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Weekends at the studio were always noisy, but Go Hyuntak didn’t mind. Rows of white uniforms, the sharp slap of bare feet against the mat, the staccato rhythm of kiais breaking through the morning air. Discipline, repetition, patience. That was how he ran his classes.
By now, most of the kids had only been training for a few months. But not Park Hyunje.
Hyunje had been with him since he was five, and at eight, he was already one of Hyuntak’s standouts. Respectful, disciplined, the kind of kid who always bowed lower and tried harder. One of Hyuntak’s quiet favorites—not that he’d ever say it.
So when Hyunje started dragging his feet, missing his targets, and yawning halfway through warm-ups, Hyuntak noticed immediately.
At first, he thought the boy was just growing out of it—kids did that sometimes. But after another morning of sluggish kicks, Hyuntak pulled Hyunje’s father aside.
“He’s been tired lately,” Hyuntak said carefully..
“Ah, he’s been dancing lately. His mom thought it’d be good for him, since your studio has lessons too. He’s got energy to spare, right?”
Hyuntak didn’t respond, though his jaw tightened. Energy to spare? The kid had barely stayed upright during the last round of kicks.
That afternoon, Hyuntak lingered by the hall. Music spilled out loud and relentless, nothing like the measured rhythm of a dojang. Through the glass wall, he saw them—dozens of kids tripping over themselves, all energy and chaos. And in the middle, red-faced and grinning, was Hyunje. His legs looked like they might give out, but he was still keeping pace, following every beat.
Hyuntak’s frown deepened.
And then his eyes landed on the instructor.
Keum Seongje. The name had floated around the studio office more than once—“popular with the kids,” “parents love him,” “a natural choreographer.” He was everything Hyuntak wasn’t: animated, magnetic, the type of coach who made the air crackle.
Seongje clapped his hands, snapped out counts, crouched low to guide one kid, spun around to demonstrate a move for another. His presence filled the entire room, like gravity had shifted.
And when the man finally turned, his gaze snagged on the tall figure loitering outside the door.
For a second, their eyes locked.
Then Keum Seongje smirked, sweat shining along his jaw. He tipped his head—half challenge, half greeting—before turning back to his class.
Hyuntak lingered longer than he should have, arms folded as he watched the blur of limbs inside the dance hall. It wasn’t his place to interfere, not when the boy was technically in another class. But when the music cut and the kids broke for water, he stepped inside just enough for his voice to carry.
“Hyunje.”
The boy’s head snapped up instantly, beaming.
“Coach!”
Hyuntak crouched a little so he was level with him. He handed him the bottle he’d noticed the boy left behind earlier. His voice was even, steady, but carried the weight of instruction.
“Drink. Don’t push yourself too hard here—you’ve got a new routine to learn with me tomorrow. I’ll be expecting your best form.”
“Yes, Coach!”
Hyunje chirped, gripping the bottle with both hands, cheeks pink with excitement.
Satisfied enough, Hyuntak gave him a curt nod and straightened. His gaze flicked once more toward the instructor at the front—Seongje, who hadn’t missed the exchange—before he muttered a low goodbye and finally left for his errands.
From the mirrored wall, Seongje had watched the whole thing unfold.
He’d noticed the tall, stoic man standing by the door earlier, all crossed arms and unreadable frown. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots—judging by the way little Park Hyunje lit up at his presence, that had to be his taekwondo coach.
For a moment, curiosity itched at Seongje’s tongue. He wanted to lean down and ask the boy what that was all about, maybe tease out why Mr. Serious had dropped by. But he bit it back. Nosy wasn’t a good look for a teacher.
Except—Hyunje looked up at him, like he’d read the question straight off his face.
“My taekwondo coach is the best!”
Hyunje said suddenly, eyes shining.
“He’s really strong, but he never yells. Well—sometimes he does, but only if we forget to bow. He says discipline is important, but he always makes sure we rest too. And—and one time, he tied my belt for me even though he pretended he was grumpy about it.”
The words tumbled out between gulps of water, unprompted but earnest.
Seongje blinked, caught off guard. Then a small laugh escaped him despite himself.
“Sounds like he’s got you figured out.”
“Yup!”
Hyunje beamed, oblivious to how easily he’d just pulled Seongje into conversation.
“Coach Go says if I practice hard, I can be stronger than him someday. But I don’t think so. He’s really, really strong!”
