finally the right size.”

The same light that had flashed outside moved under Sieun’s skin. He couldn’t bear the look on Suho’s face for another second without touching it, so he did—fingers up to the cheekbone, a brief, careful pass of thumb along the soft skin under Suho’s eye, as if he were checking the temperature of something on the edge of boiling. “Stop looking at me like that,” he said, a plea disguised as admonishment.

“How?” Suho asked. “I’ve been trying to figure out a workaround for months.”

“Try harder,” Sieun said, but he didn’t take his hand away.

Their foreheads leaned together without anyone instructing them to. Noses brushed, an accidental sweetness that shot right to the places in both of them that were no longer defended. Suho’s breath stumbled. His gaze dropped to Sieun’s mouth and snapped back up like a guilty secret. He held very, very still, as though sudden movement might startle something delicate.

“Can I—” he began, and stopped, because the rest of the question would be too much for tonight if he said it plainly.

“You can hold me,” Sieun said. The permission cost him nothing and everything at once.

“I’m already doing that,” Suho whispered, the sound shaky with a laugh that never fully formed.

“Then keep doing it,” Sieun said, and if his voice shook, the storm’s steady music covered it like a friend.

They might have kissed. They did not. They hovered in that charged inch, every second stretching until it seemed impossible that a person could survive it. The desire to close that inch ran hot up the back of Suho’s neck, tingled down his arms, prickled through his fingers where interlaced with Sieun’s. But the restraint that had been slowly training itself into him—out of respect, out of adoration, out of the desire not to burn down what they were finally building—won. He breathed instead. He stayed.

“Say it again,” he asked quietly. “The part about steadiness.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Sieun murmured, but the curve at his mouth was not the curve of refusal.

They didn’t move apart. If anything, the stillness made it worse and better. Suho eased his face into Sieun’s hair and pressed another kiss there. A second vow, a second quiet brand. Sieun’s grip on his forearm strengthened, answered.

“Do you know what you do to me?” Suho said, too softly to be boast, too reverently to be plea. “You make everything else fall quiet.”

“You’re loud enough for both of us,” Sieun said, but the words came softened, stripped of their bite. He tucked himself closer, the way a leaf finds shade.

Minutes lost their meaning. They whispered nonsense and truth with equal weight. Suho complained that Sieun hogged the blanket; Sieun told him to stop being dramatic and come closer if he was cold. Suho asked if he would be forced to attend class tomorrow if it was still raining; Sieun said he would personally carry him in. Suho said he would go willingly if the driver looked like that, and Sieun told him to sleep while it was still flattering.

Eventually, logistics knocked politely. Suho’s grandmother would worry if he didn’t text. He fished his phone from the crack between cushions and typed without letting go of Sieun’s hand: Staying at Boss’s. Heavy rain. Don't worry Grandma. A reply came fast—Okay. Don’t be a nuisance.—and he choked on a laugh that would have woken the building if he’d let it.

“Am I being a nuisance?” he asked, eyes bright with mischief and fear pretending to be mischief.

“Yes,” Sieun said, automatic, and then, after a beat that changed the shape of the room, “but not in a way I mind.”

“I’m going to die here,” Suho announced, flopping back against the armrest with theatrical relief and bringing Sieun with him, rearranging blankets and limbs until they were both molded into the couch like it had been expecting this shape all along. “Official cause of death: excessive joy.”

“No one has ever died of that,” Sieun said, but it sounded like he was considering the possibility with an open mind.

“First time for everything.”

“Sleep,” Sieun ordered, because his chest felt too full to fit more conversation.

“Only if you stay until I fall,” Suho bargained, shameless.

“Two minutes.”

“Five.”

“Three,” Sieun said, and settled—which, by any reasonable accounting, was already a win.

He meant to leave when the house grew even quieter, when the storm’s tantrum became a soothing rain and the lamps clicked to black. He did not. He stayed long enough to feel Suho’s breathing go from eager to steady. He stayed long enough to feel the body beneath his hand do that tiny slackening that meant trust. When he attempted at last to extricate himself, Suho’s fingers chased him in sleep and caught the hem of his T-shirt like an anchor thrown in a dream. He looked down at the sleeping face—all lines smoothed, mouth softened, a boy more than a man for a moment—and felt an ache run through him so clean it left him almost humming.

He bent, helpless to the pull, and kissed Suho’s hair. It was a quiet thing—no announcement, no fuss—just mouth to softness, the brief, holy contact of a man admitting something to himself in the dark. “Tomorrow,” he said without intending to speak.

“Tomorrow,” Suho breathed, not awake, and smiled into sleep.

It took Sieun forever to cross the apartment after that. He checked the balcony latch. He stood for a minute in Minjae’s doorway and watched his son’s back rise and fall, counted to ten, counted to twenty, because he could. He turned off the last lamp and stood in the gentle darkness listening to the rain talk itself down. When he finally lay down in his own bed, the pillow smelled faintly of citrus and soap and the warmth of another body. It was enough to make him close his eyes and imagine, just for a heartbeat, that this wasn’t an accident of weather but a life admitted to itself.

Morning arrived softer than expected. The storm had tired itself out overnight, leaving only a gentle drizzle that streaked the windows and made the air smell clean. The apartment was quiet—until Minjae padded out of his room, hair sticking in a dozen directions, shark plush dragging behind him like a flag.

He stopped dead in the doorway when he spotted the couch.

“Hyung?” His voice cracked with excitement. Then he squealed, bolting forward. “Hyung! You stayed over? That was good!”

Suho stirred awake just in time to catch the boy as he scrambled into his lap, still half-asleep but already grinning. “Morning, shark boy,” he said, voice thick with sleep, hair a disaster. “You’re heavy, you know that?”

