Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dorm had grown quieter than usual, but the silence wasn't peace - it was heavy, like an invisible fog choking the air. The scandal had painted itself across every screen, every feed, every whisper outside their walls. Each time Leo's name appeared, it was paired with venom, accusations, disguised as righteous fury. 

The members had tried everything. Yorch would sit beside him, nudging his shoulder with small jokes, his laughter forced but desperate—like a candle flickering in a storm. Jihoon tried to reason with him, leaving little notes of encouragement on Leo's desk, folded like prayers that hopefully might one day reach him. 

James, the quietest, had become a shield on social media, deleting what he could, defending Leo in spaces where his voice would only get drowned. Woochan—though younger—stayed close, hovering like an anxious younger brother, his presence wordless but full of pleading eyes. Hopeful that his presence will at least bring a little bit of comfort to Leo, someone he considered his own older brother.

But none of it mattered. Leo scrolled endlessly, eyes hollowing with every hateful comment that carved itself into him like shards of glass. His thumbs moved against the screen as if possessed.

Every apology they drafted—both formal statements through the company and shaky, trembling words forced out in videos—collapsed beneath the weight of rage that could never be satisfied. Forgiveness was never offered. Redemption never arrived. Instead, every attempt only fed the fire.

'They hate me. They'll always hate me. No matter what I say... It's never enough.'

Sangwon had watched him from across the room that night, Leo's figure slouched on the bed against the dim light of his phone, face bathed in blue and white glow like a ghost haunting itself. His fingers tapping and scrolling relentlessly through the endless flow of hate and resentment that seems to refuse to stop. 

Sangwon clenched his fists in silence, nails digging crescents into his palms as if pain might anchor him from the helplessness. He wanted to shout, to plead him to stop. To stop caring about whatever nonsense the strangers who don't even know them are spewing online. 

But he can't reach him. 

No matter what he does... 

He can't seem to pull him out.

And that fact made him suffocate even more.

The practice room was even more suffocating. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the boys back at themselves—fractured versions of a group trying to hold together something already breaking. Sweat stained the floor, but the exhaustion wasn't from the dance, nor from the intensity of the choreography. It was the exhaustion of hearts crumbling under words they couldn't escape. The music had stopped, yet the ringing of silence felt louder than any beat.

Leo stood in the middle, trembling hands gripping the hem of his shirt. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath jagged, as if his lungs refused to carry the weight of the air. As if the air itself is strangling him. 

The others circled him instinctively, like planets trying to shield their sun from imploding. Sangwon stayed closest, every muscle in his body taut, watching for the inevitable collapse.

"I... I can't do this anymore." The words left Leo in a whisper, but they sliced through the room sharper than a scream. His voice cracked, eyes brimming though no tears had fallen. "Every step we take, every stage we dream of... I felt like I was pulling all of you down with me. My mistake... It's chaining all of you."

"Leo hyung—" Jihoon's voice broke, raw with panic, but Leo shook his head violently, the movement desperate, frantic, like a bird thrashing against its cage.

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve tried. I’ve apologised until my voice gave out. I’ve worked harder than ever—trying to prove my worth, to atone for what I’ve done, to earn forgiveness. To show that one mistake doesn’t define who I am. But they won’t stop. And because of me… they won’t stop hating you either.”

His voice trembled, eyes flickering between the members as if he were trying to memorise them—etching their faces deep into the ashes of his guilt. "These days, it's been mentally so hard for me. To breathe. To keep myself together. And frankly, I just... I really can’t do it anymore. I know it’s been hard for all of you, too, and I can’t keep dragging you down with me.”

He drew a shaky breath, the final words breaking on his tongue. “So.. I’m… I’m quitting.”

"... I'm quitting... so that my stain won't tarnish the dreams that all of you had been working for"

The air froze. 

Sangwon felt the words like a guillotine blade, severing something deep inside him. His heartbeat thundered, but his body refused to move, as though his foot was chained to the spot he was standing on. 

'No. Not like this. Don't say it like it's mercy when it's destruction.'

James stepped forward, shaking his head so hard his hair clung to the sweat on his forehead. "Don't. Don't do this to yourself, hyung. To us." His voice cracked into silence. Woochan, tears already streaking his face, clutched Leo's sleeve, his hands trembling as if his grip alone could tether him in place. Yorch clenched his jaw, pacing, fists balled like he was searching for a solution that didn't exist.

But Leo only pulled away, every gesture lined with sorrow. Voice on the brink of breaking as he spoke. "I've already discussed with the company. They'll release the statement soon... but I want you guys to hear it from me first."

Sangwon said nothing—he couldn’t. His throat was closing around words that refused to form. He wanted to grab Leo, to shake him, to scream no. But the look in Leo’s eyes—resigned, broken, empty—froze him in place.

Leo bowed then, a deep bow that seemed to carve itself out of his bones. “I’m really sorry for everything.”

The room broke. Woochan sobbed openly. Jihoon turned his back, covering his mouth with his hand to smother the sound tearing from his throat. James sank into the couch at the corner of the practice room, head in his hands. Yorch slammed his fist into the wall, the dull thud echoing like a gunshot. 

And Sangwon—Sangwon stood frozen, his vision blurring as if the mirrors themselves were shattering around him. He had thought that he knew what anguish was before, but watching Leo surrender felt like witnessing the sun extinguish itself before dawn.

The company released the statement days later.

Official. Cold.

“Lee Leo will be withdrawing from the project due to personal reasons.” It was printed on screens, reposted by fans, torn apart by critics. And no apology, no explanation, no truth, could wash away the poison of the scandal.

The hate didn’t slow—it only sharpened.

And Leo’s hope dissolved with it.

The dorm that night was hollowed. Leo's bag sat half-packed, clothes folded with a mechanical precision that betrayed the trembling of his fingers.

One by one, the members came to him—soft goodbyes hidden under forced smiles. Woochan wrapped his arms around him, refusing to let go until Yorch gently pried him away. Jihoon whispered something against his shoulder, words drowned by tears.

James lingered at the door, his hand pressed briefly to Leo's back, like he wanted to say everything but knew nothing would suffice. Yorch gave a sharp nod, eyes glassy but resolute, then stepped away quickly before the cracks in his composure spilt out.

And then there was Sangwon. He stood longer than he should have, his throat a desert, his hands itching to reach out. Leo looked up at him, their eyes locking—an ocean of guilt meeting a storm of anguish. 

Neither spoke. 

Neither dared. 

'If I open my mouth now, I'll fall apart. If I touch him, I'll never let go.' 

And so, silence became their farewell, heavier than any words could bear.

He watches as Leo’s palm brushes the frame of the door—one last touch, one last memory carved into skin. And then he left, the door closing like a coffin lid.

The studio was no longer a sanctuary. It had become a graveyard of empty bottles, shattered dreams, and words that never stopped echoing. The air hung thick with the bitter scent of alcohol—sharp, cloying, heavy—clinging to the walls like mould. 

Where once melodies had been born, silence now reigned, broken only by the occasional thud of an empty bottle rolling against the floor.

The first time Sangwon visited after Leo's withdrawal, he found him hunched over the desk, chin resting against his folded arms, scrolling endlessly through comments. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils glazed, but his fingers moved as though the endless cascade of hate was the only lifeline left. 

Sangwon's chest tightened. He said nothing, hands moving only to place a takeout box beside him. Leo didn't look up. Not even a glance. As if his eyes were glued to the monitor. As if there was some kind of magnetic field keeping his gaze stuck to the screen. 

No words were spoken between them as hours passed in silence. Eventually, Sangwon left, carrying with him the hollow image of a boy whose spirit had dimmed.

The second visit was worse. The screen still glared, but this time, half-emptied bottles littered the desk, their glass necks glistening like soldiers fallen in battle. Leo's laugh startled him—bitter, sharp, jagged. 

"They're poets, aren't they? Look at how creative they get with their hate." His words slurred, but his grip on the bottle was firm, desperate. As if the burn could erase the pain from every hateful word etched into his mind. Sangwon crossed the room quickly, snatching it from him, but Leo only reached for another. His hand trembled, yet his defiance burned through the haze.

"If I can't erase their words, maybe I can drown them."

Sangwon's stomach twisted. He wanted to shout, to shake him, to beg him to stop. But all he could do was sink beside him, clutching the stolen bottle like a useless shield. His own thoughts screamed in silence.

'How much longer can I watch him do this to himself? How much longer until he disappears completely...?'

'...until I lose myself too?'

By the third visit, Leo was sprawled on the couch, an open bottle hanging loosely from his hand, spilling onto the carpet. Another hand gripping onto his phone like it's the only thing he had left as he relentlessly scrolled through the digital hell they specially created for him. His lips moved in whispers, muttering comments aloud, repeating them as though each one was carved onto his tongue.

"Liar. Worthless. Vulgar. Ugly” 

The words fell out like prayers to the god of cruelty. 

Sangwon's chest cracked with every syllable, his knuckles turning white as he dug his nails into his palm. 

'They've made him believe them. They've taken everything from him. And I've just been standing here... watching.' 

He hated the fact that he couldn't do anything to stop them. To stop the source of their seemingly never-ending misery.

With a ragged breath, he let out a sigh as he began to move, attempting to clean up the mess scattered on the floor in the silence of the night, neatly lining the bottles at the corner of the space like gravestones. Each one marking another piece of Leo that he lost.

The fourth visit didn’t just unsettle Sangwon — it splintered something inside him.

Leo wasn’t on the couch, nor hunched at the desk scrolling through the abyss. He was on the floor, knees pulled to his chest like a child trying to fold himself into nothing, head buried deep against them.

Around him, the studio lay like a crime scene: bottles toppled, their contents bleeding into the wood; glass strewn like frozen lightning; and in the middle of it all, Leo, small and shaking.

His phone lay beside him, its screen cracked into a spiderweb of fractures but still glowing, spilling hateful words across his skin like a cruel spotlight.

His hands were cut open from gripping shards, streaks of blood trailing down his wrists like thin red rivers. Yet he did not flinch, did not even blink. He trembled instead — shallow, uneven breaths making his ribs quake — like a marionette whose strings had been slashed, body still moving only because despair demanded it.

Sangwon stopped dead in the doorway, air catching in his lungs as if a fist had closed around his throat. His heart lurched violently against his ribs, a thunderclap inside his chest. He had seen Leo tired, furious, drunk, silent — but never this. Never hollowed out so completely that even his shadow seemed to curl inward.

‘I’m watching him rot alive,’ Sangwon’s mind whispered, but it felt like a scream echoing in his skull.

‘And I can’t—I can’t do nothing anymore.’

The smell of spilt alcohol burned his nose. His throat tightened with a cry he swallowed back, his fists trembling at his sides. His knees almost gave, but he pushed himself forward, crossing the shards with careful, urgent steps, as though any noise might shatter Leo further.

He knelt, reaching out, fingers brushing over Leo’s trembling arm. The skin was cold. Too cold.

Leo didn’t look at him; his eyes stared past, empty and glassy, reflecting nothing but the glow of the shattered screen. When he spoke, his voice was hollow — not even a whisper, but the echo of one.

“If I drink enough…” His lips cracked on the word, “…maybe I won’t hear them anymore.”

The sound hit Sangwon harder than any scream could have. The sentence clawed at his chest, gnawed through his ribs, and burrowed into his heart. He felt it physically — like teeth sinking in — a pain both sharp and endless. His breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, he thought he might crumble right there with him.

He imagined it... himself falling onto the floor beside Leo, burying his face in his hands, letting the same darkness swallow them both.

It would be so easy. So quiet. So final.

But then... the thought of Leo disappearing entirely. Of this figure, shaking and breakable in his arms, vanishing from the world. That image hit him harder than the hate, harder than the despair. It was a vision of a void too large to face.

‘If I crumble...’ Sangwon told himself, the words a frantic drumbeat in his skull, ‘... he will vanish. If I fall now, he will be gone.’

He swallowed back his own tears with a force that hurt his throat, gripping Leo’s shoulders with hands that shook but would not let go.

‘I can’t crumble yet… not now… not when he needs me the most.’

The resolve tasted bitter, like blood between his teeth, but it steadied him. He gathered Leo into his arms, feeling how light he was, how loose his body had become, as though grief had hollowed out his bones. Sangwon’s own knees dug into the shards as he shifted, but he didn’t care — he’d rather bleed than let Leo go.

He pressed his forehead against Leo’s hair, breathing in the scent of alcohol and salt, whispering — not words yet, just sound, a low murmur to tether him back. His hand stroked over Leo’s back in slow circles, smearing blood and tears and spilt liquor together. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered except holding him.

Inside Sangwon, fear and anguish warred with something heavier, more rooted: love. The kind of love that doesn’t flutter but digs in, that anchors even when the storm rips everything else away. And in that moment, on that floor surrounded by broken glass, he swore silently to himself:

If Leo burns, I will be the water.

If Leo drowns, I will be the shore.

If Leo shatters, I will be the hands picking up the pieces, even if they cut me.

He closed his eyes, tightening his hold, and whispered hoarsely against Leo’s hair, “Not like this. Not alone. Not ever.

Each visit had been a cut. Small at first, shallow enough to bear — a tremor here, a bruise there, a word unsaid. But by the fourth, Sangwon had been bleeding on the inside. By the fifth, his restraint was only skin-deep, a thin thread straining over a chasm. Tonight, the thread tore apart.

He stood in the doorway longer than he ever had before. The apartment was no longer just dim — it was cavernous, a hollow chamber filled with ghosts of music and laughter now turned to ash. The air was heavy with the stale sting of spilt alcohol, with silence so sharp it pressed against his lungs like glass, splintering every breath.

His fingers curled around the key still warm from the turn, white-knuckled. He did not move immediately. He let the moment hang over him, heavy as iron, while his eyes adjusted to the fractured world Leo had built inside these four walls. It was all in ruins now: bottles like shattered constellations, notebooks torn apart and left like dead birds on the floor, pages filled with scribbles and loops that went nowhere — frantic maps to nowhere.

And there — at the centre of this quiet apocalypse — sat Leo.

On the couch this time. Not on the floor, not at the desk. Slumped like a man whose bones had given up, head lowered, eyes fixed on nothing. In one hand, a freshly opened bottle of soju, its neck gleaming faintly under the weak light.

This time, he wasn’t scrolling. No blue glow of the phone casting shadows under his eyes. Only the stillness of a body eroding from the inside. Around him, the bottles had spilt out their contents, rivers of liquor tracing crooked paths across the wooden floor like veins, like tributaries feeding some unseen ocean.

Leo’s face had lost its colour. Ghost-pale. Lips cracked and dry as forgotten earth. His eyes swollen, rimmed in furious red, the skin under them shadowed like bruises of grief. The dried tracks of tears ran down cheeks that once burned with music and laughter, streaks like scars carved by invisible claws.

He raised the bottle to his lips, but his hand trembled — not the tremor of nerves but of a man unspooling at the seams. It slipped. The liquor splashed down his shirt in a cold bloom. He didn’t even flinch.

Instead, a laugh escaped him — hoarse, jagged, broken. It wasn’t a laugh, not really, but something left behind when laughter dies: a sound hollow and inhuman, caught somewhere between pain and heartbreak, like a cracked bell ringing in an empty church.

The sound echoed through the studio, sharp and merciless. To Sangwon, it felt like a thousand blades slicing straight through his soul, leaving only ribbons.

His fists clenched at his sides until his nails carved crescents into his palms. His heart hammered in his ears, a violent drumbeat of rage and grief threatening to crack his ribs. He couldn’t bear it any longer.

He crossed the room in a blur, his movements no longer careful but desperate, and wrenched the bottle from Leo’s grasp. Without thinking, he hurled it across the room. The shatter of glass was thunder; shards rained down like murdered stars, fragments of a night sky torn apart.

“Enough!”

The word tore from his throat, raw and frayed, louder than he had ever spoken in his life. It was not just a word but a sound, a breaking — a plea and a curse at once. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, each one searing his lungs like fire drawn in through splinters.

And then — his hands. They seized Leo’s shoulders, fingers digging in as if to carve themselves into his skin, to make him feel. To tether him to life with sheer force. He shook him, desperate, forcing the man — his leader, his brother, his everything — to look up.

Leo’s head lifted slowly, eyes glazed, pupils drowning in alcohol and grief. When they met Sangwon’s, they didn’t spark. They didn’t even flicker. They were voids, two mirrors reflecting nothing but ruin.

Sangwon’s heart broke so violently he swore he could hear it, the sound of splintering wood under too much weight.

This was not Leo. This was a corpse wearing his skin.

And Sangwon knew in that moment — if he didn’t drag him out now, right here, he would lose him.

Not to scandal. Not to hate. Not to the world.

But to himself.

Sangwon leaned closer, eyes burning, breath shaking as the words tore through him. "Do you even realise what you're doing to yourself? To me?"

Leo’s gaze drifted, drowned in liquor and grief, his eyes glassy, pools reflecting nothing but absence. His words slipped out like a wounded breath, delicate and trembling, blurred by the alcohol threading through his veins. “I’m just… giving them what they want,” he whispered, every syllable fragile, as though it might dissolve before reaching the air.

"Isn't this the apology that they want? Isn't this... what... redemption is? To be hated until nothing's left of me...?"

Sangwon's breath hitched. His knees buckled as he lowered himself, kneeling in front of Leo as if the weight in his chest had dragged him down. His fingers still gripped Leo's shoulders, desperate, terrified that if he let go, Leo would just crumble more until there was nothing left for him to salvage.

He draws in closer until his forehead presses against Leo's, his tears spilling freely now, dropping onto his cheeks like raindrops falling to the ground. The tear in his heart was taking his breath away, but he knew that nothing could ever compare to whatever anguish the man in front of him was enduring on his own.

"You think this is redemption? You think destroying yourself will save us?" His voice finally cracked, soft and trembling. Pleading. 

Leo's lips parted as if to argue, but Sangwon went on, words tumbling like broken glass. "I've been here every damn day, Leo. Watching you die a little more each time. Watching you scroll until your eyes go hollow. Watching you drink until you can't stand. Watching you burn yourself alive just to erase their words. And all I could do was sit here—" his voice fractured into a sob, "—watching you bleed and break and collapse, while I... while I stood powerless."

His voice cracked open into a whisper. "Do you even see what that's doing to me? To you...?"

"...To us?"

Leo blinked, his face contorting as tears welled but refused to fall. 

Us. 

The word ‘us’ felt like it was clenching around his neck, strangling him alive.

"I thought... I thought if I carried the hate alone, you'd all be free." His voice trembled, every word dripping with guilt. 

"But I chained you to me instead. I ruined everything, Sangwon. The group. The dream... You." 

Sangwon's grip tightened, trembling as his chest screamed with the force of love and anguish colliding.

'How can he not see? How can he not see he was never the ruin, but the heart, the centre of everything we built?'

"No," Sangwon's voice was a vow, low and raw. "The only thing you ruined... was yourself." He swallowed. "Because you wouldn't let us share the weight. You locked us out, Leo..."

His throat constricted as the truth bled out. "...You locked me out."

His breath fractured, his lips trembled as he felt his heart breaking apart like glass. "And I can't take it anymore. I can't keep watching the person I—" His voice broke into pieces, collapsing into the bitter yet honest confession. "—the person I love destroys himself in slow motion."

Leo froze. His eyes widened, tears finally spilling, cascading down his cheeks like rivers breaking their dam. His voice cracked, shattered. "You... you love me?" The question was broken, trembling, as though the idea itself was a cruel dream. A dream he would not dare to wish for. 

"I always have." Sangwon's chest heaved, every word drenched in honesty, in desperation, in love. 

"And it hurts, Leo. It's heartbreaking to sit in that doorway night after night, watching you tear yourself apart while knowing that nothing I do can ever glue you back together." He paused, breath hitching—like a sob he couldn't quite swallow—as he struggled to utter the words that had been buried deep inside his chest for way too long.

"Do you know how helpless I've felt? How many times I wanted to rip the phone from your hands, to throw every bottle out the window, to scream until you heard me?" His voice rose, but it wasn't anger—just desperation, trembling and thin like a glass on the verge of breaking.

"But I didn't. Because I'm afraid that me doing something, anything... might just break you even more. But I was wrong. I should have dragged you out of the fire right away, even if it meant burning myself with you."

Leo's body convulsed with sobs that erupted like waves crashing after a storm, violent and unrestrained, as his tears finally started to spill after weeks of silence. He lowered his head, burying his face into Sangwon's chest, clutching fistfuls of his shirt as though anchoring himself to the last solid thing in his collapsing world. 

His words tore out between sobs, raw and broken. "I don't know how to stop. Every word... It's inside me. I drink, I scream, I try to burn it all away, but it doesn't leave. I don't even know who I am anymore. I didn't want you to see me like this. I didn't want... I didn't want you to hate me, too."

Sangwon's eyes burned. He reached forward, wrapping his arms around the fragile figure whose face was now buried on his chest. His own tears trickled down onto Leo's damp hair. 

His voice cracked, but his resolve was unshakable. "I could never hate you. I hate the way they've made you believe their hateful words. I hate the way you've buried yourself in it. But you—you, Leo—I love every broken piece. Every scar. Every shadow you carry," He paused. Hands moving, gently rubbing soft circles along Leo's trembling back, pulling him tighter into his embrace. Their bodies clung together like two shattered halves trying to fuse.

Sangwon held him as if he could stitch him back with sheer force, pressing his cheek against Leo's hair, whispering through his sobs, "Because despite all of it, you're still Leo. You're still the boy who stayed up until late, composing those songs we love into perfection out of sheer devotion. The one who laughed so hard that night one night until we got scolded by the manager for being too loud. The one who never hesitates to lend a shoulder whenever we lose our way. You're still him. The Leo I know. The imperfect Leo. The same Leo I've fallen in love with, over and over. And I'll spend every day pulling you out of whatever abyss you're drowning into. Without hesitation. Even if you fight me."

Leo's sobs grew louder, shaking him to his core, his body collapsing under the weight of Sangwon's words, but his grip on the younger man never loosened… as though his entire life depended on him. "I don't know if I can be fixed." His voice was barely a whisper, drowned by his own crying. "I don't know if there's anything left of me worth saving."

Sangwon pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes, his own wet and glistening—with tears, affection and care. His hands moved, cupping Leo's cheeks gently before pressing their forehead together, his tears mixing with Leo's as their breaths trembled in unison.

The tears blurred both of their visions, but Sangwon's voice carried like fire through the storm. "Then let me be the one to decide that. Let me be the one to prove you wrong. Because I swear to you, as long as I'm breathing, you will not face this storm alone. And if you fall, I'll fall with you."

In that small, broken studio, surrounded by shards of glass and rivers of empty bottles, Leo finally broke—not into despair, but into the safety of arms that refused to release him. His wails tore through the silence, ragged and desperate, echoing like prayers from a soul too weary to keep fighting. Yet too alive to let go.

"It's okay, I'm here. I've got you." Sangwon's soft whisper cracked like a vow under the weight of his own trembling breath, each word spilling out from the deepest part of his heart.

Slowly, desperately, he leaned in, kissing away the tears of sorrow on Leo's skin, as though he could swallow away all the pain and agony reflected in them.

Then, with tenderness that wrapped like dawn after a long night, Sangwon drew him close—tight enough to keep him from falling apart, yet gentle enough not to break what was left of him—an embrace that spoke where words failed: You're not alone. Not anymore. And I'm here to stay.

For the first time in endless weeks, he let himself collapse completely—and for the first time, he was caught. Not by guilt, not by hate, but by a love that refused to let him drown.

The silence that followed was fragile, like glass barely set back onto the shelf after a storm. Leo's sobs had softened into fractured breaths, his body no longer convulsing but trembling like a flame fighting not to go out. 

Sangwon remained kneeling on the floor, arms wrapped around him, forehead pressed against Leo's temple as if proximity alone could stitch together the pieces. But his knees ached, and he felt the heavy pull of Leo's exhaustion against him.

Slowly, Sangwon loosened his hold and whispered, voice raw but careful. "Come... let's move."

Leo blinked sluggishly, his lashes wet, his face flushed from crying. His body leaned into Sangwon instinctively, too worn down to resist. Sangwon rose from his knees with a quiet exhale, guiding Leo's arm around his shoulder, helping him up gently from the couch. 

Each step toward the bed felt deliberate, like walking through the aftermath of a battlefield—careful not to disturb the fragile ground. Ignoring whatever mess is left on the floor. 

Leo's legs dragged a little, but Sangwon bore his weight without complaint, steady, unwavering.

When they reached the bed, Sangwon eased Leo down onto the mattress. The sheets were tangled and messy, but they didn't matter. What mattered was the way Sangwon sat beside him, then pulled him close, coaxing Leo's body until it curled toward him, fitting against his chest. Sangwon's arms wrapped around him once more, but this time not in desperation—in quiet insistence, a promise that he wasn't going to let go. Leo buried his face against Sangwon's shirt, the damp heat of his breath soaking through the cotton.

For a while, there were no words, just the rhythm of two chests rising and falling, sometimes uneven, sometimes syncing, as though trying to find each other again. Sangwon's hand moved slowly up and down Leo's back, each stroke deliberate, patient—an anchor tracing invisible circles, wordless assurances carved into skin. 

He pressed a faint kiss on the crown of Leo's head, almost hesitant, as though afraid it would shatter him again. But Leo didn't pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, like a child reaching for comfort he thought he no longer deserved.

'How could anyone hate him this much?' Sangwon thought, his heart twisting. 'How could they not see him the way I do — fragile and fierce, stubborn and gentle all at once? If only I could take it all, burn it myself, and leave him untouched.'

Leo's voice, hoarse and muffled against Sangwon's chest, broke the silence. "I... I don't deserve this."

Sangwon tightened his hold, shutting his eyes briefly as if the words stabbed at him.

"You deserve more than this, Leo. You always have. You think the world only sees your mistakes, but I see everything else. The late nights, the sweat, the way you carry guilt like it's yours alone to bear. Let me share it. Just... let me."

Leo shook his head weakly, but his fingers clutched at Sangwon's shirt, betraying his own denial. His voice cracked, words trembling in the air. "What if I break again? What if I pull you down with me?"

Sangwon shifted, cupping Leo's jaw with one hand, tilting his face up so their eyes met—red-rimmed to red-rimmed, pain mirroring pain.

