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Hyuntak never really understood why Wooyoung insisted on bringing him along to every training.
The gym reeked of sweat, chalk, and something metallic that clung to the back of his throat. Fighters shouted, gloves smacked against pads, the ring bell cut through the air every few minutes. Hyuntak sat on the worn leather benches, knees drawn close, watching Wooyoung disappear into another round.
He told himself he was used to it by now. The rhythm of waiting, of watching. The role of the quiet shadow cheering from the sidelines.
Until the day his eyes met someone else’s across the gym.
Keum Seongje.
Four-eyed, sharp-jawed, detached in a way that made the whole room bend around him. He was leaning against the ropes of the adjacent ring, taping his wrists with slow precision, eyes hidden behind those glasses that no one else could ever pull off. But the second Hyuntak glanced at him—just glanced—he realized the man was already looking back.
Not just looking. Watching.
Hyuntak froze, pulse stuttering. He told himself it meant nothing. Fighters had this way of sizing people up, even strangers. But when Seongje smirked, slow and deliberate, like he’d just found something he wasn’t supposed to touch but would anyway—Hyuntak felt the ground tilt.
Later, when Wooyoung waved him over to introduce him to the rest of the gym, Hyuntak understood the warning in every whispered story he’d heard about Keum Seongje. The kind of man you were told to avoid. A fighter too sharp, too cold, too dangerous.
But danger had never looked at him like that before.
It had been almost two weeks since Wooyoung first pulled him across the mats, sweaty and grinning, to introduce him to the rest of the gym.
“Hyuntak,”
Wooyoung had said, hand warm and heavy on his back.
“My boyfriend.”
He’d looked so proud, almost smug about it.
“You’ll probably see him around a lot.”
Hyuntak had bowed politely, smiled when needed, and let himself fade into the background as usual. He remembered the faces, but one in particular had burned itself into his memory without permission. The fighter with glasses. Keum Seongje.
He hadn’t expected to see him again so soon.
Yet here he was, second meeting, and Seongje was still looking at him like he was an answer to a question no one else had asked.
Wooyoung was already deep into his drills, focused and shouting back at his coach. Hyuntak sat on the benches, chin tucked into his hoodie. He tapped absently at his phone, trying to look busy, but when he looked up, Seongje was right there—across the gym, perched on the edge of the ring, hands busy with wrist tape.
That same unhurried care. That same sharp profile under buzzing fluorescent lights.
And those eyes, behind the frames, locked onto him.
It should’ve unnerved him. The way Seongje didn’t flinch when caught staring, didn’t bother to look away. Instead, he smirked faintly, as if he knew Hyuntak remembered him, as if he knew Hyuntak had been replaying that first meeting in his head, even when he told himself not to.
Hyuntak’s grip on his phone tightened.
He should avoid him. Everyone said so. Wooyoung himself had laughed it off once—Don’t talk too much with Seongje, babe. Guy’s an asshole.
And yet, when Seongje rose from his spot, stretching his shoulders, making his way across the gym like he had nowhere else better to be—Hyuntak found he couldn’t look away either.
The third time it happened, Hyuntak wasn’t even looking for him.
He’d been sitting on the same bench, hoodie tugged low, half-watching Wooyoung spar in the ring. His phone buzzed once, then again, until the third vibration had his chest tightening. One glance at the screen and all the air left his lungs.
Emergency.
He didn’t even stop to think. Hoodie half-zipped, bag slung over one shoulder, he was already on his feet and pushing through the exit doors. His thumbs moved quick, clumsy, typing out a text to Wooyoung even as his breath came shallow.
>> Going to the hospital. Don’t worry, I’ll update you.
He knew better than to call out, to break Wooyoung’s rhythm mid-training. Once Wooyoung was in the zone, nothing reached him. That was just who he was—single-minded, focused, consumed.
Hyuntak had learned to adapt.
He almost didn’t notice the figure crouched outside by the parking lot, sleeves pushed up, grease on his knuckles as he leaned over a motorbike. Not until that voice called out, low and steady—
“You’re shaking.”
Hyuntak stopped short, chest still tight, and found himself staring at Keum Seongje.
The glasses. The sharp gaze. The faint smirk that wasn’t there this time, replaced by something else—an unreadable kind of concern that made Hyuntak’s skin prickle.
“Emergency?”
Seongje asked, eyes flicking to the way Hyuntak’s hands trembled around his phone.
Hyuntak swallowed hard, words catching in his throat. He hated that Seongje noticed. Hated more that part of him felt…relieved.
Because Wooyoung was inside, locked in his world. And Seongje was right here, seeing him.
Hyuntak fumbled with his phone, half-ready to call a cab, half-considering running on foot just to get moving. His head was buzzing too loud to think straight.
“Where?”
The voice cut clean through the static.
Hyuntak looked up. Seongje was standing now, one hand braced against the handlebar of his motorbike, the other casually slipping into his jacket pocket. Like the offer was obvious. Like it didn’t need explanation.
“I’ll take you.”
Hyuntak’s first instinct was to shake his head.
“No, it’s fine—I’ll manage.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
Seongje tilted his head, gaze sweeping over him, unflinching.
“You won’t. You’re already late.”
Hyuntak’s lips parted, but nothing came out. The panic clawing up his throat made it impossible to argue. His phone buzzed again in his hand, and that was what broke him—he didn’t have time for pride or politeness or to keep proving how well he could endure.
For once, he didn’t want to endure. He just wanted to get there.
“...Please.”
He whispered, the word foreign on his tongue.
Seongje didn’t smirk this time. He just handed him the spare helmet like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hold on.”
The motorbike roared to life, and Hyuntak gripped tight around Seongje’s waist, the world blurring past in streaks of neon and asphalt. Wind stung his eyes, but he couldn’t tell if the wetness gathering there was from speed or something else.
He thought of all the times he’d sat on benches, waiting. All the times he’d given, adapted, bent himself around someone else’s fire.
And now—without asking, without even daring to hope—someone was carrying him forward.
He deserved this, didn’t he? To be seen. To receive.
The thought felt dangerous. It felt like betrayal.
But the steady warmth of Seongje’s back beneath his arms told him it was true.
The hospital smell clung to him even after the ride back home—sterile, sharp, too clean for the mess inside his chest. He’d texted updates, made the calls, done everything he could. Still, his hands hadn’t stopped trembling until much later, when Seongje’s bike had slowed to a stop outside the gates of the hospital.
“You don’t have to wait.”
Hyuntak had said, fumbling with the helmet.
“I know.”
Seongje’s voice was low, unbothered. But he leaned against his bike anyway, pulling out his phone, lingering like he had all the time in the world.
Hyuntak hadn’t known what to do with that. With being given time. With being given, period.
Now, lying flat on his bed, hoodie still zipped, he stared at the ceiling and let the thought replay in endless loops. The way Seongje hadn’t asked anything from him. The way the warmth of his back had felt against Hyuntak’s arms when the world was rushing past.
He deserved this, didn’t he? To receive.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, too dangerous to hold for long.
That was when the sound of keys clinking against the counter jolted him back.
“Babe?”
Wooyoung’s voice filled the small apartment, steady and warm, carrying the weight of someone who belonged here.
Hyuntak sat up, forcing the daze from his eyes.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
Wooyoung appeared in the doorway, still damp from a shower at the gym, hair sticking to his forehead. He looked tired, but he smiled anyway, and for a moment Hyuntak felt guilty for wishing that smile had been here earlier.