“I’m not heavy!” Minjae laughed, hugging his middle. His eyes flicked toward Sieun, wide with childish sincerity. “Daddy, I wish Hyung could live here forever.”

The words hung in the air. Simple. Blunt. Too true.

Sieun froze, heat flashing under his collar. Suho’s grin faltered into something softer, his cheeks blooming pink as he ducked his head. For a moment, the storm outside felt like it had never ended—it was inside him now, in his chest, a rush of too much.

“Go wash up,” Sieun managed, his voice steady only because it had to be.

Minjae bounced off happily, satisfied he’d said his piece.

Suho rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed firmly on the blanket. “Kids, huh,” he said, sheepish, though the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed the warmth under his embarrassment.

They didn’t speak of it, but the words lingered between them anyway, like a lantern someone had lit and left burning.

Breakfast was quick—toast, fruit, a splash of coffee Sieun barely tasted. Then they were in the car, rain spattering the windshield, the heater humming low. Minjae chattered all the way to his school, kicking his legs in the backseat, still buzzing about how “Hyung was right there this morning, like magic.”

At the gate, Suho reached back to ruffle his hair. “Be good, shark boy. No terrorizing your friends.”

“Hyung!” Minjae laughed, slamming the door behind him as he ran off, backpack bouncing.

The car grew quiet after that, the absence of his voice leaving the air heavy with something else. Suho sat forward, his knee brushing Sieun’s as the car idled. “So…” he said lightly, though his tone was anything but.

Sieun kept his eyes on the road. “Your turn.”

They reached the curb outside Suho’s campus all too quickly. He unbuckled, slow, as if trying to bargain time itself. Before he reached for the door, his hand brushed over Sieun’s on the gearshift—hesitant at first, then firm, fingers curling into his.

The contact was electric in its quietness. Not dramatic. Not reckless. Just warm, steady, real.

They lingered like that, neither moving, the drizzle ticking softly against the roof. Suho turned to him, his grin crooked but unshakable, eyes too bright for morning. “Feels… kind of like we’re a family,” he said, teasing and not teasing at all.

Sieun’s throat worked. He tightened his grip just slightly, enough to answer without words.

His family. That was what it felt like.

Suho ducked his head, still smiling as he opened the door. “See you tonight, hyung.”

Sieun watched him run up the steps, hood bouncing, shoulders broad even under the rain. The seat beside him felt too empty the second the door shut. And yet—his chest felt full, unbearably so, as if something had finally, quietly, begun to belong.

For now, there was this: a city rinsed clean, a day waiting, the promise of rain again someday, of soup and toothpaste and dumb jokes and careful hands learning to be brave. For now, there was the echo of a kiss on his hair and the certainty that when he said “tonight,” someone else heard “home.”

He drove toward it without hurrying, letting the light change when it wanted, letting the sweetness of the night flood his ribs and take its time ebbing. The rain didn’t stop. It didn’t need to. It only had to fall, and he only had to arrive home after work, and the door would open, and the brightness would be there, and the hush would come with it, and they would learn how to be steady together.

Chapter Text

The drizzle hadn’t eased by the time Sieun’s car rolled away from the curb, but Suho hardly noticed. His palm still tingled where Sieun’s hand had lingered over it on the gearshift, steady and warm, reluctant to let go. The moment replayed itself over and over as he crossed the courtyard toward the main building, his grin refusing to be tamped down.

He didn’t make it far.

“Yah—look alive!” Baku’s voice cut through the rain, loud and merciless. A second later, a hand clapped his shoulder. “Nanny boy just stepped out of a car. A car! Since when do you get chauffeured?”

Suho groaned, already bracing himself. “Since mind your business.”

But then Baekjin swooped in, squinting like a detective. “Hold up. That hoodie. Same one as yesterday.” He tugged at the hem as if to prove it. “Where’d you sleep, huh? Don’t tell me you—”

Seongje gasped theatrically, throwing his arms wide. “Oh my god. You stayed with Hot Boss, didn’t you?” He leaned in, eyes glittering with scandal. “Tell us everything or we shave that stupid head of yours. Bald Suho, coming soon.”

Baku doubled over laughing. “Hyung, please say yes. Bald Suho would finally humble him.”

Suho shoved Seongje off, ears blazing red. “You’re all insane.” His grin betrayed him anyway, crooked and unstoppable.

“Don’t dodge the question!” Baekjin crowed, jabbing a finger at his face. “He’s blushing. Look at him! He’s glowing.”

“Glowing with shame,” Baku supplied.

“Glowing with lust,” Seongje corrected, earning a shove that nearly sent him into a puddle.

“Shut up,” Suho barked, laughter slipping through the cracks.

Their laughter and jabs blurred to static, just white noise in the back of his skull. What cut through was the echo of last night, replaying with merciless clarity.

Sieun had been tense at first, a line of resistance under Suho’s hands, but then—God, then—he’d softened. Slowly, like thaw giving way to spring, until his weight rested fully against Suho’s chest. Suho could still feel it: the exact moment Sieun’s shoulders eased, the quiet surrender of a man who had been holding himself together for too long.

That steady heartbeat against his ribs. Not frantic, not fleeing. Just there. Steady, constant, seeping into him like it had always belonged there.

The warmth of him, alive and solid, bleeding through cotton and skin until Suho swore it had carved itself into his bones. He could remember the way his chin fit against Sieun’s hair, how every inhale brought that faint clean scent—soap, rain, something that was just him. It had lodged itself in Suho’s lungs, impossible to exhale.

