Work Text:
Choi Seungcheol was halfway through his morning run when the email that would shape the last two months of his year and set his mood for the first six months of the coming year arrived.
The notification came through his smartwatch that buzzed and flashed the time of the day in green neon numbers, slicing through the fog of dawn. 4:45 AM . It was a ridiculous hour to be awake for an average human being, too early even for the sun which was still reluctant to rise.
But he had long accepted that being an athletic trainer wasn’t just about muscles or form, it was about presence and about showing up when nobody else wanted to so that others could point and say, ‘If he can do it, I can too!’ He had made a career out of being reliable and practicing discipline that other people could borrow and make their own. He had been doing this for six years, dragging himself into the streets before light broke, lungs begging for a new owner while he questioned the very meaning of life and his existence.
In another universe, he didn’t care much about his career. But in this one, drenched in sweat, he would smile into his camera, throw a couple of words at the internet and hope to motivate and inspire.
This morning, he angled his phone a little higher than usual. His shirt clung in all the right places, his bicep flexed just enough to show off. He snapped a picture of himself smiling like his bones didn’t feel like jelly and took extra shots of the empty streets stretching before him, the sky bruising pinks and purples and his brand new running shoes from one of the generous sponsors of an athlete he was working with.
Live, love and run, he typed beneath the pictures— cliche and utterly cringe-worthy, but he posted it anyway. He trusted his audience enough to find humor in the words he ripped off tote bags and decorations adorning the many kitchen walls around the world. Instagram swallowed the post into its void and for a bit, Seungcheol watched the comments and likes trickle in slowly.
Satisfied, Seungcheol jogged into the park where he usually cooled down. A handful of other early risers moved quietly through the space. Overhead, birds had already decided the day was theirs, filling the branches with a chorus that sounded far too cheerful for such an hour. He slowed into a walk as his lungs began to steady. It was in that pocket of calm that he finally opened the email.
The subject line blinked up at him, familiar but no less electrifying.
The Tenth Annual Hoop for Hope Charity Classic
Dear Mr. Choi,
We are delighted to invite you once again to join us for this year’s Hoop for Hope Charity Classic to be held at the Grand Arena on December 15, 2025. Your participation over the past five years has not only been a highlight of the event but also inspired countless attendees, players and fans alike. And this year, we are hoping and looking forward to your continued contribution both as a player and as an ambassador of the athletic community.
Other details regarding rosters and teams will be distributed next month together with this year’s jerseys and merchandise should you agree to participate.
Thank you, as always, for lending us your time, skill and spirit.
We await your response eagerly.
Sincerely,
The Hoop for Hope Committee
Seungcheol could already feel it, the swell of noise, the glare of lights and the sneakers thundering against the polished wood. His performance for the past years had been called grand before, though he never quite believed it. He just did his best, ran until his legs burned and shot until his shoulders ached.
To participate in the charity classic had always been a big deal, but this year was slightly more special.
Scrolling further, his eyes caught on the pdf file tucked at the bottom of the email. The committee had chosen their charity recipient— The Wagging Home , an animal shelter in the city’s east end. The very same shelter where, four years ago, Seungcheol had met the wide-eyed Coton de Tulear who barreled into his lap like she had been waiting her entire life for him. Kkuma , his first and last defense against the loneliness that threatened to undo him.
He sent a confirmation email right then and there, thinking about the staff in the shelter, worn thin by too many animals dropped at their doors. He thought about the dogs and the cats and the number of animals that needed love and support. And then he thought about Kkuma and how she wouldn’t have survived without shelter’s love and care.
His chest tightened, a warmth so sudden it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.
This year wasn’t just another game, but was a chance to pay back the place that had given him Kkuma.
Pocketing his phone, he ended his run and walked out of the park after a few rounds. At the corner of a quieter street, an old lady with a fold-out table and a cooler waved at him, her plastic chair groaning as she leaned forward.
“Good morning!” She greeted brightly, fishing out a cold bottle of water with a wide smile like she always did every morning.
“Good morning, halmeoni!” He exclaimed, charmed by how wide her smile was despite missing a few teeth. The sight alone had made the morning warmer and he couldn’t help but add a few more coins onto her palms before taking the bottle and bowing politely. “Have a great day ahead!”