"Then I'll break with you. And I'll keep breaking, as many times as it takes, if it means I can hold the pieces with you. Don't you get it? I don't want to stand on the outside anymore, just watching you drown."

Leo stared at him, pupils glassy, lips parting as if words wanted to come but couldn't. Instead, he let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, collapsing forward into Sangwon's chest again. 

Sangwon leaned back slowly, guiding them both down onto the bed fully now. He pulled the blanket over them with one hand, the other never leaving Leo's body, fingers curled at his waist as though to ground him in the present. Leo's breath hitched once more, but then... it began to slow. He let out a soft, broken sigh and melted into Sangwon's hold, surrendering for the first time that night.

'Even broken things deserve rest,' Sangwon thought, his own eyes burning though no tears fell. 

'Even shattered glass glints when the light touches it.'

He stayed awake longer, watching Leo's lashes flutter shut, watching his chest rise and fall with a fragile rhythm. There were moments when Leo's grip on his shirt would loosen, then tighten again, as though even in sleep he feared Sangwon might vanish. Each time, Sangwon only tightened his embrace, whispering sweet nothings into the night—not meant to be heard, but meant to exist. 

Meant to fill the air so Leo would never again know silence as abandonment.

And as the hours stretched thin, a faint pale glow began to bleed into the edges of the curtains. Dawn crept slowly, brushing the room with muted gold, fragile but insistent—like a wound daring to scar over. Sangwon bent his head down slightly, pressing one last kiss onto Leo's temple before closing his own eyes at last. 

The night had not fixed everything; it had not erased the hate, or the mistakes, or the shadows that haunted them both. But as Leo slept in his arms, tangled and warm and here, Sangwon felt the faintest glimmer of something stubborn flicker inside him.

Hope—fragile, but alive, like the first light after a storm.

Chapter Text

The first thing Sangwon noticed wasn't the light—it was the weight.

Not the suffocating weight of despair he had carried last night, but a quieter one, soft and grounding. Warmth pressed into his chest, slow breaths fanning against his shirt, an arm hooked loosely across his waist as though someone had unconsciously anchored themselves to him in the dark.

It was Leo.

When his eyes cracked open, the room was still wrapped in a dim hush. Sunlight was leaking timidly through the blinds, thin ribbons stretching across the floor, but most of the room was still cloaked in the grey of early morning.

The night had swallowed them whole, and somehow they had survived it, tangled together in exhaustion and desperation. Now, in the pale prelude of dawn, Leo lay curled against him, his body slack with a sleep that seemed more like collapse.

His hair fell across his brow in untamed strands, damp with the salt of dried tears. His lips were slightly parted, pale. His skin still smelled faintly of alcohol, sharp and sour, but beneath it lingered something uniquely his—a quiet sweetness, the faint trace of the shampoo Sangwon had always associated with late—night rehearsals and hurried showers.

The old studio itself bore witness to their storm. The floor was scattered with empty bottles and crumpled tissues, shadows clinging stubbornly to the corners. The blinds hadn't been pulled all the way shut, so narrow blades of sunlight cut through the dimness, striping the mess in muted gold. Everything was still—almost sacredly so.

Sangwon didn't dare move. His chest ached with the weight of it all—of Leo, of the night before, of the confessions torn out between sobs and silence. He lay there memorising the rhythm of Leo's breathing, shallow but steady. Each inhale, each exhale, felt like proof that he had been able to catch him before he shattered beyond repair.

He's alive. He's still here. And I'm holding him.

Minutes bled together like watercolours, until finally Leo stirred.

It began with a twitch—fingers tightening faintly against Sangwon's shirt, brows knitting together as though even dreams brought him no peace. Then came a soft, broken groan. His head shifted, cheek brushing against Sangwon's chest before tilting away. "...ugh." His voice was hoarse, cracked like glass left too long in the sun. A hand fumbled upward, pressing against his temple. "...My head."

Sangwon exhaled softly, brushing a strand of hair off his damp forehead. "Probably the hangover," he murmured, his voice low and steady, careful not to sound like pity.

"It'll pass. Just breathe."

Leo's lashes fluttered as his eyes cracked open. Groggy, unfocused, he blinked at the ceiling, then turned his head slightly. His gaze found Sangwon—and froze. His lips parted, but no sound came. The air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with the memory of what had been said, screamed, and confessed only hours before.

Sangwon swallowed, offering the smallest, gentlest smile. "...Morning." The word slipped out like an offering, tentative but warm.

Leo blinked once, twice. His throat bobbed as he whispered, barely audible,
"...You stayed."

Sangwon's chest tightened, the kind of ache that came from love that was too big for his body. He lowered his forehead until it pressed against Leo's, eyes slipping shut. "Of course I stayed. You think I could leave you like that?"

Leo's breath hitched, and his face buried into Sangwon's chest, as if he could hide from the world there. His voice was muffled, heavy with shame. "...I was so... ugly last night."

Sangwon kissed the crown of his head, slow and deliberate. "You weren't ugly," he whispered against his hair. "You were hurting. There's a difference."

Silence stretched—but it was not empty. It pulsed, filled with everything unspoken: fear, shame, relief, love. Slowly, hesitantly, Leo tilted his face back up. His eyes were rimmed red, lashes clumped, glassy with a tenderness that looked foreign on him.

"...Do you regret it?" His voice cracked on the last word, as though it hurt to release it.

Sangwon frowned faintly. "Regret what?"

"The thing you said." His lips trembled, the sound barely rising.
"That—that you... love me."
He stuttered, as if the words held more weight than the world itself. The syllables trembled in the air like fragile glass, threatening to break.

Sangwon's reply came almost immediately, without any hint of hesitation. His voice was low but unwavering with certainty. "No. Never. If there's anything to regret, it's for not saying it sooner. I should have. Before last night happened. Before you break."

Leo's breath stuttered. His gaze searched Sangwon's, as though he could peel back the words to find the hidden cracks beneath them. But there was none—only pure determination, sincerity, and unwavering affection—staring back at him like a sunrise.

He then let out a laugh, brittle and hollow. "I wish... I deserve that... Right now... I don't think I do. Love. You.
I don't deserve you."

Sangwon's hand lifted, trembling with purpose, and came to rest against Leo's cheeks, cupping it with tenderness. His thumb swept gently across his skin, a touch both grounding and reverent. His own voice quivered, but not from doubt—from the sheer intensity of holding so much love in a body too small to contain it. "You don't get to decide that." Each of his words burns with truth.
"That choice is mine. And I'm telling you—I love you. Every scar. Every shadow. Every broken edge..." he paused, planting a kiss on Leo's temple.

"... And you deserve this. My love. More than anyone else. You deserve everything. All of me."

Leo swallowed hard, throat tight, his body trembling as though caught between wanting to collapse and wanting to run. His lips parted on a whisper. "... But why? Even though I keep ruining everything?"

Sangwon leaned in until their foreheads pressed against each other, breaths mingling in the sliver of space between them. "Because you're not ruining everything," he muttered—low, but honest. "You're just drowning. And that's okay."

"Because I'll always be here to pull you back out."

What followed was not a tidy resolution but a gentle unravelling. They spoke in fragments about the night before—Leo admitting how the hate in his head had become a constant roar, how he had felt like little more than a ghost dragging everyone else down. Sangwon confesses how helpless it felt, watching from the outside, terrified of losing him to silence, to shadows.

Leo apologised. Over and over, too many times—and each time, Sangwon silenced him with something softer than words: a kiss to his temple, to his knuckles, to the damp strands of hair falling across his brow. "Stop saying sorry," he murmured.

"You don't owe me that. Just... let me in next time."

Somewhere between the heaviness, light flickered. Sangwon teased him gently about his drunken laugh, calling it the ugliest sound he had ever heard. Leo shoved him weakly, muttering a curse, but the corners of his lips curled in the faintest, reallest smile Sangwon had seen in weeks.

And slowly, as the sun climbed higher and spilt gold across the wreckage of the room, the storm of the night before softened. It didn't vanish—it still lingered like damp air after heavy rain - but it had broken.

Wrapped in each other beneath the sheets, sometimes whispering, simply breathing together. What they found was not joy, not yet, but something rarer.

Peace.

The fragile kind, like porcelain balanced on the edge of a shelf.

But peace nonetheless.

The peace that had settled between them did not vanish when silence returned. Instead, it lingered in the air, soft as dust in sunlight, fragile as porcelain, but undeniably there.

Sangwon stayed still, cradling Leo's weight against him, whose face was now buried against his chest. His hand traced absent patterns on Leo's back, a slow rhythm meant to soothe—arcs and circles that could have been letters, words, entire confessions if only they were legible. Leo, still heavy with exhaustion, let his eyes drift closed again. For a moment, Sangwon thought he had fallen asleep. But then a whisper came, small and hoarse. "...This really feels strange."

Sangwon tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against Leo's hair. "Hmm...? What does?"

"This," Leo murmured. His fingers twitched, curling tighter around Sangwon's shirt.
"Waking up... together. Like last night wasn't just some dream."

Sangwon exhaled, his chest aching with tenderness. "It wasn't a dream. It was messy, and it hurt, but it was real. And I'm still here."

Leo shifted faintly, his cheek brushing against Sangwon's chest. "...I honestly thought I'd wake up, and you'd be gone. That maybe I'd scared you away."

A soft smile touched Sangwon's lips. He leaned down, pressing a light kiss onto Leo's temple. "It'll take more than that to scare me away."

Leo let out a shaky breath, one that trembled on the edge of laughter and sob. His voice muffled as he spoke,
"... Any normal person would've scrambled away with fear... or disgust."

"Well, I'm not one of those 'any normal person' you're referring to... am I?" Sangwon whispered, his tone firm but tender.
"I already chose. To stay. And I'll keep choosing the same. Every time."

Silence lingered after those words—no longer heavy, but hushed with thought. Leo's breathing slowed, finding its rhythm, and when he finally tipped his head back up toward Sagwon, his gaze shimmered—damp yet steadier, the storm within it softened to a quiet tide. He held that stare as though it were language enough, as though gratitude itself could pour through the meeting of their eyes.

There was a visible fatigue in Sangwon's eyes, a quiet weariness, but beneath it, a pulse of tenderness, a glimmer of comfort that reached for him. And in that soft radiance, Leo felt it—the safety, the certainty, the strength to rise against a world of jeers. For as long as those eyes held him, he could bear the weight of every shadow and still walk forward in the light.

The world outside was beginning to wake—faint city sounds bleeding through the thin walls: a car horn, the shuffle of feet on pavement, the clatter of a shop opening its shutters. Morning light spread slowly across the floor, climbing the edges of the bed until it touched their tangled bodies, gilding their exhaustion in quiet gold.

Eventually, Sangwon stirred. He brushed his hand gently along Leo's arm. "Come on. You need water. Something in your stomach."

Leo groaned faintly, face buried back into Sangwon's embrace, like a child refusing to rise. "... Don't wanna move."

Sangwon chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in his chest. "What, you want me to carry you to the kitchen?"

Leo snorted at the tease. More disbelief than feeling flustered.
"As if you could."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile followed from him—small, but real.

"Let me help you up."

With slow, deliberate care, Sangwon helped him rise. Their bodies parted reluctantly, like ivy loosening its grip on stone, unwilling to let go yet yielding to the pull of morning. Leo swayed as he sat upright, knuckle brushing against his tired eyes. "My head feels like it's being split in two," he muttered. Voice hoarse with the weight of last night.

"Well.. that's what you get from drowning yourself in soju and whiskey for days." Sangwon's words carried no edge, only a softened chiding—a remark sharp in truth, yet wrapped in gentleness.

Leo huffed a scoff, a ghost of defiance, but the silence that followed admitted defeat. He had no strength left for denial, and besides, Sangwon was right. He acknowledged it that much.

A steady hand pressed warm against his back, anchoring him as though to remind him he would not fall—not here, not now.

"Come on," Sangwon murmured.
"Let's get you some water. And maybe a painkiller after breakfast for your headache."

And Leo did not protest. He allowed himself to be guided, step by step, out of tangled sheets into the quiet of the kitchen, his weight leaning into Sangwon's shoulder as though gravity had doubled overnight—and Sangwon alone kept him from collapsing beneath it.

The kitchen was cluttered, bottles lined up on the counter like a shameful collection, the air still faintly sour with the memory of alcohol. Sangwon's chest tightened at the sight, but he said nothing. Not now. He guided Leo to sit at the table, then moved to fetch a glass. The sound of running water broke the quiet.

Leo sat slumped, head in his hands.

"I hate this. Me. Like this."

Sangwon set the glass down in front of him, crouched slightly to meet his eyes. "I know. But it won't always be like this. I can assure you that. I won't let it be like this. Not again."

Leo lifted his gaze, tired and doubtful. "How are you so sure?"

"Because I'll drag you out of it, every single time, even if it kills me," Sangwon said simply. His lips curved faintly, not joking but fierce.
"That's a promise, too."

Something flickered in Leo's expression then—something fragile, almost fearful, as though he wanted to believe but didn't dare. Still, he took the glass and sipped slowly. Each swallow seemed like an effort, but Sangwon stayed close, steady as an anchor.

After water came food. Sangwon rummaged through cupboards until he found instant porridge, quick and bland, but something. He moved with a quiet determination, as if each small act—filling a pot, stirring, serving—was another thread pulling Leo back into life.

When he placed the bowl in front of him, Leo stared at it for a long time, unmoving.

"Just try," Sangwon coaxed gently.

"A few bites. That's all."

Leo hesitated, then finally lifted the spoon. The first bite was slow, reluctant. But Sangwon watched, patient, offering no pressure beyond his steady presence. By the fourth spoonful, Leo's shoulders loosened slightly, as though the act itself was proof he was still tethered to the world.

Sangwon sat across from him, chin resting on his hand, watching with a soft intensity. Leo noticed, narrowing his eyes faintly.

"...You're staring."

Sangwon smiled, shrugging. "Just making sure that you're real."

Leo rolled his eyes weakly, but his lips twitched at the edges.

They ate in silence for a while—or rather, Leo ate, and Sangwon waited. The quiet wasn't heavy now; it was companionable, filled with the sound of clinking spoons, the distant hum of traffic.

When the bowl was nearly empty, Leo set the spoon down, exhaling slowly. "... Are you sure... About all of this?" he asked, voice low.

"Which part of all of this are you referring to?" Sangwon straightened his posture, attentive.

Leo's fingers traced aimless circles on the table. "About... about being with me. Even after all those messes..." His eyes lifted, locking onto Sangwon's.

"... you meant it?"

Sangwon's answer was quick, but steady. "Every word."

Leo swallowed, throat tight. "Even knowing I might... fall again? That I might not get better fast, or ever?"

"Especially then." Sangwon leaned forward, resting his hand over Leo's. "You're not just the good parts, Leo. You're everything. And I don't want just pieces of you. I want all of it."

Leo's lips parted, a shuddered breath escaping him. His eyes burned, and for a moment, he couldn't look away. "... You're insane."

"Probably," Sangwon said softly, a faint sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

"But I'm yours."

The silence that followed was thick with something unspeakable—raw, trembling, alive. Leo finally looked down, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. "Then... don't give up on me. Even if I give up on myself."

Sangwon squeezed his hand, firm and certain.

"Never."

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, Leo believed him.

For a long time, they simply sat there, fingers tangled on the kitchen table, silence speaking louder than any apology or excuse. Outside, sunlight had climbed higher, slipping in through the blinds in fractured gold. The world was wide awake now—but in that kitchen, time moved more slowly, bending itself around their breaths, their fragile attempts at starting over.

When Leo finally pulled his hand back, it wasn't to retreat but to rub at his temple, wincing faintly. "My head's really killing me."

Sangwon's lips curved, half fond, half exasperated. "Hangovers tend to do that." He rose from his chair, moved behind Leo, and without asking, slid his fingers into his hair, massaging his temples gently.

Leo stiffened at first, unused to the tenderness, then melted beneath the careful pressure. His eyes fluttered shut. "...That actually helps."

"Of course it does. I've had practice. Yorch's the king of hangovers after dorm parties."

A faint huff of laughter escaped Leo—small, but precious. The sound tugged something in Sangwon's chest, a reminder of the Leo who used to laugh so easily, before the world caved in.

When the massage eased, Sangwon brushed his hands through Leo's messy hair, smoothing it down with a tenderness that made Leo's throat ache.

"Come on," he murmured. "Let's clean this place up. You'll feel better without all the bottles staring at you."

Leo grimaced, eyes shifting to the empty bottles scattered around the studio. "That's... a lot of bottles."

"Then it'll be faster if we do it together."

The words were simple, but they felt heavier than they should—together. Leo met Sangwon's eyes, and for a moment, something wordless passed between them. Then, slowly, he nodded.

They worked side by side, clearing counters and gathering bottles from all over the studio into trash bags that clinked with shame and finality. Sangwon handled most of it, tossing each empty with a sharp, unhesitating motion, while Leo managed the smaller tasks—wiping surfaces, folding discarded blankets, picking up pieces of glass still glittering faintly in the corners.

It wasn't efficient, not really. They bumped into each other more than once, Sangwon steadying Leo when he swayed, Leo muttering faint curses under his breath as his head throbbed. But Sangwon's quiet hum—tuneless, but soothing—filled the air, and Leo found himself almost comforted by the rhythm of it.

At one point, Leo caught Sangwon trying to balance two bulging trash bags at once, his thin frame wobbling under the weight. "You're going to break your arms," Leo muttered, reaching to grab one.

Sangwon shot him a faint grin. "What, worried about me now?"

Leo rolled his eyes but took the bag anyway. "If you pass out, who's going to make me porridge next time?"

The banter was weak, but it was there - fragile threads weaving their way back into the fabric of what once was. When the last bag was tied, Sangwon leaned against the counter, wiping sweat from his brow. "See? Already feels lighter in here."

Leo scanned the now-cleared studio, the emptiness almost startling. "It feels... less suffocating." His voice was quiet, as if admitting it might shatter the fragile air.

Sangwon stepped closer, brushing his hand briefly over Leo's back. "That's the point. We make space—for air, for light. For you."

Leo's throat tightened. He looked away, pretending to fuss with a rag. "...I don't deserve this."

"You don't get to decide what you deserve anymore," Sangwon said, not unkindly.

"Not when I'm here to remind you."

When the trash was finally out, they collapsed onto the couch, both drained but calmer. The air smelled cleaner now, faintly of detergent, not alcohol. For a moment, they simply sat in the quiet, shoulders brushing, breaths syncing.

It was Leo who broke the silence. "...About last night. About what you said."

Sangwon stilled, his heart stumbling. "Mm?"

Leo's fingers twisted together in his lap. "I don't... know how to take it. You saying you love me. And if you truly meant it."

"I meant it." Sangwon's voice was firm, almost immediate.

Leo's lips parted, but Sangwon reached out, tilting his chin so their eyes met. "I meant it then, I mean it now, and I'll keep meaning it tomorrow. You don't have to say it back—not until you're ready. But don't doubt that it's real."

Leo's chest constricted, his vision blurring faintly. "...It scares me. That you'd tie yourself to someone this broken." Sangwon's thumb brushed over his jaw, soft. "Then let me be scared with you. Let me stand inside the storm instead of watching you drown in it."

Something broke in Leo then, quiet and small, but instead of crumbling, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Sangwon's shoulder. "...I don't want to lose you."

"You won't." Sangwon's arms slid around him, pulling him close. "But we need rules. Boundaries. Or else we'll both burn out."

Leo blinked up at him. "Rules?"

"Yeah." Sangwon's lips curved faintly, though his eyes were serious. "Like... no phones after midnight. I'm tired of seeing you kill yourself scrolling at 3 a.m."

Leo wanted to open his mouth to argue, but Sangwon's pointed look made him sigh. "...Fine. But only if you promise to actually sleep here some nights instead of staying at the dorm."

"That's already the plan," Sangwon murmured. "I'll manage. You're more important."

Leo frowned faintly. "You'll get tired."

"Then I'll rest here," Sangwon said simply. "With you."

The silence stretched, then softened.

"Okay," Leo whispered.

Other rules followed, each born from their fears, their needs:
— Go outside together at least a few times a week, even if just for coffee.
— No more keeping secrets—though Sangwon hesitated, admitting quietly that he still felt like he needed to be the stronger one.
— Always say when things are not okay, even if it feels shameful.

Each rule was spoken like a vow, sealed with a quiet nod, a brush of hands, a promise pressed into the air between them.

By the time the sun had reached its peak, spilling warm light across the floor, the studio felt different. Not healed, not whole—but gentler. Less like a tomb, more like a place where something new could begin.

They ended the morning not with more words, but with the simplest act of all. Sangwon lies back on the couch with Leo curling into his side, their breaths syncing in a fragile rhythm.

Outside, the world spun on, indifferent. But inside, for the first time in a long time, the storm had quieted.

And in the silence, there was something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Healing didn't begin with fireworks. It didn't roar or make grand promises. It came like dawn breaking through thick curtains—quiet, hesitant, almost unnoticeable at first.

For Leo, the first step was food. Something so ordinary, so human, yet for months it had become his battlefield. Every meal felt like swallowing stones. He had grown used to pushing plates away, to saying later when he meant never.

But Sangwon noticed. Sangwon always noticed.

The very next day after their night of collapse and the morning of confession, Sangwon emerged from the tiny kitchen in Leo's apartment with a bowl of handmade porridge, not instant one this time. The steam curls into the air like a gentle offering. He set it down on the table with exaggerated ceremony, as though presenting a gourmet feast.

"Behold," Sangwon said, his voice mock-grave. "The cure to all wounds: rice porridge made with the skill of a master chef."

Leo raised an eyebrow, slouched on the couch. "Master chef? You boiled rice and water."

"Ah," Sangwon countered, pointing at him with the spoon, "but I boiled it with love. That's the secret ingredient."

Leo snorted, trying to suppress a smile. "Love tastes bland."

"Only because you haven't tried mine yet." Sangwon dragged the chair closer and scooped up a spoonful. He blew on it dramatically, making a show of cooling it down. Then he held it out. "Open up."

Leo gave him a flat look. "I'm not a child."

"Then prove it by eating on your own," Sangwon shot back without missing a beat.

For a moment, Leo stared at the spoon as though it were a weapon. The steam carried the faint smell of sesame oil, warm and homely. His chest tightened. He wanted to refuse — to turn his face away, to say he wasn't hungry. That was easier. Safer.

But then he saw the hope shining stubbornly in Sangwon's eyes, soft and relentless like waves eroding stone. Something inside him cracked. With a sigh, he leaned forward, lips parting just enough for the spoon to slip in.

It was warm, unremarkable, and yet when he swallowed, his throat burned with something more than just heat. It felt like swallowing a promise.

"There you go," Sangwon said gently, a smile tugging at his lips. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

Leo rolled his eyes, but his voice came quieter, softer. "It's edible."

"That's the highest compliment I've ever received," Sangwon teased, eyes crinkling. "I'll add it to my résumé: edible cook, professional caretaker, Leo's number one fan."

Despite himself, Leo chuckled—a sound he hadn't made in what felt like forever.

It didn't all happen at once. Some mornings were easier than others. Some days Leo managed a few bites without much resistance; other days he stared at the bowl until the food went cold, guilt gnawing at him as Sangwon patiently reheated it.

There were victories, though, small but glittering. Like the time Sangwon cut up fruit into ridiculous shapes—stars, hearts, even an uneven dinosaur—and plopped them onto a plate.

"What is that supposed to be?" Leo asked, biting back laughter.

"A brontosaurus," Sangwon declared proudly. "Don't insult him, he's sensitive."

"That's not a dinosaur, that's roadkill."

"Well," Sangwon grinned, holding up the piece with chopsticks, "Roadkill tastes like vitamin C. Open up."

Leo laughed so hard he nearly choked on the pineapple slice. And when the laughter died down, he realised something—his chest didn't feel as heavy. Not in that moment.

Sangwon knew progress wasn't measured in empty plates but in the colour returning to Leo's face, in the way his voice stopped rasping as much, in the spark of sarcasm that peeked out when Leo teased him back.

And Leo, though he would never admit it aloud yet, felt something stir too. Eating wasn't just about food anymore. It was about Sangwon sitting across from him, exaggerating every bite of his own meal, puffing out his cheeks like a chipmunk until Leo threatened to take a photo.

It was about not being alone at the table.

It was about letting warmth back in, one spoonful at a time.

If food were a battle, alcohol was a haunting.

Even when he didn't touch it, Leo felt the absence in his bones. His hands trembled sometimes, as if they still reached for bottles no longer there. Restless nights left him pacing the apartment, sweat beading his temples, mind buzzing with cravings.

Nights were the worst.

When the city dulled into quiet, when the neon lights outside flickered and faded, the craving came alive. It gnawed at him like a phantom limb, urging him to pour fire down his throat to numb the voices in his head. He could feel the burn even without the drink—a memory etched so deeply into his nerves that his hands sometimes shook as if holding a bottle that wasn't there.

'Just one sip,' the ghost whispered, oily and sweet. 'Just one to calm it all down.'

Leo knew the lie, but knowing never made it easier. He paced the living room, restless, fingers raking through his hair until his scalp hurt, sweat slicking his palms. His chest tightened as if invisible strings were pulling him back to the liquor cabinet that no longer existed.

And always, Sangwon was there.

He learned the rhythm of Leo's unease. The way his steps quickened just before the cravings hit, the hollow look in his eyes, the tremor in his jaw. Some nights, he would silently rise from the couch, fall into step beside him as they circled the room like two ghosts haunting the same space. No words, only presence—a shadow steadying a shadow.

Other nights, Sangwon would intercept the spiral. He'd grab Leo's wrists gently but firmly, anchoring him. His voice, low and unshaken, cut through the storm:

"Look at me. I'm here."

Leo's gaze always fought at first, slipping away, but eventually his eyes locked onto Sangwon's —and there he found something the alcohol never gave him: unwavering steadiness, quiet defiance against the pull of the ghost.

There were nights when the battle tore Leo apart, when his body shook so hard he collapsed against the couch, nails digging into the fabric as if tearing through it would release the urge. And Sangwon would lower himself onto the floor beside him, wrapping a blanket over his shoulders like armour, murmuring again and again, "You're not weak. You're fighting. That makes you strong."