And then—the eyes. When Sieun had looked up at him, too close, too sharp, ocean-deep. Eyes that saw through the stupid grin and the reckless jokes and went straight into the parts of Suho that had never belonged to anyone.

Their noses had brushed. Lips a whisper apart. The air had gone molten. Suho could still feel that last suspended second, the one where he could have closed the distance, could have tilted forward and claimed what was already begging to happen.

He hadn’t.

He’d frozen, too careful, too reverent, too afraid of shattering what he’d barely been given. And Sieun, steady in his restraint, had pulled back with a quiet goodnight.

Now the memory of it burned in his chest, sweet and excruciating. Suho bit down on his grin, but it was hopeless. His whole body ached with the wish that he’d been braver, that he’d stolen that first kiss when it had been right there, waiting.

God, if he could just have it again—Sieun warm in his arms, those ocean eyes holding him steady—he swore he wouldn’t hesitate this time.

“Look at him, he’s not even denying it anymore,” Baekjin accused, pointing at the red flooding Suho’s face. “Tell us, or we really will shave you bald.”

Suho laughed helplessly, heart racing. “Try it, and I’ll drown you in this puddle.”

“Confession!” Seongje shouted, grinning like he’d just cracked a crime ring. “He didn’t even deny that.”

The three of them dissolved into fresh cackles, piling on, but Suho only shook his head, shoulders shaking with laughter he couldn’t smother. He knew he should shut them down harder, bark, deflect—but he couldn’t. Not with last night still burning in his chest, not with the memory of Sieun’s breath against his temple, his eyes too close, too deep, too much.

They could tease all they wanted. Let them think what they liked.

Because none of them had been there, in the hush of the storm, with Sieun’s silence cracking into something warm and yielding. None of them had felt him soften into an embrace he hadn’t wanted to end. None of them had seen that flicker of shyness in ocean eyes inches away from his own lips.

Suho had.

And that memory alone was enough to make him glow like this all day, shaved head or not.

The office was a hum of tapping keys and low voices, a gray Monday humming along like every other. Spreadsheets glared back at him, neat lines of numbers that usually fell into place beneath his gaze. Today they blurred. His eyes scanned formulas, his hands moved with practiced efficiency, but his mind wandered elsewhere.

Back to last night.

He could still feel it, embarrassingly vivid. Suho’s weight pressed against him on the couch, warm and solid, as if that spot had been reserved for him all along. At first Sieun had resisted, stiff as ever, but then… something in him had given way. He’d let himself lean, just a fraction, and Suho had caught him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The numbers on his screen dipped out of focus. He closed his eyes for a second too long, breath catching on the memory. That steady heartbeat beneath his ear, the scent of rain clinging to cotton, the faint citrus note of shampoo that was too bright, too alive.

His cheeks warmed. He dropped his gaze, tapping too hard at his keyboard as if precision could undo the way his lips tingled at the thought of how close they had come. Their foreheads had touched, noses brushing, Suho’s breath stumbling right before Sieun had pulled away.

A tiny sound escaped him—half sigh, half laugh. He scrubbed a hand across his face, certain he looked foolish. Twenty-six, sitting in a finance office, supposed to be the model of composure, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to feel that warmth again.

“Yeon,” his manager called across the partition, jolting him. “Those figures for Q3 variance?”

“Yes,” Sieun said, voice clipped but even. His brain snapped the calculation into place with frightening ease—he really was good at this, even distracted. He rattled off the numbers. The manager nodded, satisfied, and moved on.

The office noise swallowed him again, but the storm inside his chest didn’t quiet. He tried to anchor himself: the weight of a tie at his throat, the bitter taste of coffee cooling too quickly on his desk. But even those betrayed him. The tie made him think of Suho tugging at it once, playful, fingers brushing skin. The coffee reminded him of the extra mug he’d poured this morning without thinking, sliding it across the table to Suho, who had grinned sleepily and teased him about how “domestic” it all felt.

His ears burned. He ducked his head lower over his screen.

Domestic. The word should have frightened him. And maybe it did. But it also… settled in him. Minjae bouncing in delight when he’d seen Suho still on the couch that morning, blurting that wish—Daddy, I wish Hyung could live here forever—and Suho’s pink ears, his sheepish grin. It had felt absurd, but it had also felt like the truth.

A truth Sieun couldn’t let himself name, not yet.

His phone buzzed once in his jacket pocket. He startled, fishing it out, already expecting an urgent message from the daycare. But it wasn’t.

Suho: survived math lecture. barely.
Suho: hope your spreadsheets miss me.

Sieun stared at the words, pulse jumping. His mouth twitched—traitorous, helpless. He typed back with steady fingers:

Sieun: Focus on class.

The reply came instantly.

Suho: can’t. focused on last night.

Sieun’s heart slammed. He dropped his phone face-down on his desk before his expression betrayed him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing his breath to steady.

He should be embarrassed. He should scold him harder. But the truth was—he wanted it too. Wanted the weight of Suho’s arms, the easy laughter, the softness that had soaked through every barrier he’d built.

He wanted more. And the wanting scared him almost as much as it thrilled him.

The apartment door clicked shut behind him, and Sieun let out the kind of breath he never allowed in public. His shoulders sagged, his tie tugged loose, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. It had been another day of numbers, of calculations that bent easily beneath his mind, but even brilliance didn’t soften the strain of it.

But the scent hit him first — rich and warm, garlic and soy, the kind of smell that softened the edges of the hardest day. From the kitchen came the sound of clattering utensils, a pan sizzling.

“Daddy's home!” Minjae bolted from the table, shark plush in one hand, chopsticks in the other, his face smeared faintly red from sauce. He slammed into Sieun’s legs, grinning up at him. “Daddy hurry, come eat the food!”