“You okay? Got your text—hospital?”
Wooyoung crossed the room in a few strides, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand already cupping Hyuntak’s jaw.
“What happened?”
Hyuntak opened his mouth, ready to explain, but Wooyoung didn’t wait. His lips pressed against his before the words could leave.
The kiss was eager, practiced, almost desperate. A make-up for absence. A reassurance that he was here now, even if he hadn’t been then.
Hyuntak let him, eyes fluttering shut, but his chest felt hollow. His body remembered how to give, how to adapt, how to fit into Wooyoung’s rhythm. But his mind—his mind was still clinging to the echo of wind against his face, the weight of a spare helmet in his hands, and the simple truth that someone had seen him shaking and reached for him first.
Wooyoung’s mouth moved insistently against his, but Hyuntak pulled back, palms flat against his chest.
“I… I’m not really in the mood,” he murmured.
Wooyoung blinked, confusion flickering before he exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging. He didn’t push. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Hyuntak and pulled him close, tucking his chin into the crook of his neck.
“It’s okay,”
Wooyoung said quietly, breath warm against his skin.
“Everything’s going to be fine.”
Hyuntak closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the embrace even as guilt gnawed at his ribs. Wooyoung wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t careless. He was just—consumed by something Hyuntak could never compete with.
“You know what else?”
Wooyoung pulled back just enough to look at him, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I’ve got a match this weekend. You’re coming with me, right?”
Hyuntak blinked.
“Of course. Who are you fighting?”
“Keum Seongje,”
Wooyoung said easily, as if it were nothing.
“Well—it’s just a practice match. Exhibition, really. But people are hyped. Me, him, and Suho—we’re probably the top names in the gym right now.”
The words landed like a punch to Hyuntak’s gut.
Seongje.
Of course. The universe had to be cruel like that.
He forced a small nod, his throat tight.
“That’s… good. People must be excited.”
Wooyoung kissed the top of his head before collapsing back against the pillows, already rambling about training schedules and sparring strategies.
Hyuntak stared at the ceiling, wishing he could melt into it, disappear before the weekend came and forced him to watch the two men in his life collide head-on.
The gym was packed tighter than usual, the smell of sweat and adrenaline hanging heavy in the air. Voices rose in waves—cheers, bets, the sharp clang of the round bell.
Hyuntak sat near the front, hoodie pulled low, hands clasped in his lap. Beside him, Wooyoung bounced lightly on his feet inside the ring, shaking his arms loose, every inch of him locked in focus.
Practice match, he’d said. Exhibition. Just a game.
But when Seongje climbed through the ropes, the crowd’s energy shifted. He adjusted his glasses casually before handing them off to his coach, calm in a way that made everyone else look frantic. His gaze swept across the audience like it was part of his warm-up.
It stopped when it found Hyuntak.
Hyuntak’s breath caught.
The noise of the gym dulled, fading into a muffled hum. For a beat too long, Seongje just stared at him, unreadable and steady, before rolling his shoulders and stepping into position opposite Wooyoung.
The bell rang.
The first round was a storm of movement—Wooyoung charging forward, Seongje deflecting with precision that looked almost lazy. Every strike, every dodge, every clash of fists echoed through Hyuntak’s bones.
He should’ve been watching Wooyoung. That was his job, wasn’t it? To cheer, to support, to exist on the sidelines for him.
But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Seongje. From the way he moved like water, unhurried but unshakable, as if Wooyoung’s blows barely registered. From the way, even mid-fight, his gaze flicked to Hyuntak again, sharp and deliberate, like a secret only they shared.
Hyuntak’s stomach twisted.
He’d been warned. He knew better. And yet, every glance Seongje sent his way felt like a hand closing around his throat, reminding him of the night outside the gym—the helmet pressed into his hands, the motorbike carrying him forward, the first time someone had stepped in without him asking.
The round ended with the bell, both fighters retreating to their corners. Wooyoung spat into a bottle, sweat dripping down his jaw, grin wide as he nodded at Hyuntak across the room.
Hyuntak tried to smile back. Tried to ignore the way his pulse spiked when Seongje, still seated in his corner, tilted his head just slightly—smirk tugging at his lips, as though the match was never about Wooyoung at all.
The crowd around the mat slowly dispersed, chatter still buzzing in the air, but Gotak stayed rooted on the bench. His water bottle sat unopened in his lap, fingers tight around the plastic like it was an anchor.
The match hadn’t been real—just practice, everyone kept saying—but it looked and felt like anything but. The way Wooyoung and Seongje had moved against each other, blow for blow, strike for strike, no one giving ground… it made his stomach twist. The tension wasn’t just skill. It was pride. Challenge. Something heavy and dangerous that pressed at the edges of the gym.
“Fuck,”
Suho exhaled, approaching Wooyoung with a grin.
“That was insane. Felt like I was front row at a title match. You two are something else.”
Wooyoung was still catching his breath, sweat dripping down his temples, but he laughed anyway, shoulders shaking.
“That’s Seongje for you. He’s a wall. No matter how hard you hit, he doesn’t move.”
The chatter was still buzzing, Suho clapping Wooyoung’s back, the hum of praise easy and bright around them. Gotak tried to focus on that—on his boyfriend’s grin, on the way sweat beaded at his temples and collarbones—but his gaze betrayed him.
Seongje was across the room, slipping his gloves off with slow precision. He adjusted his glasses, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose, and for one dizzying second, his eyes found Gotak’s.
He didn’t look away.
Gotak’s lungs caught. He should have dropped his stare, focused anywhere else, but his body refused to listen. It was like trying to wrench free from a chain already fastened around his ribs.
The next second, Seongje was moving—casual, deliberate—cutting through the thinning crowd with his duffel slung over one shoulder. His steps didn’t falter, not even as he passed where Gotak sat at the bench.
For a heartbeat, their knees nearly brushed. The faint smell of soap and leather clung to him, dizzying in its nearness.
Seongje leaned slightly, enough that his voice was a low rasp meant only for him.
“You watch too closely,”
Hw murmured, almost teasing. Almost accusing.
Gotak froze, the bottle in his hands slipping against sweaty palms. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His tongue felt like lead.
And then he was gone, slipping past, like nothing had been said at all.
Across the room, Wooyoung’s laughter carried louder, proud and unbothered, completely unaware.
Gotak’s pulse refused to slow.
The library still clung to him—dust and paper and the faint sting of sanitizer on his hands. He’d gone straight from shelving returns to the gym, feet dragging like they had a will of their own.
He shouldn’t have been there. Wooyoung wasn’t. He’d left for some sponsor meeting, too busy to train today, and Gotak could have—should have—gone straight home. But instead, here he was: leaning against the cool brick outside the gym’s side entrance, hood drawn low, the straps of his backpack cutting into his shoulders.
Waiting.
For what, exactly?
He told himself it was gratitude. That he hadn’t properly thanked Seongje for the ride to the hospital last week. That it was eating at him, this unfinished thing lodged in his chest. Gratitude—that was safe. Normal. Clean.
But his stomach churned like he was standing on the edge of something he shouldn’t look down into.
Every sound of the gym doors creaking open made his shoulders lock tight, only to slump again when it was someone else—fighters chatting, trainers shouting, the shuffle of sneakers. The longer he waited, the more ridiculous it felt.