For the rest of the break, the boy kept chattering about his beloved coach—stories about high kicks, sparring practice, even the time he’d scolded the class for not lining up properly.
And though Seongje didn’t usually care for other people’s teaching styles, he found himself listening. Really listening.
By Sunday morning, Hyuntak had already adjusted the class plan. The kids shuffled onto the mats in their doboks, ready for another round of drills, and he caught Park Hyunje among them—still smiling, still a little slower than he’d been months ago, but determined all the same.
“Chamber higher, Hyunje. Don’t get sloppy,” Hyuntak reminded, nudging the boy’s knee up.
“Yes, Coach!” Hyunje replied, voice bright even as sweat dripped down his forehead.
The class ended as usual, students bowing before scattering to the changing rooms. That was when the studio owner appeared again, clapping his hands together with far too much cheer for the early hour.
“Coach Go! Just the man I was looking for.”
Hyuntak straightened, towel draped around his shoulders.
“Sir?”
“We’ve started the expansion plans. Since the back room’s under renovation, your weekend classes will move into the dance hall for the next few months. Mornings for you, afternoons for dance. That way, everyone’s accommodated.”
Hyuntak gave a small nod. Logical enough. Morning classes wrapped before lunch, which meant the dancers had the afternoons to themselves. Still, it meant overlap, and overlap meant distraction.
“Understood,” he said simply.
Across the hall that afternoon, Seongje caught wind of the news too.
“The taekwondo classes are moving in with us?” he asked, brows arching. His tone wasn’t annoyed exactly—more amused, like he already pictured the chaos.
The owner grinned.
“Just for a while. You’ll make it work.”
Seongje huffed a laugh, shaking his head. He thought back to the stone-faced coach who had appeared yesterday, looming in his doorway like some judgmental guardian spirit. Stoic, broad-shouldered, clearly not one for small talk.
Well. This was going to be interesting.
The first overlap happened the next Sunday.
Gotak’s morning class had run long—kids insisting on “one more round,” their laughter and stubborn energy eating away at the clock. By the time he finally dismissed them and set about stacking mats, the sun was already leaning toward noon. He stayed behind, mopping sweat off the floor, shoulders rolling with the weight of routine.
The door opened before he could finish.
Keum Seongje walked in, earlier than his usual call time. Gym bag slung over one shoulder, hair damp from a quick rinse, he stopped short when he saw them. His eyes flicked from Gotak crouched over the mats, to Hyunje balancing a rolled-up belt like a trophy.
“You’re still here?” Seongje asked, voice even, almost too casual.
“Class ran over.”
Gotak muttered, rising to his feet. He didn’t look at Seongje, but his jaw ticked the way it always did when he was holding something back.
Hyunje, oblivious, piped up,
“Teacher Go always forgets the time! We almost trained until lunch!”
Seongje’s lips curved—half amusement, half something sharper.
“Guess punctuality isn’t his strong suit.”
Gotak shot him a look, sharp as the snap of a kick.
“Better late than half-hearted.”
For a second, the air between them held that unspoken charge—too quick for Hyunje to notice, too familiar for either of them to acknowledge out loud.
Hyunje giggled, breaking it.
“Coach Gogo, are you fighting with Coach Jeje already?”
“Not fighting,”
Seongje said smoothly, tugging his bag off his shoulder.
“Just… warming up.”
Gotak rolled his eyes and shoved the last mat into the corner, but his ears burned.
“Mm”
Hyunje said, nodding sagely.
“You two should spar together. I’ll be the referee!”
Gotak froze. Seongje’s mouth twitched, like he was this close to smirking.
“Maybe one day.”
Seongje said, voice low enough that only Gotak could hear the edge beneath it.
The following weekend, routines shuffled.
On Saturday morning, Hyunje’s father came along, standing at the edge of the mats with arms crossed as Hyunje warmed up. He was taller than most of the parents, businesslike in posture, but there was a softness when he waved his son over.
“Ready, champ?” he asked.
“Yes, Dad!”
Go Hyuntak—Coach Gogo to his students—gave a nod of approval as he moved down the line, correcting stances, demonstrating kicks. He caught the way Hyunje’s father lingered, studying carefully, maybe trying to memorize the drills. Sports Day was coming up. Parents wanted their kids to shine.