Before Sieun could answer, Suho leaned out of the kitchen, apron hanging lopsided over his hoodie, ladle in hand. His hair was a mess, cheeks flushed from the stove. “You’re late,” he said, mock-stern, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “We almost ate it all without you.”

Sieun blinked at the sight of him—apron askew, boyish grin, Minjae bouncing at his side—and felt his chest loosen in a way it hadn’t all day. “I doubt that,” he said evenly, loosening his tie.

“Sit,” Suho ordered, far too comfortable for someone who didn’t live here. He set a steaming bowl in front of Sieun, sliding it across the table with exaggerated flair. “Dinner is served. Premium service.”

Minjae giggled, climbing back onto his chair. “Daddy, you have to taste it. It’s amazing. Better than yours!”

Sieun gave his son a long look, then picked up his chopsticks. The first bite melted warm and sharp on his tongue. He swallowed, cleared his throat. “…Not bad.”

Suho pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Not bad? That’s all I get?”

“It’s edible,” Sieun said, deadpan, though his lips twitched when Minjae howled with laughter.

Dinner stretched with easy chatter—Suho filling the silence with stories from his classes, Minjae piping in with shark updates, Sieun mostly quiet but watching them both with an expression he couldn’t quite contain. It was too warm, too dangerous, this domestic scene he hadn’t asked for and couldn’t seem to push away.

Halfway through, Suho dropped it casually. “So… school festival’s this weekend. My department’s running a teokbokki booth. Best in town, obviously.”

Minjae froze mid-bite, eyes lighting up. “Really? Daddy! Can we go? Please, please, pleeease?”

Suho grinned like he’d planned the whole ambush. “See? Even the shark boy knows a good deal.” He looked at Sieun, his eyes bright, almost too bright. “You’ll come, right? I’ll give you VIP treatment. Extra fishcakes, no waiting in line. Premium package.”

Sieun arched a brow, chewing slowly. “That sounds suspiciously like bribery.”

“Think of it as incentive,” Suho shot back without missing a beat. His grin softened as he added, quieter, “Come on, hyung. Don’t make me suffer out there alone.”

Sieun’s chest betrayed him with a faint flutter. He looked down at his bowl, then at Minjae’s hopeful face. “We’ll come.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Sieun said.

Suho’s grin could have lit the entire room. Minjae whooped, nearly knocking over his bowl. “Yes! I’ll eat all the teokbokki, Hyung!”

Sieun let the noise wash over him, unable to stop the faint, helpless curve of his lips.

Later the apartment seemed to exhale once Minjae’s door shut. The hush of nighttime settled in, carrying the faint hum of the refrigerator, the patter of rain that still lingered against the balcony glass. The lamp at the corner of the living room bathed the space in gold, shadows softening, everything wrapped in a quiet that felt almost too tender.

Suho hadn’t budged. He sat sprawled across the couch, long legs stretched out like he owned the place, hoodie bunched loose around his frame. When Sieun lowered himself onto the cushion beside him, Suho wasted no time in leaning over, chin dropping to his shoulder, arms curling around his waist as if it were simply expected.

“You’re heavy,” Sieun murmured, but the words held no bite. They were habitual, a weak protest that dissolved the moment Suho hummed low in his throat and pressed closer.

“Premium service,” Suho said, lips curving against his shirt. His voice was thick with sleepiness, but his arms tightened with deliberate insistence, anchoring Sieun in place. “And no refunds.”

Sieun exhaled slowly, as though trying to remind himself that this was reckless, dangerous, the kind of indulgence he could not afford. Yet his hand betrayed him, finding its way to Suho’s forearm, fingers curling lightly there. Not pushing away. Holding.

They stayed like that for a while, the quiet filling with the sound of Suho’s breathing, the rhythm steady against his back. It was absurdly comfortable, too much so, and Sieun felt the fragile seams of his restraint fray with every second.

“Say it again,” Suho murmured, breaking the silence, his voice pitched low and lazy. “Promise you’ll come.”

“I already said yes.”

“Doesn’t count,” Suho whispered, cheek brushing against his jaw, hair tickling his skin. His breath was warm where it spilled across his neck. “I want it in writing.” He paused, squeezing tighter. “Or in hugs.”

The corner of Sieun’s mouth tugged despite himself. “…Childish.”

“Mm,” Suho hummed, unbothered. His lips nearly grazed the line of Sieun’s neck when he added, quieter, “Then pay up.”

The words struck deeper than they should have. Sieun closed his eyes briefly, telling himself it was only fatigue, only the long day weighing down his guard. But the truth was simpler: he didn’t want to move. Not when Suho’s warmth soaked through him, not when the scent of laundry soap and rain clung faintly to his hoodie, not when the hold around him felt too steady, too right.

Sieun’s chest tightened. He should have pulled back, should have built the wall again before it crumbled further. But instead, something in him moved of its own accord. His hand lifted, slow and unsure, fingers grazing over Suho’s forearm, his shoulder… then higher still.

And before he could think better of it, his arm curled, sliding around Suho’s neck.

It wasn’t forceful. Not desperate. Just quiet, deliberate, and enough to draw Suho closer.

The shift pulled them into one another, temple to jaw, breath mingling in the thin air between them. For the first time, Sieun wasn’t simply being held—he was holding back.

Suho froze. His breath hitched so sharply it almost broke into laughter. “Hyung…” His voice cracked on the single word, trembling with something too big to contain—astonishment, joy, disbelief.

Sieun said nothing. His silence was steady, unyielding, but his arm around Suho’s neck was an answer in itself. Stay.