Sometimes Leo wept into that blanket, not even sure if it was from craving or shame. His tears stained Sangwon's shirt, but the younger boy never flinched. He simply held him tighter, as if he could shield him from the ghost with nothing but his arms.

There were close calls, too. Nights when Leo's hand hovered over his phone, ready to call someone—anyone—who could deliver him the poison he craved. His fingers trembled, hovering on the number, when Sangwon suddenly appeared at the doorway. Breathless, sweaty from running straight after practice, chest heaving.

"Don't," Sangwon said, voice ragged but firm.

"Don't let it win."

The phone slipped from Leo's hand, clattering onto the floor, and he collapsed into Sangwon's arms as if his bones had given way. The ghost howled, but for that night, it did not win.

Each week, the desire's grip loosened—not gone, but quieter. The tremors in his hands grew softer. The nightmares, though still sharp, came less often. He still woke drenched in sweat sometimes, throat burning with the imagined taste of liquor, but when he reached out, Sangwon was always there. A steady weight on the other side of the bed, a warmth that reminded him that there were other kinds of fire that didn't destroy him.

And slowly, painfully, Leo realised: the alcohol had never been his anchor. It had only been an anchor made of stone, pulling him deeper into the sea. But Sangwon—Sangwon was a lighthouse, stubborn and unyielding, even when the waves crashed hardest.

The ghost of desire still lingered, yes. It whispered, it waited. But for the first time, Leo believed he could live with it—not by pretending it didn't exist, but by letting someone else stand between him and its pull.

And every time Sangwon whispered, "You're stronger than you know," the desire receded just a little further, its shadow dimming against the steady flame of presence.

At first, silence filled their days. Leo had forgotten how to talk about himself, how to peel open the layers of thought without choking. His head was heavy with things unsaid, but his mouth refused to let them free.

Sangwon didn't force it. He spoke lightly, filling the air with fragments of his day—how practice went, which member tripped on their own feet, what song was stuck in his head. And sometimes, he read ridiculous tweets aloud, laughter bubbling through his words like spring water, until—almost by accident—Leo found himself smiling, or letting a quiet chuckle slip through, like a crack in the armour.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the door that Leo had bolted shut began to shift. A creak here, a sliver of light there.

It started with the smallest of confessions, ones so delicate they almost felt harmless: how the damp smell of rain reminded him of that holiday they once spent in Busan, the sea air tangled in their hair. How he used to loathe the piano as a child, forced to sit upright on the stool when all he wanted was to be outside running wild. How the echoes of old dreams sometimes still wandered into his sleep—the vivid image of a stage, a crowd, a moment of being alive beneath the lights.

Then, with time, heavier truths began to slip through the cracks, truths that weighed far more than their syllables should allow. He spoke of guilt that clung to his bones, of the unbearable shame of being the first domino to fall and watching the rest topple after him. Of the paralysing fear that, without the crowd, without the applause, he was little more than nothing.

Each word dropped like a stone. But Sangwon caught every single one, never letting them crash to the ground. He didn't always reply—sometimes words felt too small, too brittle for the weight they were meant to carry. Instead, he answered with presence: the firm squeeze of Leo's trembling hand, the steady press of his forehead against Leo's, a whisper that brushed the air between them, fragile but certain. 

I hear you. I'm not leaving.

And somehow, that was enough. More than enough. It was an anchor when Leo felt himself adrift, a warmth against the cold that had taken root in his chest. It was proof, quiet but undeniable, that even shattered things could still be held.

Not every day they shared was dark. 

Some days, when his schedule was empty, Sangwon insisted on sunlight.

"Up. We're leaving."

Leo groaned, burrowing deeper into the sheets. "I don't want—"

"I'm not asking."

And before Leo could string together a proper protest, Sangwon had already tugged a hoodie over his head, practically wrestling him into it, laughter bubbling at Leo's half-hearted complaints. The next thing he knew, he was being herded out the door, his hair still messy, his grumbling drowned out by Sangwon's smug grin.

They made their way to quiet cafés tucked in side streets, the kind where the air was heavy with the scent of roasted beans and soft music trickled through dusty speakers. They always sat side by side, never across—knees brushing, shoulders pressed, sharing a silence that was anything but empty. Sometimes Leo would scowl at the bitter edge of his coffee, only for Sangwon to slide his cup across the table and say, "Try mine," with a smirk, as though he hadn't ordered it sweet on purpose.

At the Han River, they leaned against the railing, tossing breadcrumbs at pigeons and arguing about which bird looked fastest, making ridiculous bets that never mattered.
"That one's clearly a champion," Leo declared.
"That one looks like it's wheezing," Sangwon shot back.
Still, they cheered as though it were an Olympic race, their laughter spilling into the open air.

Bookstores became their sanctuaries, labyrinths of words where Sangwon would pluck the heaviest, most tragic novels from the shelves, clear his throat dramatically, and then read the bleakest lines in the flattest, most monotone voice imaginable. It never failed—Leo would burst into laughter, shoulders shaking until a stern librarian raised an eyebrow at them. He'd stifle his giggles into his sleeve, cheeks flushed, and Sangwon would only grin wider, proud of every stolen laugh.

One golden afternoon, they stumbled upon a Sanrio-themed claw machine, lights blinking like a carnival. Sangwon tapped the glass, pointing at a stuffed Badtz-Maru.
"That one looks like you."

Leo squinted at the plush, unimpressed. "That thing looks like it hasn't slept in three years."

"Exactly."

Leo rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. When Sangwon actually won the toy after three tries, he shoved it triumphantly into Leo's arms. "Here. Now you can carry yourself around."

Their laughter rang so loud that passersby turned their heads, some smiling, some bemused. Embarrassed, Leo tugged his cap lower, trying to hide the pink dusting his cheeks. But the smile refused to leave his lips, and Sangwon caught it—etched it into memory, the kind of smile he could replay for days.

These small outings became lifelines.
Little pockets of light stitched into their routine, moments where the noise of the world fell away and left only them—bickering, laughing, breathing easier. Each time they returned home, they carried something back with them: a feather of lightness, an unspoken promise, as though even the air had learned how to be gentle.

One evening, Sangwon had just slipped his shoes off by the door, exhaustion weighing down his shoulders from another long practice. He expected to find Leo sprawled on the couch as usual, phone in hand, eyes shadowed by the blue light of the screen. But instead, the air was filled with sound. Hesitant, uneven, yet undeniably musical.

Leo sat at the piano, head bowed, fingers hovering like he was afraid the keys might bite him. The notes he coaxed out were fragile, stuttering — the kind of melody that sounded half-forgotten, like something dug up from a buried part of his soul.

Sangwon froze, watching. For a moment, he didn't want to move, afraid even the scrape of his foot on the floor would break the spell.

"You're playing," he whispered finally, the words slipping out softer than breath.

Leo startled slightly, hands halting mid-air. His eyes darted up, guilty, as though Sangwon had caught him doing something forbidden.
"It's nothing," he murmured, fingers retreating to his lap. "Just... noise."

Sangwon shook his head, stepping closer, his voice firmer. "It's everything."

He sat down on the bench beside Leo, their thighs brushing. The melody had stopped, but the weight of it still lingered in the air. Leo stared at the keys, biting his lip.
"It doesn't sound right anymore," he admitted, voice trembling. "Like I lost whatever I had before."

Sangwon tilted his head, studying him. Then, with exaggerated seriousness, he jabbed at a random key, producing a sharp, ugly clang.
"Better than that," he grinned.

A laugh startled out of Leo before he could stop it—short, sharp, but real. He swatted Sangwon's hand away. "You're ruining it."

"Ruining what? You said it was nothing."

"It's still better than that," Leo shot back, but his lips curved despite himself.

Encouraged, Sangwon leaned in closer, whispering conspiratorially. "Then play something. Show me. Unless..." His eyes narrowed with mock suspicion. "...you've forgotten how."

Leo gasped, feigning offence. "I'll remind you who taught who back then." And before he could talk himself out of it, his fingers pressed down, producing a tentative chord. One chord became two. Two became a phrase. Slowly, shakily, the melody found its legs. Not a song yet, just a fragment, but enough to stir the air with life again. Sangwon listened, rapt. His usual fidgeting stilled, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm. When Leo faltered, he hummed the last note softly, coaxing him forward, filling in the cracks.

Leo's eyes flicked sideways. "You're off-key."

"I'm vibing," Sangwon replied without missing a beat. "There's a difference."

Leo's laugh this time was louder, spilling from his chest before he could swallow it back. He ducked his head, shaking it. "You're impossible."

"And you're playing again," Sangwon countered, triumphant.

The truth settled in then, heavier than either of them expected. Leo stared at his hands, his voice softer. 

"I thought... I thought I wouldn't touch this again. Every time I tried, all I could hear was—" He broke off, jaw tightening.

"Not anymore," Sangwon interrupted gently, covering Leo's trembling hand with his own. "Now it's just us. No one else here. Just you. Just me. Just the music."

Something in Leo cracked open at those words. For the first time in months, the keys no longer felt like knives under his fingers. They felt like home.

So he played again. Messy, uneven, but alive.

Sangwon leaned back, eyes closed, letting the sound wash over him. The melody wasn't polished, but it was raw, honest—a fragile kind of beauty, like a bird learning to fly again after being caged too long.

When Leo finally stopped, Sangwon clapped dramatically. "Encore!"

"Shut up," Leo muttered, though his cheeks flushed pink.

"Fine," Sangwon leaned forward, pressing his temple against Leo's shoulder. "But I'm serious. Don't stop. Even if it's just noise. Even if it's messy. Play. For me. For you."

Leo swallowed, throat tight. "...You'll get tired of listening."

"Never," Sangwon said, so certain it made Leo's chest ache.

And so the nights began to change. The piano no longer sat in silence. Some evenings, Leo would play aimlessly while Sangwon sprawled on the couch, pretending to sleep but always listening. Other nights, Sangwon would join in, tapping random keys just to annoy him, until Leo shoved him away with a smile that reached his eyes.

Music had returned. Not perfect, not polished — but alive.

And with it, Leo returned, too, piece by piece.

But the shadows did not vanish overnight. Healing was not a straight line—it was a winding road, tangled with cracks and sudden descents. Some nights, Leo's walls crumbled under the weight of everything left unsaid, undone, and unforgiven.

There were evenings when Sangwon would find him hunched over his phone, eyes burning red, the light from the screen harsh against his face as he scrolled through venom disguised as words. No matter how many times he swore he would stop, curiosity and hurt clawed their way back in.

"They hate me," Leo would whisper, voice cracking, as if confessing a sin. His hands would shake, not from alcohol anymore, but from the avalanche of memories and self-doubt.

On those nights, Sangwon never scolded. He would simply take the phone from Leo's trembling fingers, set it aside, and sink down beside him. Sometimes he held Leo close, forehead pressed against his temple as if his warmth alone could push the shadows back. Sometimes he spoke, reminding him in patient tones that his worth was not measured by faceless words on a glowing screen. Other times, he just sat in silence, holding his hand until the tremors faded.

But not every night was heavy.

There were nights when laughter filled the room like sunlight spilling through cracks in an old house. Sangwon would stay after practice, carrying takeout bags of Leo's favourite foods, insisting he eat even when Leo mumbled half-hearted refusals. They'd share fried chicken over the coffee table, crumbs gathering between them, Sangwon grinning as he teased Leo for being picky about the sauce.

"Hyung, you can't call yourself an artist and then reject half the flavours of life," Sangwon would say, mock-serious.

"And you can't call yourself a friend if you keep eating my fries," Leo would retort, snatching back the carton, though the curve of his lips betrayed the warmth under the words.

Sometimes, Sangwon would drag Leo out of the apartment for late-night walks, the city lights reflecting off puddles like fallen stars. They wandered down empty streets, breathing in the cool night air. Whenever they visit the convenience stores, Sangwon would pile random snacks into a basket—ramyeon, ice cream, chips—declaring it their "healing menu." Leo would shake his head, pretending to protest, but always paid at the counter with a soft sigh, his eyes gentler than his words.

And sometimes, instead of wandering the city, they stayed in. On one such evening, Sangwon appeared at the door with a mischievous smile and a stack of DVDs he had borrowed from who-knows-where.

"Movie night," he announced, holding them aloft like trophies.

Leo arched a brow. "You know we could just stream them, right?"

"Not the point," Sangwon replied, already kicking off his shoes. 

"This is about the experience."

So they curled up on the couch, lights dimmed, the faint glow of the television flickering across their faces. A blanket ended up draped over both of them, more out of Sangwon's insistence than Leo's. "You're always cold," he said, tugging it higher over Leo's shoulders before leaning in, shoulder pressed deliberately against his.

The first film was some ridiculous romantic comedy, the kind with improbable coincidences and too-perfect endings. Sangwon laughed far too loudly at the cheesy lines, nudging Leo whenever the lead said something embarrassingly sentimental.

"See? That's literally you," he teased when the main character recited an over-the-top confession.

Leo shot him a withering look, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest twitch upward. "If that's me, then you're the one dumb enough to fall for it."

"Who says I haven't already?" Sangwon countered, his voice quieter this time, playful but edged with something real.

Leo froze, the line of his jaw tightening before he scoffed and turned back to the screen. But Sangwon caught the faintest blush rising at the tips of his ears and filed it away triumphantly.

By the second film, Leo had grown too drowsy to maintain his usual sharpness. His head tilted against Sangwon's shoulder, the weight of him steady and warm. Sangwon didn't dare move, not even when his arm began to ache from holding still. Instead, he let the rhythm of Leo's breathing anchor him, the softness of the moment filling all the cracks the shadows had left behind.

And Leo, though he would never admit it out loud, slept more peacefully that night than he had in weeks.

Each night bloomed with new colours, brushed softly by the warmth and solace they found in each other's presence.

And there were late-night dates too, though neither of them dared to name them as such. They'd find themselves in quiet cafes open past midnight, sharing a slice of cake neither really wanted but ordered for the excuse to linger. Or sitting by the river, legs dangling over the edge, Sangwon pointing out constellations he probably made up while Leo pretended not to be amused.

"You're lying," Leo would say when Sangwon claimed a cluster of random stars was the "Phoenix of Healing."

"Prove me wrong," Sangwon would shoot back, lips quirking. And though Leo rolled his eyes, the way he leaned a little closer betrayed the comfort blooming in his chest.

Gradually, Sangwon became less of a visitor and more of a constant. His spare clothes started filling a drawer Leo had once kept empty. His toothbrush sat by Leo's sink, his shoes lined neatly at the door. At first, Sangwon excused it as convenience—"I come here so often, hyung, it's just easier this way." But with each passing week, the truth became undeniable: he was living there now, as much a part of the apartment as the piano in the corner or the coffee mugs in the cupboard.

The dorm saw less and less of him. He still showed up to practices, still joked with the members, but when night fell, his steps carried him back to Leo's. The others noticed, of course, but said little. Maybe they understood, maybe they chose to stay silent out of respect. All Sangwon knew was that when he lay on Leo's couch—or more often, in Leo's bed when the older man let him—he felt exactly where he was meant to be.

And so, the nights unfolded like pages of a book neither of them wanted to end. Some chapters were heavy, ink smudged with tears. Others were light, written in laughter, late-night walks, flirty movie nights, and the quiet rhythm of two hearts rediscovering trust.

Together, they were rewriting what it meant to stay, to heal, to choose each other even in the shadows.

Because no matter how dark the nights became, they always ended with the same truth: Sangwon was there.

And Leo, slowly, was learning that it was enough.

Chapter Text

Time had a cruel way of dimming lights without notice. The company, once buzzing with cameras and schedules and tightly knit rehearsals, began to thin in its attention. At first, it was subtle—less frequent practices, fewer staff buzzing around the practice room. The mirror-lined studio that once reverberated with laughter and exhaustion now echoed hollow with only their breaths, too few voices left to fill the void.

And so Sangwon stopped lingering there. He found himself drifting instead to Leo's studio, where the air still held purpose. What was once a place of refuge became his anchor. 

The dorm bed he once returned to nightly became nothing more than a stale mattress collecting dust; his real rest was now in Leo's dimly lit studio, where wires tangled like veins and unfinished songs waited like ghosts.

Over time, most of his treasured belongings slowly find their way into Leo's space. His books crept onto the shelves, his notebooks scattered on the desk. It was a gradual migration, so slow and unspoken that neither of them realised when it stopped being visiting and started being home.

Leo noticed, of course. He noticed the way Sangwon rarely went back to the dorm anymore, how his laughter was louder here, but his eyes seemed more tired. 

Concern pressed at him, guilt nesting in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to say 'you should rest there, with the others... you shouldn't stay here so much'. But every time he opened his mouth, Sangwon's smile silenced him.

"It's alright. I'd rather be here. With you," Sangwon said once, brushing it off as though it weighed nothing.

But it wasn't anything. In the quiet of his own thoughts, Sangwon admitted it. The company's neglect was like a knife turning slowly in his chest. To see the others slowly forgotten, to watch years of sweat and sacrifice erode under the indifference of people who once promised them the world—it made him feel hollow. Still, he told himself that it was fine. That he wouldn't break.

But he really wasn't alright at all.

And Leo noticed it. 

He saw how Sangwon was breaking even as he tried to hold Leo together. And the guilt always gnawed at him: You started this. You slipped, and now he's bearing the weight too.

So Leo gave what he could. Not grand gestures, not answers to the heaviness Sangwon carried—but the quiet comforts, the small steady things Sangwon had always gifted him first. Arms wrapping around the younger boy when words failed. A chin pressed gently to soft hair, grounding them both. A blanket tugged up over hunched shoulders when the night turned cold, tucked in as though warmth alone could shield him from the storm inside.

And then there was the banter—playful, ridiculous banter that slipped through the cracks like sunlight, carving small beams of light into the dark places they both fought to hide.

When Sangwon scribbled lyrics into his notebook, brow furrowed, Leo would lean in over his shoulder and whisper nonsense lines just to see the crease between his brows vanish.

"What if the chorus is about ramen? Think about it—ramen saves lives."

Sangwon snorted, pushing him away half-heartedly, though laughter trembled at his lips. "Where do you even get these corny ideas?"

"From you, obviously," Leo grinned, and it was worth every shove, every exasperated sigh, just to catch the smile Sangwon tried too hard to suppress.

Other nights, Leo would slip to the piano, the studio dim except for the glow of a single lamp. Sangwon would drift to him without a word, leaning against his shoulder as Leo's fingers pressed tentative chords. Humming rose between them—half-formed melodies, fragments of something real—and though nothing was finished, it didn't matter. The music became their language, a place where the weight lifted, where silence wasn't empty but alive with possibility.

Sometimes they'd both huddle close by the PC, knees brushing, shoulders touching, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. 

They layered beats together, chasing rhythms like fireflies they were terrified to lose. The thrill of creating—of shaping something that belonged only to them—made their exhaustion fade for a while. In those moments, they weren't just trying to survive. They were reaching, building, daring to believe in something brighter.

Maybe that was how they held on—not with promises too heavy to keep, but with these small, ordinary acts of closeness. A shared laugh. A melody hummed into the dark. The warmth of a blanket, the brush of a shoulder. All the little ways Leo told Sangwon, You're not alone. I'm here.

And often, the nights ended not in music but in warmth. Curled on the couch together under a blanket, Sangwon's head tucked under Leo's chin. Or tangled in Leo's bed, their breaths syncing in sleep. Sometimes, when exhaustion claimed them mid-production, they'd wake in the desk chair—Sangwon draped across Leo's lap, a blanket barely clinging to his shoulders, the glow of the computer flickering in front of them like a dying star.

It was domestic in a way neither of them spoke aloud. It felt like living in a secret world that no one else had the key to.

But storms never disappear just because you turn your back.

In December, the message came: a meeting, all remaining members present. The air was suffocating before a word was spoken. They gathered in silence, each boy carrying years of broken dreams on their shoulders. The words official decision sliced the room open.

One admitted defeat through trembling lips. Another masked it with bitterness, though his eyes betrayed him. Some tried to hold back tears, others didn't bother. They were boys who had once believed they'd be men on stage together. Now they were just fragments, scattered.

Sangwon sat through it all, his chest a tightening vice. By the end, his breath felt too heavy for his lungs. As soon as the meeting adjourned, he ran. He didn't go back to the dorm, didn't walk the streets—he ran straight to the only place that still felt like safety.

Leo's studio door swung open, and Sangwon nearly collapsed inside. His chest heaved, his throat raw with words he couldn't swallow.

"They..." His voice cracked, trembling. "It's over. They... have given up on us."

The world stopped. Leo felt it like a fist to the gut. He reached for Sangwon instinctively, pulling him into his warm embrace, steadying him as the younger boy's tears finally broke free.

"I'm sorry," Leo whispered, because what else could he say? 

"This is my fault..."

"No!" Sangwon's voice was sharp, desperate, muffled against Leo's chest. "Don't say that. It's not your fault. It's not..." His words dissolved into sobs, and all Leo could do was hold him tighter, as though he could shield him from the truth.

The next day, the news was official. Trainee A's project is officially cancelled. BigHit confirmed it. Yorch posted it to his personal Instagram, and the world digested their end like it was just another headline.

For Sangwon, it wasn't just news. It was the crumbling of everything he had bled for. Years of practice rooms, sleepless nights, dreams stitched into every lyric, every dance step—gone. Like it had never mattered. Like he had never mattered.

It hollowed him out. He felt helpless, like standing in the wreckage of a dream he had built with his own hands. And yet, even as he unravelled inside, he forced himself to be strong. For Leo. For them both. He couldn't fall now—not after everything.

But Leo saw it. He saw the cracks Sangwon tried to bury, the quiet agony in his eyes, the silence in his smile. Guilt drowned him, a tidal wave he couldn't swim out of. Every time he tried to voice it—this is because of me, you're hurting because of me—Sangwon silenced him with a firm shake of the head.

"No," Sangwon always said, voice soft but unwavering. "You slipped. But you stood back up. You're here. This isn't all on you. It's them. It's the company that abandoned us. It's the world that demanded perfection and refused humanity."

Leo wanted to believe him. But watching Sangwon crumble quietly, holding his pain in silence—he wasn't sure who was saving who anymore.

After the cancellation of their debut project, they were told to empty the dorm.

That day, boxes were stacked against the walls. Suitcases lined up by the door. The once-loud rooms—echoing with laughter, teasing, late-night rambling—had gone hollow. Even the air felt thinner, as though the place exhaled one last sigh with every object carried out of it.

Leo had stayed away, tucked in his studio, unable to face them again. But Sangwon had been there, helping, though his hands trembled each time he folded another shirt, or pulled down another poster, or stripped another bed of its sheets. Every drawer they opened was a memory unearthed, and every empty space left behind was an absence too loud to ignore.

The others moved quietly, as though sound itself was a crime.

Yorch was the first to break. He pressed his face into his sleeve, muffling a sob before dragging his suitcase to the door. James sat still for too long, clutching a notebook full of half-written lyrics, as if leaving meant those words would never belong anywhere again. Jihoon and Woochan tried to busy themselves with cleaning, with folding, with anything—but their hands faltered, their eyes glazed over.

It wasn't just moving out. It was erasure.

When the last of the bags was packed, they all gathered in the middle of the living room. No cameras. No staff. No words rehearsed. Just five boys standing in the ruins of a dream, staring at one another as if hoping someone would wake them from this nightmare.

Sangwon looked at them—his brothers, his family. He saw the grief in their eyes, the shame none of them should have carried, the loss too heavy for their shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Leo's voice cracked in his memory, though Leo wasn't even there. I'm sorry for dragging you down with me.

It was Sangwon who spoke first, his throat raw.
"We did our best. That's all anyone could have asked of us."

No one replied at first. Words felt useless. But then Woochan stepped forward, pulling Sangwon into a tight hug, holding him like he was holding the whole group together one last time. The others followed—arms wrapping around, shoulders pressed close, silent sobs breaking against each other's shirts.

For a moment, they were whole again. For a moment, they were boys with a dream, not casualties of an industry too cruel.

But moments end. Hugs loosen. One by one, they pulled away, each walking out the door with luggage rolling behind them.

The last sound Sangwon heard in that dorm was the soft click of the door shutting. After that, nothing but silence.

When he returned to Leo's studio later that evening, his chest ached with a loneliness he couldn't name.

Leo was there, seated at the piano, unmoving, as though he had been waiting for Sangwon to come back. His fingers hovered over the keys but never pressed down, as though music itself had abandoned him.

Their eyes met. He didn't speak of the dorm, of the farewell, of the fact that four shadows were now gone from his life. 

Leo simply said, in a voice softer than silence. 

"Stay here. With me."

And Sangwon nodded, almost too quickly. Because most of his life was already there anyway—the toothbrush, the notebooks, the shoes by the door, the clothes in the closet. It took only one trip with the last of his belongings for Leo's studio to become his new home, his new refuge, the place where they lived like two shadows holding onto each other.

It wasn't strange. If anything, it was natural. 

Two broken pieces, finding that their jagged edges fit together.

But as time passed, Sangwon began to drift.

At first, it was small things. A longer silence before answering. A smile that looked painted on. His eyes wandered to nowhere while his pen hovered uselessly above his lyrics.

Sometimes he would linger too long in the shower. The water ran hot, steam curling into the air while he pressed his forehead against the tiles, trying to hold himself together. Sometimes he broke apart, silently, fists pressed against his mouth so the sobs wouldn't carry. And afterwards, he would step out with damp hair and a forced grin, as if the water had washed everything away.

He told himself to be strong—for Leo, for them both. But strength, when forced, only deepened the cracks.

And Leo noticed. Of course he did. He watched Sangwon fade, smiles that never reached his eyes, silences that stretched too long, too fragile. He didn't pry, didn't push—but he was there. Quiet arms, steady warmth, wordless shelter offered again and again.

It felt like trying to stitch wounds with trembling hands. They tried to mend each other, but sometimes two broken souls can't make a whole one.

Yet slowly, almost helplessly, they became each other's lifelines.

Clingy, dependent, woven into one another until they forgot where one ended and the other began. They picked up each other's habits like borrowed skin. When one reached for a glass, the other's hand moved too. When one sighed, the other answered with a hum, like an echo that refused to let silence stand alone.