Until the door swung open again, and it was him.
Seongje.
Glasses fogged faintly from the humid air inside, a towel slung over his neck, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. He was fiddling with his wrist wraps as he stepped out, muttering under his breath, not even noticing at first.
Gotak’s pulse skittered. He almost left right then, almost bolted before he could make a fool of himself. But his shoes stayed glued to the concrete.
“Uh—”
His voice cracked, too thin. He swallowed, tried again.
“Hey.”
Seongje’s head lifted. His gaze found him instantly, dark and steady even in the dim light of the streetlamps. For a beat too long, neither moved. Then the corner of his mouth tugged, the barest hint of something amused.
“You waiting for me?”
The words hit harder than they should. Gotak’s throat went dry. He shook his head too fast, fumbling.
“No—I mean. Kind of. I… I never thanked you. For the ride. Last time.”
He hated how small it sounded. How it didn’t explain why he’d stood here for nearly half an hour, why his heart wouldn’t slow now that the man was in front of him.
Seongje slung his duffel higher on his shoulder, but he didn’t step closer. He leaned his weight against the doorframe instead, half in shadow, towel slipping loose around his neck. A careful, deliberate distance.
It should’ve been easier that way. Safer.
But it wasn’t.
The space between them was sharp, stretched taut like a pulled wire. Seongje’s gaze didn’t waver, and Gotak swore he could feel it press against his skin, as real as fingers trailing over his throat.
“You really came all the way here just for that?”
Seongje asked, voice mild, like he was making small talk. But his eyes said something else. Something that made Gotak’s stomach dip.
Gotak fumbled with the strap of his backpack, nails biting into the canvas.
“I—I was in the area,”
He lied, too quickly. His laugh was weak, tinny.
“Just thought… it’d be rude not to.”
“Mm.”
Seongje hummed, low in his chest, like he didn’t believe a word. He tilted his head, glasses catching the streetlight, and for one merciless heartbeat, his gaze dropped—briefly—to Gotak’s mouth.
Gotak’s heart slammed so loud he thought the whole street could hear it.
Seongje straightened then, tugging the towel off his shoulders and tossing it into his bag, casual as if nothing had happened.
"You're polite, I’ll give you that,”
He said, tone light but threaded with something more dangerous. Most people don’t bother.”
And just like that, he pushed off the doorframe and started down the sidewalk, not sparing him another glance.
Gotak stayed frozen against the wall, nails biting crescents into his palms.
It was nothing. Just words. Just a stare.
So why did he feel like he’d just survived a fight of his own?
The library was nearly empty when Gotak’s shift ended. Just the low hum of the air conditioner, the rustle of someone flipping through a textbook at the far corner, the soft clink of books as he reshelved them.
Routine. Predictable. Safe.
That was why he liked it here—no shouting crowds, no fists flying, no pounding music rattling the floors like in the gym. Just stillness. He could almost forget the way Seongje’s voice had curled around him outside those doors a few nights ago. Almost.
He slung his backpack over his shoulder, keys in hand, ready to lock up. But when he stepped outside into the cool night air, he froze.
Leaning against the lamppost near the curb, helmet dangling from one hand, was Seongje. His motorbike glinted under the streetlight, black and polished like it belonged in another world.
Gotak’s first thought was no way. His second was a wild, useless question: How long has he been standing there?
“Library boy,”
Seongje greeted, casual, like this was the most natural place in the world for him to be.
“You done?”
Gotak’s throat went dry.
“What—what are you doing here?”
Seongje pushed his glasses up with one finger, lips curving.
“Passing by.”
Then, after a deliberate pause:
“Maybe waiting.”
The air seemed to thin. Gotak’s grip tightened around his keys, heart thrumming like he’d sprinted instead of shelved books all day.
“I—”
He swallowed hard, fumbling for normalcy.
“Wooyoung’s not here.”
“I know.”
The answer came quick, sharp, like he’d already expected the question. His eyes—dark, unreadable—caught Gotak’s and held.
“I wasn’t looking for him.”
The words landed heavy, too heavy, and Gotak swore his knees almost gave out.
Seongje didn’t move closer. Didn’t need to. Just stood there, a careful distance away, letting the silence spool tight between them. Letting Gotak’s mind run in frantic circles.
“Hop in,”
Seongje said finally, tossing the helmet once, catching it with lazy precision.
“I’ll take you home.”
It wasn’t a request.
And God help him, Gotak didn’t trust himself to say no.
The helmet was heavier than it looked. Gotak hesitated before pulling it on, the faint warmth inside reminding him this was Seongje’s, that it carried traces of him. He clicked the strap into place with shaking fingers, pretending not to notice the way Seongje’s gaze lingered.
“Hold on.”
Seongje said, sliding onto the bike and starting the engine. The low growl of it vibrated through Gotak’s chest.
He climbed on behind him, awkward, stiff, every nerve alight. His hands hovered uselessly in the air until the bike jolted forward and instinct took over—he grabbed Seongje’s waist, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.
Seongje chuckled, low and sharp, the sound swallowed by the wind.
“Tighter,”
He called over his shoulder.
“Or you’ll fall.”
Gotak’s grip tightened, shame and heat climbing his neck. The ride blurred around him—neon lights, the rush of air, the thrum of the engine. But all he could feel was the solid line of Seongje’s back beneath his palms, the easy strength in his body, the way every curve of the road pressed them closer together.
By the time they stopped in front of his building, Gotak’s heart was somewhere in his throat. He slid off too fast, fumbling with the helmet strap. His fingers wouldn’t cooperate.
Seongje cut the engine, silence rushing in like a wave. Then he reached back, steady hands brushing over Gotak’s to undo the clasp. His fingers lingered—deliberate, unhurried—against the sensitive skin just under his jaw.
Gotak froze, breath caught.
“There.”
Seongje murmured, pulling the helmet free. His voice was too close, too soft, like it belonged to a different moment entirely. His hand stayed a second longer than it should have, thumb grazing the line of his throat before he finally drew back.
Gotak staggered for words, for air.
“Th-thanks.”
Seongje’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite anything safe.
“Don’t mention it.”
His gaze dipped once, quickly, to Gotak’s lips before he turned away, swinging a leg back over the bike.
The engine roared to life.
Gotak stood rooted to the pavement, fingers ghosting over his throat where Seongje’s touch still burned.
This wasn’t gratitude anymore. And it wasn’t nothing.
Wooyoung came home late, the smell of sweat and sports drink still clinging to him. Gotak was already on the couch, a half-read book open in his lap, though his eyes weren’t really on the pages.
“Hey, princess.”
Wooyoung dropped his bag by the door and leaned down to kiss his forehead. Gotak flinched—not visibly, not enough to be obvious, but just enough for Wooyoung to pause.
“You okay?”
Gotak blinked, shutting his book too quickly.
“Y-yeah. Just tired.”
Wooyoung studied him for a beat, then sank down beside him, throwing an arm around his shoulders.
“Hm. You feel… off.”
He pressed a kiss to the side of his head, nuzzling lightly.
“Not sick, right?”
“No.”
Gotak said, voice too small. His pulse was still uneven from earlier, the phantom feel of Seongje’s fingers at his throat refusing to fade.
Wooyoung hummed, unconvinced, but he didn’t press. Instead he hugged him tighter, chin resting on Gotak’s hair.