The hall smelled faintly of resin and sweat, the way it always did after practice. Kids were still scampering around, tugging at their shoelaces, while Seongje crouched down to help Hyunje tie his bag shut.
“Thanks, Coach Jeje!”
Hyunje said, breathless from the last round of practice. His hair was damp, sticking up in stubborn tufts.
“You did well today,”
Seongje replied, adjusting the strap across the boy’s small shoulders.
“Keep working on your balance, and you’ll get even better.”
That was when Hyunje’s mother appeared at the doorway. She had the kind of careful smile parents wore when they were proud but slightly frazzled.
“Hyunje, ready to go?”
“Yes, Mom!”
Hyunje bounded over but stopped short, spinning back toward Seongje with his usual bright grin.
“Mom, Coach Jeje jumps higher than us kids! He showed us!”
His mother laughed softly, bowing politely to Seongje.
“Thank you for teaching him.”
“It’s nothing,”
Seongje said, his tone polite but clipped, almost as if he didn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.
Class ends, kids rushing to parents. Hyunje is happily tugging on his mom’s hand.
“Mom, Coach Jeje jumps higher than all of us!”
Seongje just chuckles, ruffling Hyunje’s hair, modest but secretly pleased.
At the doorway, Gotak arrives—he’s just there to pick up his dobok left behind for repair. He overhears the kid’s words, sees how warmly Seongje is being praised, and something inside him twists.
A flash of competitiveness. A flicker of jealousy.
He’s not the type to dwell, but he feels it.
During the morning session, after drills, he called the kids together. “Watch closely,” he told them. Then, in one fluid move, he launched into a clean, powerful 540 kick—air slicing, foot landing solid against the padded target. The kids’ gasps echoed in the hall. Hyunje’s eyes went huge.
“That’s a superhero move!” the boy shouted, clapping wildly.
Gotak allowed himself the smallest smirk. He hadn’t done that in a while.
After practice, Hyunje’s fathe r approaches him, apologetic but trusting:
“Coach Go, I actually need a big favor. Hyunje has sports day soon. His mom and I are both caught up with work. Could you attend on our behalf?”
Gotak, a little surprised but touched, agrees without hesitation.
“Of course. I’ll be there.”
When Seongje is helping the kids wind down, Hyunje’s mom approaches him privately. She explains the same situation—she and her husband can’t attend.
“Coach Jeje, would you be willing to go to Hyunje’s sports day for us? He looks up to you so much. It’d mean the world.”
And Seongje, without knowing Coach Go already said yes, agrees.
“Alright. I’ll go.”
The next Saturday was quieter—no kicks to prove, no sulking in corners. Gotak stretched lazily by the wall, smirking as Seongje tried to wrangle a row of kids into synchronized movements.
“You call that a straight line?”
Gotak muttered loud enough for him to hear. Seongje shot him a glare over his shoulder.
“I don’t see you helping.”
“I’d rather watch you suffer.”
Gotak grinned, arms crossed.
One of the kids whispered,
“Coach Gogo and Coach Jeje are fighting again,”
And the ripple of giggles that followed only made Seongje’s jaw tighten. He threw back,
“At least I’m not standing there looking useless.”
“Bold words for someone who tripped last week.”
Gotak fired back instantly, smirk widening.
That broke the class into laughter, even Hyunje clutching his stomach as if his coaches were part of some sitcom.
Seongje muttered under his breath, but there was no real bite to it. Gotak only felt lighter, in that strange way bantering with him always did.
Sunday morning, the kids are still buzzing, and Hyunje—excited as always—runs up to Seongje while Gotak is finishing up on the other side of the studio.
“Coach Jeje! Next week’s our sports day! Are you coming?”
Seongje raises a brow.
“Your mom invited me, hyunnie. Of course, I’ll be there.”
Hyunje beams.
“YAY! Coach gogo, too! Dad asked him to come!”
That makes Seongje pause for a second.
“…So he’s going too?”
“Yep!”
Seongje thinks it over, lips twitching like he’s hiding something. Then he leans down just a little, lowering his voice in mock-conspiracy:
“Does Coach Gogo know I’ll be there?”
Hyunje shakes his head.
“No…”
“Good.”
A small smirk.
“Don’t tell him yet. Let’s surprise him.”
“Surprise?”
Hyunje giggles, instantly catching on.
“Okay, I won’t tell!”
Across the room, Gotak glances over, faintly suspicious at their little huddle, but Seongje straightens like nothing happened, just clapping his hands to dismiss class.