Leo had never bitten his nails before Sangwon. But after watching him gnaw at his fingers—anxious, faraway—he found his own thumb raw and sore, as if he could shoulder the habit for him. Sangwon, who once drowned everything in silence, now muttered fragments under his breath, words spilling like Leo's did when fear pressed too hard on his chest.

It was as though their pain became contagious—sorrows mirrored and magnified, but softened too, because neither had to suffer alone.

They absorbed each other until they blurred. Leo began leaving half-drunk mugs everywhere, coffee cooling beside forgotten books—Sangwon's small chaos made his own. He, who used to collapse anywhere, now refused to sleep until he heard Sangwon's toothbrush click against the sink, the light going dark in the bathroom, the quiet promise of I'm here.

Their gestures became a secret language. When Leo cracked his knuckles, Sangwon's fingers twitched like an answer. When Sangwon rubbed the back of his neck, Leo's hand rose to do the same. A strange choreography born out of exhaustion, out of need: I feel you. I follow. Don't vanish.

And when sadness pressed heavy against their ribs, they didn't ask for words. They simply stayed. Shoulder to shoulder. Heart to heart. Tangled into each other until their breaths fell into sync, two storms trying to find a rhythm that wouldn't tear them apart. Presence became a prayer, a fragile belief that maybe, just maybe, this closeness could hold back the breaking.

But inside Sangwon, the storm only grew louder.

He didn't speak of it. He told himself it was his burden alone. He couldn't hand Leo more weight, not when Leo already staggered beneath his own shadows. Don't add more. Don't let him see how badly you're unravelling.

So he swallowed it. Again and again. 

Until even silence tasted bitter.

But storms never stay silent forever.

That night, it was 3 a.m. when Leo stirred awake. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. Beside him, the bed shook softly.

Sangwon was curled in on himself, muffling sobs against the pillow. His shoulders trembled with every breath, the sound so small it might have gone unnoticed—if Leo hadn't grown so attuned to him that even silence could wake him now.

Without hesitation, Leo pulled him close, wrapping him like a shield. His hand stroked through Sangwon's hair, his lips pressed gently against his temple.

"Hey," he whispered, voice rough with sleep and worry. "You're okay. I've got you."

Sangwon only shook his head, choked sobs breaking through. He didn't say what hurt. He didn't need to. Leo already knew—it was everything. The loss. The disbandment. The dream that had turned to ashes.

Sometimes, the nights were worse. Nightmares dragged Sangwon under, leaving him whimpering, sometimes sobbing in his sleep without even realising. 

Leo grew restless in those hours, hyperaware of every twitch, every sharp breath, every shift that might signal distress. He often woke just to watch, hand resting against Sangwon's back to anchor him, whispering quiet words he might never remember come morning.

And when the day came, Sangwon pretended. He smiled, joked, forced a brightness that didn't belong. "I'm just tired," he said whenever Leo asked. "Just mentally exhausted, that's all."

Leo never believed it, but he let it slide—because pushing too hard might break him.

But one night, it went too far.

Sangwon woke from a nightmare, gasping, drenched in sweat. His skin burned to the touch, fever radiating like fire beneath his fragile frame. His lips trembled, his breath shallow, as though his body had finally given out under the weight of everything he had carried alone.

Leo's heart sank.

He pressed a hand to Sangwon's forehead, panic rising at the heat. Without hesitation, he fetched a damp cloth, medicine, water—moving quickly, urgently, his hands shaking as if Sangwon might slip away if he faltered for even a second.

"Shh," he whispered, coaxing him to drink. "I'm here. Just rest, you don't have to hold it in anymore."

Sangwon's eyes fluttered open, glassy, tears spilling before he could stop them. He wanted to say something—to apologise, to explain, to insist he was fine—but his throat closed around the words.

And Leo simply held him. All night. Cradling him as though his arms alone could hold Sangwon together, as though warmth could mend the fractures that words could not.

In the quiet of that fevered night, both of them realised the same thing:
They were each other's only shelter now.
But even shelters crumble under storms too long ignored.

The day after, the sky broke open. Rain fell like threads unravelling the heavens, soft at first, then steady, a curtain of grey draped over the city. The studio windows blurred with droplets that traced downward like weary tears.

Sangwon stirred awake with the weight of fever still clinging to him, his limbs heavy as if the night had anchored chains to his bones. 

Leo was already there, fussing quietly, moving with a gentleness that felt almost sacred. He drew a bath first, filling the tub with warm water, steam curling in the small bathroom. He coaxed Sangwon in, steadying him when his knees trembled. Fingers combed tenderly through damp hair, washing away sweat and fever. The intimacy was quiet, unspoken — Leo moving with care as though Sangwon were made of glass that had already cracked too many times.

Afterwards, he bundled him in a towel, then into warm clothes, his hands lingering at Sangwon's shoulders as though making sure he wouldn't dissolve in front of him.

In the kitchen, Leo moved with an endearing sort of clumsiness, every motion careful, almost stubborn in its determination. He stirred the pot with more heart than skill, coaxing the plain porridge into something warm and comforting. It wasn't perfect—never as rich or delicate as the ones Sangwon had made for him countless times before—but it carried all the weight of his effort, his care.

When it was done, Leo set the bowl gently in front of him, sliding it across the table as if it were something fragile. His voice softened, almost pleading.
"Eat, yeah? Just a little. For me."

And Sangwon did, slowly, spoonful after spoonful, though the weight in his chest was heavier than the fever in his body. Leo watched every bite like it was proof of survival, sliding the medicine to him with water when the bowl was finally empty.

The rain outside kept falling, steady as a heartbeat.

After breakfast, Leo guided him gently to the couch, as though Sangwon's bones might crumble at a touch. He eased him into the cushions, drew a blanket around him like armour against a world too cold, too heavy. When Leo sat beside him, their shoulders touched, and that faint pressure was the only anchor keeping the moment from floating apart.

Outside, the rain softened to a muted pulse, a thousand quiet heartbeats against the glass. The silence it left behind pressed into the room like fog, thick and unyielding.

Sangwon leaned into him, his head slipping to Leo's shoulder, as if gravity had chosen for him. Heat radiated from his fever-bright skin, his breath stuttering in uneven patterns, as though even breathing had become a negotiation. Leo's hand slipped into his hair and stayed there, brushing soft strokes — like the turning of prayer beads, like a promise spoken without sound. I'm here. I won't let go.

Minutes blurred into each other until silence stretched too long and began to ache.

Leo's mind circled itself raw. 

Is this how he felt when I was drowning? 

He remembered the nights Sangwon had held him through sleepless spirals, the way his arms had been a lifeline when he himself had felt lost at sea. And now, watching Sangwon collapse inward, Leo felt that same helplessness sink claws into his chest.

His hand stilled. His voice, when it came, was a quiver of glass.

"You're scaring me."

Sangwon's eyes fluttered open, hazy, as though he'd surfaced from somewhere deep underwater. "Hm?"

"I—I can't just watch this," Leo whispered, words catching. "You're slipping further away every day, and I don't even know how to hold you steady."

Sangwon frowned faintly, the effort pulling at his fever-worn face. His voice was almost nothing. "It's... nothing. Just too many thoughts. I'll be fine."

Leo let out a sound that cracked halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Fine? You can't eat, you shake in your sleep, your body's fighting itself. That isn't fine."

Sangwon's lips parted. "Hyung, please..."

"Please what?" Leo's tone broke, soft but desperate. "Please let you wither in silence while I pretend not to see? Please let me stand here useless, as if I haven't noticed the way you're unravelling?" He swallowed hard. "I can't, Sangwon. I can't."

Sangwon's fingers clenched at the blanket like it might hold him together. His voice was fragile. "I'm—I'm just tired." But the words collapsed under their own hollowness, more ghost than truth.

Leo closed his eyes briefly, pressing a hand over his face. His voice shook when he lowered it. "Why... why won't you trust me with this? When I was breaking, you held me up without question. You never once let me go. Why can't you let me do the same? Didn't we promise? To be honest with each other? To not let the other drift alone?"

The silence after his plea throbbed. Sangwon's lips parted — but nothing came. His eyes filled with tears, his throat locking. Fever blurred the world into haze, and all the words he wanted to say tangled into knots he couldn't untie.

Because how could he tell Leo the truth? That his collapse wasn't only fever, but the emptiness left behind when Trainee A disbanded — when years of sweat and sacrifice crumbled overnight. That he had trained until his body bled, carried hope through sleepless nights, only to watch his dream shatter at the very moment it was within reach.

That every day since, he had felt hollowed, as though standing in the ruins of something sacred.

And worst of all — he couldn't say aloud the cruellest truth: the group had begun to fracture after Leo left. It wasn't Leo's fault — Sangwon knew that with every piece of him — but he couldn't let the guilt plant roots in Leo's chest, not after everything he'd already endured. Not after the hate, the breaking, the way Leo had clawed his way back into light.

So Sangwon swallowed it all. His grief. His rage. His loss. And instead, he whispered the only thing he could force out.

"I don't know what's happening to me. I wake up and the world feels... wrong. I touch things, I move through the day, but it's like everything is just smoke, slipping through my hands. Nothing feels real anymore."

His vision wavered, the room tilting. "Sometimes it feels like I'm already gone and I'm just... watching from the outside." His hands trembled as he clutched his arms. "I don't know how to fix it. I don't even know if there is a way."

Tears came hot and sudden, burning through the fever haze. He pressed his fists against his eyes, but his voice still shook. "I'm scared, Leo. I don't even understand what's wrong with me, and I'm terrified I'll never find my way back. It feels like I'm wandering aimlessly. Like I've lost my way."

Leo's chest cracked open at the confession. He reached for him instinctively, but Sangwon recoiled — not in anger, but as though even touch might scorch him. He curled tighter into himself, body shuddering, whispering hoarse, "Don't. Please... not right now."

Leo froze mid-motion, his hand suspended in the air before he let it fall. The rejection wasn't a wall of anger but a fragile plea, and it left him trembling, caught between the ache to hold him and the fear of breaking him further.

"I just want to be there for you... Like the way you were there for me," he whispered, voice thick with grief and defeat. "But every time I try, you close the door. And I... I don't know how to reach you anymore."

Sangwon let out a fragile laugh that splintered into sobs. "Neither do I," he admitted, his hands covering his face as though to hide from his own unravelling. His crying filled the room, uneven and fever-frayed, like someone gasping for air underwater.

"I don't know how to let you in either."

Leo stood frozen at those words, helpless, fists trembling at his sides. His heart was fracturing with every sound. He wanted to cross that fragile distance, but the air between them had turned heavy with fear and fever, a gulf he couldn't force himself across.

At last, his voice broke into a whisper with a faint hint of suffocation in between. 

"I can't... I—I need some air."

The words trembled out as if asking permission from the silence. He rose slowly, moving with the care of someone afraid a single wrong step might shatter everything. He pulled his jacket draped on the couch, hands unsteady, and slipped out the door.

The sound it made when it closed wasn't harsh, but it reverberated like the sealing of a wound that refused to heal.

The rain thickened again, tracing slow rivers down the window.

Sangwon sat motionless, staring at the door until his vision blurred with tears. The room felt distant, dissolving at its edges.

At last, he curled onto his side, clutching the blanket Leo had draped around him earlier. It still held the faint warmth of his touch, the trace of his scent — a fragile ghost of comfort — and it undid him completely.

He pressed his face into the fabric and wept until the fever swallowed the sound, until exhaustion dragged him into sleep. Not the gentle kind, but the drowning, dreamless kind that steals even the outline of light.

When Leo finally came back, the day was bleeding quietly into dusk. The rain had stopped, leaving streaks of silver light dripping down the windows. The air smelled faintly of wet concrete and cold tea — and regret.

The first thing he saw was Sangwon, still on the couch, small beneath the crumpled blanket. He now lies curled on the couch, his face half-hidden against the cushion, his lashes damp and clumped together, his breathing uneven. The fever had left him flushed, soft in a way that made Leo's heart twist painfully.

Finally, his knees gave before his pride did. He lowered himself to the floor in front of the couch, the movement slow, deliberate, like approaching something sacred. His voice came out as a breath more than a sound.

"Hey," he whispered. "I'm home."

Sangwon stirred at the sound, blinking himself back from whatever half-sleep he'd slipped into. His eyes were puffy, confused, glimmering in the dimness. "Leo...?" His voice cracked, a fragile thread. He shifted upright, the blanket sliding off his shoulders.

"Yeah," Leo murmured, reaching up instinctively to brush a strand of hair from Sangwon's forehead. "I came back."

"You left," Sangwon said softly — not an accusation, just a quiet truth that still trembled in the space between them.

"I know," Leo breathed, his own voice fraying. "I shouldn't have. I just—" He exhaled, the sound catching in his chest, shoulders trembling like they were carrying too much. "I was scared, too. I didn't know what to do, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing. So I ran. Like an idiot."

Sangwon blinked, eyes shining, pulling the blanket closer like it could shield him from the weight of his own words. "You weren't an idiot. I just..." His gaze slipped away, somewhere down at his knees. "I didn't mean to make you feel helpless. I wasn't trying to push you away. I just... I didn't know how to explain what's happening in my head without sounding pathetic."

Leo eased himself onto the couch beside him, the movement careful, like he might break something if he rushed. "You could never sound pathetic to me," he said, low and steady.

Sangwon gave a small, broken laugh, the sound catching in his throat. "You say that now. But I didn't want to become someone you had to take care of again. You just got better, Leo. You've finally been doing well, and I didn't want to drag you back into that kind of heaviness."

Leo stared at him, the words striking deeper than he'd prepared for. His hands curled against his knees, but his voice was soft, almost wounded. "You think I'd ever see you like that? Like you're some kind of burden?"

Sangwon hesitated, then whispered, "Didn't you?"

That cracked something open in Leo's chest. "No," he said, voice trembling. "God, no. Sangwon, you're—" He took a shaky breath. "You're the reason I learned how to breathe again. You're the reason I even wanted to get better. If you think I'd leave because you're struggling—" He broke off, hand tightening in the blanket. "That's what hurts. That you thought I would."

Sangwon turned toward him, eyes glassy. "Then why did you leave earlier?"

The question landed like a soft punch. Leo's throat closed up. "Because seeing you like that reminded me of... me. Of how bad I got. And it scared me. I didn't know how to be strong enough for both of us." His voice cracked. "And then I realised — I don't need to be strong. I just need to be here."

Sangwon's lips trembled, and before Leo could say another word, Sangwon leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Leo's shoulder. "You're an idiot," he whispered, voice muffled by fabric. "But you came back, so I forgive you."

Leo laughed, breath shaky with relief and defeat at the same time. 

"Yeah. I'm way too attached to leave you for too long anyway." 

He wrapped his arms around Sangwon, pulling him in until there was no space left between them. Sangwon melted against him like it was second nature — warm, pliant, still feverish. He'd always loved being pampered, though he'd never say it out loud. The way he nestled closer now, seeking the comfort of Leo's touch, said enough.

They stayed like that for a while — tangled up in quiet apologies and steady breaths. Eventually, Sangwon spoke again, voice small but steady.

"I should've told you earlier," Sangwon whispered. "About the anxiety, the nights I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking it would pass... but it didn't. And I just kept pretending."

Leo's arms tightened around him, steady and grounding. "You don't have to do that with me, you know," he murmured, voice low and certain.

"Not ever."

Sangwon swallowed, the weight of the words sinking deep. His fingers curled weakly into Leo's shirt as if to anchor himself. "...I'll try," he whispered, the confession trembling at the edges. 

Leo's chest ached, but he only pulled him closer, pressing his chin lightly against Sangwon's hair. The silence that followed was different this time—no longer heavy, but warm, like something fragile being mended.

Then, after a beat, Leo tilted his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "But next time, maybe give me a little warning before you collapse on me like last night," he said softly, teasing just enough to lighten the air. "I swear, I nearly had a heart attack."

Sangwon let out a low, breathy laugh. "Fine. I'll try to... schedule it ahead of time."

Leo huffed, half serious, half joking. "Good. I'll pencil it into my calendar."

Their laughter slipped out quietly, unhurried, the kind that lingered like the air after rain—soft, healing, familiar.

When it faded, the silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore. It was easy, like slipping back into a song they both already knew by heart. Leo's thumb brushed gently along Sangwon's cheek, his smile tugging crookedly, full of warmth he didn't need to put into words.

"When you're better," he murmured, "I'm taking you back with me. To Australia. To my home. I'll show you the lake where I used to skip rocks and lose every single one of them. And the diner that still plays the same terrible 80s playlist. You'll hate it."

Sangwon huffed a small laugh against him. "Then you'll come to mine. I'll drag you to the old bakery that still remembers my order — they make these red bean buns that taste like childhood. You'll love it."

"Love it?" Leo raised a brow. "Please. I'll be stuck there for hours while you get all misty-eyed over bread."

Sangwon swatted weakly at his chest. "Excuse you, I'm always emotional. It's part of my charm."

"Mm." Leo leaned closer to kiss his temple, smiling against his skin. "The dramatic whining is questionable, but yeah... definitely your best part."

By the time the clock crept past six, their stomachs both grumbled — breaking the peace with something hilariously human.

"You hungry?" Leo asked, grinning.

Sangwon nodded, yawning. His eyes are still glossy but lighter now. 

"Sleepy and starving."

They settled on ordering takeout — noodles and dumplings from their usual spot — then sank back onto the couch, a movie now humming quietly in the background. Something melancholy that Leo had clicked on without much thought, and by now, already regretted.

Halfway through, a soft sniffle slipped past the film's dialogue. Leo glanced sideways to find Sangwon now curled up beside him, knees drawn close, the blanket bunched beneath his chin. His eyes shimmered, glassy with unshed tears, and the tip of his nose was flushed pink — pitiful and endearing all at once.

"Are you seriously crying again?" Leo teased, laughter tugging at his mouth.

"It's sad!" Sangwon protested, slightly whining through the tears. "And I'm still a little feverish, so I'm extra... emotionally available."

Leo snorted, leaning just close enough to brush his thumb over Sangwon's damp cheek. "Emotionally available? You mean dramatic?"

Sangwon narrowed his eyes, though the pout stayed. "You like it, though. Admit it."

Leo grinned, tilting closer until their shoulders pressed, foreheads brushing in a quiet nudge. "Maybe I do. Especially when you look cute and teary like this."

"Pathetic, but adorable," he added with a smirk.

Sangwon gasped in mock offence, giving Leo's arm a weak shove. "Excuse me? Pathetic?"

"Mm-hm." Leo's grin softened into something steadier, quieter. "Pathetic, sentimental, dramatic... and completely mine."

The last two words came out soft, almost careless — but they lingered, heavy, settling in the silence like something far too real to laugh off.

Sangwon froze. His gaze darted away instantly, as if the words themselves burned to look at. His breath stuttered, barely audible, but Leo felt it ripple through the narrow space between their shoulders. The blanket slipped from his fingers, his hands retreating clumsily into its folds, fidgeting there as though he couldn't decide what to do with them.

He curled tighter into himself, knees pressing closer to his chest, his chin ducking down as if he could fold small enough to vanish. Colour rushed into his face in a flood — high across his cheeks, blooming scarlet at his ears. His lashes fluttered hard, betraying the storm inside him, while his eyes — wide, frantic, uncertain — flicked to Leo and back again, unable to linger without giving too much away.

Leo watched it all unravel. The halting breaths, the restless fingers twisting at the blanket, the way his lips parted once, twice, before closing again without a word. And instead of chasing, he only let a smile ghost over his mouth — soft, knowing and maddeningly steady.

"Mm," he hummed, turning lazily back toward the screen, though his arm slid across the back of the couch, his hand brushing Sangwon's shoulder before resting there. "Didn't think I'd make you blush that hard."

Sangwon groaned into the blanket, trying to bury his entire face, but his ears betrayed him, glowing bright as lanterns. "You're the worst," he mumbled, the words muffled, shaky.

Leo's chuckle was low, teasing, but warm. "Maybe. But you didn't deny it."

Sangwon peeked out at him, wide-eyed and pink-faced, exasperation sparking against something softer — something that ached to be hidden. His chest felt too full, his heart stumbling clumsily in his ribcage. He wanted to argue, to throw back a quip, but all that came was a weak shove against Leo's arm as he muttered, "Just... watch the movie."

Leo leaned back into the couch again without protest, though the curve of his smirk refused to fade. He didn't press, didn't try to put a name to the fragile, unnamed thing strung between them. Instead, he let Sangwon curl in closer slowly, content with the unspoken confession already painted across his flushed cheeks. 

It struck him as almost amusing — how the boy who had declared his love so boldly just days ago could now be undone by a few careless words of his.

Utterly adorable — and maybe Leo's favourite contradiction.

When the food finally arrived, they ate together under the soft amber light — quiet, laughing between bites, shoulders brushing now and then. The storm had passed outside, but somehow, the one between them had too.

After the dishes were done and the takeout boxes stacked neatly on the counter, the house felt quieter — not empty, but calm in the kind of way that follows a storm's retreat. The rain had started again, but softer now, like the world was humming itself to sleep.

A random movie hummed faintly in the background, some indie film about strangers finding solace in each other. Neither of them was really watching this time.

Leo sat comfortably against the couch, head tipped back into the cushions, while Sangwon lay stretched out along its length, cocooned in the blanket with his head resting on Leo's lap. His dark hair fell in a tousled curtain over Leo's thighs, shifting lightly with each small movement. 

Every slow breath Sangwon released seemed to seep through the fabric of Leo's shirt, warm and steady, a quiet reminder that the fever had finally broken. What remained was a boy loose-limbed and drowsy, softened at the edges, as though all the sharpness had been smoothed into something fragile and calm.

It was peaceful.

Almost too peaceful.

Until Sangwon stirred.

"You know," he murmured, voice roughened but still playful, "this is kind of funny."

Leo glanced down at him, one brow arched. "Funny?"

Sangwon's lips pulled into a faint, crooked smile. "A month ago, I was the one forcing you to eat, dragging you outside, babysitting you through meltdowns... and now look at us." His hand shifted weakly from beneath the blanket, gesturing at himself before flopping back down. "Tables turned."

Leo's mouth curved. "So what—you're saying I'm the better nurse?"

"I'm saying we're both disasters," Sangwon shot back, eyes glinting with tired mischief. "Perfectly timed, too. When one breaks, the other patches him up. It's like... a relay of falling apart."

A low laugh rumbled from Leo's chest, warm and unhurried. His hand drifted into Sangwon's hair, fingers combing lazily through the strands.

"That's depressing."

"It's ironic," Sangwon corrected, his voice muffled as he burrowed closer, cheek pressing more firmly into Leo's thigh. His lashes fluttered faintly, brushing the fabric of Leo's jeans. "And kind of poetic. A little sad, a little stupid."

His voice softened, quieter now, but no less sincere. "But it works. Somehow."

Leo brushed a thumb across Sangwon's hairline, sweeping back the damp fringe. "You don't mind it?" he asked, tone light but tinged with concern.

Sangwon shook his head. "No. I think it's... fair. You caught me when I slipped, I caught you when you did. Guess this is what balance looks like."

Leo smiled, leaning back against the couch once more. "Then maybe we're not disasters after all."

Sangwon chuckled, eyes closing. "Don't push it. We're just disasters who know how to take turns."

They both laughed at that — quiet, real laughter that eased the last of the day's heaviness.

After a while, the film ended, its credits rolling to the sound of soft piano music. Leo didn't bother turning it off. He just watched Sangwon breathe, watched the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. The fever flush had faded to something gentler, and the shadows under his eyes looked lighter somehow.

Sangwon peeked up at him through half-open eyes. "You're staring again," he teased softly.

"Can't help it," Leo replied. "You look too peaceful. It's suspicious."

"Maybe I'm dead," Sangwon mumbled, eyes closing again. "That would explain why it's quiet for once."

Leo snorted, flicking his forehead. "You're impossible."

Sangwon smiled sleepily. "And yet you stay."

Leo's voice softened. "Always."

The word lingered in the air, sinking deep into the hush that followed. Sangwon reached up lazily, fingers brushing Leo's jaw before falling away.

They sat like that for a long time — rain whispering against glass, the dim light washing everything in gold. It was the kind of silence that didn't demand anything, that only existed to hold what was fragile.

Leo drifted somewhere between thought and silence, the hush of the room wrapping around him like a tide. His fingers moved without command, threading through Sangwon's hair in slow, absent motions — a quiet ritual, as if soothing away shadows he couldn't name.

By the time the clock slipped past midnight, Sangwon had grown utterly weightless against him, head pillowed in his lap, one hand still caught in the fold of his shirt. Even in sleep, he clung to him, fragile as a child reaching for something that might vanish.

His breaths were steady but uneven, each exhale broken by the smallest hitch — the kind that only came when he had surrendered fully, when dreams carried him further than waking ever could. That delicate rhythm anchored Leo to the moment, like the pull of a tide reminding him he was still here, still holding him.

For a while, Leo could do nothing but watch. The lamplight spilt over Sangwon like melted gold, softening the sharp edges of his face, smoothing away the furrows carved by fatigue and fever. In that fragile glow, he looked almost otherworldly — stripped of every defence, every mask, until only what was tender remained.

Vulnerable. Trusting.

It hit him then — hard — how much Sangwon had given him without ever asking for anything in return. How much of himself he had burned away just to keep Leo's light flickering when it threatened to go out. And now, here he was, curled up small, letting Leo hold him as if the world wouldn't swallow him whole if Leo dared to let go.

Leo reached over to turn off the TV, the living room fading into soft darkness. Then, carefully, he shifted, sliding an arm under Sangwon's knees, the other behind his back, and lifted him. Sangwon stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent into Leo's chest, then went slack again, head tucked beneath Leo's chin.

The weight was nothing compared to the weight he had carried before — the silence, the helplessness, the nights he'd drowned alone. This weight was grounding. Precious. A reminder that he wasn't the only one who needed saving.

In the bedroom, he eased Sangwon onto the bed and pulled the blanket over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He was about to step back when a weak tug at his sleeve stopped him. Even in sleep, Sangwon's fingers clung to him.

Leo's chest ached. He leaned close, whispering, steady and low, "I'm right here."