Moments like this always tugged at him. He thought of the charity classic two years back, when the committee had funneled their proceeds into a local home for the aged. He had gone to visit after, half-expecting it to be another handshake-and-smile obligation. Instead, he had left hours later with his hair mussed from too many pats and his stomach aching from laughter at stories that slipped between gummy smiles.
It struck him then, and again now as the grandmother waved him off with a grin, that his city didn’t just need athletes to cheer for. It needed hands that reached back and feet that walked toward rather than away. Somewhere along the years, without meaning to, Seungcheol had become more than a trainer and a player. He had become part of the heartbeat of the community.
And strangely, it never felt like duty.
It felt like joy, the kind that filled him up and left him spilling over, eager to do whatever he could, however small.
The water slid down his throat in grateful gulps, the bottle crinkling in his hand as he continued toward his next destination. The coffee shop sat a few blocks away, its windows already glowing warm and inviting, as though it had woken up just for him. He ordered his usual, an iced americano and a loaded omelet, and then, a snickerdoodle latte with an extra shot of espresso and an additional pump of caramel with the largest chocolate muffin on display.
With his breakfast haul secured, he began the walk home. The streets were brighter now, the sun coaxing warmth from the pavement and lifting the chill out of the air. Seungcheol inhaled deeply, savoring the quiet sweetness of morning, and let his mind drift toward the charity classic.
Each player was allowed two invitations for the courtside seats, two golden tickets in a sea of cheering faces. For Seungcheol, one spot had long been reserved for Kkuma. She wasn’t much of a basketball fan, but she looked excellent in a tiny jersey.
The second seat had rotated over the years like a crown passed from hand to hand. The first year, it had gone to his mother, who clapped so fiercely her palms were red by the end of the night. The next, his father, who wore a proud gleam beneath his furrowed brows. Then his older brother, whose teasing after the game was merciless but whose hug had been so crushing tight, it was worth every jab.
One year, he even brought his best friend, Kim Mingyu, who managed to be louder than the entire cheering section combined. The other man had spent the game hollering strategy from the sidelines as though Seungcheol was deaf and the coaches incompetent. But later, over celebratory burgers, his eyes were misty with unshed tears of joy.
They were his constants, these people, the ones who shaped him and kept molding him still. When the lights were blinding and the noise was deafening, he only had to glance at the courtside seats to anchor himself to the present and well, get his head in the game.
By the time his building came into view, the thought had knotted itself firmly in his mind. He had to bring the right person this year, too. He considered, briefly, the lineup of people he hadn’t yet brought. Each name came with its own set of pros and cons. His cousin, maybe, except he would spend the whole game filming himself for social media. His favorite college professor, though he might just nap through the fourth quarter. Even some of his trainees, whose dedication he admired, but he worried the pressure of sitting there might feel less like a gift and more like a test.
Turning it over in his head, Seungcheol reached his apartment, shifted the breakfast haul in one arm and unlocked the front door.
Inside, the scene that greeted him by the living room was chaos masquerading as domesticity.
On the living room floor was Yoon Jeonghan, his boyfriend, still in pajamas with hair sticking up in odd, inventive directions. Half of his tongue was poked out as he rolled dramatically across the rug, from left to right and then right to left, in front of a thoroughly unimpressed Kkuma, who looked very much like she wished she were anywhere else.
Seungcheol froze, the breakfast tray still balanced precariously in one hand.
Jeonghan was a vision of ridiculousness. The other man was silly and absurd and so unabashedly him that Seungcheol felt something in his chest twist, a familiar ache of fondness that had no cure. He could never decide if Jeonghan was the most ludicrous person alive or the most beautiful— somehow, impossibly, he was both.
Seungcheol had no clue what kind of ritual or performance piece he had just walked in on, all he knew was that, without thinking, the words burst out of him; loud and firm and somber. “Yoon Jeonghan, if you don’t reserve your December fifteenth for me, we might as well just break up.”