Suho’s giddiness surged too fierce to hide. His lips curved helplessly, pressed into the crown of Sieun’s hair though he barely realized it. His arms tightened around him, as if the world might try to pull them apart at any second.

And Sieun let it happen. More than that—he leaned in, his body softening, surrendering into the circle of warmth he’d sworn he wouldn’t allow.

Suho’s voice came again, softer still, as if confessing a secret in the dark. “You know… if you ditch me at the festival, I’ll starve.”

A quiet huff of air escaped Sieun, halfway to a laugh. “You’ll be surrounded by food.”

“Not the same,” Suho said, nuzzling fractionally closer. “You’re going to ruin me, hyung.”

Sieun didn’t answer. He only tightened his hold—barely, subtly, but enough.

---

The weekend came faster than Sieun expected.

Saturday morning dawned clear, the sky rinsed blue and bright, as though the storm earlier in the week had been a dream. Sunlight spilled across the pavement in warm sheets, the air sweet with the freshness that only came after rain. By the time they left the apartment, Minjae was practically skipping beside him, his shark plush bouncing from the straps of his backpack like a companion in its own right. His voice was a nonstop stream—about the teokbokki that Hyung promised would be the best in the world, about the balloons he’d surely win, about the “premium service” that he repeated with the kind of gravity children reserved for magic words.

Sieun’s grip on his son’s small hand was steady, but inside he felt something else tightening, quiet and reluctant. It had been years since he’d set foot on a university campus, and even then, he hadn’t lingered. Life had moved too quickly—too sharply—from the classroom to responsibility, from laughter in cafeterias to lullabies sung to a child barely old enough to walk. The distance between then and now stretched like a canyon he hadn’t dared look into until this moment.

The sound reached them before the sight did—music thudding from speakers, laughter ringing in bursts, the overlapping calls of students hawking food and games. It all carried on the wind, bright and alive, the pitch of it high enough to sting against the silence he carried inside.

And then the campus unfolded before them.

The quad was a riot of color. Booths lined the paths, draped in banners that snapped in the breeze—red, blue, yellow, each one painted with bold strokes and messy lettering. Balloons bobbed overhead, tethered to posts, bright against the sky. Students darted between stalls, their voices spilling into the air in careless laughter. The smell of frying oil, caramelized sugar, and grilled meat tangled thickly, promising indulgence at every turn.

Somewhere near the stage, a cluster of boys with guitars strummed the opening chords of a song, their audience already swaying along. Girls in summer dresses squealed as they tugged friends toward game stalls. Couples leaned shoulder to shoulder as they ate from shared trays.

Everywhere Sieun looked, there was the pulse of youth—messy, uncontained, brimming with the kind of joy that had long since been pressed out of him. Once, maybe, he had brushed shoulders in a crowd like this, laughed too loud over skewers, let music fill his chest until it felt endless. But that had been another life, a life traded away in an instant for the boy whose hand he held now.

Minjae’s fingers tightened in his, tugging him toward the noise. His son’s face was alight, eyes wide, drinking in everything. To him, this wasn’t a reminder of loss but a world opening. And for that—Sieun’s chest softened, even as the ache of distance lodged deeper inside.

He had left this world behind. And yet, standing here, he couldn’t quite ignore how brightly it still burned.

Sieun’s gaze flicked automatically, searching. And there he was.

Suho stood behind a booth draped with a bold red banner, apron tied haphazardly around his waist, sleeves shoved to his elbows. He was laughing at something a classmate said, head tipped back, a ladle in his hand. Even from a distance, he was impossible to miss—tall and broad, his grin wide and careless, that brightness that seemed to pull every eye toward him.

But the moment his gaze found them—found him—the grin shifted. Softer. Wider. Something more personal unfurling across his face. He nearly dropped the ladle in his rush to wave, sauce threatening to splatter down his apron.

“Daddy, Daddy, look!” Minjae tugged on his hand, bouncing on his toes. “It’s Hyung!”

They made their way through the crush of students, and Suho was already leaning over the counter, ignoring the line waiting behind him, to ruffle Minjae’s hair. “Shark boy, you made it!” His voice carried like sunlight, too warm for the cool autumn air, and Minjae’s squeal of laughter only made it brighter.

Sieun hovered at his son’s side, arms folded as though to hold himself steady, though the faint pull in his chest betrayed him.

“VIPs don’t wait in line,” Suho declared, already plucking a tray. He piled it high—extra fishcakes, sauce dripping, another skewer slid across with a wink. “Premium package, hyung. Only the best.”

Sieun arched a brow, accepting the tray, but Suho’s fingers brushed his as he passed it over. It was no accident. It lingered a beat too long, enough for their gazes to lock, enough for the air to tilt. Ridiculous, how a simple touch could feel like it unraveled something inside him.

He looked away first. He always did.

They found a small patch of space off to the side, away from the surge of students. Minjae attacked his cup of teokbokki with delight, sauce already smearing the corner of his mouth. Suho flitted between them and his classmates, but every time he passed, he stole a piece of them back. Sliding another bite into Minjae’s cup. Nudging chopsticks into Sieun’s hand, only for their fingers to brush again. Leaning down once, low enough that Sieun felt his breath skim the edge of his ear.

“Worth the price of admission?” he murmured.

“Too much sauce,” Sieun replied flatly. But the faint curve at his lips betrayed him, as did the way his gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Suho grinned at the crack in his armor and, without warning, plucked a piece of rice cake from Sieun’s tray and popped it into his own mouth.

“Hey—”

“Quality check,” Suho said around the bite, grinning shamelessly. “I’m responsible for customer satisfaction.”