The school grounds buzzed with noise—teachers herding kids into lines, parents chatting under the sun, and children in bright-colored jerseys sprinting past.
Gotak adjusted the strap of Hyunje’s water bottle slung across his shoulder, scanning for the class banner.
“Stick close, yeah? Don’t run off.”
“I won’t!”
Hyunje said, already bouncing on his feet.
“But you’ll watch, right? Not just stand at the back?”
“Didn’t drag myself here just to stand like a bodyguard,”
Gotak muttered, though the corner of his mouth tilted. He crouched down, fixing the boy’s headband.
“Go. Have fun. I’ll be here.”
Hyunje grinned and dashed toward his classmates, leaving Gotak to lean against the fence, arms crossed.
He was half-watching the relay setup when a familiar voice cut through the morning noise.
“You look domestic like that.”
Gotak stiffened. Turning, he saw Seongje weaving casually through the crowd, hands shoved in his pockets, like this was his natural habitat when it very much wasn’t.
“You.”
Gotak said flatly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Watching.”
Seongje replied, tone annoyingly easy.
“Didn’t want to miss the show.”
“Hyunje didn’t tell me you were coming.”
Seongje’s smirk curved sharp.
“I told him not to. Wanted to see your face.”
Gotak rolled his eyes, gaze flicking back to the field.
“Congratulations. You succeeded. I’m shocked. Now go home.”
Instead of listening, Seongje stepped up beside him, close enough their shoulders almost brushed.
“Relax, Coach Gogo. Not here to start trouble. Just supporting the kid.”
“You don’t even like kids.”
“I don’t like most people,”
Seongje corrected.
“Hyunje’s tolerable. He reminds me of you. Stubborn. Loud when he shouldn’t be.”
Before Gotak could retort, Hyunje’s voice rang out across the field.
“Coach Jeje!”
The boy waved both arms wildly, as if trying to flag down a helicopter.
“Coach Gogo! Look at me!”
Gotak groaned under his breath.
“He’s too loud.”
Seongje, though, was smiling. Genuine. Almost soft.
“He wanted us both here. Y'know?”
Gotak’s chest tugged, unexpected. He covered it with a scoff.
“Don’t get used to it.”
The announcer called for the obstacle race. Hyunje took his place at the starting line, giving them both a thumbs-up.
“Bet he wins,” Seongje murmured.
“He better,” Gotak said.
“I drilled balance into that kid. If he trips, that’s on him.”
“You’re harsher than me,”
Seongje said, amused.
“Didn’t think it was possible.”
“Don’t compare us.”
“Too late.”
The whistle blew, and Hyunje took off, weaving through hurdles with surprising speed. Both men leaned forward unconsciously—Gotak tense, Seongje oddly intent. When Hyunje crossed the finish line first, arms raised high, his smile shot straight through the crowd and landed squarely on them.
“See that?”
Hyunje shouted.
“Told you I could!”
Gotak clapped once, sharp.
“Good job!”
Seongje lifted his hand in a lazy wave.
“Not bad.”
Hyunje beamed, chest puffed with pride. Then he tilted his head at the two of them.
“You’re both kinda the same, you know. Standing there, looking serious, but your eyes are happy.”
Gotak froze. Seongje’s gaze slid sideways to him, unreadable but too direct.
“…He talks too much.”
Gotak muttered, ears burning.
“Maybe he just notices things you try to ignore.”
Seongje said smoothly, walking closer to pat Hyunje’s sweat.
Before Gotak could snap back, Hyunje’s teacher called for the next game, and the boy ran off again.
Silence settled. Neither moved away.
“You planned this,” Gotak accused finally.
“Maybe,”
Seongje said. His smirk returned, softer this time.
“Worth it.”
Gotak turned away, pretending to track the scoreboard, but his pulse was too loud in his ears.
The whistle blew, marking the end of the kids’ games. Hyunje’s team had won—by a landslide, if you asked him, though anyone else would say it was just a two-point lead. He barely had time to bask in the glory when the announcer’s voice rang out:
“Now it’s the parents’ turn! A friendly match between moms and dads!”
Friendly. Right.
Hyuntak had been stretching his arms lazily, but the moment he saw Seongje rolling his sleeves up, that spark lit in his eyes. He wasn’t about to let “Coach Jeje” outshine him in front of his kid.