So he stayed. Climbing onto the bed without hesitation, he let Sangwon curl into his chest, one leg hooking over his hip like it had always belonged there. And Leo wrapped his arms around him, holding on just as tightly.

Lying there, Leo felt the heaviness in his own body, the exhaustion of everything — the fight, the storm of emotions, the relief that Sangwon was still here. But beneath it, something steadier hummed: a promise he hadn't said aloud, but knew he would keep. 

That he'd stay. That he wouldn't let Sangwon fall the way he once had.

His arms tightened instinctively, his chin resting on Sangwon's hair. As his eyes drifted shut, Leo thought of how strange it was — how a month ago he had been the one in ruins, and now he was the one holding. How fragile it all felt, yet how deeply right everything fits.

Sleep came slowly but gently, carrying him under with Sangwon's breathing steady against his heart. For a moment, he didn't feel like he was falling.

He felt like he was home.

Chapter Text

The morning came softly—like the tide rolling in after a storm, gentle but persistent, washing over what was left of the night before. Pale light unfurled through the thin curtains, brushing the room in muted gold. The world outside had begun to stir—faint sounds of traffic, a bark echoing from the street below—but inside, everything lingered in the hush that follows ruin.

Between the tangled sheets and the slow warmth of two bodies pressed close, time felt suspended—breathing, but barely.

Sangwon stirred first. His lashes caught the sunlight when his eyes fluttered open, his cheek still resting against Leo's chest. For a long, fragile moment, he didn't move. He only listened—the quiet thrum of Leo's heartbeat beneath his ear, slow and steady, each beat a reminder that he was still here, still breathing, still human.

Leo's arm had found him sometime in the night, draped over his waist with instinct more than intention, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of Sangwon's shirt. Even in sleep, it was as if he needed to keep touching something real—to keep from dissolving.

Sangwon tilted his head slightly. Leo's hair was a tousled halo against the pillow, half-shadowed by the morning light. His mouth parted faintly on every exhale, and without the sharp tension that so often haunted his face, he looked younger—peaceful in a way Sangwon hadn't seen in months. There was a gentleness there, raw and almost boyish, and the sight made something inside Sangwon ache.

He remembered other nights, other versions of this closeness—Leo curled up and unreachable, his own hands shaking as he tried to pull him out of the dark with soft words and stubborn care. Back then, he'd teased him, called him hopeless, even joked about charging "emotional babysitting fees."

And yet here they were—the roles reversed, the lines blurred. Sangwon tucked safely in Leo's arms like the world had folded in on itself and given them this brief, impossible reprieve.

A quiet laugh slipped from his chest, low and tired. "We really are disasters, huh?"

The sound stirred Leo. His brows twitched, a soft groan escaping as he shifted, his arm instinctively tightening around Sangwon. "Stay," he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep.

Sangwon smiled faintly. "You're awake."

"Barely."

"Then sleep."

Leo made a low hum of protest, nuzzling into the crook of Sangwon's neck. "You talk too much for someone telling me to sleep."

Sangwon rolled his eyes. "You're still holding me hostage."

"Shh," Leo mumbled, voice muffled against his skin. "Can't help it. You're warm."

The heat rose in Sangwon's cheeks before he could stop it. "I'm not your personal heater."

Leo's lips curved against his throat, completely ignoring his complaint. "You smell nice."

Sangwon let out a small scoff, though his tone softened. "You're impossible."

"And yet," Leo murmured, "you're still here."

The words landed heavier than a whisper had any right to. Sangwon didn't reply; he only let his fingers wander, tracing small circles along Leo's forearm, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of Leo's pulse. For a while, silence filled the space between them—not empty, but alive, breathing with all the things neither dared to say aloud.

The light climbed higher across the bed, gilding their tangled limbs. Eventually, Sangwon stirred. "Hyung. It's morning."

Leo made a small sound, half sigh, half growl. "Define morning."

"Almost nine."

"That's early."

"For normal people."

Leo cracked one eye open, lips twitching. "I'm not normal people."

"No," Sangwon muttered, "you're a cat."

That earned him a slow grin. "I prefer lion."

Sangwon tried to sit up, but Leo only tightened his hold, dragging him back down until their legs tangled again. "You're worse than gravity."

Leo's chuckle rumbled against his chest. "Maybe I'm your gravity."

"You're delusional," Sangwon said, shoving at his shoulder. "Get up before I revoke your pillow privileges."

Leo burrowed further in. "No."

"Leo."

"Saving you from making bad life choices," Leo mumbled. "Like leaving this bed."

"Your logic is absurd."

"Your logic is boring."

Sangwon groaned. "You're infuriating sometimes."

Leo's mouth quirked, sleep still thick in his voice. "And you love it."

"Unfortunately."

Leo's grin widened. "Tragic for you, really."

Sangwon's hand stilled mid-push, caught between exasperation and amusement. "You're lucky I don't throw you off this bed."

Leo shifted, voice dipping softer. "You wouldn't."

"And how are you so sure?"

Leo opened one eye again, gaze warm, sleepy. "Because I make you laugh."

Sangwon rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the curve of his lips. "Barely."

"Still counts."

Their laughter tangled softly in the morning air, spilling warmth into corners that had once known only silence.

"Hyung, seriously. We need to eat," Sangwon said, finally untangling himself and swinging his legs off the bed.

"Betrayal," Leo mumbled into the pillow.

Sangwon smirked over his shoulder. "We're eating out. Come on."

Leo peeked one eye open again, squinting at the sunlight. "You're cruel."

"You love me."

Leo's lips twitched. "Debatable."

"And yet," Sangwon said, "you're not denying it."

Leo propped himself up on one elbow, hair a dishevelled mess, eyes still soft with sleep. "You're asking the guy who'd rather chew the bedsheet than face a café full of strangers at 10 a.m.?"

Sangwon snorted. "It's breakfast, not battle."

"Strangers expect conversation. Waiters expect decisions. Terrifying."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling though."

"I'm smiling at how dramatic you are."

Leo grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Still a smile."

He caught Sangwon watching him a second too long, the sunlight catching on the line of his jaw, and his grin turned wicked. "Besides, you're the one who cried into my shirt yesterday."

Sangwon froze, his face heating instantly. "Wow. Low blow."

"Cute, though."

Before he could blink, a pillow flew across the room, thudding squarely against Leo's face.

He caught it with a laugh, hugging it to his chest. "Violence as affection. Got it."

"Keep talking and you'll find out just how affectionate I can get."

Leo's laughter filled the room—hoarse but alive, threaded with something lighter than before.

Sangwon shook his head, hiding his own smile as he moved toward the closet. "Someone has to make sure you don't starve."

"My knight in shining pyjamas," Leo declared solemnly, hand pressed to his chest.

"Keep it up, and you're paying."

"Worth it." His tone softened; beneath the teasing, it trembled slightly—like truth trying to disguise itself as humour.

Sangwon paused mid-motion, something tugging in his chest. He didn't turn. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Maybe," Leo said quietly. "But you still stay."

The words landed like a heartbeat too loud in the quiet. Sangwon swallowed, turning back toward him with a soft scoff to disguise the ache in his throat. "You really need to shower."

"Bath me," Leo said instantly.

Sangwon blinked. "...Excuse me?"

Leo tilted his head, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. "You heard me."

"You can't be serious."

"Dead serious. You'd do great."

"Try me and I'll throw this hanger next."

Leo chuckled, the sound low and rich. "Love makes people violent. Beautiful, really."

"Love makes people tolerate you," Sangwon muttered, though laughter threaded his voice.

Their laughter overlapped again, bright and fragile, filling the air until even the ghosts of last night seemed to ease their hold.

"Forget it," Sangwon said finally, grabbing a towel. "I'm showering first."

"Wait—" Leo sat up abruptly, wild hair falling into his face.

Sangwon turned, wary. "What now?"

"Never mind," Leo said, eyes glinting. "I'll go first."

"What? You just—"

Too late. Leo was already darting off the bed, nearly tripping on the blanket. "Can't risk you seeing me like this. Gotta maintain the illusion."

Sangwon stared after him, half in disbelief. "The illusion died months ago!"

Leo's muffled laugh echoed from behind the bathroom door, followed by the hiss of running water.

Sangwon exhaled, sinking back onto the edge of the bed. The sheets still carried Leo's warmth, sunlight spilling across them like gold dust.

For a moment, he just sat there—listening to the rhythm of water, to Leo's off-key humming leaking faintly through the door. The sound was messy, imperfect, unmistakably alive.

Sangwon leaned back, tilting his head toward the ceiling. The light brushed over his face, soft and weightless. It was strange how quiet healing could sound—just two breaths in sync, water running behind a door, the smell of laundry detergent and sunlight.

He smiled faintly to himself. The ache was still there, but smaller now. Manageable.

When Leo finally emerged, hair damp and clinging to his temples, the air around him smelled faintly of soap and morning. His shirt clung a little to his shoulders; his grin was reckless and unguarded.

"You're up," Sangwon said, trying not to smile.

"Tragically," Leo sighed. "You're next."

Sangwon stood, brushing past him to grab a change of clothes. "Don't use all the hot water next time."

Leo leaned against the wall, watching him go. "You look better," he said quietly.

Sangwon paused mid-step. "Do I?"

Leo nodded. "Like yourself again."

The words caught him off guard. For a second, he didn't know what to do with them. So he said nothing, only slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

When he came out later, Leo was sitting on the floor, scrolling absently through his phone, sunlight pooling at his feet. He looked up, and for a heartbeat, neither of them said anything. The silence was comfortable now—soft where it used to be sharp.

"Ready?" Sangwon asked.

Leo pushed himself up, stretching with a groan. "As I'll ever be."

They stepped out together, the door clicking shut behind them. The hallway smelled faintly of someone else's breakfast—coffee, eggs, something sweet. Leo walked beside him, hands shoved in his pockets, their shoulders brushing once, then twice, as they fell into step.

Outside, the city was already alive—cars glinting in the sunlight, air warm with the promise of noon. Leo squinted at the brightness. "Remind me why we're doing this again?"

"Because you'll complain about being hungry in ten minutes," Sangwon replied.

"Statistically true," Leo admitted. "Still cruel."

They crossed the street together, and Sangwon caught their reflection in a shop window—two figures walking side by side, close but not quite touching, framed by morning light. Something about the sight made his chest tighten in quiet, unfamiliar peace.

For once, it didn't feel like running or surviving. It felt like the beginning.

Leo glanced over, catching the small smile tugging at Sangwon's mouth. "What?"

"Nothing," Sangwon said, shaking his head. "You're just less unbearable in daylight."

"Rude," Leo said, bumping his shoulder lightly. "You love me."

Sangwon didn't deny it this time. "Unfortunately."

Leo grinned, wide and bright, the kind of grin that reached his eyes and stayed.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the bakery down the block—fresh bread, warmth, something simple and good. Sangwon's stomach growled; Leo's laughter followed instantly.

They turned the corner together, sunlight spilling over their backs. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Sangwon didn't feel like he was bracing for impact.

The ache was still there—but it pulsed in rhythm with something gentler now. Something alive.

The kind of morning that didn't ask for forgiveness.
Only the courage to stay.

The café sat on a corner where the sunlight always seemed to linger longer than it should, the kind of place that smelled like warmth even from outside. When they pushed open the door, a small brass bell above it chimed, delicate and bright, carrying the faint chill of the morning in with them.

The scent of coffee grounds and buttered pastries wrapped around them instantly — rich, grounding, the kind of smell that felt older than memory. The low hum of conversation, the faint hiss of milk steaming — it all stitched together into something gentle, unhurried. A place untouched by the storms that had shaken them.

Leo's shoulder brushed Sangwon's as they stepped inside, and for a moment, Sangwon felt the warmth of it sink straight through him.

They slid into a booth by the window. The glass was sun-warmed, light spilling over the table and pooling on Sangwon's sleeve. Outside, the city kept moving — buses groaning, people crossing streets — but in here, time slowed, softened, until all that remained was the sound of their breathing and the quiet pulse of music playing from an old speaker behind the counter.

Leo stretched out under the table until his knees bumped against Sangwon's.

"Seriously?" Sangwon said without looking up.

Leo leaned back, utterly unbothered, a faint grin curling at the edge of his mouth. "Your legs are short. That's not my fault."

Sangwon's sigh came out halfway between disbelief and laughter. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," Leo murmured, grin widening, "you're still here."

The waiter came, dropping off their drinks and plates — pancakes drowning in syrup for Leo, eggs and toast for Sangwon. Steam curled from their mugs, soft and fragrant. The air felt warmer now.

Leo's fork hovered mid-air, syrup dripping as he caught Sangwon's brief glance toward his plate.

"Don't even think about it," Sangwon warned.

Leo tilted his head, mock-serious. "If you don't eat this, I'll have to make airplane noises."

"You wouldn't."

"Bzzzz," Leo hummed, leaning in with the fork like a kid launching a spoonful of trouble.

Sangwon batted his hand away, but in the same motion, stole a bite. He chewed with exaggerated indifference. "Pathetic."

"Adorable," Leo countered, smug.

"You keep saying that like I won't pour this coffee on your lap."

Leo's grin turned wolfish. "Then I'll just take off my pants. Problem solved."

Sangwon choked mid-sip, coughing as he covered his mouth. "You're—unbelievable."

"And yet," Leo repeated softly, eyes glinting, "you're still here."

The line hung there — a thread pulled straight from the morning they'd shared, warm and dangerous in its simplicity.

For a while, their laughter filled the space between them, easy and unforced. The rhythm of it made Sangwon forget, just for a moment — forget the ache that had clung to his chest since the night before, forget how fragile he'd felt when his tears had soaked into Leo's shirt.

But silence has a way of finding its way back. It always does.

Sangwon fiddled with the corner of his napkin, eyes tracing the condensation slipping down his glass. "About yesterday..." His voice was barely louder than the jazz threading through the café.

Leo's smile faded, his gaze immediately sharpening into something gentle. "Mm?"

"I—" Sangwon hesitated. The words caught somewhere between his ribs. "Sorry. For breaking down like that."

Leo didn't even blink. "Don't apologise."

Sangwon gave a small, shaky laugh. "Funny, isn't it? Just a month ago, you were the one falling apart, and I was the one holding you together. Dragging you out of bed, forcing you to eat, talking until you stopped staring at the ceiling like it was going to swallow you whole. And now..." His voice faltered, his mouth twisting faintly. "Now it's your turn."

Leo leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his expression steady — anchored. "Yeah. That's what this is, right? We take turns. One of us breaks, the other holds on. That's how we don't fall apart completely."

The words lodged deep in Sangwon's chest, heavy and warm at once. He blinked hard, throat tight.

"We're really disasters," he murmured, a faint smile flickering through the exhaustion. "A pair of disasters trying to fix each other with duct tape."

Leo's grin returned, small but genuine. "Then I'll buy out the hardware store."

It shouldn't have hit as hard as it did, but Sangwon's chest stung with something that wasn't quite pain.

He let out a breath that trembled. "So... what now?" His eyes dropped to his plate. "There's no debut. No music. Just... us. What are we supposed to do now?"

For a moment, the café's sounds blurred together — the clink of a spoon, the hiss of the espresso machine, the muted chatter from another booth. The silence between them stretched, long but not empty.

Sangwon was the first to fill it. "I've been thinking," he said slowly, like every word needed to be coaxed into being. "Maybe I'll try modelling. It's not music, but... it's something. A way to keep moving, I guess."

Leo studied him for a long moment, eyes softer than his words. "You'd kill it. You already look like you belong in a magazine."

Sangwon snorted, though the faintest flush touched his ears. "Flattery won't save you from finishing those pancakes alone."

"I didn't say it for that." Leo's voice gentled, the teasing slipping away. "I meant it."

Something in the sincerity made Sangwon look down again, pretending to adjust his fork. "And you? What about you?"

Leo's fingers stilled against the table. The easy rhythm between them faltered.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "The hate's still loud. Too loud. Every time I check my phone, it's like standing in the middle of a crowd that wants me gone. I can't put myself back out there. Not yet."

Sangwon's heart twisted. He wanted to reach across the table, to still Leo's fidgeting hands, but he didn't. He only watched, listening to the tremor in Leo's voice that he almost managed to hide.

"I thought about going back to Australia," Leo said after a pause. "Haven't been home in years. My mom's been calling more lately — she doesn't say it, but I can hear it. The worry. The fear." He gave a hollow laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. "And honestly? I'm scared too. Of breaking again."

The words sank like stones in Sangwon's stomach, pulling heavy. "So... you're leaving?"

"Not yet." The reply came fast — too fast. Leo leaned forward, his voice urgent, raw. "Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Just... someday. Later. I don't know when. But eventually. For a while."

Sangwon nodded, though his fingers twisted together in his lap, white at the knuckles. The thought of the apartment without Leo — the bed cold, the laughter gone, the quiet too loud — made his breath catch.

But then Leo smiled — that same crooked, boyish thing that never failed to undo him. "Besides," he said lightly, "how could I leave you? You'd starve without me."

Sangwon blinked, torn between relief and disbelief. "Excuse me? I'm the one keeping you alive."

Leo shrugged, grin widening. "Details." His voice dropped lower, sincerity flickering beneath the teasing. "Doesn't matter. Point is — I'm not going anywhere yet."

The words lingered — not a promise, not quite. But close enough that Sangwon let himself breathe again.

He exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth softening. "You're still annoying."

Leo's grin brightened. "And yet—"

"Don't." Sangwon pointed his fork at him.

"—you're still here," Leo finished anyway, eyes crinkling.

Sangwon rolled his eyes, but this time, when he smiled, it didn't hurt.

Outside, the sun had shifted higher, spilling gold through the café windows, catching in the strands of Leo's hair. The hum of the city waited beyond the glass, patient and wide and alive.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Sangwon didn't flinch at the thought of what came next.

The ache was still there — small, stubborn — but quieter now.

Something had eased.

The morning didn't ache anymore. It breathed.

And for now, that was enough.

They didn't linger in the café for long.

The plates were left with syrup stains and faint coffee rings, their seats still warm when they rose. The door chimed softly behind them, the quiet murmur of conversation fading into the hum of the city outside.

The afternoon light had shifted — warmer now, thicker, spilling like honey across the street. It caught on windshields and windows, turned the air to gold, and for a fleeting second, the whole city seemed to glitter.

They fell into step without meaning to. The world moved around them — horns in the distance, the low tangle of strangers' voices, the scuff of shoes against uneven pavement — but for them, everything had narrowed to the slow sync of their strides and the brief brush of shoulders that came and went like breath.

Leo shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing sideways. "So... modelling, huh?"

Sangwon let out a soft laugh, a small puff of air that caught the sunlight. "Don't make it sound like I'm about to walk Milan. I just... need to move again. Find something that keeps me from standing still."

Leo hummed, considering that. "Still," he said after a beat, his mouth curving, "you'd kill it."

Sangwon shot him a look. "That's twice today. You planning to start a fan club?"

Leo leaned in slightly, as if confiding a secret. "Maybe. Though I think I deserve a private performance first."

Sangwon blinked, wary. "Private performance?"

"Yeah." Leo's grin grew. "You, my kitchen, an apron. Maybe holding a frying pan. I can see the headlines already."

Sangwon burst into laughter, shoving him with his shoulder. "You're unbelievable. Who even thinks of that?"

"Me," Leo said proudly, straightening. "Creative genius. It's a burden."

"Burden to everyone else, maybe."

Sangwon gave him another push, but lighter this time, and their laughter slipped easily between the sounds of the street.

"Besides," Sangwon said after a moment, "I'd rather cook than pose with food. At least then you wouldn't starve."

"See," Leo replied, half laughing, half serious, "that's exactly why I can't stay away too long."

Sangwon frowned slightly, glancing at him. "What do you mean?"

Leo exhaled, gaze flicking down to the pavement as if the cracks there could hold the words steady. "If I do go back to Australia... it won't be forever. The longest I could last away from you would be, what—three months? Two weeks, maybe. A week if I'm honest. I'd lose it otherwise."

The words settled between them, fragile and heavy all at once.

Sangwon's lips parted, something unspoken catching behind them. He masked it with a quiet scoff. "You make it sound like I'm some kind of addiction."

Leo's voice softened. "Maybe you are."

That earned him a faint flush, quick and bright across Sangwon's cheeks. He turned away, eyes on the street, muttering, "Idiot."

Leo's grin returned — gentler this time, touched with something fond.

They walked in silence for a while, the quiet stretching but never straining. A breeze stirred, lifting Sangwon's hair, carrying with it the faint scent of roasted beans and car exhaust and spring.

"Besides modelling," Sangwon said suddenly, tone lighter, "maybe I'll try something else. DJing. Or being a barista. Something small."

Leo's laugh came soft, low. "You, as a barista? I'd pay to see it. You'd glare at every customer who asks for extra foam."

"You just want free coffee."

"Obviously."

Sangwon rolled his eyes. "Figures. You'd find a way to mooch off me even then."

"I'd tip," Leo said quickly, placing a hand on his chest in mock sincerity. "Generously. With love notes written on napkins."

That earned him a laugh — real, unguarded — spilling out of Sangwon before he could stop it.

The sound hit Leo like sunlight after rain. It was ridiculous how much he'd missed it, how much he needed it — that laugh that made everything feel less like an ending and more like something worth starting over for.

He thought, not for the first time, how do I leave without leaving half of myself behind?

Sangwon noticed the sudden quiet. "Don't look so serious," he said gently. "You'll wrinkle faster."

Leo blinked, then snorted. "That's rich coming from the guy who cries at commercials."

"That was one time."

"Three," Leo countered instantly. "And one of them was for cat food."

"It was emotional," Sangwon argued, horrified by his own defence, and Leo nearly doubled over laughing.

Their laughter wove through the street, brushing past the rush of the world around them. The sound wasn't loud, but it felt steady — something alive where everything else had felt uncertain.

When it faded, the silence that followed was full — not empty this time, but resting.

Sangwon kicked a stray pebble, watching it skitter down the pavement. "Do you think we'll ever get it back?" he asked quietly. "The dream. The music. All of it."

Leo was quiet for a while, long enough for the question to sink in. His voice, when it came, was rough around the edges. "I don't know. Maybe not the same way. But... maybe that's okay. Maybe we'll find something else. Different dreams. Smaller ones. Doesn't mean they'll matter less."

Sangwon looked at him — really looked — like he was trying to memorise the steadiness in Leo's face, the way sunlight caught in his eyes. "You really think so?"

Leo nodded once. "I do. And besides," his grin crept back, "I can't let you become a model-slash-barista-slash-DJ without me there to keep your ego in check."

Sangwon's lips twitched. "Who says I'd let you?"

"Exactly."

Leo nudged his shoulder lightly, and the contact lingered a moment longer than it should have — grounding, quiet, real.

The city carried on around them — fast, restless, full of people who didn't know them, who wouldn't remember them — but their pace stayed unhurried. The afternoon sun wrapped around their laughter and shadows like a promise too fragile to name.

And though the horizon ahead was uncertain — fractured dreams, possible distance, questions without answers — in that golden stretch of street, something simple held.

Something that whispered that maybe, even if the music never returned, even if the world moved on without them, this — this fragile warmth, this small, ordinary walk beside each other — might be enough to begin again.

Evening found them by the river.

The city had begun to soften — its edges blurred by distance and dusk, the hum of traffic dimming into a low, steady rhythm. Streetlights flickered awake one by one, their reflections stretching like ribbons across the slow-moving water. The air carried the faint scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen, cool and clean.

Leo sat cross-legged on the low stone ledge, a paper cup of tea balanced between his palms. Sangwon stood beside him at first, watching the sky bleed from gold to violet before sinking into the kind of blue that only shows up at the edge of night.

When he finally sat down, their knees brushed, and neither moved away.

“You always pick places near water,” Leo said after a while, voice low, almost lost to the sound of it lapping against the shore.

Sangwon’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “It’s quiet here.”

Leo tilted his head. “You like quiet?”

“I like it when it doesn’t feel empty.”

That pulled a faint smile from Leo — the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, but wanted to. “That’s rare.”

Sangwon turned his cup in his hands, watching the ripples break the reflections. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It stretched between them like a thread — fragile, shimmering, alive.

A group of cyclists passed on the path behind them, the click of their gears fading quickly into the distance. Somewhere across the river, someone was playing a guitar, the melody thin and uneven but strangely comforting.

Leo nudged Sangwon’s knee lightly with his own. “You thinking again?”

Sangwon huffed a quiet laugh. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“Depends on the thoughts.”

“They’re boring.”

“Liar.”

Sangwon smiled faintly into his tea. “You always call me that.”

“That’s because you always lie.”

“I don’t.”

Leo gave a soft hum, noncommittal. “Then tell me what you’re thinking about.”

Sangwon looked out at the water again. “That I wish this day didn’t have to end,” he admitted after a moment. “That I wish things were... simpler. Easier to hold onto.”

Leo’s throat worked, but he said nothing. His fingers tightened around the paper cup until it creased slightly.

“And,” Sangwon added, his tone deliberately lighter, “that you should stop drinking my tea.”

Leo blinked, caught mid-sip, and grinned. “You weren’t drinking it.”

“I was letting it cool.”

“Ah. Tragic misunderstanding.”

“Menace.”

“Charming,” Leo corrected easily, and that drew the smallest, reluctant smile from Sangwon — the kind that cracked something inside Leo every single time.

They stayed there a while longer, trading quiet remarks that didn’t really matter. The kind of talk that fills the gaps not because there’s something to say, but because silence between them had started to mean too much.

Eventually, Leo leaned back on his palms, stretching his legs out. The air was cooler now, the wind tugging gently at his hair. “You ever think about what we are?” he asked suddenly.

Sangwon looked at him, startled. “What do you mean?”

Leo didn’t meet his gaze. His voice stayed careful, measured. “You and me. This.”

Sangwon blinked. “We’re... us.”

Leo laughed softly, but it came out thin. “That’s not an answer.”

Sangwon tilted his head, studying him. “You want a label?”

Leo hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed again. “No,” he said finally, but the word sounded unsure. “I just—sometimes I wonder if it’s okay that we never said it.”

Sangwon’s tone was quiet. “Maybe saying it would make it real.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not if you’re scared of what comes after.”