Before Sieun could respond, Suho had stolen another, this time from the tips of Sieun’s chopsticks. His grin turned wicked when Sieun scowled, the sound of Minjae’s giggles spilling over them both.

“You’re worse than him,” Sieun muttered, tilting his head toward his son.

“Untrue,” Suho said cheerfully, leaning in as though to share a secret. “I’m way cuter when I steal food.”

And then, just as Sieun tried to focus on his meal, Suho angled a piece of fishcake toward him, holding it up with exaggerated seriousness. “Say ah.”

Sieun blinked. “Absolutely not.”

Minjae nearly toppled from laughter. “Daddy, you have to! It’s Hyung’s premium service!”

Caught between his son’s shining eyes and Suho’s smug grin, Sieun gave in with a quiet exhale, lips parting just enough to take the bite. The taste was hot and sweet and ordinary—and yet, with Suho’s gaze burning into him, it was anything but.

Suho’s grin softened into something smaller, almost tender. “See? Best in town.”

Sieun swallowed, fighting the warmth rising in his chest. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence between them hummed loud enough to say everything.

For a while, it was good. Better than he’d expected. Minjae chattered between bites, sauce dripping down his chin, and Sieun let himself exist in the small, fragile world carved out of secret glances and brushing hands. Every time Suho moved back to the counter, his eyes sought them first, brighter for it. And every time he returned, it was as though the crowd fell away, leaving only the three of them in their own private orbit.

And Sieun—dangerously, helplessly—let himself bask in it.

---

The sweetness stretched, fragile as spun sugar, until the weight of the crowd pressed closer. More voices swelled around the booth, the line snaking longer, laughter bubbling loud enough to drown the music.

And then Sieun noticed.

Girls. Groups of them, clustered at the counter, giggling behind their hands, their eyes all angled the same way. Toward him.

Toward Suho.

It wasn’t hard to see why. Apron tied loose around his waist, sleeves shoved high, sweat shining faintly at his temples—he was every picture of youth and energy, tall enough to stand out in the sea of faces, broad enough to carry the weight of the chaos without strain. And that smile. God, that smile. Bright and careless and endless, handed out like candy.

They leaned forward to order, voices pitched sweet, laughter spilling over the counter. And Suho, reckless as always with his warmth, gave it back. Jokes tossed like confetti, grins flashed too easily, that ladle wielded like a prop in his endless show. He had always been too generous with himself. And here, with the festival at his back, he shone brighter than ever.

The girls giggled louder. One touched her hair, another leaned too close, and Sieun felt something cold and sharp slip beneath his ribs.

To everyone else, it was harmless. A boy serving food, laughing too easily. But to him, standing just a few feet away, it was unbearable. Because this was who Suho was when untethered: bright, magnetic, beloved.

And Sieun, with his tie and his long days and his child holding his hand—he didn’t belong in this glow.

He tried to swallow the thought, tried to remind himself that Suho’s grin was the same reckless one he gave to everyone, that the way he leaned close across the counter was nothing but courtesy, that the brightness spilling out of him had always belonged to the world, not just to him.

But then Minjae’s voice, delighted and innocent, cracked it all open.

“Wow, Daddy, look!” The boy’s eyes were round, shining, cheeks puffed with sauce. “Lots of girls like Hyung. They all want him.”

The words were simple. So simple. Just a child’s honest observation. And still, they landed like a stone dropping into deep water—sinking fast, pulling everything with it.

Sieun’s chest clenched tight. His mouth tugged into something that looked like a smile, because Minjae deserved nothing else, but the ache inside him roared loud and merciless.

He felt it then, the press of the festival around him—the shrieks of laughter, the chatter overlapping, the music thudding from the stage. It was too much. Too loud. Too bright. The swell of youth, of a world he no longer belonged to, closed in on him like a tide.

And there was Suho, at the very center of it, dazzling. Apron stained, ladle flashing, grin wide enough to draw a dozen hearts at once. Perfectly at ease in a place that had long ago left Sieun behind. Surrounded by girls his age, full of life, their voices rising with laughter and want.

This is where he belongs, Sieun thought, the words heavy, inevitable. With them. With their freedom, their brightness. Not with me. Not tied to a man older than he should be, carrying a child who calls him Daddy in the middle of all this.

The tether inside him—the fragile thread that had been holding since last night, since the couch and the warmth and the dangerous softness of Suho’s arms—snapped quiet and clean.

He set his chopsticks down with more force than he meant to. His hand found Minjae’s, small and warm, and he closed his fingers tight around it.

“Let’s go.”

Minjae blinked up at him, sauce smeared across his cheek. “Already? But—”

“Come on.” Sieun’s voice was gentle, but it carried a finality that left no room for protest.

The boy pouted, reluctant, but he trusted his father more than he wanted another bite. He slipped down from the bench, dragging his feet, still clutching the shark plush that dangled from his bag.

Sieun didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

He felt the crowd swallow them whole as they moved away, laughter and music closing over like water, erasing the small space they had occupied. Every step away was heavier than the last, but he kept walking, steady, because if he stopped—if he turned—he wasn’t sure what he would do.

Behind the counter, Suho’s laughter rose above the din, bright as always, easy as always. He cracked another joke, passed another tray, charmed another customer. But in the middle of it, his gaze lifted—habit, instinct, the quiet searching he had done all day.

And the spot where they had stood—where Sieun’s quiet figure had anchored him, where Minjae had bounced on his toes with sauce at the corner of his mouth—was empty.

His grin stuttered. Faltered.