There were moments in Seungcheol’s life when he thought of inventing new sins just to account for how badly he wanted Jeonghan— the old ones in the Bible didn’t seem to cover it. Lust was too narrow and coveting was too mild. What he felt was complicated, messier and far more blasphemous. He always had the urge to kneel at an altar adorned by pictures of Jeonghan and confess every filthy thought he had whenever the other man leaned across the table and a sliver of his chest would show from his awfully loose shirts.
Sometimes he wondered if God created Yoon Jeonghan to specifically damn and send him to his inevitable doom.
Because Jeonghan wasn’t just beautiful in the obvious way people were born with and couldn’t help. He was ravishing in ways that had Seungcheol double-checking the spelling of the words gorgeous and sumptuous before commenting them under his boyfriend’s selfies on Instagram. Even the way the other man’s hair fizzed when the sun baked too hot was endearing in Seungcheol’s eyes, and don’t even get him started at the way he couldn’t get enough of Jeonghan’s scent after a particularly long day in the garden, or after a night of reckless mouths and tangled sheets when his boyfriend smelled like sweat and sin.
Jeonghan was the type of person who would change the trajectory of someone’s life, and Seungcheol was a willing victim.
He used to pride himself on not being much of a phone person. Before Jeonghan, his device was mostly for training schedules, reminding his family about a relative’s birthday and as everyone already knew, motivating people through pictures and carefully-chosen words of inspiration. But then, Jeonghan came to his life, loud and bright and impossible to ignore.
Now, if he wasn’t running or working, Seungcheol was glued to his screen, grinning like a fool while his thumbs moved to compose a reply as if it was a matter of life and death. He couldn’t quite bear it, leaving Jeonghan unanswered in fear of making the other man feel as if he was unheard and unseen. It was ridiculous how he would reply diligently to every message— a stray dog Jeonghan spotted on the street, a barista pouring regular coffee into decaffeinated order, a long-winded rant about Jisoo being an unrepented bitch.
In simpler terms, Jeonghan was a lovely human being.
The loveliest, really.
Which was why he didn’t quite understand what was happening now, why his friends, the people assigned to his team were suddenly crowding him at center court after their first practice for the Hoop for Hope game.
Practice had been a joy in the purest sense of the word. The squeak of sneakers on the hardwood, the rhythm of passes snapping sharp through the air, the rush of a fast break pounding through his blood. It had been far too long since Seungcheol lost himself in a game like that and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it until the laughter started echoing across the court, no scoreboard looming overhead to ruin the fun just yet.
And then there was Jeonghan, who he couldn’t not bring along. He was sitting in the bleachers, giggling with the other people brought along by the other players. His hand brushed someone’s arm as though they had known each other for years instead of an hour. The other man had been shy the first few minutes they stepped inside the gymnasium and Seungcheol had to assure him he didn’t need to mingle if he didn’t want to. But people gravitated toward him and now, he shone so brightly as he waved his hands around while animatedly talking about something.
“Are you sure you’re going to make him sit courtside for the game?” Wen Junhui, one of his teammates asked. There was an odd note of caution in his voice and clear worry marring his usually smiling face. His words hung in the air, the edges sharp around the vague shape of it that Seungcheol had to pause before answering, blinking at the strange question.
“Yes,” he answered, of course he was sure. “Who else would I bring?”
Jun’s brow lifted, mouth quirking like there was more he wanted to say. But instead he just clapped Seungcheol on the back and muttered something under his breath that the others seemed to agree with. A ripple of low grumbles followed, affectionate but strange, like a joke he hadn’t been let in on. Seungcheol was confused, but before he could ask, the moment was already breaking apart, players scattering toward showers, water bottles and towels.
He shook it off.
Whatever that was could wait.
After showering, Seungcheol found Jeonghan again surrounded by a new flock. This time, it was a group of volunteers who were hanging onto his every word. He could only smile, bowing politely to everyone before tugging his boyfriend away before he could launch into another topic.
They decided to walk home instead of flagging a taxi since Seungcheol needed to cool down. It was already late at night but the sidewalks were still busy enough to keep everything lively. Jeonghan fussed over him as if the universe would collapse if he wasn’t sure that Seungcheol had properly dried himself. The other man dabbed at his back with a towel, scolding under his breath when he noticed that his hair was still wet at the tips. Jeonghan tsked, reaching up to muss it with another towel until he was satisfied.