That made Leo glance up. For a moment, all the teasing, all the easy playfulness in him went still. The air between them felt thin — like one wrong word could shatter it.

Sangwon turned his gaze back to the water. His voice, when it came, was softer. “You don’t have to say it, you know. I already know.”

Leo’s heart stuttered in his chest. “You do?”

Sangwon’s lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile. “You’re not subtle.”

Leo huffed a breath of laughter, but it came out rough. “Maybe I wanted to make sure.”

“Then you should’ve said it,” Sangwon said simply.

Leo’s pulse jumped. “Would it have changed anything?”

Sangwon looked at him then — really looked. His expression was unreadable, but there was a kind of quiet knowing in it. “Maybe. Or maybe not. But at least it would’ve been real.”

Leo swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of Sangwon’s jaw, the faint tiredness still lingering beneath his eyes, the small smudge of syrup he hadn’t noticed earlier near his sleeve. He wanted to reach out and wipe it away, but his hands stayed where they were — curled against the stone, useless and shaking.

Sangwon turned away first, taking another sip of tea that had gone cold. “You always hesitate,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Even when you mean it.”

Leo’s mouth opened — the confession right there, burning behind his teeth — but he let it die on his tongue.

Because he was scared.
Because he’d already broken too many things by naming them.
Because the moment they had now felt too fragile to risk.

Instead, he said lightly, “Maybe I just like keeping you guessing.”

Sangwon looked back at him, half amused, half exasperated. “You’re terrible at pretending.”

“Not true. I’m very mysterious.”

“Transparent,” Sangwon countered, but there was no bite in it. His voice was warm now, tired and fond.

They both laughed quietly, the sound blending with the wind.

Leo shifted closer, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He didn’t pull away this time. “You know,” he said, low, “for someone who complains about me being clingy, you don’t move either.”

Sangwon gave him a sidelong glance, lips curving. “That’s because you’re a space heater.”

Leo chuckled, leaning in just enough for his breath to touch Sangwon’s cheek. “And yet you’re not moving away.”

“Don’t push it,” Sangwon warned, though his voice had softened.

They stayed like that — not quite touching, not quite apart — as the river darkened into glass and the city lights flickered brighter above them.

Somewhere nearby, a street musician started singing. The melody was off-key but gentle, threading through the hum of the evening like a heartbeat.

Leo watched the reflection of Sangwon’s face in the water — how the light played against the quiet curve of his mouth, how his eyes seemed to hold both exhaustion and something impossibly tender.

He wanted to reach out again.
He wanted to say it.
But instead, he asked, “You cold?”

“A little.”

Leo hesitated, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it over Sangwon’s shoulders before he could protest.

Sangwon sighed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Comfortable, though,” Leo said, grin returning, softer this time. “Admit it.”

Sangwon gave a small huff, pretending to look away. “I’ll allow it. For now.”

They both smiled into the quiet.

The song down the river ended. The air grew still.

Sangwon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice so quiet it almost disappeared into the dark. “You know,” he said, “for all the chaos... I don’t hate where we are. It’s not what we planned, but... maybe it’s what we needed.”

Leo looked at him, eyes tracing the faint smile ghosting across Sangwon’s face. “You think so?”

“Yeah.”

The wind tugged at Sangwon’s hair, the fabric of Leo’s jacket shifting over his shoulders. “It’s not perfect,” he added. “But it’s ours.”

Leo’s chest tightened. He wanted to answer — to say me too, to say I love you, to say I’m sorry for being too afraid — but the words stayed where they always did: caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

Instead, he said quietly, “Then let’s keep it.”

Sangwon’s lips curved. “Until you leave?”

“Until I come back.”

The answer hung there — not a promise, not yet, but close.

For a long while, they simply sat side by side, voices soft and unhurried, letting the quiet rhythm of the city ripple against the dark water before them. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed, a spark of warmth against the cool night air, and once or twice, their laughter slipped gently into the hush, drifting like light across the water.

When the night deepened and the air grew colder, Sangwon finally stood, stretching with a soft groan. Leo followed, their shadows stretching long behind them as they turned toward the streetlights.

Neither said it — the thing hovering between them — but both felt it, quiet and steady and real.

They walked until the hum of the river softened into the quieter rhythm of the city — clinking dishes from late cafés, the whisper of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from strangers wandering past. Hunger began to prick at them only when the neon glow of a tiny noodle shop spilt its warm light across the wet sidewalk.

“Dinner?” Sangwon asked, half-turning, eyes gleaming in the soft glow.

Leo’s lips curved into a smile. “You read my mind.”

The shop was nearly empty, the kind of place that smelled like steam and broth, warm and comforting. The owner greeted them with a tired nod, eyes still on the counter, leaving them to settle into a corner booth. Their knees brushed under the table, small sparks of warmth that made both of them grin quietly to themselves.

Bowls of ramyun arrived, steam curling lazily upward, carrying the scent of soy and garlic. For a while, neither spoke, letting the quiet rhythm of chopsticks against ceramic and the gentle hiss of boiling water fill the space.

Leo deliberately slurped his noodles a little too loudly, just enough to make Sangwon lift his gaze.

“You eat like a child,” Sangwon muttered, trying to sound stern but failing as the corners of his mouth twitched.

Leo grinned, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “You like it.”

Sangwon rolled his eyes, but the twitch of a smile betrayed him. “Keep telling yourself that.”

When Leo reached over to steal half of Sangwon’s perfectly marinated egg, Sangwon didn’t stop him — only nudged his foot under the table in playful retaliation, a tiny war waged in silence.

They lingered over the bowls, laughter mingling with the steam, until the clock ticked past nine.

Finally, satisfied and a little reluctant to leave the warmth behind, they stood, settling the bill and stepping back into the night. The city wrapped around them like a soft blanket, and together, they wandered onward, the quiet glow of streetlights guiding their way home.

The walk home was slower now — the kind that stretched time thin, turning every step into something unspoken. Their pace fell into rhythm without effort, each stride syncing with the other until it felt less like walking and more like moving through a shared quiet. The city had begun to wind down, its sounds softening into a distant hum. Streetlights glowed like halos in the mist, their amber reflections shimmering across the slick pavement. Puddles pooled along the curb, catching the lights and the moon in broken mirrors.

Sangwon’s hands were tucked into the pockets of Leo’s jacket again, the fabric too long for him, the sleeves grazing his fingers. Now and then, their arms brushed — a light, passing touch — but Leo didn’t shift away. If anything, he leaned closer, as though drawn by gravity he didn’t care to resist.

“You’re walking too fast again,” Leo murmured, his voice quiet, threaded with something that wasn’t quite complaint.

Sangwon glanced at him, lips twitching. “You’re just slow.”

Leo’s hand drifted toward him — a brush at first, then a gentle slide down Sangwon’s wrist until their fingers found each other. The contact was small, almost nothing, but it felt heavier than words. “Maybe I just want a reason to hold on.”

Sangwon’s tone softened, though he didn’t look at him. “You could’ve just asked.”

Leo smiled, his thumb tracing small, thoughtless circles against Sangwon’s knuckles. “Didn’t want to risk rejection.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Leo said, a smile hidden in his voice, “you’re still here.”

Sangwon’s fingers tightened around his — the faintest squeeze, deliberate and grounding. “Maybe I’m just patient.”

“Or soft-hearted.”

“Don’t push it.”

But he didn’t let go.

The night stretched around them — silver mist curling through the lamplight, the soft rhythm of their footsteps echoing off the wet pavement. Their joined hands swung lazily between them, brushing against their sides in an easy, unhurried rhythm.

Neither spoke again until their building came into view, a quiet silhouette against the dim glow of the city. The rain had eased to a fine drizzle, catching in their hair and glinting faintly under the lights.

Sangwon slowed near the steps, eyes lifting to the faint glow spilling from their windows above. “Feels like today lasted forever,” he murmured.

Leo leaned in, his breath warm against Sangwon’s ear. “In a good way or a bad way?”

Sangwon turned his head slightly — close enough that their noses nearly brushed. His smile was small, tired, but real. “Ask me tomorrow.”

Leo’s laugh was soft, a breath more than a sound. “Tomorrow, then.”

They reached the door, and as Leo stepped forward to slide his key into the lock, he shifted just enough to close the space between them and the door, lightly pressing Sangwon back with his shoulder. Sangwon blinked, caught off guard, heat rising to his cheeks, but didn’t move away. Leo’s hand hovered near the edge of Sangwon’s arm as he fumbled with the key—a careless, almost protective motion. Sangwon’s breath hitched; he shuffled slightly, unsure whether to step back or lean in, heart thudding in a way that made his limbs feel heavy. The warmth of Leo pressed close, grounding and overwhelming at once, before the moment dissolved as the door swung open.

Inside, the apartment was dim and hushed, the air faintly sweet with the scent of tea and rain. The quiet pressed around them, comfortable and close.

Sangwon shrugged out of the jacket, draping it over the back of the couch, though his fingers lingered on the fabric a heartbeat too long, betraying his scattered thoughts. Leo slipped off his shoes and stepped closer, eyes soft and steady. Without thinking, he reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from Sangwon’s forehead. Sangwon froze, a faint shiver running through him, and blinked up, caught somewhere between irritation and something warmer, his chest tightening with embarrassment and a strange, sweet ache.

"Your hair's a mess," Leo murmured.

Sangwon’s mouth curved, teasing despite the fluster. "Whose fault is that?" His voice was lower, gentler than the words themselves.

Leo’s fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw, deliberate and slow. "You make it look good."

Sangwon let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. "You really can’t stop, can you?"

"Nope," Leo replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're hopeless."

Leo smiled softly. "You keep me that way."

Sangwon shook his head, but didn’t move away. Neither did Leo. For a long moment, the quiet settled around them, warm and steady—never heavy, just full. Leo’s hand drifted down, brushing the curve of Sangwon’s shoulder before skimming the inside of his wrist, a touch that felt more like a question than a statement.

Finally, Sangwon let out an exasperated huff, cheeks warm, and jabbed a finger toward the bathroom. "Go shower first—now," he demanded, his voice stammering a little, flustered under Leo’s gaze.

Leo’s grin widened, clearly amused, and he took a teasing step forward. "Trying to get rid of me?"

Sangwon’s eyes darted away, hands fidgeting. "I—I just… don’t want you falling asleep on the couch before you shower."

Leo's laugh was low and teasing. "You'd carry me to bed anyway."

"Don’t even think about it," Sangwon muttered, though his voice betrayed him.

"I might," Leo said with a shrug, still smiling.

"Go shower, hyung," Sangwon said again, quieter this time, almost breathless.

Leo froze mid-step. The sound of it, soft and familiar, settled somewhere deep in his chest. He didn’t tease. He just smiled.

When the sound of running water began to echo through the apartment, Sangwon moved quietly through the dim space — collecting empty cups, folding Leo’s jacket with absent care, cracking open the window just enough for some air to drift in. The night breeze brushed cool fingers against his skin, carrying the hush of distant thunder. For a while, he simply stood there, letting the quiet breathe around him, before sinking onto the couch, lost in the rhythm of the wind.

A few minutes later, Leo appeared — hair damp, an old shirt clinging faintly to his arms, soft fabric darkened where it met his skin. Sangwon looked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Your turn,” Leo murmured, voice low and warm from the steam.

Sangwon rose, passing close enough for their shoulders to graze — a fleeting brush that lingered like static.

“Don’t fall asleep on the couch," he said quietly.

“No promises,” Leo answered, his grin easy and tired.

The shower was brief. The water ran hot against Sangwon’s chilled skin, washing away the weight of the day. When he stepped out, the air was threaded with the clean scent of soap and rain — the kind of stillness that felt almost like peace.

Leo had, predictably, dozed off on the couch — half-sprawled, one arm draped across his eyes, his breathing slow and even. Sangwon paused, his gaze tracing the lines of his face — the softened jaw, the small crease between his brows, the damp curls that fell messily over his forehead.

Something in him ached — quiet, patient, fond.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Leo’s face, his fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long. Then, gently, he turned off the lamp, the room sinking into soft shadow.

“Come on,” he murmured, coaxing Leo upright.

Leo blinked groggily, half-protesting, but let himself be pulled to his feet.

Between laughter and mumbled complaints, Sangwon guided him down the short hall to the bedroom.

By the time they slipped beneath the covers, the rain outside had settled into rhythm — soft, even, and endlessly familiar.

Leo’s arm found its way around Sangwon’s waist, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt.

This time, Sangwon didn’t tease. He only reached up, covering Leo’s hand with his own.

Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

And for that night, in the quiet of each other’s arms, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The last morning of the year unfolded in muted tones.
Outside, the city was still — pale under a sky undecided between light and cloud. A breath of cold air slipped through the cracked window, stirring the curtains and carrying the faint metallic scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

Inside, the apartment felt like a pocket of warmth hidden from the rest of the world. The heater hummed; blankets lay in soft disarray; and in the stillness between those quiet heartbeats, Sangwon stirred.

For a moment, he didn't move. His cheek rested against the solid warmth of Leo’s chest, fingers curled loosely at the hem of his shirt. Their legs were a tangle under the blanket, a quiet mess of comfort that neither of them had bothered to fix. Leo's arm was draped around his waist, fingers unconsciously tracing small, slow circles against his side, even in sleep.

Sangwon could feel the steady rhythm of Leo's heartbeat beneath his ear—a sound that had, over time, become a strange kind of anchor.

The morning was soft — barely alive, as if holding its breath.
He stayed there for a long while, breathing in the fragile quiet, letting its warmth sink into his bones.

When Leo stirred, the morning broke its silence — a low groan, a half-formed sound caught between dream and waking.

“Morning,” Sangwon whispered.
“You said you’d wake up early today,” he added when Leo only hummed.

“That was last night,” Leo mumbled. “Different person now.”

“You promised to make breakfast.”
“I promised porridge,” Leo corrected. “Didn’t say when.”

Sangwon’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “You’re lucky I don’t hold grudges.”

“I’m lucky for a lot of things,” Leo murmured, his voice still muffled by skin and warmth. "This included."

Sangwon rolled his eyes but stayed where he was, letting Leo’s fingers linger a moment longer before finally moving. "You know," he said, "you're going to have to let go if you actually want to cook."

"I don't," Leo muttered. "Cooking is overrated."

"Then I'll make it."

Leo cracked one eye open, catching the faint outline of Sangwon's face in the pale morning light. "You're serious?"

"I don't trust you near the stove unsupervised."

"I made porridge before."

"You made something before."

Leo grinned faintly. "It cured your fever."

"It nearly caused another one."

Leo's laugh was sleepy and warm. "You're harsh in the morning."

"I'm honest."

"Same thing."

Sangwon huffed a quiet laugh and finally pulled away, the absence of warmth immediate and sharp. He slipped out of bed, his feet brushing against the cold floor, and stretched with a soft groan. Behind him, Leo watched through half-lidded eyes, smiling faintly at the sight—Sangwon's hair slightly dishevelled, the hem of his shirt brushing against his thigh, the morning light drawing soft edges around him.

"Stop staring," Sangwon said without turning.

"I'm admiring."

"Creepy."

"Romantic."

Sangwon turned his head just enough to give him a look. "Hopeless."

Leo grinned, unbothered. "You say that like it's new."

The kitchen met them with a faint chill and the ghost of last night’s tea—sweet, herbal, and just shy of forgotten.

Sangwon padded across the tiles first, flicking on the light. The glow was soft, golden, barely awake. He moved with quiet purpose, filling a pot with water while Leo lingered near the counter, hair tousled, sweater slipping off one shoulder.

“You’re supposed to be helping,” Sangwon murmured, testing the tap’s temperature.

“I am,” Leo replied, voice still thick with sleep. “Helping spiritually.”

A glance over the shoulder. “How convenient.”

Sangwon reached for the rice, measuring it by habit. “Try not to burn anything this time.”

Leo straightened just enough to look wounded. “I only burned it once.”

“You set off the smoke alarm.”

“That’s called proof of enthusiasm.”

“That’s called a fire hazard.”

Leo grinned, pushing himself upright and wandering closer. “Guess that means I’m banned from cooking alone.”

Sangwon’s brow arched. “That’s the general idea.”

“Then I’ll just have to cook with you.”

He said it too smoothly, too quickly. The words skimmed across the air like a pebble tossed into still water.

Sangwon hesitated, spoon midair. “You planned that.”

“Obviously.”

He huffed out a laugh, the corners of his mouth betraying him. “You’re impossible.”

Leo’s grin tilted. “And yet, you haven’t thrown me out.”

Sangwon brushed past him to grab the sesame oil, their shoulders grazing. “Don’t tempt me.”

Leo leaned into the space he left behind. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The stove came alive with a low flame. Steam began to curl from the pot, carrying the warm scent of rice. Leo stirred lazily, the ladle moving in easy circles while Sangwon’s knife whispered through scallions in crisp, rhythmic strokes.

After a while, Sangwon spoke without looking up. “You’ve improved.”

Leo perked up. “Was that a compliment?”

“A reluctant one.”

He beamed. “I’ll take it. Frame it, even.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I’d never,” he said—too innocently to be true. He dipped the spoon, blew gently, and held it out. “Taste test.”

Sangwon leaned forward, lips brushing the steam before tasting. It was a little thick, uneven—but warm, familiar. “Edible.”

Leo gasped theatrically. “High praise!”

“Barely passing.”

“I’ll take it,” he said, and his smile reached his eyes.

When they finally sat down, the world outside still wore its winter hush. Their bowls steamed, the air fogging faintly between them.

Leo took a bite too soon and immediately hissed, fanning his mouth as if he’d been betrayed by the universe itself.

“You never learn,” Sangwon teased, laughter caught at the edges of his voice. He tried to hide it behind his spoon, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him anyway.

“I live dangerously.”

“By burning your tongue?”

Leo’s eyes lifted — calm, certain, and just a little too knowing. “By following you.”

The words struck like flint, setting the quiet between them alight. Sangwon froze, spoon halfway to his lips. For a moment, the world narrowed to the curve of Leo’s smile and the gentle steam that framed his face like mist.

“W–what?” The question slipped out, a stutter wrapped in disbelief.

Leo leaned back slightly, feigning innocence, but his voice was smooth. “I said I follow where the danger is.” His gaze didn’t waver. “And somehow, that’s always you.”

Sangwon blinked, caught entirely off guard. His breath stumbled; his pulse raced ahead of him. Heat climbed from his neck to his cheeks, betraying him with every second that passed. He tried to look away, tried to find safety in the bowl before him, but his hand shook slightly when he lifted the spoon.

“Eat your porridge,” he muttered, attempting composure but failing miserably. His voice came out softer than he intended — too soft, too intimate.

Leo chuckled, low and pleased, the sound curling around Sangwon like a slow-moving flame. “You’re blushing,” he murmured, tone teasing but tender.

“I—am not.”

“You are.”

Sangwon refused to meet his gaze, busying himself with stirring the already-perfect porridge, ears bright red now.

"You're annoying."

Leo smiled, leaning forward slightly, his voice dipping to something teasing but gentle. “The kind of annoying that you love, though.”

Sangwon’s hand paused midair. He didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched — and Leo knew he’d won.

After breakfast, the world seemed to exhale.

The small apartment hummed with leftover warmth — the kind that lingers after laughter and clinking spoons and soft collisions in a narrow kitchen. Steam still curled from their mugs on the table, fading into the pale wash of winter light.

Sangwon drifted toward the bookshelf, fingers grazing the spines as though reacquainting himself with a row of old friends. The covers were worn, corners frayed — years of mornings like this hidden in paper.

Behind him, Leo had already surrendered to the couch. He sprawled across it with practised ease, hair still mussed, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. One leg dangled off the edge, swinging idly.

“You really plan to read?” Leo’s voice came lazy, still wrapped in sleep.

Sangwon hummed. “The year ends tonight. I should end it properly.”

“With books?”

“With peace.”

Leo cracked one eye open. “Peace is overrated.”

“Only to people who cause chaos.”

Leo grinned. “So… you’re calling me interesting.”

Sangwon smiled faintly, running his thumb along a book spine. “You’re certainly something.”

“That sounds suspiciously like affection.”

“That sounds like pity.”

Leo chuckled, stretching, the hem of his sweater lifting just enough for skin to flash in the light. “You wound me, chef.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.”

Sangwon turned, holding his chosen book. “You could always read, too. Heal through literature.”

“I could,” Leo said, eyes sparkling, “but then who’d keep you entertained?”

Sangwon arched a brow. “I didn’t realise I required entertainment.”

“You don’t,” Leo said, voice dipping lower. “You just prefer mine.”

The line hung there — warm, teasing, too honest to be harmless. Sangwon pretended to ignore it, but his mouth twitched despite him. He crossed the room and stopped beside the couch. “Move over.”

Leo looked up, feigning surprise. “Joining me? How forward.”

“The light’s better here.”

“Sure it is.”

Still, he shifted — barely. Enough for Sangwon to sit, but close enough that their knees brushed.

Sangwon opened his book, but Leo’s gaze lingered, studying him in that unguarded, wordless way that made Sangwon’s pulse misbehave.

“Stop staring,” Sangwon said softly, eyes on the page.

“I’m admiring,” Leo murmured.

“Staring with extra steps.”

“Flattering with extra effort,” Leo countered.

Sangwon turned a page. “You’re impossible.”

Leo tilted his head, his grin small, familiar. “And you love it.”

Sangwon looked up then — not fast, not defensive, just quiet. His eyes met Leo’s, and for a moment, the world stilled around that look.

“I do,” he said, simply.

Leo blinked, startled by the honesty. “That was… dangerously straightforward.”

“New year, new me,” Sangwon said, returning to his book, though his ears were pink.

Leo laughed softly, the sound blooming like sunlight. “If that’s the new you, I approve.”

“Of course you do.”

“Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“That you love me.”

Sangwon glanced sideways, smirking. “You’ll survive on once.”

Leo leaned closer, voice barely a whisper. “You sure?”

Sangwon didn’t move away this time. “Positive.”

Leo made a soft noise — part laugh, part sigh — then reached out, tugging gently at Sangwon’s sleeve. His fingers brushed the inside of his wrist before falling away.

“Just checking,” he said, eyes softer now.

“You’re checking too often,” Sangwon murmured, but his tone had melted.

“Can’t help it,” Leo replied. “I like being sure of things.”

Sangwon’s lips curved. “And yet you’re the most uncertain person I know.”

“That’s why I keep you around.”

“Oh?”

“To remind me what steady looks like,” Leo said.

Sangwon blinked, heart catching on the edges of the words. “You say that like I’m not a mess too.”

“You are,” Leo said easily. “But you’re a beautiful kind of mess. The kind that makes me want to stay.”

Sangwon turned a page, but his hands had gone still. “You’re getting sentimental.”

“It’s the lighting,” Leo teased. “Makes me poetic.”

Sangwon smiled. “Or maybe it’s the company.”

Leo froze, then laughed, eyes crinkling. “You’re learning to flirt. I’m so proud.”

“I’m adapting,” Sangwon said dryly.

“Evolving.”

“Reacting,” he corrected.

Leo nudged him lightly with his knee. “Whatever it is, it looks good on you.”

Sangwon didn’t respond right away. He just leaned back into the couch, the edge of his shoulder brushing Leo’s. It was subtle — a silent answer, an invitation that didn’t need naming.

For a while, the room filled with the soft rhythm of pages turning, the faint hum of a heater, the uneven cadence of their breathing.

Outside, the day stretched toward its quiet end — golden, slow, endless.

Leo shifted, resting his head against Sangwon’s shoulder. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Sangwon turned a page, pretending to read. “You’re heavy.”

“Translation: you don’t mind.”

“Translation: you talk too much.”

“Still not a no.”

Sangwon sighed — the kind that wasn’t really exasperation — and reached up to brush Leo’s hair from his forehead. “If you drool, you’re banned from my pillow tonight.”

Leo’s laugh came muffled against his sleeve. “You’re assuming I’d leave room for you on it.”

Sangwon smiled. “You never do.”

“See? You love it.”

Sangwon looked at him then, really looked — the sunlight tangled in his hair, his sleepy grin, his unguarded eyes. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t hide the way his heart softened.

“I do,” he whispered.

This time, Leo didn’t ask him to repeat it.

He just smiled — slow, content — and reached for Sangwon’s hand, threading their fingers together.

The book slid shut, forgotten on Sangwon’s lap.

Outside, the light kept changing — gold into silver, day into something softer.

Inside, the world stayed warm.

Evening came gently, the sky ripening from pale silver to that bruised shade of blue that always seemed to linger too long before night.
The apartment breathed with it — soft light spilling through the curtains, the hum of the heater, the faint clatter of dishes being rearranged. Then came the familiar music of the kitchen: oil hissing in the pan, the rhythmic thud of a knife meeting the board, the rustle of sleeves pushed to the elbow.

Sangwon moved like he belonged to this space — quiet precision in every motion, grace disguised as routine. He didn’t rush, didn’t fumble; his hands seemed to know the language of heat and flavor instinctively.

Leo sat on the counter, legs swinging, his back against the cupboard door.
He looked utterly unbothered — sweater half-tucked, hair still refusing to obey gravity, eyes following every small, deliberate movement like a cat watching something glitter.

“You cook when you’re thinking too much,” Leo said suddenly, breaking the rhythm.

Sangwon’s knife paused mid-air. “Maybe I’m just hungry.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s usually true.”

Leo grinned. “And yet, somehow, the food always tastes like you’re trying to process your emotions through it.”

Sangwon shot him a look over his shoulder. “You’re very dramatic for someone who can’t even dice an onion.”

“I have other talents,” Leo said, feigning offence.

“Like sitting still and talking?”

“Multitasking,” Leo corrected, leaning forward with a smirk. “I’m observing.”

“You’re nosy.”

Leo tilted his head. “And yet, you don’t tell me to stop.”

Sangwon turned back to the stove, stirring the pan with studied calm — though a faint, reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
“Maybe I like the noise,” he said softly.

Leo’s grin widened, that dangerous kind of pleased. “See? Progress.”

Sangwon laughed under his breath — brief, quiet, the kind of sound that warmed more than it should have.
He reached for a dish towel, and when he turned again, Leo was already reaching out, snagging the edge of his sleeve.

“What now?” Sangwon asked, amused.