“Long day at the library, maybe? You should sleep early. I’ve got sparring tomorrow, but I’ll take you out after. Somewhere nice.”
Gotak forced a smile.
“Sure.”
Wooyoung kissed his cheek, gently, then stood to shower. His footsteps echoed down the hall, leaving Gotak alone again in the quiet.
He pressed his hands to his face, heart slamming. Wooyoung’s warmth should’ve steadied him. It always had before.
But all he could think about was the low hum of a motorbike, the brush of fingers against his throat, and the way Seongje’s eyes had lingered on his lips before pulling away.
The bathroom smelled faintly of bleach, the buzzing light overhead throwing sharp shadows across the tiled walls. Gotak leaned over the sink, water dripping from his face, his breath uneven.
He didn’t hear the door at first. Just the sudden quiet shift in the air before Seongje’s reflection appeared behind him in the mirror.
“Running off already?”
His voice was low, smooth, almost amused—but his eyes weren’t.
Gotak stiffened.
“I just needed—”
He gestured vaguely at the sink.
“A minute.”
Seongje stepped closer, slow, deliberate. Each stride echoing against the tiles until the space between them felt too thin. He didn’t touch. Not yet. Just hovered near enough that Gotak could feel the weight of his presence crawling across his skin.
“You don’t look fine,”
Seongje murmured. His gaze swept over Gotak’s damp hair, the sharp set of his jaw, lingering on the curve of his mouth a second too long.
“Care to share?”
Gotak turned, pressing his back against the sink now, as if the cold porcelain could steady him.
“You shouldn’t—be here.”
Seongje tilted his head, eyes narrowing, studying him like he was a puzzle he already knew the answer to. His hand lifted—hesitant, controlled—hovering inches from Gotak’s face. A curl of his fingers, a breath away from brushing wet hair off his forehead.
Gotak’s chest seized. He should move. He should shove him away. But he didn’t. He stayed perfectly still, pinned in place by the unbearable closeness.
The hand didn’t land. Not yet. The moment teetered, heavy, on the edge of breaking—
And then Wooyoung’s laughter rang down the hall, loud, carefree, echoing against the locker room walls.
Gotak jolted like he’d been burned, shoving past Seongje in a rush.
“I have to go.”
He muttered, too fast, too rough, as if the words could cover the wild stutter of his heartbeat.
By the time the door swung shut behind him, Seongje was left alone in the sterile white room, his hand still hovering in the air where it had almost touched.
Gotak didn’t stop until he was outside, gulping the evening air like it could wash him clean. His phone buzzed in his pocket—a reminder of the date he was already late for.
Perfect. Exactly what he needed: to play normal.
The city lights spilled over them, neon humming against the glass of the restaurant window. Wooyoung was in high spirits, chopsticks twirling as he told another story from training—his voice lively, hands animated. Gotak laughed when he was supposed to, leaned in when Wooyoung nudged him, even stole a bite off his plate just to make him grin.
For a moment, it almost worked. For a moment, it felt like old times, like they were still untouchable. Gotak thought: I missed this. I missed you.
He let himself laugh too hard at Wooyoung’s joke, the sound spilling over into something reckless, desperate. He reached across the table, brushing his boyfriend’s knuckles with his own, and smiled until his cheeks hurt. Maybe if I hold onto this long enough, the wrongness will fade.
But it didn’t.
Because every time Wooyoung leaned close, the ghost of another nearness flickered through his mind—Seongje’s gaze in the bathroom mirror, the heat of almost-touch still seared into his skin.
Wooyoung’s grin softened after a while. He tilted his head, chopsticks pausing midair as he studied Gotak.
“You’re here,”
He said slowly,
“But you’re not.”
Gotak froze.
Wooyoung set his utensils down, leaning his forearms on the table.
“Something’s off with you lately.”
His voice was gentler now, laced with worry rather than accusation.
“Is it school? Work? Did something happen?”
Gotak blinked, heart rattling against his ribs. He opened his mouth—then closed it again, the words tangling in his throat.
He smiled instead. Small. Fragile.
“I’m just tired,” he whispered.
“I missed you. That’s all.”
Wooyoung’s expression softened, like he wanted to believe it. Maybe he did. He reached over and laced their fingers together, squeezing once, grounding.
Gotak squeezed back, harder than he meant to, as if to anchor himself. He wanted this—he did. He wanted to want nothing else. But the wrongness still lingered, heavy, a shadow stretching just out of sight.
Next thing Gotak knows, he’s back at the gym with Wooyoung. There’s no match lined up for him today, no training session either, yet he still talked Gotak into tagging along to watch Suho’s fight.
Wooyoung leaned forward against the ropes, eyes sharp, practically vibrating with energy. Even when he wasn’t fighting, he was in it—shoulders tensed, breath matching every swing as if his own fists were flying.
Gotak sat a little ways back, perched on a folding chair near the wall. He was trying, really, to look invested, but his gaze kept drifting—to the scuffed floor, the water bottles littered at his feet, the flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. He coughed once, harsh enough that it scraped his throat raw, and reached for his pocket for a tissue that wasn’t there.
The cough turned into a choke, sharp and embarrassing, and he bent forward, wheezing.
And then—suddenly—a water bottle is pressed into his hand.
Gotak blinks, startled. Standing over him is Keum Seongje. No hesitation, no words. Just a simple gesture, precise and uncharacteristically soft.
The reaction is instant. Heads turn. A ripple runs through the room—whispers, sharp looks, confusion. Because Seongje doesn’t do this. He doesn’t look out for anyone. Not unless it involves rankings or reputation.
Gotak fumbled the cap open and drank greedily, relief burning through his chest. When he lowered the bottle, his lips were wet, and Seongje’s eyes lingered there half a second too long before he turned away, expression unreadable, adjusting his glasses with that practiced flick of his fingers.
From the ring, Wooyoung’s gaze snagged on the scene. His brow furrowed—not at Seongje, not entirely. At Gotak. At the way his boyfriend looked shaken but… softer, somehow, like the gesture had reached somewhere Wooyoung himself hadn’t lately.
For the first time, Wooyoung’s focus slipped from the fight.
The match ended in a blur of shouts and applause. Suho’s hand was raised, sweat slicking his brow, the gym breaking into scattered cheers. Wooyoung clapped for him, grinning wide, but his eyes kept sliding sideways—back to the corner where Gotak sat with an empty water bottle in his lap.
Later, outside the gym, the air was cool but heavy. Wooyoung tugged Gotak’s sleeve as they walked, his voice lighter than it felt.
“Didn’t know you and Seongje were close.”
Gotak blinked.
“We’re not.”
“Funny. He doesn’t hand out water to anyone. Ever.”
Gotak tightened his grip on the strap of his bag.
“I was choking. He was there. That’s it.”
Wooyoung studied him, eyes sharp even in the dim streetlight. He let out a short breath, forcing a chuckle.
“You’re right. I’m overthinking.”
He wrapped his arms over Gotak’s waist, pulling him close.
“Forget it.”
But Gotak felt the weight in his voice, the hesitation that hadn’t been there before.
Time started slipping strangely after that.
Wooyoung’s schedule grew tighter—late nights at the gym, training camps that stretched longer than promised. He came home wired, exhausted, collapsing into bed before they even spoke. Hyuntak learned to smile through it, to wait, to accept the half-kisses given between yawns.