“Honestly, Cheollie! You’re not twenty anymore. You can’t just let yourself air-dry and expect not to get a cold the next day,” Jeonghan chided, leaving a towel under Seungcheol’s shirt before snatching the gym bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m going to carry this—”
“Absolutely not—”
“You’re incapable of saying no to me, don’t even think about making an attempt now,” Jeonghan warned, the strap already secured across his shoulder. “You carried your team and you made me so proud. Now, I’m going to carry your bag and allow you to look at me with those adorable cow eyes of yours.”
Seungcheol could only laugh, helpless against the tide of affection that kept rising in his chest. Jeonghan yapped happily all the way down the street, recounting the practice from his perspective. He even imitated one of the players who had missed a shot, laughter tripping out of him. And Seungcheol just listened, eyes soft, utterly smitten.
“Hey, can we stop by the mall?” Jeonghan asked, tugging lightly at Seungcheol’s hand when they reached the first intersection.
“Why?” He lifted a brow, thumb brushing against Jeonghan’s knuckles in an unconscious rhythm.
“Because it’s already late and if we cook, we’ll probably pass out before the rice is even done.” Jeonghan leaned close, a small smile playing on his lips. His tone was playful as though the decision was both obvious and absolute. Heck, they were already headed to the direction of the mall instead of his apartment. “Let’s just get takeout!”
Now, Seungcheol had something to say against mall food, but as established already, he couldn’t actually say no to Jeonghan. So, the twenty-minute walk stretched before them, but neither of them noticed the time. Each step was softened by the stolen kisses pressed into temples and cheeks, by the sneaky pinches Jeonghan dealt when Seungcheol wasn’t paying attention, only to be pulled back into his chest a heartbeat later.
The mall was quiet when they arrived, most of its usual bustle calmed by the late hour. The neon signs reflected against polished floors, fountains gurgled lazily and the air-conditioning wrapped them in cool relief. Jeonghan slipped his hand out of Seungcheol’s the second they stepped in, spun on his heel and gave him a grin that was just this side of mischievous.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Jeonghan said, tapping Seungcheol’s chest with one finger. “You get us food. I’m going to grab something else.”
“Something else?” He asked, head tilted to the side.
“Don’t worry about it.” Jeonghan was already stepping back, unstoppable. “Meet me at the fountain once you’re done. I’ll be quick.”
Before Seungcheol could reach out and pull him back, Jeonghan skipped away, humming under his breath and leaving Seungcheol standing under the mall’s artificial glow, shaking his head and already smiling despite himself.
He didn’t find out what Jeonghan had purchased until the following morning when he returned from his jog to the sight of his boyfriend, neck flushed and hair a mess. His skin was positively dusted in glitter and his cheeks were covered in an assortment of stickers. He was holding a banner high above his head in triumph, though the sight was slightly ruined by Kkuma, who sat in front of the other man, looking like she was one second away from actually sinking her teeth into the fleshiest part of Jeonghan’s thigh.
“Don’t you dare,” Jeonghan warned the dog, his smile melting into a pout as if it truly saddened him that Kkuma didn’t appreciate his efforts. Sensing another presence in the room, he turned around and Seungcheol’s chest tightened as he read what his boyfriend had written on the banner: I believe in Choi Seungcheol. “There’s my MVP.”
If someone asked Seungcheol why his skin was glistening with specks of glitters that day, he wasn’t going to act coy and instead, tell them, with his whole chest, that he fucked Yoon Jeonghan over that damn banner until they were both feeling like jelly.
Later on, over steaming bowls of stew in their favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant, Mingyu raised his eyebrows when Seungcheol finally mentioned the incident.
“He’s already in their group chat!” He exclaimed, chuckling under his breath as he dragged his spoon lazily through the surface of his broth. “He’s coordinating with them and planning little things to make practice more fun and engaging. Gyu, he woke up early today to make me a banner.”
“Of course he was.” Mingyu laughed a little too loudly, the old man at the next table giving them a side-eye. “What were you expecting?”