The ladle wobbled in his hand, clattering against the edge of the pot. A classmate laughed, nudged him, mistaking it for a slip of clumsiness. But Suho’s eyes were still scanning, still chasing a figure already gone.

The brightness dimmed, just a fraction. Enough that he felt it. Enough that he knew.

Chapter Text

The knock echoed down the quiet corridor, muffled by the late hour. Suho shifted his weight, sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor, heart rattling faster with every second the door stayed shut. He nearly lost his nerve—nearly turned back—when the lock clicked.

The door eased open.

Sieun stood there, framed in the thin spill of light from inside. No tie, no starched shirt tonight. Just a soft gray sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, dark sweatpants hanging loose at his hips. Casual, domestic—so startlingly human it made Suho’s chest ache. His hair was mussed, as though he’d raked his hands through it one too many times. His eyes, though, were the same as ever: sharp, ocean-deep, betraying nothing at first glance.

Behind him, the apartment was hushed. Minjae’s small toys lay scattered on the rug, a picture book left open on the coffee table. From down the short hallway came the faintest sound of a child’s steady breathing, rhythmic and soft as the tide.

“Suho.” Sieun’s voice was low, even, carrying neither surprise nor welcome.

Relief hit Suho so hard his shoulders sagged. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to see him, to hear his voice, until now. His smile came unsteady, smaller than his usual reckless grin. He lifted a hand, instinct tugging him forward, fingers reaching as if they already belonged curled around Sieun’s wrist. “Hyung,” he breathed. “You left—”

But before his touch could land, Sieun shifted back. Barely a step, barely a breath of space, but enough that the warmth Suho was seeking slipped out of reach.

The rejection wasn’t sharp, not obvious—but Suho felt it all the same. His hand hung stupidly in the air before falling back to his side, fingers curling into a fist he couldn’t unclench.

Confusion tightened in his chest, crowding out the relief. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not after the laughter in the kitchen, the soft weight of Sieun in his lap, the warmth of his embrace just days ago. Not after the streetlamp night where Sieun had leaned into him, silent but unresisting, ocean eyes shimmering with something unspoken.

“I…” Suho tried for a laugh, but it came out too thin, too wobbly. “I was looking for you. At the booth. One second you were there, and then—gone. No goodbye. Nothing. I thought…” His throat tightened. “I thought something happened.”

Sieun’s face didn’t flicker, carved as still as stone. “It was late,” he said quietly, as though that were reason enough.

“Late?” Suho repeated, incredulous. His brows pulled together, his heart stumbling in his chest. “That’s it? Just—late?”

The silence swelled thick between them, heavy with everything left unsaid. Suho’s body ached to close the distance, to reach again, to prove the warmth hadn’t been a dream. But that single, subtle recoil had drawn a line between them, one he didn’t know if he was allowed to cross.

And for the first time in days, the glow Suho had been living in dimmed, leaving only the hollow question echoing in his chest: why did you leave me behind?

Sieun stepped aside without a word, and Suho slipped past him into the apartment. The air inside was warm, carrying faint traces of dinner—soy and garlic lingering in the kitchen, a sweetness he couldn’t name. The living room lamp cast a low golden pool over the couch, the rest of the space shadowed, hushed. From down the hall, Minjae’s breathing stayed steady, the kind of sound that anchored a home.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Suho lingered in the middle of the room, restless energy rolling off him. His hands had nowhere to go; they kept tugging at his hoodie hem, scrubbing through his hair, fisting open and closed. He glanced at the couch, at the toys scattered on the rug, at the quiet ordinary life laid out before him—and then back at Sieun, who leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, as though bracing himself.

“I don’t get it,” Suho said finally, voice low, roughened by something he couldn’t name. “One second you were there. I was—I was making sure you were okay, you know? That Minjae had enough, that you weren’t… bored out of your mind watching me act like an idiot behind that counter. And then I turn around and—” His words faltered. “You were just… gone.”

He paced a step, turned back, his gaze catching on Sieun’s stillness. “You couldn’t even say goodbye?”

The question cracked at the end, thin and too sharp with confusion.

Sieun’s expression didn’t change. He pushed off the frame slowly, his arms falling back to his sides. “It was late,” he said again, quiet, measured.

“Don’t give me that,” Suho snapped, the first edge breaking through, not out of anger but desperation. “You don’t just vanish and call it late.” He raked a hand through his hair, breath uneven. “I thought—hell, I thought maybe Minjae got sick, or something happened, and you had to leave in a hurry. But then I realized—” He broke off, jaw tight. “No. You just left. On purpose.”

The silence that followed felt louder than any crowd. Suho’s chest heaved once, unsteady, his eyes searching Sieun’s face for something—anything—that would explain.

But Sieun only looked back at him, ocean eyes dark and unreadable, as if Suho’s worry had been misplaced, as if the churning storm in his chest was his alone to bear.

Suho dragged a hand down his face, restless, chest too tight to stand still any longer. He crossed the small space between them in two strides, stopping just short of Sieun, close enough that the faint warmth of his sweater brushed his arm.

“Hyung.” His voice was rough, urgent. “Look at me.”

Sieun’s gaze stayed fixed somewhere over his shoulder, jaw locked, as if the woodgrain of the floor might save him.

“Don’t do that.” Suho’s hand hovered at his side, trembling with the urge to grab his wrist, to make him turn. “Don’t shut me out when I’m right here asking you what happened. Tell me why you left.”

For a long beat, Sieun said nothing. The silence pressed so heavy it felt like it might crush them both. Then, at last, his voice slipped out, low and tight.

“You were busy.”

Suho blinked. “Busy?” He stood too close now, every line of his body taut with energy he didn’t know how to bleed out. His pulse rattled in his ears, his breath uneven, but his gaze never left Sieun’s face.