“You better not embarrass him,” Seongje muttered under his breath as they lined up.
“Tch. Says the one who trips over his own feet when he tries too hard,” Hyuntak shot back, smirking.
The game started. And if anyone thought it would be a lighthearted run-around, they were sorely mistaken. The two of them played like it was the championship finals—fast passes, sharp calls, light shoves that could almost be considered fouls but weren’t, only because they were both doing it to each other.
By the end, their team had won too, thanks to their ridiculous synergy. It looked less like a school event and more like two professional athletes refusing to let the other win, somehow making everyone else keep up.
Hyunje, of course, wasted no time sprinting across the field, his face glowing with pride.
“Did you see that?!”
He yelled at his friends, chest puffed out.
“Those are my coaches! Coolest ones here! Yours can’t even shoot properly!”
The other kids groaned, some rolling their eyes, others admitting—grudgingly—that yeah, Hyunje’s “coaches” were kind of scary-good.
Hyunje was still buzzing with victory when the event wrapped up. His medal clinked against his chest as he bounced between them, chattering non-stop about the match, about how his team crushed it, and of course, about how no one else’s parents could’ve played like his .
By the time they pulled up in front of his house, Hyunje was practically glowing. “Thanks, Coach Jeje! Thanks, Coach Gogo!” he chirped, hugging both of them like he hadn’t just spent the whole afternoon basking in their competitiveness.
“Go inside before you explode,” Seongje muttered, ruffling his hair.
“Dream about our win, champ,” Hyuntak added, nudging him toward the gate.
Hyunje smirked, sticking his tongue out.
“Don’t fight in the car, okay? You already look like a couple when you’re mad!”
And with that parting shot, he dashed inside, leaving the two of them in stunned silence.
The gate clicked shut.
Hyuntak exhaled, half a laugh, half disbelief.
“...He really said that.”
“Don’t repeat it.”
Seongje warned, sliding back into the driver’s seat with a scowl. But there was a faint red flush at his ears that betrayed him.
The car hummed to life, streetlights beginning to flicker on as they pulled away. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it never really was—but it carried the weight of Hyunje’s words, lingering like static in the air.
“You’re dropping me off too?”
Hyuntak asked after a beat, glancing out the window.
“Unless you want to walk home after playing two matches?”
Seongje replied, eyes fixed on the road. His tone was sharp, but his grip on the wheel was relaxed, almost easy.
“Could’ve just said you wanted me to stay a little longer. Yeah?”
Hyuntak teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Seongje didn’t bite back right away. He let the words hang between them, let the silence stretch until Hyuntak actually turned to look at him—only to catch the faintest curve of a smile tugging at Seongje’s mouth.
“Shut up and let me drive.” he muttered.
Hyuntak leaned back, satisfied, hiding his own grin in the passing glow of streetlights. For all their banter, for all the sharp edges that made them them —this, the quiet ride home after a day spent together, felt like the kind of victory neither of them would admit out loud.
When they pulled up in front of Gotak’s place, the quiet stretched again. The engine hummed low, headlights washing over the familiar door.
Gotak unbuckled slowly, hand on the strap but not moving yet.
“...You didn’t have to drive me all the way. I could’ve just—”
“I wanted to,”
Seongje cut in, steady but soft. His hands tightened just once on the wheel before he finally turned to look at him.
“Besides… you’d walk home after that game? You can barely hide the limp.”
Gotak’s head whipped toward him, scowling.
“I’m not limping.”
“You are,” Seongje said simply.
For a moment, they just sat there—Gotak caught between annoyance and… something else entirely, the kind that made his throat dry.
Finally, he pushed the door open, stepping out into the cool night. He hesitated, one hand on the frame, leaning back in just slightly.
“Don’t make a habit of this.”
Gotak muttered, but his voice came out softer than intended.
Seongje’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Too late.”
Gotak froze, the words sitting heavy in the air. Then, with a sharp exhale that could’ve been a laugh if he let it, he shook his head and shut the door.
Seongje waited until the light over the doorway clicked on and Gotak disappeared inside before pulling away, a faint, stubborn smile tugging at his lips.
The kids had just finished piling off the mats when Hyuntak clapped his hands, calling out,
“Line up properly before you leave, no pushing.”
His voice carried that no-nonsense tone parents loved—steady, respectful. He bowed to the parents lingering near the door.
“Thank you for bringing them today.”