“Exactly this,” he breathed out, chewing on his bottom lip as he thought about the next practice happening this coming week. “Jeonghan has always been… the center of attention and he’s not shy expressing himself, too, once he’s comfortable. Everyone likes him… but, I don’t know. Some of the guys are a little wary when I told them Jeonghan’s sitting with Kkuma.”
“I don’t blame them, I was surprised, too, when you said you’re bringing your boyfriend,” Mingyu murmured, minding the volume of his voice now as he leaned on the table. Seungcheol blinked, a crease forming between his brows. “Man, this is a huge event. People will take pictures and said pictures will be on the internet and the tabloids. If you and Jeonghan break up—”
“We’re not going to break up, though? What kind of—”
“All I’m saying is that people tend to bring someone permanent in events like these,” Mingyu supplied, putting his hands up in defense. “You know how much Jun regretted bringing his boyfriend the other year— remember? He had to pay people to edit the man out of the pictures. I guess he… well, we just know how important this charity classic is to you. When the time comes that—”
“It’s never going to come,” he said, not even entertaining the thought because he couldn’t and he refused to allow himself to drown in its possibility. “I get that you’re all looking out for me, but have some faith in my relationship with him.”
“I hear you and I’m sorry,” Mingyu expressed, reaching out to squeeze his hand apologetically. “But can Jeonghan even sit that close to Kkuma without getting bitten? Last I checked, she’s still angry from being dognapped by him.”
“He’s… Jeonghan’s working on it,” he muttered, nearly folding in on himself at the thought. He just realized then that Jeonghan was probably rolling over on the floor with his tongue out like some penitent fool, trying to win her heart. Not a day had gone by since they started dating when Jeonghan hadn’t made a spectacle of himself in front of Kkuma, who responded only with a blank stare before walking away, leaving Jeonghan pouting and Seungcheol doubled over in laughter— oh God, he laughed.
Seungcheol laughed and Jeonghan was probably so heartbroken from the rejection.
“Are you okay—”
Seungcheol was hauling his ass out of the restaurant even before Mingyu could finish speaking, barging in Jeonghan’s apartment without any preamble and cooking his boyfriend a full-course meal for dinner, complete with chocolate and wine. When asked what the fuss was all about, Seungcheol just whimpered on the crook of the other man’s neck, then worshipped his body until their joints ached and the neighbors complained.
Seungcheol knew the exact moment it happened, when the dull throb in his ankle sharpened into a tearing sting, forcing his weight to buckle beneath him. The court’s wooden floor tilted and before he could curse, he was already sitting on the sidelines with his shoe off, pulse hammering in his ears.
Sprains carried the kind of pain that made anyone scream but the sort that chewed at you, biting and twisting, daring you to move just so it could bite again. His ankle pulsed hot and all he could do was drown himself in the thought that this was the last practice before the charity classic, he just needed to get through this pain and all would be well again.
He leaned back and breathed through it, allowing himself to disassociate for a bit to keep himself from dwelling on the ache.
The past few months had been a whirlwind of running drills and late-night games of basketball— bruises that faded but never quite disappeared, sweat-soaked shirts and vibrant energy drinks of varying flavors. Between the good and the bad, Jeonghan had been a constant, staining every corner of Hoop for Hope with his colors; banners taped in the locker room, stickers stuck on water bottles and ridiculous chants echoing in the gymnasium. Jeonghan’s sincerity had made the team groan and smile and laugh, even Jun had warmed up and carried Jeonghan’s cheer somewhere in his chest.
Eyes closed, he clenched his jaw when hands reached for his ankle. The first press made him wince, a hiss, then there was the firm, practiced touch of someone steady. He could feel the careful probing along the bone as he forced himself to think about Jeonghan again. His boyfriend who spent a quarter of his day humbling himself before Kkuma. The other man had bought toys and snacks, cooing praises with his cheek pressed to the floor as he donned the sincerest, round eyes. And in return, Kkuma had stopped shooting daggers at him to tolerating his existence, even sitting within a foot from Jeonghan now.
Progress , Seungcheol thought wryly, recalling the way Jeonghan’s face lit up when Kkuma ate a treat directly from his palm.