At first, he told himself it was fine. It had always been fine. That was what loving Wooyoung meant: patience, adaptation, filling the spaces he left behind.
But then there was Seongje.
A hand steadying his elbow when he stumbled on uneven pavement. A quiet “eat” pushed across the table when he’d forgotten dinner again. The way he said nothing at all, but looked at him like he was something worth noticing.
Hyuntak hated it. Hated how it made him feel seen. Hated how, when Wooyoung forgot another dinner, it was Seongje’s ghost that slipped into the empty seat across from him in his mind.
The distance between him and Wooyoung stretched thin. Missed conversations, clipped tones, apologies that didn’t land.
And in the spaces where Wooyoung’s presence thinned, Seongje grew. Small things, lingering, inevitable. Until the wrongness blurred into want.
It started as a joke, tossed out between rounds while the fighters cooled off.
“Where’s your boyfriend these days, Wooyoung?”
One of them asked, grinning, towel slung over his shoulder.
“Haven’t seen him around. Don’t tell me you scared him off.”
Wooyoung only chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“He’s busy.”
“Busy, huh?”
The fighter smirked, elbowing him.
“Well, if you don’t want him anymore, just let me have him.”
Wooyoung’s grin vanished in an instant, teeth clenching. His fists flexed at his sides, ready to snap at the disrespect.
And then it happened.
A sudden shove from behind—Seongje, calm, precise, bumping into the fighter with enough force to stagger him. No words, just motion. His arm caught the guy’s shoulder, redirecting him sharply to the side. The punch in the air, the heat of the moment—everything stopped.
The gym froze, watching as Seongje’s hand lingered on the fighter’s chest, firm, deliberate, almost claiming the space. The smirk drained from the other guy’s face instantly, and he muttered something and shuffled toward the lockers, not daring to speak again.
Wooyoung blinked, caught somewhere between gratitude and confusion. He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just felt the silent weight of Seongje’s presence.
And somewhere in his chest, a warning sparked.
For Hyuntak, unaware and off somewhere else, the memory of that strength—the same hands that had offered him water, that had steadied him when he stumbled—would lodge in his mind, unshakable. This is who I can’t avoid.
A week after, the boys hadn’t enough, still publicly talking about Wooyoung’s boyfriend—Go Hyuntak, but something more interesting intrigued Seongje, making him stay a little longer in the locker room.
The gym was quieter than usual, the usual clatter and grunts replaced by murmurs from the corner where a few fighters lounged. Seongje lingered near the lockers, glasses perched just right, listening without being obvious.
“…He’s barely been around lately,”
One fighter whispered.
“You know, the boyfriend. Wooyoung’s too focused on training and all those sponsor dinners.”
“Yeah,” another muttered.
“Remember that one sponsor that always dragged him out before? Heard they’re back in town. Meeting tonight. Guess that’s where he’s headed.”
Seongje’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. The words were small, casual, tossed like empty wrappers, but for him they landed like sparks on dry tinder.
Hyuntak would be alone tonight.
The thought didn’t thrill him; it focused him. He had waited. He had measured. And now, the opportunity was ripe.
Later, as the library emptied and lights flickered overhead, Seongje was already there, leaning against the doorframe as if he’d been waiting for hours. He didn’t call out. He didn’t knock. The quiet click of his shoes on the linoleum was enough to announce him.
Hyuntak appeared, bag slung over his shoulder, distracted, unaware. And Seongje’s eyes, dark and deliberate, followed him like gravity.
“Hey,” he said softly, the word innocuous but loaded.
“Going somewhere?”
Hyuntak froze. He wasn’t supposed to be here alone. He wasn’t supposed to look at him like that. His heart stuttered, words failing him.
Seongje didn’t move closer—yet. He didn’t need to. The air between them hummed, heavy and deliberate. And for a moment, Hyuntak realized he had no choice: staying away tonight wasn’t an option.
Hyuntak swallowed hard, the strap of his bag cutting into his shoulder. He should walk past. He should leave before this turned into something he couldn’t take back. But his feet felt rooted, like the linoleum had turned to tar beneath him.
Seongje tilted his head, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth. Not a smile. Something worse. Something that saw too much.
“You look like you’re running from something,”
The words were casual, but they landed like a hand closing around Hyuntak’s wrist.
“I’m not.”
Hyuntak said, too quick, too small. His throat burned with the lie.
For a long moment, nothing moved but the hum of the flickering lights overhead. Seongje didn’t step forward. He didn’t need to. He just let the weight of his presence press into Hyuntak until it felt unbearable.
Then, finally, Seongje leaned back against the doorframe, as if he hadn’t been waiting at all. His eyes dragged over Hyuntak one last time before he let go.
“See you around, princess.”
The word cracked something open in Hyuntak’s chest. He hated it. He hated how it stuck in his ribs as he stumbled past him, muttering something that wasn’t a goodbye.
That night, Wooyoung’s keys clinked at the door. Hyuntak jumped, heart in his throat like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He hadn’t done anything—he told himself that over and over—but the heat of Seongje’s voice still clung to his skin.
Wooyoung dropped onto the couch beside him, warm and easy, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Missed you,” he said, already reaching for him, already tilting his chin for another.
Hyuntak let him, lips soft but unyielding, his body present but his mind somewhere else—standing under humming lights with a voice in his ear that wasn’t Wooyoung’s.
And when Wooyoung finally pulled back, brow furrowing just slightly, Hyuntak lied again.
“I’m just tired.”
But he wasn’t tired. He was unraveling.
The week slid by in fragments—work at the library, evenings at the gym, dinners with Wooyoung when their schedules miraculously aligned. On the surface, nothing was wrong. But Wooyoung wasn’t stupid.
He noticed the way Hyuntak’s gaze drifted, how his laugh didn’t quite land, how the silence between them stretched longer than it used to. At first he chalked it up to exhaustion—classes, work, the weight of living half in his world and half in Wooyoung’s. But then came the small things.
Like how Hyuntak checked his phone less often when he was with him, as though there was something he didn’t want to see. Or how he flinched, almost imperceptibly, whenever Seongje’s name came up in gym talk.
One night, after practice, Wooyoung caught him lingering too long in the bleachers, eyes not on the ring but on the door where Seongje had just disappeared.
“Hey,”
Wooyoung called, snapping him out of it. His tone was easy, but his eyes weren’t.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
Hyuntak said quickly. Too quickly.
Wooyoung smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He tugged Hyuntak close, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Don’t go anywhere weird on me,” he teased, but there was steel under the softness.
Hyuntak laughed, light and brittle.
“I’m not.”
But as they walked out together, Wooyoung’s arm slung over his shoulders, he felt the weight of Seongje’s stare from across the gym—a stare Wooyoung didn’t miss this time.
And that was when suspicion began to curl in his gut.
The following days blurred in the way only routine could—Wooyoung’s training, Hyuntak’s work, evenings stitched together with tired kisses and promises of “next time.” But Seongje didn’t waste a second.
Where Wooyoung was absent, Seongje appeared.
Not always close, not always obvious, but there.
He’d pass Hyuntak in the hall and hold his gaze a beat too long.
He’d linger outside the library just late enough for their walks home to overlap.
Once, Hyuntak opened his locker and found a can of his favorite coffee wedged inside—no note, no name. But he knew. He knew.