Right on cue, Seongje strolled in from the hallway like he owned the place, casual in a black tee, sweatpants hanging loose.
“Good job, Coach Gogo,”
He announced loudly enough for the parents to hear.
Hyuntak froze, his polite smile twitching.
“…Coach Keum.”
“Coach Gogo”
Seongje repeated smoothly, grin tugging at his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Coach Keum”
Gotak shot back firmly, bowing his head again toward a mom picking up her daughter, trying desperately not to look flustered.
Behind them, Hyunje’s giggle slipped out. He covered his mouth, whispering to the other kid,
“See? They’re doing it again.”
“Coach Gogo”
Seongje said one more time, leaning just slightly closer, low enough that only Gotak could hear the smugness in his voice.
Hyuntak exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his best professional tone:
“Coach Keum, you’re holding up dismissal.”
One parent by the door murmured, “Oh… they must be close.” Another parent, clearly invested, whispered back, “Close? That’s banter. They must’ve known each other a long time.”
Seongje just smirked, like he’d won something, while Gotak pressed his lips into a thin line, muttering under his breath:
“Unbelievable.”
Three weeks later, the dojo smelled faintly of floor polish again, mats fresh from cleaning, and Go Hyuntak could finally breathe. No more crowded schedules, no more ballet moms frowning at bare feet in their precious dance studio. His dojo was his again.
Hyunje and Minyoung were still bouncing from the day’s drills, sweaty but grinning like they’d conquered the world. Hyuntak crouched down, rummaged in the drawer behind the counter, and came back with a packet of mallows.
“Great job today, kids!”
He said, holding one out to each of them.
“You kept your stances sharp until the very end. That’s worth a reward.”
Hyunje puffed his chest like he’d just won nationals, Minyoung’s eyes went wide, and both kids tore into the treats with giggles. Hyuntak allowed himself a small smile. This—this part always made it worth it.
“Wow,”
Came an all-too-familiar drawl from the doorway.
“So the rumors are true. Coach Gogo bribes his students with sugar.”
Hyuntak froze, packet of mallows still in his hand. He turned. And of course—leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place—was Keum Seongje.
“What are you doing inside the dojo?”
Hyuntak asked flatly, rising to his feet.
Seongje straightened, not remotely guilty.
“Picking up my kid. And yours.”
He tipped his chin toward Hyunje and Minyoung, who were now whispering like they’d just spotted a superhero.
“My kids.”
Hyuntak repeated, bristling.
“Since when did they become yours ?”
“Since they both ran to me after class and said ‘Coach Jeje!’ like I was their long-lost savior,”
Seongje said, smug.
“Face it, Coach Gogo. They’re defecting.”
Hyuntak blinked at him, deadpan.
“They’re eight.”
“Old enough to know quality when they see it.”
Before Hyuntak could argue, Seongje’s gaze dropped to the packet in his hand.
“What’s that?”
“Reward,” Hyuntak said.
“For them?”
“Yes. For them .”
Seongje stepped closer, deliberately, voice all mock-innocence.
“And what about me? Didn’t I do a good job picking them up?”
Hyuntak stared.
“…You want a marshmallow.”
Seongje smirked.
“Obviously.”
“You’re a grown man.”
“Who worked very hard,”
Seongje countered smoothly.
“Driving all the way here, making sure your kids—sorry, our kids—get home safe.” He even gestured to himself, palm up, like he was asking for change.
“One mallow. Coach Keum deserves it.”
Hyuntak pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably dedicated, yes.”
The kids were giggling behind them now, whispering to each other about how it looked like their coaches were fighting again. Hyuntak sighed, pulled out one more marshmallow, and shoved it into Seongje’s hand just to shut him up.
“Happy now?”
Seongje unwrapped it immediately, popped it into his mouth, and grinned with infuriating satisfaction.
“Delicious. Better than victory.”
Hyuntak groaned. He was never, ever buying mallows again.
The last day before the Christmas break, the dojo felt emptier than usual. Parents bundled kids out the door with candy canes and tiny gift bags, promising to return after the holidays. Gotak lingered, sweeping stray mitts into the corner, counting the quiet as both relief and loneliness.
“You look like you’re about to cry over a mop.”
Gotak didn’t need to turn to know who it was. He rolled his eyes.
“Coach Keum. Don’t you have your own studio to lock up?”