Leo tugged gently, just enough to pull him closer. “You have something on your cheek.”

Sangwon blinked. “I do?”

“Yeah,” Leo said, his tone suspiciously casual — then, instead of brushing it away, he leaned forward, thumb grazing Sangwon’s cheek with deliberate slowness. “There.”

Sangwon’s breath caught — just slightly. “You could’ve said that instead of—”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Leo said, grinning.

Sangwon rolled his eyes, but his voice was softer now. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Big word,” Leo teased. “Say it again.”

“Maybe later. When you deserve it.”

“I always do.”

They ate dinner at the table, the lights low, shadows swaying gently on the walls.
Between them, the air carried the warmth of garlic and sesame oil and something else — a quiet ease that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. Leo kept stealing glances between bites, and Sangwon pretended not to notice, though every time their eyes met, his heartbeat betrayed him.

Afterwards, Sangwon stood by the window, mug in hand. The glass was cool beneath his fingers. Outside, the city blinked alive — streetlights flickering on, slow and deliberate, as if the world itself was preparing for something.

“You should get ready,” he said eventually.

Leo, sprawled on the couch again, tilted his head. “For what?”

“For tonight.”

“Still with the mystery?”

Sangwon nodded once, eyes still on the window. “Dress warm.”

Leo groaned theatrically. “You’re dragging me out again? It’s freezing.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

“You said that last time. I followed you to a book fair.”

“And you got free coffee,” Sangwon replied without missing a beat.

Leo gasped, clutching his chest. “Trauma and caffeine are not equivalent!”

Sangwon smiled over his shoulder. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I doubt that.”

“Then I’ll enjoy being right,” Sangwon murmured, turning back to the view.

Leo’s grin faltered for a second — not in disappointment, but in that way he sometimes looked at Sangwon when words failed him. The light from the window traced the line of Sangwon’s jaw, his calm profile, the faint curl of his mouth.

“You really don’t take no for an answer, do you?” Leo said softly.

“Not when I know what’s good for you.”

Leo stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “And what if I already have what’s good for me?”

Sangwon turned to meet his gaze — eyes steady, the kind of quiet that could undo someone if they weren’t careful.
“Then,” he said gently, “you’ll still want to come with me.”

The words landed in the space between them, warm and weightless all at once.
Leo stepped closer, just close enough for their shoulders to almost touch. “You’re lucky I like dramatic people.”

Sangwon smiled. “You’re lucky I feed you.”

“Ah, so that’s your strategy,” Leo said, voice lowering into a grin. “Win me over with carbs and emotional manipulation.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

Leo laughed, a low, delighted sound. “You’re dangerous when you’re smug.”

“Good thing you like danger.”

“I love it,” Leo said, the honesty slipping out before he could dress it up.

Sangwon’s expression softened, a flicker of surprise and fondness passing through. He reached up, tugging lightly at Leo’s scarf. “Then wear this. It’s cold.”

Leo blinked down at him. “You’re fussing.”

“I’m ensuring your survival.”

“Romantic.”

Sangwon smiled. “Functional.”

Leo leaned in until their foreheads almost touched — close enough that his breath fogged Sangwon’s glasses. “You really don’t know how to make anything not sound poetic, do you?”

Sangwon’s voice was a whisper. “You make it easy.”

For a second, neither of them moved. The city outside kept breathing, indifferent and alive, but in that tiny apartment, time folded in on itself — just the warmth of two people learning, slowly, what it meant to stay.

Leo pulled back first, grinning again to break the spell. “Fine. Midnight. But if this ends with frostbite or poetry readings, I’m suing.”

Sangwon chuckled, reaching for his coat. “You’ll be fine. You have me.”

Leo’s voice softened. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s why I’m coming.”

The clock ticked on somewhere behind them, gentle and steady.
Outside, the city waited under its veil of cold — lights trembling faintly like stars trying not to fall.
Inside, their laughter and quiet footsteps filled the space between seconds, pulling the last hours of the year toward whatever warmth was waiting next.

By the time they stepped outside, night had already unfurled itself across Seoul like a silk sheet — cool, shimmering, alive.
The city glowed softly under its own breath; buildings shimmered in reflected light, and the faint hum of distant traffic trembled like a heartbeat beneath the cold. The air carried a metallic sharpness, the kind that bit gently at their cheeks and turned every exhale into pale smoke that lingered only for a heartbeat before vanishing.

Sangwon adjusted his scarf as they walked, gloved fingers tugging it higher. The wool had absorbed his scent — faint traces of soap and sesame oil and something warm that Leo could never quite name. The sound of their boots scuffing against damp pavement was steady, easy. Above them, the city glittered like someone had shaken a jar of stars and scattered them over the skyline.

Leo shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. “You always walk like you’re late to something,” he muttered, voice muffled by his scarf.

“Maybe I am,” Sangwon said without slowing down. “Midnight doesn’t wait.”

“You could try letting it catch up for once,” Leo countered, grinning.

“Time doesn’t chase people who dawdle.”

Leo made a mock gasp. “Are you calling me lazy?”

“I’m calling you predictable.”

“Rude and accurate,” Leo said, quickening his pace to fall in step beside him. “You’d miss me if I didn’t keep up, though.”

Sangwon arched a brow. “Would I?”

Leo smiled, teeth flashing white in the lamplight. “You’d notice the silence.”

Sangwon’s laugh was quiet — the kind that dissolved into the night like steam from a mug. “You’re too self-assured.”

“And yet, here you are,” Leo said softly, “walking next to me.”

The words lingered, threaded with something gentler than teasing. The wind rose, tugging at Sangwon’s scarf until it brushed against Leo’s coat. He reached out instinctively, fingers brushing over the fabric to fix it.

“You’ll freeze,” he murmured.

Sangwon glanced at him sidelong. “You sound like my grandmother.”

“She sounds wise.”

“She’d say you talk too much.”

Leo’s grin widened. “She sounds perfect.”

Sangwon huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Then, when the wind shifted again, Leo’s hand didn’t quite make it back to his pocket — it drifted instead toward Sangwon’s coat pocket, slipping in casually as if it belonged there.

Sangwon’s step faltered, just slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Conserving heat,” Leo said smoothly.

“You’re stealing it.”

“Same thing.”

“Not scientifically.”

“Emotionally,” Leo corrected, grinning.

Sangwon tried for a glare but failed, the corner of his mouth curving upward. “You’re impossible.”

Leo leaned closer, his voice a whisper that warmed the cold air between them. “You like impossible.”

“I tolerate impossible,” Sangwon murmured, though he didn’t move his hand away when Leo’s fingers brushed against his.

“Then you tolerate me beautifully,” Leo said.

Sangwon’s answer was nothing more than a quiet hum, but when their fingers intertwined, his grip held steady — a small, deliberate confession disguised as comfort.

The subway to Jamsil was alive with the pulse of the city.
Bright scarves and paper hats, laughter that rang off metal walls, the faint scent of roasted chestnuts clinging to people’s coats. Families huddled close with sparklers still unlit, teenagers waved lightsticks like miniature stars, and old couples leaned against one another in soft, wordless rhythm.

Sangwon stood near the door, one hand gripping the cold metal bar. The train swayed gently, lights flickering across his face in gold and shadow. Leo stood behind him — close enough to feel the subtle movement of Sangwon’s breath, to see the tiny cloud it made against the glass.

Every time the train jolted, Sangwon leaned into him — instinctively, lightly. At first, it was for balance; after a while, neither of them bothered pretending.

Leo’s voice was a murmur near his ear. “You’re quiet.”

Sangwon tilted his head slightly, not looking back. “You say that like it’s new.”

“You usually talk more when you’re nervous.”

“Maybe I’m not nervous.”

Leo smiled, his breath grazing Sangwon’s neck. “Maybe I make you nervous.”

Sangwon’s lips curved. “You make me tired.”

“Same thing.”

Sangwon gave him a side-eye that was more fond than annoyed. “You’ve got a very selective dictionary.”

“I like to edit the language of love,” Leo said.

“You’ve edited out logic.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

The train slowed as it entered the next tunnel, lights flickering briefly into darkness. For a moment, it was just the hum of wheels on rails, the press of people, and the quiet pulse of their breathing — steady, shared.

Leo leaned in closer, close enough that his nose brushed the edge of Sangwon’s hair. “You’re warm,” he whispered.

Sangwon didn’t turn. “You’re clingy.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Meaning?”

“Using you as a heater.”

Sangwon’s laugh came out softer than he meant it to — low, warm, almost tender. “You’re insufferable.”

Leo grinned, the sound of it lighting the air between them. “You love that about me.”

Sangwon’s reply was quiet, almost lost under the roar of the train. “I do.”

Leo blinked, caught off guard, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. When the train slowed into the next station and the lights steadied again, Sangwon’s reflection in the window looked calm — but his ears were red.

Leo smiled to himself, voice barely audible. “You’re lucky the train’s loud.”

Sangwon looked at him through the glass, their eyes meeting in the reflection. “You’d get an answer either way.”

Leo tilted his head. “And what would that answer be?”

Sangwon’s lips curved — slow, secret, beautiful. “Get off before you miss our stop.”

The doors opened with a hiss, cold air rushing in. Leo followed him into the night without another word, heart thudding like it was keeping time with the city itself.

Outside, Seoul stretched wide and glittering before them — bridges strung with lights, skyscrapers shimmering like constellations, the faint murmur of laughter rising from somewhere distant.
And beneath it all, the two of them walked side by side — fingers brushing, breaths mixing in the cold, carrying the quiet pulse of something beginning, just as the year was about to end.

The tower rose before them like a blade of glass piercing the night. Even from a distance, it seemed unreal — its mirrored skin catching the light of the city until it looked less like a building and more like a living thing, breathing, pulsing. Crowds pressed along the lakeside, their voices a low hum beneath the cold air, the kind of human murmur that blurred into the city's heartbeat.

Sangwon stopped walking first. The wind curled his breath into white ribbons that vanished almost as soon as they formed. His scarf had come half undone again, and Leo reached out wordlessly to fix it, fingers brushing against his neck. The touch was brief, almost clumsy, but Sangwon still felt it linger — a ghost of warmth against his skin.

"It's taller than I remember," Sangwon said, tilting his head back. The tower's reflection rippled faintly across the dark water, breaking apart with every gust.

Leo smiled faintly. "You said that last time."

"And it's still true."

"You like repeating yourself."

"You like pretending you're not staring."

Leo blinked — caught, again. For a heartbeat, the air between them stilled. He looked away first, pretending to scan the skyline. "Old habits die hard."

"Break them," Sangwon murmured, not unkindly.

Leo's chest tightened. "You make it sound easy."

"It's not." Sangwon's breath trembled on the edge of a smile. "But I'm still here. And so are you."

And something in Leo ached at that — at the quiet certainty in those words. Still here. How many times had he been the one falling apart, and Sangwon the one steady enough to stay?

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

They found a quiet spot near the railing where the lake mirrored the tower — glass and water folding into one another until it felt like standing inside a reflection. The city shimmered in layers: gold, silver, and shadow. Around them, laughter rose and fell like distant waves — strangers counting down the seconds to another year, someone strumming an out-of-tune guitar. But for them, the noise existed only at the edge of hearing. Between them, there was only the hum of winter and the steady rhythm of closeness.

Leo leaned against the railing, his shoulder brushing Sangwon's. "You think everyone's here for the fireworks?"

"Mostly," Sangwon said, eyes fixed on the trembling water.

"And the rest?"

A soft smile ghosted his lips. "The rest are here to remember how to hope."

The words slipped through Leo like a quiet ache. He turned, watching him instead of the skyline — the faint redness on Sangwon's nose, the small furrow between his brows, the way his breath trembled into the cold as if afraid to disturb the moment.

"And you?" Leo asked, voice barely above the wind. "What are you here for?"

Sangwon's answer came after a long breath. "To make sure you don't fall asleep before midnight."

Leo laughed softly, the sound rough but fond. "Too late. You already made me soft."

"Then maybe I've done enough."

"Not even close."

The words lingered between them — teasing, but threaded with warmth that neither tried to hide. Something in Sangwon fluttered then, faint and unsteady, the kind of feeling that starts at the ribs and grows until it aches to contain. He wanted to say something light, to turn it into a joke, but his tongue stilled. Instead, he stayed close — close enough to feel Leo's warmth bleeding through his coat, close enough for the world to fade into the hush of their breathing.

When the countdown began, it rolled through the crowd like thunder.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

The air quivered with breathless anticipation — a thousand voices rising as one, the pulse of the city trembling underfoot. Sangwon’s hand found Leo’s, not by decision but by instinct, fingers sliding into his like two halves of a habit too familiar to question. Their palms met in silence, a quiet fit that spoke of years rather than seconds.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Light rippled across the lake, gilding Sangwon’s face in gold. Leo didn’t look at the fireworks. He looked at him — the flutter of his lashes, the faint tremor at the corner of his mouth, the quiet ache that never really left his eyes.

Four.

Three.

Two.

Leo’s thumb brushed over Sangwon’s knuckles — a wordless promise, trembling at the edge of his skin. Sangwon’s breath caught, but he didn’t pull away.

One.

And then the sky broke open.

Gold bled into crimson, bursting like a wound that refused to close. The world roared with light, smoke curling through the winter air. Yet within that chaos, there was silence — the kind that only existed between two people who had already said everything that mattered.

Sangwon looked up. The colors burned against the night, and something inside him cracked. It wasn’t sorrow, not entirely — just the unbearable weight of surviving. The quiet truth of still being here.

He didn’t realize he was crying until Leo’s thumb caught a tear.

“Hey,” Leo whispered, the word soft as a bruise.

Sangwon didn’t answer. His body just moved — sudden, desperate — and he pulled Leo into his arms. The hug landed like gravity, firm and shaking. Leo froze, breath caught halfway, then folded into him with a shuddering exhale, clutching back just as hard, as if afraid the other might vanish if he let go.

The fireworks spilled above them — fragments of light scattering over their hair, fading against the smoke.

Sangwon’s voice broke against Leo’s shoulder, raw and trembling. “We made it.”

Leo swallowed, his throat thick. He could feel Sangwon’s heartbeat thudding against his chest. “Yeah,” he breathed. “We did.”

Sangwon gave a watery laugh, halfway between disbelief and exhaustion. “Hyung… we actually made it.”

Leo drew back just enough to see him. Firelight flickered across Sangwon’s wet cheeks — and something inside Leo twisted painfully. Relief, love, guilt — all the same shade of ache.

The world had gone hushed again, save for the distant echo of cheers and the soft rush of water nearby.

“I’ve said this before,” Sangwon whispered, voice shaking, “but I want to say it again.”

Leo’s pulse stumbled. “What?”

Sangwon didn’t blink. “I love you, Lee Leo.”

The words cut through the cold air, clear and trembling. They weren’t a confession this time. They were a truth — small and devastating, born from the quiet wreckage of all they had survived.

Leo’s breath hitched. He’d heard it before, but never like this — never this stripped bare. He opened his mouth, but Sangwon shook his head, smiling faintly through his tears.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He glanced down, a soft, broken curve to his lips. “I just didn’t think we’d make it this far.”

The words lingered like mist, fragile and slow. Leo’s gaze softened, his thumb absently tracing the back of Sangwon’s hand.

Sangwon laughed weakly, voice unraveling. “After everything. After you started to sink…” His laugh caught, thin and uneven. “You were right there, but it felt like you were fading through my hands. Every time I reached for you, you slipped further away. I kept trying to hold on, but I didn’t even know if I ever really touched you. If you could still feel me at all.”

Leo’s voice came out cracked. “You did,” he said. “You reached me. You pulled me back before I disappeared completely.”

The silence that followed was raw. Only their uneven breathing filled the space between them.

Sangwon’s fingers tightened on his coat sleeve, trembling slightly. “And then I fell apart,” he whispered. “And you stayed. You didn’t let go when I tried to vanish.”

Leo shook his head, his voice trembling. “Because you didn’t either. You never left, even when I gave you every reason to.”

Sangwon’s eyes glistened, red-rimmed and soft as dusk. “How could I,” he breathed, “when I loved you with every part of me?”

The words hit like prayer — tender, devastating.

Leo’s breath shuddered. For a moment, he couldn’t look away. Every inch of him felt suspended — like the air itself was waiting for what came next.

Sangwon smiled faintly, eyes swimming with memory. “You don't even know when it started, do you?”

He laughed quietly, the sound wet with tears. “It wasn’t one moment. It was hundreds — all those tiny, stupid, beautiful moments you never noticed.”

He looked away for a second, gathering air into his lungs, his voice softer when it returned. ““Back when we were trainees, chasing borrowed dreams,” he began. “You carried everyone — loud, reckless, as if pretending that you weren’t breaking. You’d stay long after practice ended, long after the music stopped. Everyone else went home, but you never did. You were always there — first to arrive, last to leave — like you were holding our dreams intact by sheer will alone.”

Leo’s brow furrowed. The memory hit sharp and vivid, carrying the smell of dust, sweat, and rain on concrete.

Sangwon went on, a fragile smile pulling at his mouth. “You’d be working on tracks in the corner, headphones on, tapping your fingers on the table like you were chasing some melody only you could hear. I’d be across the room, repeating the same dance steps over and over until my knees gave out. Sometimes I’d mess up on purpose — just to make you look up. Just to see you smile.”

He paused, voice breaking. “You never made me feel small for it. You’d just say, ‘You’ve got it, Sangwon. One more time.’ And that… that was enough to make me try again.”

Leo’s breath trembled, his eyes unfocused. He could almost hear that echo — the way Sangwon’s sneakers scuffed against the floor, the faint hum of his own track looping endlessly behind him.

Sangwon’s laugh faltered. “Even when you were drowning in your own pressure, you still held everyone else up. You were everyone’s anchor — including mine.”

He exhaled shakily. “And that’s when I fell. Not all at once. But piece by piece — every time you smiled through the exhaustion, every time you comforted someone, even when you couldn’t comfort yourself.”

He swallowed, his voice lowering to a fragile whisper. “I fell for your light. And when that light broke, I fell for your shadows too.”

Leo’s lips parted, trembling. “Even when I hurt you?”

Sangwon nodded. “Especially then. Because you never meant to. Because you kept trying.” His voice softened further, almost reverent. “You don’t understand, Leo. I love every imperfect piece of you — even the ones you hide, even the ones that don’t love themselves.”

Leo’s voice cracked open. “You shouldn’t have to love me like this.”

“And yet,” Sangwon whispered, stepping closer, “I do.”

For a heartbeat, the wind fell utterly still. Their breath mingled between them, their faces close enough for the warmth to cross. Leo’s gaze flicked down — at Sangwon’s lips, at the tremor in his jaw — and he thought he might shatter under the weight of it all.

“I was scared,” Leo murmured finally. “Not of you — of naming it. Of ruining what we already had. Of losing you the second I said it out loud.”

Sangwon leaned into the touch, his eyes never leaving Leo’s. “You can’t break something that was already real,” he whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Leo’s throat tightened, the apology scraping raw against his voice. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “For being a coward. For making you wait.”

Sangwon’s fingers found his hand, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to apologise. Love doesn’t keep time. It just stays.”

He smiled, faint and trembling. “And I’ll keep staying. For as long as it takes.”

Leo closed his eyes, forehead pressed to Sangwon’s, as though he could breathe steadiness from him.

When Sangwon finally moved, his hands slipped away — only to return holding something small.

A bracelet. Handmade and imperfect, strung with soft, earthy beads — muted browns, greens, and faded pinks — and at its center, a clover charm glinting faintly under the dying fireworks.

“I made it for you,” Sangwon whispered.

Leo blinked, eyes blurring. “You… made that?”

Sangwon nodded, a small, shy smile pulling at his mouth. “I kept redoing it every time I thought I was losing you. Guess this one finally held together.”

Leo’s vision stung. Sangwon took his hand and fastened it around his wrist, the beads cool against his skin, heavier than they should have been.

“It’s not forever,” Sangwon said quietly. “Just… something to remind you that I’m still here. Even if everything changes again.”

Leo looked down, voice hoarse. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s nothing,” Sangwon murmured.

“It’s you,” Leo said. “That’s why.”

Sangwon laughed softly, breaking on a sob. Leo caught his face in his hands again, their foreheads pressed together.

“Thank you,” Leo whispered, voice breaking like something too fragile to hold. “For loving me even when I didn’t know how to love myself… even when I still don’t think I deserve it.”

Sangwon’s tears slipped freely now, quiet and unashamed. “You were never something to deserve, Leo,” he said softly, each word trembling with devotion. “You were something to love.”

Leo’s breath caught, his voice raw. “But I don’t know how to love without breaking things.”

Sangwon shook his head, his smile faint but unwavering. “You won’t,” he murmured. “Even if you tried.”

"Because I'll be here. Always. With you."

Leo’s laugh came out broken, half a sob that barely held itself together. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is,” Sangwon murmured, brushing away Leo’s tears with careful fingers. “You’re the one who keeps making it complicated.”

Leo’s lips quivered, his voice small. “I don’t deserve the way you love me.”

Sangwon smiled through his tears — fragile, luminous. “Maybe not,” he whispered, “but you don’t have to.”

The world hushed around them. The fireworks had long faded, leaving only smoke coiling into the dark, the echo of laughter thinning into silence. Sangwon stood close enough for Leo to feel the faint heat of him — steady, like an ember refusing to die. His thumb traced Leo’s cheek, a motion that felt both like comfort and goodbye.

Leo wanted to speak — to let everything spill out, to name all the things he’d kept buried — but the words tangled in his chest. He could feel them pressing, but they refused to come out right. Not when Sangwon looked at him like that: unguarded, forgiving, already holding him in a love that asked for nothing.

So instead, Leo let out a quiet, unsteady laugh. “You always make things sound easy.”

Sangwon tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s only easy when it’s real.”

Leo swallowed hard. He wanted to ask — and is this? — but the answer was already written in Sangwon’s eyes. Of course it was. That was what made it hurt.

The silence between them settled like breath — heavy, tender, unspoken. The bracelet around Leo’s wrist caught a flicker of light from the tower, gold and green glinting faintly against his skin.

“Keep it,” Sangwon said softly. “Even if it breaks someday.”

Leo looked at him. “Will it?”

Sangwon’s smile turned wistful. “Everything does. But that’s okay.”

He stepped back slightly, enough for the cold to slip between them. The air smelled faintly of smoke and rain, the tower’s glow fading to a dim hum above the lake.

Leo looked down at the bracelet — uneven beads, a tiny clover charm, imperfect but alive with Sangwon’s warmth. It felt less like glass and more like a heartbeat.

“I’ll take care of it,” Leo murmured.

Sangwon’s eyes softened. “Take care of yourself too.”

Leo’s smile trembled. “Only if you do the same.”

“Then we’re even,” Sangwon said, a touch of teasing beneath the ache.

Leo wanted to reach for him again, to close the last inch between them, but Sangwon had already turned toward the lake. His gaze followed the rippling reflection of the tower, his expression distant, almost reverent — like he was listening to something only he could hear.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely louder than the wind. “You know what I wished for?”

Leo shook his head.

“For this,” Sangwon said. “Just… for this moment to last a little longer.”

The words landed in Leo’s chest like a weight he couldn’t set down. He wanted to say me too, wanted to promise I’ll make it last, but the words stuck. So he just watched Sangwon — eyes bright beneath the fading light, hair tousled by the cold — and thought it instead.

He didn’t say it aloud. He let the silence keep it safe.

When Sangwon turned back, his eyes were red but steady, a small, defiant smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s go home,” he said softly.

Leo nodded. “Yeah.”

They started walking, unhurried. The street was damp beneath their steps, and every few paces their shoulders brushed — small, fleeting touches that said everything words couldn’t. The ache in Leo’s chest had softened into something gentler.

Behind them, the tower dimmed. The bracelet caught the last shimmer of its light — a brief glint, an echo of a promise — before fading into the night.

And as they disappeared into the thinning crowd, fingers brushing but never quite holding, Leo realised that sometimes love didn’t end in confession or closure.
Sometimes it simply stayed — quiet, unspoken, alive — lingering like smoke in the cold night air, beautiful because it could never last.

The apartment greeted them in silence.
Only the low hum of the heater filled the air, laced with the faint scent of tea leaves and rain that clung to their clothes. Outside, the city still shimmered — distant laughter, a stray cheer, the ghost of fireworks — but here, everything was soft. Gentle.

Leo dropped his keys onto the counter and stood there for a moment, as if caught between leaving the night behind and carrying it inside with him. Sangwon moved past him, quiet and deliberate, shrugging off his coat and tossing it carelessly onto the couch. He turned on the lamp by the window — its golden glow spilling across the room, forgiving, familiar.

When he turned back, Leo was still by the door, shoes half-off, eyes somewhere far away.

“Hey,” Sangwon murmured.

That single word broke something open. Leo’s gaze found him — and before thought could catch up, he crossed the room in three uneven steps and wrapped his arms around him. The kind of hug that wasn’t about comfort, but survival.

Sangwon didn’t hesitate. His arms came up instantly, circling Leo’s shoulders, fingers threading gently through his hair. The warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against Leo’s chest — it steadied them both. For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the quiet thrum of rain against the glass filled the air, the world outside fading into nothing.

After a while, Sangwon’s voice came out small, muffled against Leo’s shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

Leo laughed faintly, the sound fragile. “Yeah. Guess I forgot how to breathe.”

Sangwon pulled back just enough to cup his cheek. “Then start again.”
His thumb brushed lightly across Leo’s skin, tracing the faint path where tears had dried. “You’re allowed to breathe now.”

Leo closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” Sangwon whispered. “But I’ll help.”

The soft smile that followed nearly undid Leo. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from Sangwon’s face, his thumb ghosting over the corner of his mouth. “You always say the right things.”

“That’s because I mean them.”

Their laughter — tired, low, real — slipped through the quiet, like the last embers of something sacred.

Sangwon tugged gently at Leo’s sleeve. “Come on. You look like you’ll fall over any second.”

Leo followed without a word. They sank into the couch, the lamplight pooling around them in liquid gold. Sangwon curled into one side, knees drawn up, while Leo rested an arm along the back, his fingers idly playing with Sangwon’s hair.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence between them was whole, full of breath and heartbeat and safety.