It was never dramatic. That was the cruelty of it. Seongje didn’t demand, didn’t plead. He just offered, quietly, without asking for anything in return.
And Hyuntak—God help him—kept taking.
He told himself it was nothing. A ride home, a coffee, a stare that made his chest ache. Nothing that counted. Nothing that crossed the line.But each nothing stacked higher, until it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff with no ground left behind him.
Wooyoung noticed, of course. He always noticed. His eyes lingered longer, his grip on Hyuntak’s hand tighter, as though he could squeeze the distance away. But where Wooyoung’s attention came in bursts—frenzied, distracted, fleeting—Seongje’s presence was steady, deliberate, inescapable.
And Hyuntak, for the first time in months, felt seen.
Another week dragged with Wooyoung gone—long days at the library, longer nights with nothing but silence waiting at home. His texts dwindled, short and rushed, more about training updates than Hyuntak himself. Won my round. Ate. Sleeping now. Hyuntak read them over and over anyway, as if repetition could make them fuller, softer, enough.
But Seongje—damn him—was there even when he wasn’t.
A message slipped between classes: Don’t skip meals.
A book set aside on the counter: the exact title Hyuntak had been searching for last month.
And always, always, the weight of being seen, as if distance didn’t dull Seongje’s gaze at all.
So when Wooyoung came home, bruised but glowing from his matches, Hyuntak found himself asking—without even knowing why—if he could come with him to the gym. Nothing important, he said quickly, just wanted to be there.
Wooyoung blinked, surprised, then smiled.
“Sure. Just evaluation stuff today. But after—”
His grin widened, boyish in a way that reminded Hyuntak of their beginning—
“After, let’s grab dinner. Just us.”
It was the kind of promise Hyuntak used to live for. He tried to hold onto that warmth as they walked into the gym together, the sound of sparring echoes replaced by murmured voices of fighters and coaches dissecting every round. Wooyoung disappeared into the ring-side cluster with the others, focused as always.
Hyuntak excused himself, muttering something about the bathroom. He didn’t mean for it to feel like escape.
The bathroom was too quiet, the hum of the lights above too loud. Hyuntak told himself he should leave—that he’d only come here to breathe, to buy himself a moment away from the crowded gym floor. But then Seongje was there.
Of course he was.
His reflection filled the mirror, steady and unflinching.
“Thought you’d stay home.”
Seongje murmured, voice smooth as water against stone.
“I…”
Hyuntak’s hands tightened on the sink, knuckles white. His voice was thin, breaking in the middle.
“I just wanted to be here.”
Seongje stepped closer, until the heat of his body ghosted over Hyuntak’s back. Not touching—yet—but so close that it might as well have been.
“You really think he notices?”
His words curled low, dangerous.
“When you’re here? When you’re not?”
Hyuntak shook his head, frantic.
“Stop.”
But he didn’t move away.
The silence dragged taut, unbearable, until Seongje’s hand slid along the edge of the sink, brushing against his wrist. A whisper of contact. Enough to send his pulse crashing.
“You could tell me to go.”
Seongje’s mouth hovered at the curve of his jaw, warm breath spilling against his skin.
“Say it, and I will.”
Hyuntak opened his mouth. The word never came.
Instead, he turned.
It was clumsy, desperate—their mouths colliding like they’d been pulled by the same gravity all along. Seongje caught him easily, one hand braced against the sink, the other gripping Hyuntak’s hip, anchoring him.
Hyuntak gasped into the kiss, chest tightening with something that was both relief and terror. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want this. But the truth landed heavy in his bones: he’d missed Seongje more than he’d missed Wooyoung.
Seongje kissed him like he knew it, like he’d been waiting for Hyuntak to finally break. Slow at first, deliberate, before dragging his mouth lower—along his jaw, down the line of his throat. Hyuntak shuddered, a strangled sound leaving his lips as Seongje’s hands guided him back against the sink.
“Don’t—”
he tried, but it came out weak, breathless, a plea that wasn’t really a plea.
Seongje’s teeth grazed the soft skin beneath his ear.
“Then stop me.”
Hyuntak didn’t. Until his phone buzzed against the counter, screen flashing. For a second, it jolted him back—reminded him of everything he shouldn’t be doing, of the name tethered to him.
>> Wooyoung:
Coach called an emergency meeting. Can you go home alone?
Another buzz followed, almost apologetic.
>> Wooyoung:
I’ll make it up to you. Dinner after, yeah?
Hyuntak’s throat tightened. He should answer. He should leave. He should not be here, pinned under Seongje’s weight, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.
Seongje’s mouth brushed his cheek, his voice low, knowing.
“You’re not leaving.”
It wasn’t a question.
Hyuntak exhaled, trembling.
“I… shouldn’t.”
But his hands betrayed him, clutching at Seongje’s shirt, pulling him closer.
Seongje smirked against his skin, fingers curling at his waist.
“Then stay.”
Seongje leaned in, close enough that Hyuntak could feel his breath warm against his lips.
“Not here.”
He murmured, as if sensing Hyuntak’s pulse racing, the thin wall between collapse and surrender.
Hyuntak swallowed hard.
“Then where?”
Seongje didn’t answer. He just took Hyuntak’s wrist, firm but not forceful, leading him out of the bathroom like it was inevitable.
The night air bit cold when they stepped outside, but Hyuntak barely noticed. His body was thrumming, his mind a blur. The drive was quiet, the kind of silence that made every sound—the click of the turn signal, the hum of the engine—feel unbearably loud.
And when Seongje finally unlocked the door to his apartment, Hyuntak realized something that scared him more than the kiss, more than the texts he wasn’t answering.
He wanted to be here.
The low lamp on the side table. The faint scent of cedar and something sharper he couldn’t place. A half-finished glass of water on the counter, textbooks stacked neatly on the desk.
It wasn’t just a place to sleep. It was lived in. Private. His.
Seongje kicked his shoes off and didn’t bother looking back, confident Hyuntak would follow. And he did—closing the door softly behind him like he was sealing a pact.
His heart thudded too fast. He shouldn’t notice the way the couch throw was folded just so, or how a dark jacket hung on the back of a chair like someone had only just taken it off. But he did. And it made his chest ache.
This was different. More dangerous.
Seongje turned, leaning against the counter, watching him with that unblinking gaze that pinned him in place.
“You’re thinking too much.”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
Hyuntak muttered, but his voice didn’t sound like his own.
“Then leave.”
Seongje said, quiet, deliberate.
Hyuntak’s hand tightened on the strap of his bag, like holding on to it might anchor him. His breath caught when Seongje pushed off the counter, closing the space between them in a few easy steps.
Fingers brushed the strap, pried it loose, let it drop soundlessly to the floor.
“Still here?”
Seongje murmured, voice low, almost cruel in its calm. His knuckles ghosted down Hyuntak’s arm, deliberate, steady.
“No one made you come.”
Hyuntak’s chest heaved, a protest half-formed on his lips, but it died when Seongje’s hand cupped the side of his jaw—thumb pressing lightly against the corner of his mouth, tilting his head back until he had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“You could walk away right now.”
His words cut, measured.
“But you won’t.”
The quiet between them cracked open, heavy, thick with everything Hyuntak couldn’t admit. His pulse thundered in his ears. And then—like something inside him broke—he surged forward, mouth crashing against Seongje’s, desperate and unrestrained.