“Busy,” he repeated, softer this time, the word rolling in his mouth as though testing it. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

Sieun’s jaw worked, a muscle jumping. He didn’t answer.

Suho tipped his head, searching his eyes, trying to find the truth hidden in the stillness. “Hyung, I was watching you the whole time. Making sure you were okay. Making sure Minjae was happy. And every time I looked, you were—” His voice cracked, frustration spilling over. “You were there. And then suddenly you weren’t.”

Still silence. Still that damned guarded mask.

Something inside Suho twisted, desperate. He lifted his hand, hovered it in the space between them, aching to touch—just a wrist, a sleeve, anything. But at the last second, he faltered, afraid Sieun would recoil again. His fingers curled back into a fist, trembling at his side.

“Tell me why.” His voice was hoarse now, the demand stripped bare of bravado. “Please, hyung. Just—tell me why you left me standing there like an idiot.”

Sieun’s eyes flicked away, sharp and pained, and when he spoke, the words were clipped, bitten off like he was trying to swallow them before they could escape.

“You didn’t need us there.”

The words hit Suho like a blow. “What?”

“You had enough,” Sieun said, quieter this time, the edges of his voice fraying. “Your classmates. Your friends. Those girls.” He swallowed hard, gaze fixed anywhere but Suho’s face. “You were shining. You didn’t need us… pulling you down.”

For a heartbeat, Suho just stared at him, chest heaving, the meaning clicking into place all at once. His lips parted in disbelief, then curved slowly, almost helplessly, into a grin he couldn’t stop if he tried.

“Oh my god.” He laughed once, breathless, disbelieving. “You’re serious.”

Sieun’s gaze snapped up at that, ocean-dark and storming. “Don’t.”

But Suho couldn’t help it. He stepped closer, reckless, giddy with the truth glowing like a flare between them. “You were jealous.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” Suho’s grin softened into something achingly gentle, something that made his own chest ache. He leaned in, close enough that his voice dropped to a whisper that brushed against Sieun’s ear. “Hyung, you left because you didn’t like watching. Because you wanted me looking at you, not them.”

The silence throbbed, heavy, unbearable.

Sieun’s lips parted, no denial ready this time. His chest rose too sharply, too fast, as though he’d been holding his breath all along. The look in his eyes—caught between fury and fear and something deeper—burned through Suho’s skin.

And Suho, reckless and certain, felt the ground tilt beneath them.

Before Sieun could gather his words, Suho moved. His arms looped around him in one smooth, desperate motion, pulling him in tight until their bodies pressed chest to chest. It wasn’t careful, wasn’t tentative—it was the kind of hug that refused distance, that dared Sieun to push him away if he really wanted to.

Sieun stiffened for half a heartbeat, breath caught sharp against Suho’s collar. But then his hands twitched at his sides, not rising to shove him off. Just hovering, trembling, betraying the war inside him.

Suho buried his face against the side of Sieun’s hair, laughing low, almost breathless. “Hyung,” he murmured, words vibrating through the space between them. “Why get jealous over strangers?” His lips brushed against the shell of his ear, his voice soft but burning. “You’re the one I look for. Every time.”

Sieun’s breath hitched, his chest rising against Suho’s, but still no words came.

Suho tightened his hold, one hand splayed wide at the small of his back, the other curling at his shoulder like he could anchor him there. “You didn’t see it, did you?” he went on, quieter now, all the teasing edged with something rawer. “I was smiling because you were watching. I was shining because you were there. Hyung, you’re the one—” He cut himself off, teeth sinking into his lip before he said too much.

The silence stretched, thick and trembling. Suho pulled back just enough to see his face, to catch the flicker in those ocean eyes. He grinned, softer this time, tender to the point of ache. “You’re the source of my energy. Always have been.”

Sieun’s shoulders tensed, his fingers curling faintly into Suho’s shirt, not enough to push him away. Just… holding.

Suho grinned against his hair, giddy at the crack in the armor. “You’re not as subtle as you think, hyung. I saw it. Those eyes of yours—” He leaned back just enough to meet them, ocean-dark and already burning. “They undo me every time.”

The words hung heavy, intimate, reckless. Sieun’s breath caught, lashes lowering as though the weight of Suho’s gaze was too much to bear. His lips parted, no words escaping, only the faintest exhale brushing between them.

Suho laughed softly, almost dizzy, brushing his nose against Sieun’s temple. “You think strangers could compete with that? With you?” His voice dropped lower, husky, vulnerable. “You’re the reason my chest felt like it was going to burst the whole damn day. Not them. Never them.”

Something in Sieun cracked then—subtle, almost invisible. His hands lifted at last, hesitating only a moment before settling at Suho’s back. His touch was light, restrained, as if afraid of how much it meant. But it was enough.

Suho’s heart thudded wildly, his grin breaking, raw and uncontained. “See?” he murmured, pressing closer, arms tightening around him. “I knew you wanted this too.”

For a moment, it almost felt safe. Dangerous, but safe.

Then Sieun’s voice broke through, low and strained, a fissure in the calm he fought so hard to keep.

“…You don’t understand.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in water, rippling outward, heavy with everything he hadn’t yet said.

Suho pulled back just enough to search his face, brows furrowed, confusion tangled with a hurt he didn’t try to hide. “Then make me understand,” he whispered, earnest, desperate.

But Sieun didn’t answer. His gaze slid away, ocean eyes shadowed, and his silence said more than words ever could.

The room held still—Suho’s arms still locked around him, Sieun’s body still trembling faintly in his hold—until the moment cracked, fragile and unfinished.