“I’m just… picking up Hyunje,”
Seongje shrugged, like always, leaning against the doorframe as if it were his second home.
“And Minyoung. My students too, right?”
Gotak shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through the pine-and-plastic snowflakes taped to the windows.
“They’re not your students. You didn’t even give them marshmallows.”
“Exactly why I’m here.”
Seongje took a slow step closer, smirk curling.
“You got any left?”
Gotak actually sputtered.
“They’re for the kids.”
“I’m young at heart”
Seongje said, and before Gotak could chase him out, he was already sliding one from the bag with the kind of audacity that had defined their entire… whatever this was.
Gotak groaned, but didn’t actually stop him.
Maybe that was why, when Seongje casually said, “Coffee?” as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Gotak only hesitated for a beat before saying, “…Fine.”
It started with coffee.
Not even a fancy kind—just the shop across from the dojang, the kind where the tables were always a little sticky and the barista knew Coach Go by name.
One cup stretched into two, into quiet talk about nothing important—bad traffic, parents who were always late, how kids somehow found endless energy while adults burned out after five minutes. Then, somewhere between the bitter last sips and the easy silence that settled after, it didn’t feel like coaches killing time anymore.
It felt… like something else.
And because neither of them mentioned it, they found themselves back there again the next week. And the week after. Sometimes coffee, sometimes ramen, sometimes just walking the long way to the subway together. A small, steady ritual sneaking its way into both their schedules, until December blurred into twinkling lights, carols on repeat, and the quiet knowledge that Christmas was right around the corner—and somehow, they’d be spending it together.
They were walking side by side, the muffled thud of music from the dance studio leaking out behind them, the street quieter now that the last of the kids had been picked up.
Seongje’s shoulder brushed his as if by accident, but the look in his eyes was deliberate.
“Coach Gogo,”
He said lazily, voice dropping into that tone Gotak had learned to brace against.
“All that strength… seems like a waste if you’re not using it to hold someone. Don’t you think?”
Gotak shot him a flat look.
“Coach Keum, are you seriously flirting with me?”
“Is it working?” Seongje asked back, shameless.
Gotak’s lips pressed into a thin line, trying hard not to crack.
“No.”
But then Seongje tilted his head, the grin fading just enough to sound like he meant it.
“Truth is, I feel steadier when you’re the one beside me.”
It was stupid how fast it hit him. His knees actually gave, betraying him before his mouth could, and suddenly Seongje’s hand was around his arm, holding him upright.
For a heartbeat, Seongje didn’t let go. His grip was steady, his smile softer now, and he leaned in just close enough to say—
“Hyunje was right, you know. Coach Gogo is strong. Really strong.”
Gotak cleared his throat, straightening sharply like he could shake off the moment.
“Don’t twist my kid’s words. He meant physically. ”
“Mm,”
Seongje hummed, clearly unconvinced, clearly enjoying how rattled Gotak looked.
“I was talking about the same thing.”
By the time they reached Gotak’s door, the street was hushed, only the hum of a distant motorbike cutting through the night. Gotak fumbled for his keys, painfully aware of Seongje still at his side.
“You didn’t have to walk me home…”
Gotak muttered, more defensive than grateful.
“I wanted to.”
Seongje said simply, hands tucked into his pockets. He leaned against the doorway like he belonged there, gaze steady in a way that made Gotak feel cornered.
Gotak finally unlocked the door, shoving it open with a grunt.
“Fine. You can crash here. Couch is yours.”
“Generous,”
Seongje teased, stepping inside. His voice dropped lower, playful but threaded with something warmer.
“You sure you’re not afraid I’ll take your bed instead?”
Gotak scoffed, kicking off his shoes.
“Try it and I’ll throw you out myself.”
“Mm. Guess I’ll stay here then.”
Seongje’s reply was soft, almost amused, like he didn’t mind losing if it meant being close.
They lingered a second too long in the entryway—close enough that Gotak could feel the heat rolling off him.
Then Seongje leaned in, not rough, not teasing, just… careful. He pressed a fleeting kiss to the corner of Gotak’s mouth, barely there, but enough to make him freeze.
“Goodnight, Coach Gogo,” he murmured.
Gotak’s heart slammed so loud it was ridiculous. He turned away sharply, muttering,
“...Couch. Now.”
But his ears were burning, and Seongje was smiling like he’d just won something, even if neither of them said it out loud.