The sound Seongje made—low, triumphant—burned through him. Strong hands shoved him back against the wall, teeth clashing, mouths opening, all heat and need. The kiss was nothing like before—it was hunger, it was ruin, it was a choice carved into his skin.
Hyuntak clutched at Seongje’s shirt like it was the only solid thing left, even as his mind screamed this is wrong, this is wrong—but his body stayed, yielded, chose.
Seongje broke away only to drag his lips down Hyuntak’s throat, biting, claiming.
“You’re mine tonight,”
He whispered, breath hot against his skin.
“Don’t pretend you don’t want it.”
The wall pressed hard into Hyuntak’s back, and he barely had time to breathe before Seongje’s mouth trailed lower, heat searing down his throat. A strangled gasp tore from him when sharp teeth grazed his collarbone, then—sudden, shocking—when lips pressed to the inside of his thigh.
“Seongje—”
His voice cracked, more plea than warning.
Seongje’s grip only tightened, steady, keeping him still.
“Say no,”
He muttered against his skin, every word a taunt, a dare.
“Tell me to stop.”
But Hyuntak didn’t. Couldn’t. His fingers tangled helplessly in Seongje’s hair, and the world broke into static.
It was only days later when Wooyoung pulled him aside, voice clipped but steady. As though rehearsed.
“I can’t do this anymore,”
He said, not meeting Hyuntak’s eyes.
“I need to focus on my career. The sponsors, the matches—this is bigger than us. I thought you’d understand.”
Hyuntak stood there, still as stone. He didn’t ask why now? He didn’t plead or break down the way Wooyoung half-expected, maybe even needed him to. He only nodded—once, twice—like the words had landed on glass instead of skin.
Plain. Simple. Almost terrifying in its quiet.
Wooyoung lingered, searching his face for cracks: a flicker of pain, a tremble in his mouth, anything that would prove Hyuntak cared enough to fight for him. But there was nothing. No anger. No begging. Just the hollow acceptance of someone who’d already learned how to be left behind.
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
The silence he left behind rang louder than the breakup itself, pressing down on Hyuntak’s chest until he wondered if breathing was even worth the effort.
Hyuntak vanished.
Not all at once, but in small, deliberate absences.
He stopped answering calls, stopped replying to texts, let unread messages pile up until his phone felt like a weight in his pocket. He picked up more hours at the library, burying himself in the monotony of shelving books, stamping due dates, smiling politely at students who never looked twice.
If he kept moving, if he filled every hour with work and school, maybe the ache wouldn’t catch up. Maybe he wouldn’t think about how easy it had been for Wooyoung to cut him loose—or how Seongje’s hands had felt on his skin.
Avoidance became his only form of survival. Avoid Wooyoung, avoid Seongje, avoid the mirrors that reminded him he was both abandoned and guilty.
And for a while, it worked. Or at least, it looked like it did.
Wooyoung, on the other hand, carried the breakup like a splinter he couldn’t ignore. At the gym, his friends and fellow fighters asked where Hyuntak was, he would laugh it off, even as his fists clenched, because he thought he knew how this was supposed to go.
Hyuntak was supposed to fall apart. He was supposed to come crawling back, tears in his eyes, begging for something—attention, love, scraps. That was the rhythm they had always danced to.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Hyuntak simply… disappeared. No fight, no fury, no heartbreak worn on his sleeve. Just quiet acceptance, like Wooyoung had been nothing more than a passing phase.
The realization unsettled Wooyoung more than he’d admit. He doubled down on training, sharper, more ruthless, throwing his body into his punches like violence could answer the question Hyuntak refused to ask.
And Seongje—he heard it all.
He’d been near enough when Wooyoung told the others, near enough to catch the words we broke up dropped casually, like it meant nothing. Near enough to hear the disbelief in their laughter. Near enough to realize Hyuntak was truly free.
But if they were over—then why was Hyuntak avoiding him too?
Seongje replayed every stare, every almost-touch, every broken breath between them. He thought he’d read it right—that Hyuntak wanted him, that he had been waiting for this opening all along. But the silence that followed the breakup gnawed at him.
Was it shame? Regret? Or worse—had Seongje mistaken hunger for hesitation? Had he forced something Hyuntak never wanted in the first place?
The thought hollowed him out. He spiraled, training until his muscles screamed, until his body gave out, until his coach dragged him aside with sharp words about focus. None of it mattered. None of it quieted the question that looped endlessly in his head.
If Hyuntak was free… then why wasn’t he choosing me?
Seongje’s spiral hadn’t gone unnoticed. His coach had pulled him aside after another reckless round, frustration sharp in his voice.
“You’re fighting like you’ve already lost,”
He snapped.
“If you can’t keep your head, I’ll pull you from the big match. This isn’t just about you—we’ve got a sponsor deal riding on it.”
The words cut, but they didn’t land. Not really. Because Seongje knew the problem wasn’t his fists. It was the empty space beside him where Hyuntak should’ve been. The silence after every fight, the ghost of a gaze that refused to meet his.
By the time the match rolled around, Seongje was wound too tight, a live wire in the ring. The crowd blurred, the noise a static hum. He barely noticed the cameras, the flashing lights, the sponsors lined up like vultures—until he caught sight of something that broke through all of it.
Hyuntak.
Tucked into the crowd, bag slung over his shoulder like he’d come straight from work. He shouldn’t have been there. He hadn’t been there in weeks. And yet—he was.
Seongje’s chest clenched. Every strike, every dodge, every movement suddenly became a performance for him.
Hyuntak’s gaze was locked, unflinching. Not distracted. Not polite. Not even trying to hide. He wasn’t just watching—he was staring, focused, as if the rest of the world had disappeared and only Seongje’s body in motion remained.
It was suffocating. It was exhilarating. It was everything.
Wooyoung noticed too.
He had his own match that night, his own reasons for being there, but when he finally spotted Hyuntak in the crowd, a flicker of relief tugged at his chest.
There you are.
He started toward him, ready to close the distance, maybe even apologize for how they’d ended things—but then he saw it.
The way Hyuntak’s eyes didn’t waver. The way he leaned forward, breathless, utterly absorbed—not in him, not in anyone else, but in Seongje.
Wooyoung froze.
Because in all their years together, in all the matches, in all the times he’d dragged Hyuntak along to watch him fight—he had never seen him look like that. Not once.
And in that moment, Wooyoung realized what he should have seen weeks ago. Hyuntak wasn’t crumbling. He wasn’t mourning. He wasn’t even waiting. He was already gone.
The match ended in a blur of sweat and roars from the crowd, Seongje’s name echoing off the walls. His fists ached, his lungs burned—but none of it mattered. Because when he stepped out of the ring, the first thing he saw wasn’t the sponsors, wasn’t his coach, wasn’t the celebration.
It was Hyuntak.
Still there. Still staring.
Seongje’s body moved before his brain caught up, cutting through the chaos, through congratulatory slaps on his back, through the noise. His eyes didn’t waver, locked on the boy who’d been haunting him even in absence.
But Wooyoung got there first.
“Hyun,”
He said, relief tangled in his voice as he reached for him.
“You came.”
Hyuntak startled, guilt flashing in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but no words came. His fingers twitched around the strap of his bag, as if debating whether to cling to it or drop everything and run.
Before he could decide, Seongje stepped in.