The roll of tape was pulled snug around his joint and the movement dragged him out of his thoughts. Pain lanced then dulled under the pressure of the wrap. He let himself sink into it, head tilted back as he formed words of thanks for the person who assisted him. But when he opened his eyes, he didn’t find a volunteer nor a teammate. There, by his feet, was Jeonghan, crouching with his hair falling over his eyes as nimble and sure fingers tied off the last bit of tape.
The world seemed to tilt again, but not because of the pain.
Kkuma sat loyally by his side, eyes fixed on Jeonghan, too, not wary and not annoyed, but reverent, like she was staring at someone who had saved a life. The same look Seungcheol felt pulling at his own face before he even realized he was wearing it.
Seungcheol still thought about that moment— even when the final whistle blew and the world around his erupted. The scoreboard above glared their victory, the stands roared and before he knew what was happening, confetti rained down on him, sticking to his hair and his skin. His teammates crushed him into suffocating embraces, their voices ringing in his ears as they lifted him off the ground, shouting and laughing all at once.
It should’ve been the brightest blur of his life, this culmination of weeks of grueling practice and drills and the sprain that nearly kept him off the court. Yet all of it folded in on itself, hazy and weightless, because all Seungcheol could think about was Jeonghan, who had signed himself up for first aid classes because, he said, Seungcheol might need the help one day and he didn’t want to just stand there watching.
He stumbled through interviews here and there with different microphones shoved in his face. He smiled when asked about the win, thanked his teammates and tried to string together words about teamwork and resilience. But his mind wandered, always, back to the courtside where Jeonghan was wearing a jersey with Seungcheol’s name on the back, cheering so loudly with Kkuma perched on his lap because finally the princess had thawed and finally moved on from being snatched from the streets.
And even now, even as the celebration surged on, every time Seungcheol’s gaze drifted, Jeonghan was there. The man was never in the center of the chaos, not basking in the triumph. But he was on the edge of it all, always at the sidelines, watching and smiling. Jeonghan held Kkuma close to his chest, scratching by her ears and murmuring sweet nothings against her fur.
The confetti kept falling and the lights kept glaring. All around, the crowd pressed together and Seungcheol was pulled for photographs and Jeonghan continued grinning and waving by the courtside, waiting and taking root away from the flashes like he and Kkuma weren’t the most important part of his life. And when the team was gathered and the people they invited were grouped for a picture, Seungcheol swallowed thickly at how Jeonghan skipped toward him, kissed his cheek and deposited Kkuma in his arms before waddling at the side, already raising peace signs like he couldn’t sense Seungcheol’s turmoil.
Seungcheol’s eyes scanned the endless sea of faces blurred by the adrenaline. His teammates were laughing, hoisting the trophy, someone had already started chanting for an encore picture, but his gaze snagged on Mingyu, who was leaning against the rail, eyes watery and his mouth tugged down in a pout. He followed his best friend’s line of sight— down, past the cluster of cheering fans, to where Jeonghan was standing.
Of course.
Jeonghan had made himself small and scarce, easy to edit out. In Seungcheol’s jersey with confetti tangled in his hair, he stood as far away from the center. The other man was not quiet, he grinned and chuckled and joked with the players and the others guests, but he stood so far away like he wasn’t the reason half of this even felt worth celebrating.
Something in Seungcheol’s chest lurched, heart aching as Kkuma whimpered against his chest like she, too, wanted Jeonghan near.
The arena howled around them, camera flashes went off like fireworks and Seungcheol’s voice cut clean through it all— loud and sure. He lifted a hand, pointing straight at Jeonghan who blinked, the people surrounding them grinning knowingly.
“Sir!” He called, locking eyes with the official photographer in front. His throat tightened but his grin broke through anyway. “That is my emotional support lunatic and I want him beside me.”
The laughter that erupted was immediate, booming and joyous. Teammates clapped his back, the photographer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and Jeonghan looked like he had been struck, like someone had pulled the floor out from under him, his mouth parting in disbelief as the crowd around him turned to usher him forward.
Seungcheol stood there, waiting for the love of his life.
The following morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, pooling across the sheets where Jeonghan sat. His hair was still mussed from sleep, his shirt slouched off one shoulder and in his hands was a folded newspaper that still smelled of fresh ink. On the front page was a wide-angle shot of the Hoop for Hope champions. But what stole everyone’s attention wasn’t the trophy the actual size of a child, but the captain in the middle, posing with a fluffy white dog as he kissed the man beside him on the cheek.
Seungcheol leaned against the doorway, just watching Jeonghan. He hadn’t even had his coffee yet, but the sight in front of him made his chest ache with something far stronger than caffeine. His boyfriend’s eyes were misty, his smile small and bright.
“You’re staring,” Jeonghan murmured without looking up, his voice fragile with sleep and the edges of last night’s emotions.
“I am,” he breathed out, padding over then easing himself down the bed. Seungcheol hooked his chin on Jeonghan’s shoulder. “Can you blame me? You’re the loveliest person I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”
Jeonghan huffed, rolling his eyes, though his grip on the paper tightened. Seungcheol slipped a hand around his boyfriend’s waist, tugging him closer. And after a beat of silence, he spoke. “If the time ever comes… that we separate for whatever reason— not that I’d ever allow it. Unless, of course, you decided you didn’t want us anymore.”
The other man tilted his head, meeting his watery gaze. Seungcheol smiled, his voice wavering a little. “If that time comes, I’ll still remember this year’s Hoop for Hope. Because it’s the time you loved me so fiercely and cared for me so openly. That means everything to me, Hannie.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Jeonghan whispered, throat working as he set the newspaper aside to climb into Seungcheol’s lap. He pressed his forehead against his boyfriend’s, arms tight around his neck.
“Only because you make me,” he retorted, pressing kisses on Jeonghan’s face as Kkuma hopped onto the bed, staring at the newspaper, front page face-up, immortalizing his owner and his lunatic.
Seungcheol reached for his phone from the nightstand when Jeonghan started swatting at him, thumb already swiping it awake as his boyfriend groaned, knowing what was coming.
“Kkuma, come here,” he coaxed, patting Jeonghan’s thigh. Loyal as ever, the dog leapt onto Jeonghan’s lap, circling once before settling against him like she wasn’t just planning on making Jeonghan her chew toy some weeks ago. Jeonghan cradled her, cheek brushing against her fur.
Seungcheol stretched his arm, angling the phone until the three of them appeared on the screen— Jeonghan half-laughing, half-hiding behind Kkuma, Seungcheol grinning like an idiot and Kkuma staring solemnly at the camera, trained to be pretty.
Click.
The photo slid into his gallery, but Seungcheol didn’t stop there. His fingers moved fast, almost instinctively. He typed in the caption, grinning to himself as Jeonghan peeked curiously at the screen.
My princess, and oh, there's @yoon.jeonghan, too.
“Insufferable,” Jeonghan whispered, scrambling away from Seungcheol as he sported an exaggerated pout. He held Kkuma close, grumbling under his breath as if she could understand his winded ramble about boys and their stupid, stupid , humor. “Come, Kkuma! Let's leave this dork alone and get manicures!”
“I'm coming whether you like it or not!” He exclaimed, chuckling as he stared at his Instagram account which was as predictable as it was meticulously curated. There were rows of pavements during his early morning runs, his sneakers angled against the asphalt, protein shakes and water bottles; sponsored posts for athletic gear and gym equipment. It was a feed built to inspire, a digital shrine to discipline and sweat.
But tucked in between was Jeonghan, soft and unfiltered. Jeonghan in Seungcheol’s hoodie, hair tangled from sleep; Jeonghan mid-laugh on the bleachers, cheeks pink from the cold, Seungcheol’s jacket draped over his shoulders; Jeonghan’s hand barely visible in selfies of their clasped fingers.
And if anyone ever bothered to scroll far enough, they would stumble upon Jeonghan’s very first appearance on Seungcheol’s profile. Six months back, sun-soaked in the middle of Cheongdo’s summer festival, a photo strip captured in shaky resolution— Jeonghan looking at Seungcheol with wide eyes in the first frame, them leaning in the second, their lips brushing in the third and by the last square, they were kissing, full and unrestrained.