Not a word. Just the quiet, deliberate press of his presence at Hyuntak’s side. Too close. Possessive without touching. The kind of proximity that said I know you saw me. I know you chose to.
Wooyoung stiffened, eyes darting between them.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He snapped at Seongje, though his voice cracked just enough to betray the panic under his anger.
Seongje didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His gaze stayed fixed on Hyuntak, dark and steady, as if the entire room had narrowed to just the two of them.
Hyuntak’s chest tightened. His pulse pounded in his throat, caught between Wooyoung’s expectant stare and Seongje’s unspoken demand.
“Hyun,”
Wooyoung tried again, softer this time, desperate.
“Tell me you’re here for me. Please.”
Hyuntak flinched. His lips parted, but the truth lingered unspoken. His silence said enough.
Seongje exhaled, slow, almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it. He finally moved, his shoulder brushing Hyuntak’s as he leaned just close enough for Wooyoung to see what it meant—that whatever line had been crossed, it couldn’t be erased.
And Wooyoung saw it. Saw it in the way Hyuntak didn’t step away. Saw it in the way Seongje stood like gravity itself. Saw it in the silence that cut deeper than any confession.
The clarity hit like a blow to the gut.
Hyuntak wasn’t his anymore. Maybe he never had been.
Wooyoung’s face crumpled, the fight draining out of him all at once. Hyuntak swallowed, guilt clogging his throat, and before he could stop himself, he stepped forward—just enough to fold Wooyoung into a brief, tight hug. Not desperate, not lingering. Just final.
He froze, then let out a breath that shook against Hyuntak’s shoulder. His hand hovered at his back like he wanted to hold on but knew better. When Hyuntak pulled away, his eyes said it all. He understood. It didn’t make it hurt less.
And then Seongje’s hand was there, firm around Hyuntak’s wrist, tugging him away without a single ounce of hesitation. No words, no glance back at Wooyoung. Just mine, stamped into every step as he cut them both through the crowd.
Hyuntak stumbled after him, bag bouncing against his hip, heart still slamming from everything all at once.
“Seongje—”
“You hugged him,”
Seongje bit out, low enough not to draw attention but sharp enough to cut through the chaos.
Hyuntak blinked.
“What—”
“Right in front of me.”
His jaw clenched, dragging them out into the cooler night air where the crowd noise dulled.
“You don’t talk to me for weeks, show up, stare at me like I’m the only thing you see—and then you hug him.”
Hyuntak stopped dead, tugging his wrist free. His chest rose and fell hard, but not from the pull.
“It wasn’t—”
“Don’t tell me it wasn’t anything,”
Seongje snapped, stepping closer again, crowding him against the wall of the arena. His breath was still uneven from the fight, his knuckles raw, his eyes burning.
“I felt it, Hyuntak. You saw me. You chose me. So don’t turn around and act like—”
Hyuntak’s throat worked, words failing him. And maybe Seongje realized it, because his anger cracked, the sharp edges giving way to something rawer. His hand landed against the wall by Hyuntak’s head, caging him in, voice lower now.
“I can’t stand watching you slip between us like that. Not anymore.”
The jealousy was ugly, unfiltered—but underneath it was the truth Hyuntak had been running from, and Seongje wasn’t about to let him run anymore.
Hyuntak blinked at him for a beat, wide-eyed at the way Seongje’s voice cracked against the wall between them. Then—he laughed.
It slipped out sharp and disbelieving at first, but soon it spilled into something low and breathless, his head tipping back against the concrete as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You—”
Hyuntak wheezed, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You’re pathetic.”
Seongje froze. The word hit harder than any punch he’d taken in the ring.
Hyuntak dragged his gaze back to him, eyes still gleaming with humor, cruel in its accuracy.
“What the hell are you doing, acting like you’re my boyfriend? Like you have any right to be jealous when Wooyoung was the one I—”
He stopped himself, mouth pressing shut, but the point was made. Sharp and clean.
Seongje’s stomach dropped. His fists curled helplessly at his sides, raw knuckles flexing as if that could ground him.
“Don’t laugh at me,”
He muttered, the words small but shaking.
“I’m not—”
“You are,”
Hyuntak cut in, grin tugging cruel at his lips though his voice softened at the edges.
“You’re standing here like I belong to you. When all this time, I belonged to him.”
The laughter died slowly, leaving something messier in its wake. Something Hyuntak didn’t want to name. His chest still heaved from it, but his throat felt tight, like maybe it wasn’t as funny as he wanted it to be.
Seongje leaned in, too close again, voice rough.
“Then why didn’t you walk away when I kissed you? Why are you even here, Hyun? Watching me?”
That silenced him.
And for the first time all night, it wasn’t Seongje spiraling.
Hyuntak’s silence hung thick between them, heavier than the roar of the crowd they’d just left behind. He didn’t answer Seongje’s question. He didn’t deny it either.
Seongje exhaled through his nose, sharp, then grabbed Hyuntak’s wrist. Not harsh enough to hurt, but unyielding, his knuckles still burning from the fight.
“Come with me,”
Seongje said, low. No demand, no room for refusal. Just inevitability.
Hyuntak didn’t move at first. His mouth twisted like he wanted to argue, to pull away, to laugh again. But something in the way Seongje’s grip lingered—desperate but steady, like he’d shatter if Hyuntak slipped loose—kept him still.
Seongje tugged once, and that was enough. Hyuntak followed. Past the lockers, past the back hallway, past the noise of celebration they didn’t belong to.
By the time the door of Seongje’s apartment shut behind them, Hyuntak’s pulse was wild in his throat. He dropped his bag by the entryway, eyes flicking up to Seongje’s as if daring him to make sense of this, of them.
“You act like you own me,”
Hyuntak said finally, words sharp but quieter than before.
Seongje stepped closer, shadows cutting hard across his face.
“Maybe I do.”
Hyuntak’s laugh caught in his throat this time, breaking before it landed. Because he should’ve shoved him away. Should’ve reminded him that Wooyoung had been his boyfriend, not Seongje. Should’ve told him this wasn’t right.
But he didn’t.
Because the truth was buzzing under his skin, undeniable—he hadn’t missed Wooyoung while they were gone. Not once.
It was Seongje. Always Seongje.
Seongje’s jaw clenched, words heavy like they’d been waiting too long to surface.
“You only dated him because he was there first.”
His voice cut low, raw.
“But you—”
His hand curled into Hyuntak’s shirt, dragging him closer,
“You actually belong with me.”
Hyuntak barked a laugh, sharp and humorless.
“That’s pathetic.”
Seongje didn’t flinch. If anything, the honesty in his eyes burned brighter, unashamed.
“Maybe it is. But it’s the truth. You know it. I know it.”
His grip tightened.
“You’ve been mine since the first time you looked at me like that. He just… got to you first.”
Hyuntak should’ve shoved him away, but the words hit like a bruise pressed too tender. Because it was pathetic. Possessive. Ridiculous. And yet—he loved it. Loved the rawness, the crack in Seongje’s armor that only he got to see.
He leaned in, lips brushing Seongje’s jaw in a ghost of a kiss.
“Then stop talking like a coward,”
Hyuntak murmured, his voice a taunt and a confession all at once.
“Take it.”
Something in Seongje snapped, and the laugh Hyuntak gave this time wasn’t mocking—it was breathless, unsteady, because as much as this was messy, wrong, tangled in everything they shouldn’t be, it was theirs.