Leo’s voice broke it softly. “Do you ever think about how close we came to losing this?”

Sangwon’s eyes stayed half-lidded. “Every day.”

“I don’t think I could survive it again,” Leo murmured. “Not the silence. Not watching you disappear the way I did.”

Sangwon shifted closer until his hand rested flat against Leo’s chest. “You won’t have to. Not anymore.”

Leo’s heart fluttered under his touch. “Promise?”

“I already did.” Sangwon smiled, brushing his thumb across the bracelet on Leo’s wrist — beads glinting faintly in the lamplight. “That’s what this means.”

Leo stared at it for a long moment, the simple thread pressing against his pulse. “It’s strange,” he whispered. “I’ve worn things that cost more than this — rings, chains — but nothing’s ever felt this heavy.”

Sangwon laughed quietly. “It’s just a bunch of beads.”

“It’s you,” Leo said, almost to himself. “That’s why.”

The words made Sangwon go still. He didn’t look away, didn’t deflect with humour. He only leaned in until their foreheads brushed, breath mingling softly.

“You’re going to make me cry again,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Leo smiled faintly, eyes damp. “Then we’ll cry together.”

And they did — quietly, helplessly — laughter trembling through tears. Sangwon buried his face in Leo’s neck, breath warm against his skin. Leo’s hand found its way to the back of his head, fingers weaving gently through his hair.

After a while, Sangwon’s voice broke the stillness again. “You know,” he said softly, “I used to think love was supposed to be clean. Beautiful words, easy moments. But it’s not.” His breath hitched. “It’s messy. It’s crying under fireworks. It’s fighting and coming back. It’s this.”

Leo’s hand tightened in his hair. “Then I’ll take messy,” he whispered. “If it means you.”

Sangwon let out a shaky laugh that dissolved into a sob. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Leo smiled weakly, pressing his forehead to his. “Already did. Guess we’re even.”

They stayed like that for a long time — two shapes folded into the same small space, the night pressing soft around them. The heater hummed low, the rain softened to a whisper.

When Sangwon finally began to drift, Leo shifted, coaxing him gently up. “Bed,” he murmured. “You’re falling asleep on me.”

Sangwon blinked groggily. “You’re the one who looks half-dead.”

Leo chuckled, wiping a stray tear from Sangwon’s cheek. “We’ll argue tomorrow.”

He stood, pulling Sangwon with him. Their fingers didn’t part as they crossed the small hallway. The bedroom light was dim — sheets rumpled from mornings they’d left in a hurry, nights that had ended too late.

Leo sat on the edge of the bed, drawing Sangwon closer until he stood between his knees. “Tired?” he asked softly.

Sangwon nodded. “Exhausted. But it feels… earned.”

“The kind of tired you share,” Leo said.

Sangwon smiled, eyes soft. “Exactly.”

Leo took his wrist gently, pressing a kiss to the spot where the bracelet rested. “I’ll keep this safe,” he whispered.

“You better,” Sangwon teased, brushing his thumb along Leo’s jaw. “Or I’ll make you another one.”

“Good,” Leo murmured. “Then I’ll have two reasons to stay.”

Sangwon laughed — that quiet, beautiful sound that made Leo’s chest ache — and climbed into bed. Leo followed soon after, curling around him instinctively. Sangwon’s head rested against his chest, Leo’s arm draped across his waist.

The lamp’s golden light reached them softly, painting their skin in honey tones.

Leo stared at the ceiling, his hand drawing idle circles against Sangwon’s back. “You were right,” he said quietly. “Love doesn’t need to be said. It’s in the way you stay.”

Sangwon hummed, half-asleep. “And in the way you hold on.”

Leo smiled, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Yeah. That too.”

The rain had stopped. Only the faint drip of water outside and the hush of their breathing filled the air. Sangwon’s breaths evened out first, slow and steady. Leo let his eyes close, thumb brushing the bracelet once more — a small, imperfect promise that felt infinite.

And in the quiet that followed, he understood something simple and devastatingly human:
Love didn’t need to be perfect.
It only needed two people who kept trying —
even when it hurt,
even when it was hard,
even when they were scared.

That night, they finally rested.
Not because the world was fixed,
But because, for once, they didn’t have to face it alone.

And somewhere between the hush of sleep and the echo of distant fireworks, Leo whispered — too quiet for even himself to hear —

"I'll work harder — until I can say it back the way you deserve to hear it."

Chapter Text

Leo woke to absence.

The kind of absence that wasn’t loud, but felt. The sheets beside him had gone cool, creased with the faint imprint of warmth that had already slipped away. For a few seconds, he lay still — half-awake, half-lost — listening to the muffled hum of the heater and the slow, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall.

Sunlight seeped through the curtains, pale and forgiving, spilling in soft ribbons across the bed. His eyes followed the glow as it reached the empty space beside him, brushing against the faint shadow of a body that was no longer there.

It took only a breath for memory to stir — the fireworks, the warmth of Sangwon’s arms, the taste of laughter and tears on the same breath, the soft weight of the bracelet against his wrist.

We made it.
I love you, Lee Leo.

Those words echoed now, tender and raw, tangled somewhere between dream and memory. He lifted his arm, tracing the beads lightly with his thumb — small, imperfect, but still holding warmth.

And then he caught it — the faint, familiar scent of sesame oil and rice drifting through the air.

Sangwon was cooking.

Leo smiled. It wasn't the wide, practised kind he wore for cameras. This one was smaller — the quiet, unguarded smile that only existed in the soft hours of morning. He pushed the blankets off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, groaning quietly as he rubbed at his eyes. His body moved on instinct, drawn toward the smell, the sound — the promise of him.

The apartment was awash in a gold haze, the light touching everything gently: the framed photos, the mugs by the sink, the faint outline of Sangwon's coat hanging by the door.

Leo paused at the kitchen entrance.

Sangwon stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair still messy from sleep. He was humming under his breath — some tune Leo couldn't name — as he spread rice over a sheet of seaweed, movements steady and precise. Sunlight laced through his hair, catching the faintest shimmer where it met his skin.

Gimbap. Of course.

Leo leaned against the doorway, his voice still rough with sleep. "So this is what betrayal smells like."

Sangwon didn't even turn around. "You mean breakfast?"

"You left me," Leo said, mock-offended. "I woke up cold and alone."

That made Sangwon laugh — low, warm, and utterly unbothered. "You say that like you didn't hog all the blankets."

"I was preserving warmth."

"By wrapping yourself in them like a burrito?"

Leo's lips quirked. "A burrito tragically abandoned by its chef."

That earned him a glance over the shoulder — one eyebrow raised, a teasing curve tugging at Sangwon's mouth. "You woke up on your own today. Should I be impressed or concerned?"

Leo crossed the kitchen in a few slow steps, his voice softer now. "Maybe you should feel flattered."

"Oh?" Sangwon said, stirring the rice. "And why's that?"

"Because," Leo murmured, sliding his arms around Sangwon's waist from behind, "You weren't there."

Sangwon stilled for half a second — long enough for the moment to thrum between them — before huffing a laugh. "So you did wake up because I wasn't in bed. That's cute."

"It's not cute. It's tragic."

"Mm. Tragic that you can't function without me?"

Leo rested his chin on Sangwon's shoulder, his smile brushing against his skin. "Maybe I just like starting my mornings with you in them."

"Clingy," Sangwon teased, shaking his head, though the blush climbing his neck betrayed him. "Completely hopeless."

"I prefer devoted."

"You prefer excuses."

Leo's grin widened. "You prefer pretending you don't like it."

Sangwon's laugh broke through again — softer this time, flustered and fond. "You talk too much for someone who just woke up."

Then, in that soft quiet, Leo replied, his voice low and teasing,
"Maybe I just missed your voice."

It was gentle, but it landed heavily. Sangwon's hands faltered mid-motion, the bamboo mat half-rolled beneath his fingers. For a heartbeat, everything stilled — the air, the hum of the stove, even Sangwon's breath.

"You're impossible," he muttered finally, but the words came out weaker than intended, frayed around the edges.

Leo smiled against his shoulder. "And you're blushing."

"I am not," Sangwon said, too quickly, reaching for the knife again.

"You are." Leo's voice dropped to a murmur, teasing yet almost tender. "Right here." He tilted his head slightly, his nose slightly brushing along the curve of Sangwon's neck — light, fleeting, enough to make Sangwon's pulse stutter.

Sangwon's hand froze again. He swallowed, pretending to focus on cutting the roll, but his fingers trembled slightly. "You're lucky I'm holding a knife," he muttered.

"You wouldn't use it," Leo said with quiet confidence, his tone half a smile.

"Try me," Sangwon said — though his voice cracked halfway through, ruining the threat completely.

Leo chuckled softly, his chest rumbling against Sangwon's back. "You're cute when you try to be scary."

Sangwon exhaled, flustered, pretending to concentrate on aligning the slices. "If you keep distracting me, I'll add chilli sauce to your rolls."

"I'd risk it," Leo whispered, leaning in just a little closer — enough for his lips to ghost across Sangwon's ear, a featherlight brush that sent a shiver down his spine.

"Lee Leo!" Sangwon's voice came out higher than expected. The knife clattered softly onto the cutting board as he whipped his head around, glaring.

Leo stepped back at the last second, grinning — the kind of grin that was all mischief and affection rolled together.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sangwon said, cheeks pink, eyes narrowed.

"Immensely," Leo replied without hesitation. "You're adorable when you're mad."

Sangwon huffed, turning back to the counter, but his shoulders betrayed him — the faintest shake of a laugh he couldn't quite suppress. "You're unbelievable."

"Believably whipped for you, maybe."

That made Sangwon still completely. He turned, meeting Leo's eyes with a look that was equal parts flustered and fond, a faint pink still creeping up his neck. "Okay," he said, grabbing a clean plate and pointing the knife handle at him like a warning, "sit down before I start slicing you instead of this gimbap."

Leo raised his hands in mock surrender, grin never fading. "Yes, chef."

"Don't 'yes, chef' me."

But the corner of Sangwon's mouth betrayed him, tugging upward.

Leo backed away, sliding into a chair at the table. His gaze followed every movement — the way Sangwon brushed a stray hair from his forehead, the careful rhythm of his hands as he worked, the way he hummed under his breath to fill the quiet.

A few minutes later, Leo spoke again, voice light. "You missed a spot."

Sangwon turned halfway. "What?"

"Your wrist," Leo said, gesturing lazily. "You've got rice on it."

Sangwon frowned, glancing down. Sure enough, a small grain clung stubbornly to his skin. Before he could wipe it, Leo was already up — reaching out, his thumb gliding gently across Sangwon's wrist.

"There," Leo murmured, thumb lingering a heartbeat too long before he pulled away with a quiet smile. "All clean."

Sangwon's breath hitched, soft but audible. "You're really annoying," he muttered, though there was no weight behind it.

Leo tilted his head. "And you love it."

Sangwon rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered as he plated the gimbap, arranging each piece neatly before setting it down on the table. The smell filled the space — sesame, rice, and something faintly sweet.

They took their seats across from each other, the air still warm from everything unsaid.

Leo reached for one, inspecting it like a jeweller. "You even cook like a perfectionist."

"Would you rather it fall apart?"

"I'd rather you fall for me again."

Sangwon groaned. "It's too early for this."

"It's almost noon."

"It's still too early for you."

Leo laughed, taking a bite. "That aside, this tastes amazing."

"I know."

"Cocky much?"

"Confident," Sangwon corrected, smiling faintly. "You're just not used to me winning the morning."

Leo tilted his head. "You only win because you cheated. You left the bed."

Sangwon rested his chin on his hand, eyes glinting. "You mean you actually noticed?" 

Leo blinked, caught off guard. "That's not— I didn't—"

Sangwon leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. "You really did. I could tell. You always frown in your sleep whenever I try to get out of bed."

Leo froze, nearly choking on his food. "You— why do you say things like that so casually?"

"Because it's true."

"That's not the point!"

Sangwon's laugh broke the tension, light and melodic, spilling between them like sunlight. "You're blushing."

Leo immediately looked away, pretending to focus on his plate. "No, I'm not."

"Sure you're not," Sangwon said, sipping his tea with infuriating calm. "You only turn that shade when you're flustered."

Sangwon chuckled, voice dipping low — that teasing kind of warmth that made Leo's pulse skip. "You know, for someone who claimed he 'just missed my voice,' you're awfully shy when I talk now."

Leo froze mid-breath, eyes snapping back at him. "I meant it platonically!"

Sangwon leaned in across the table, resting his chin on his hand. "Mm. You sure? Because the way you said it..." He trailed off, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "...didn't sound very platonic."

Leo's ears turned crimson. "Stop."

"Stop what?" Sangwon asked sweetly. "I'm just talking."

"You're flirting."

Sangwon grinned, unabashed. "Maybe I learned from the best."

Leo nearly dropped his chopsticks, muttering under his breath. "Shut up."

Sangwon laughed — soft, melodic, completely unbothered — and leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You're blushing again."

Leo ducked his head, trying to hide his flushed face. "No, I'm not."

"Sure you're not," Sangwon said, sipping his tea. "You only do that when I win."

Leo scoffed, caught somewhere between flustered disbelief and surrender. “You really enjoy tormenting me, don’t you?”

“It’s how I show affection,” Sangwon said, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

“Affection in the form of torture? You’re a sadist.”

“It’s my love language,” Sangwon replied easily, shrugging as he took another bite of food. “Besides, you love it anyway,"

He paused, glancing up with a faint smirk. “And honestly, this doesn’t even count as real torture... you know?”

Leo blinked at him, utterly speechless for a moment before letting out a dramatic sigh. "You're terrifying in the mornings."

"You're adorable when you admit defeat."

The air between them felt different now — still teasing, but threaded with warmth that hummed quietly beneath the laughter. For a while, they just ate in easy silence, punctuated by the occasional brush of knees under the table, or Sangwon pushing another piece of gimbap toward him with an absent smile.

When the plates were nearly empty, Sangwon's tone shifted, softer — casual but thoughtful. "Hey," he said, tracing idle circles on the rim of his teacup. "What are you doing tonight?"

Leo glanced up, wary. "Depends. Is this a trick question?"

"Promise you'll come with me before I tell you."

"That sounds exactly like a trick."

"Just promise."

Leo narrowed his eyes. "Fine. I promise. Now what's the damage?"

Sangwon smiled, almost to himself. "Woochan texted me this morning. The others are meeting tonight at Hanmiok — Gangnam district. Seven o'clock."

Leo's hand stilled halfway to his cup. The name hit him like a slow echo. "Hanmiok?"

"Mhm. They said it's been a while. Just food, catching up — nothing formal."

Leo's throat tightened. "Sangwon..."

"I know," Sangwon said gently, voice low. "You don't have to say it. I just thought you'd want to know."

Leo looked down at his wrist, the bracelet glinting faintly in the sunlight. "I don't think I can. Not yet. Not after everything."

"They don't blame you," Sangwon said softly. "You left on good terms, didn't you?"

Leo exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the cup as if it could anchor him. "Sort of," he murmured. "I left because I thought I had to. Back then, it felt like staying would only make things worse — like I was dragging everyone down with me." He let out a quiet laugh, small and self-mocking. "I thought walking away would save them from me."

Sangwon's expression softened, but he said nothing, letting the silence carry the weight of Leo's words.

"I just never thought leaving would break things too," Leo whispered. "Everything started falling apart after I was gone. The project, the group... I thought I was doing the right thing, but maybe I just made it harder for everyone."

"Hyung," Sangwon began, his voice quiet but unwavering, "you didn't ruin anything. You were just... trying to breathe. You can't give what you don't have — and back then, you were barely holding yourself together."

Leo swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "They must've thought I gave up."

"They didn't," Sangwon said softly, reaching across the table. His fingers brushed over Leo's wrist, a touch light enough to feel like both comfort and apology. "Yorch told me once... they all wished they'd done more. Jihoon, James, Woochan, JJ — they saw you slipping away, but none of them knew how to pull you back. They just... knew I was there with you, and somehow that gave them a little bit of peace."

Leo's gaze lifted, uncertain, vulnerable. "They said that?"

"Yeah." Sangwon smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth softening. "They miss you, hyung. Not the performer. You."

The silence that followed felt heavier than words — but not unbearable. Just honest.

After a long moment, Leo sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're too good at this, you know. It's unfair."

"At what?"

"Talking me into things."

Sangwon grinned. "Occupational hazard. I live with the world's most stubborn man."

Leo chuckled, soft but real. "You're lucky I can't live without you."

"I'm counting on it."

He reached across the table, brushing a crumb from Leo's lip with his thumb. "So you'll come?"

Leo hesitated — then nodded, slowly. "Yeah. I'll come."

Sangwon's smile widened, quiet and genuine. "Good. It's a date, then."

Leo blinked. "A date? With Woochan, Jihoon, and the rest?"

Sangwon laughed. "Romance comes in many forms."

"Not that kind!"

"Too late. You promised."

Leo groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "You're infuriating."

"And you love it."

The laughter that followed filled the kitchen, spilling into the soft hum of morning light. For the first time in a long while, the world outside didn't feel so heavy.

Sangwon stood, collecting their plates, and Leo reached out — catching his wrist just as he turned.

"You're really not going to disappear early tomorrow, right?" Leo asked quietly.

Sangwon's eyes softened. "No promises," he said, leaning down until their foreheads brushed. "You might have to wake up on your own again."

Leo smiled, voice low. "Then I guess I'll just have to find you faster."

Sangwon laughed — bright, warm, and utterly undone. "Good luck with that."

The morning melted slowly into the day, sunlight stretching long and golden across the floor. And somewhere between the smell of rice, the warmth of laughter, and the promise of the evening ahead — something in Leo finally felt light again.

The rest of the morning slipped by like sunlight through water.
They spent it side by side — folding sheets still warm from the dryer, trading jokes over mismatched socks, laughing softly at the way Leo somehow managed to tangle every sleeve he touched. The apartment was filled with the scent of detergent and the sound of soft music humming from a speaker by the window.

When the laundry was done, they moved to the studio — the little sanctuary they’d built together from nothing but wires, notebooks, and half-broken dreams. The air still held the faint scent of coffee and old soundproof foam. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light, catching in the golden afternoon.

They worked without needing to speak much. Leo organised cables and rearranged the mic stands while Sangwon wiped down the desk, his sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes. Occasionally, Leo would pause to watch him — the quiet ease in his movements, the small furrow between his brows when he was focused.

It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty — it was full. Of memory, of rhythm, of everything unspoken between them.

By the time they finished, the studio looked cleaner than it had in months. Leo stretched, groaning softly as he collapsed onto the couch. “We should get a medal for that,” he said, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Or a nap,” Sangwon replied, setting down the cloth before sinking beside him. “Preferably before you start complaining about your back.”

Leo peeked from under his arm, smirking. “You sound like my mom.”

“I’d be honoured. She raised a disaster.”

Leo laughed — tired, easy, real. “You love this disaster.”

Sangwon hummed, turning a page of the book he’d brought over. “Unfortunately.”

The quiet returned, softened by the hum of the heater. Leo scrolled absently through his phone while Sangwon read beside him, the warmth between them lazy and familiar.

For a while, time blurred. The only sounds were the faint tap of the screen and the turning of pages. Then, after a few minutes, Sangwon stopped reading.

He shifted slightly, leaning closer until his shoulder brushed Leo’s. He tilted his head, trying — and failing — to look subtle as he peeked at the phone. “What are you doing?”

Leo didn’t look up. “Just replying to some DMs.”

“From who?”

“Fans,” he said, thumbs still flicking across the screen. “A few of them still reach out. I thought I’d answer a few.”

Sangwon frowned, voice soft but edged with concern. “Is that a good idea?”

Leo finally looked at him then — a quick glance that caught more than it gave away. “You mean the hate?”

Sangwon hesitated, then nodded. “You know how people can be online. I just... don’t want you seeing something that might ruin your day.”

Leo smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but was steadier than it used to be. “I know. But it’s okay. I can’t run from it forever. Some of it hurts, sure — it probably always will. But…”

He paused, setting his phone face down on his knee. His voice softened. “I’m not alone anymore. I have you. And my family. And the people who still believe in me, even after everything. I’ll manage.”

Sangwon’s eyes softened, though the faint crease between his brows lingered. “You say that like you’ve got it all figured out.”

Leo let out a low chuckle. “Not even close. But... I’m learning.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The studio seemed to still — the city hummed outside, fading beneath the rhythm of Leo’s breathing, the warmth between them grounding everything that used to feel uncertain.

Sangwon studied him — really looked — the light catching on the curve of Leo’s cheek, the softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Then he smiled, a quiet pride slipping into his voice.
“That’s my stubborn idiot.”

“Hey,” Leo protested, laughing. “You can’t call me that after I just said something deep.”

“I can. It’s part of my charm.”

Leo leaned back with a sigh. “Your charm’s going to get you punched one day.”

Sangwon rested his head lightly against Leo’s shoulder, hiding a small grin. “And yet you’ll still hold my hand after.”

Leo glanced down at him, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You’re lucky I’m soft for you.”

“Soft?” Sangwon repeated, feigning offence. “You make it sound like I’m your favourite blanket.”

“You kind of are.”

Sangwon laughed — a quiet, startled sound that vibrated against Leo’s arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re smiling.”

“Only because you’re pathetic.”

“Harsh.”

“True.”

Leo grinned, nudging him gently with his shoulder. “You’re cute when you pretend you’re not worried about me.”

“I’m not pretending,” Sangwon muttered. Then, quieter, “I just don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

Leo’s chest tightened. He tilted his head, brushing his lips lightly against Sangwon’s hair. “Then I’ll try not to. For you.”

Sangwon froze for half a second, then elbowed him lightly, cheeks flushing. “You can’t just say things like that in the middle of the day.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll forget how to breathe.”

Leo laughed softly. “Good.”

They sat like that for a while, tangled in lazy affection and half-finished sentences. The world outside stretched on, but inside their small apartment, everything slowed — quiet, familiar, safe.

After a while, Leo picked his phone up again, scrolling aimlessly before stopping on a blank screen. “You know,” he said finally, his voice low, almost hesitant. “I’ve been thinking about posting music again.”

Sangwon blinked, his head lifting. “Seriously?”

Leo nodded, gaze still on the screen. “Yeah. We’ve been working on things here and there for a while now — you on piano, me on vocals. Sometimes the other way around.” A small laugh slipped out. “At first, it was just something to do. Something to fill the silence. But lately…”

He trailed off, thumb brushing the edge of the bracelet around his wrist — that familiar motion he did when words came slow. “Lately, it feels like maybe I’m ready to share again. Not for a comeback or a statement. Just… something real. Something that sounds like me again.”

Sangwon watched him for a moment, the flicker of the screen lighting half his face. Then he smiled — soft, proud, and a little relieved — as he closed his book and set it aside.

“That’s the first time you’ve said that in months.”

Leo shrugged, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his pride. “Guess I missed it.”

“You should. You were made for it.”

Leo turned to him, eyes warm. “We were.”

Sangwon tilted his head. “Don’t drag me into your poetic redemption arc.”

Leo laughed. “Too late. You’re my creative partner now. Congratulations.”

Sangwon placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “An honour I didn’t apply for.”

“Liar. You love it.”

“I love watching you happy,” Sangwon admitted, voice dropping just enough to make Leo glance away.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Only the faint hum of the heater and the sound of Sangwon’s slow breathing filled the room. Then Leo nudged him gently. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Leo said quietly. “You make it too easy to fall for you.”

Sangwon smiled, soft and wrecked. “Then don’t stop.”

The words hung there — small, trembling, entirely sincere.

Leo turned his head, meeting Sangwon’s gaze. For a heartbeat, the world felt perfectly still. Then he smiled — the kind that carried both gratitude and ache. “I don’t think I could, even if I tried.”

Sangwon laughed softly, leaning back against the couch. “Good answer.”

Leo chuckled, following suit, their shoulders brushing. “You started it.”

“And you’re terrible at ending things.”

“Guess I’m consistent.”

They both laughed then — the kind of laughter that carried warmth and relief, softening the last of the morning’s heaviness.

Outside, the afternoon light turned to gold. The city stretched, the world moved, and somewhere between their laughter and the hum of quiet resolve, Leo felt something shift inside him — not a grand revelation, but the slow, certain promise of becoming whole again.

Evening fell gently, the kind that lingered before night — all honeyed light and long shadows spilling across the floor. The city outside hummed like a distant memory, muted by glass and distance.

Sangwon was the first to move. He stretched, arms reaching overhead before leaning forward to tap Leo’s knee. “Come on, lazybones. We should get ready.”

Leo peeked one eye open. “Ready for what?”

Sangwon gave him a look. “For the thing you promised.”

Realisation dawned. Leo groaned, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Sangwon said, smiling. “Hanmiok. Seven. Remember?”

“I was hoping you’d forget.”

“Not a chance. I’ve been planning my outfit since breakfast.”

Leo threw him a half-hearted glare, which only made Sangwon laugh. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

“You’re cruel.”

“Motivated,” Sangwon corrected, standing up to smooth the wrinkles from his shirt. “Besides, it’ll be good for you.”

Leo sighed, dragging himself up. “You sound like my therapist.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

But Sangwon’s grin didn’t waver. He crossed the room, pausing briefly in front of Leo. “You’ll be fine, you know. They’ll be happy to see you.”

Leo met his eyes, hesitant but trusting. “Only because you’ll be there.”

“Exactly,” Sangwon replied, tilting his head with a teasing smile. “I’m your emotional support introvert.”

Leo snorted, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Tragic title.”

“Lucky title,” Sangwon countered easily, voice dropping to something softer — the kind of warmth that reached beneath the skin.

That earned him a faint flush from Leo, who looked away a second too late.

They got ready side by side — not rushed, just quietly in sync. Leo stood by the mirror, combing his hair back, the faint reflection of the bracelet glinting as he moved. The memory of last night lingered there, woven into everything he touched — Sangwon’s confession, the quiet ache of forgiveness that followed, the steady promise that somehow, they were still here.

Behind him, Sangwon hummed under his breath while buttoning his shirt, the sound low and steady. It wasn’t a song Leo recognised, but it felt familiar — like warmth remembered after a long winter.

When Leo finally turned, Sangwon was watching him — not staring, just looking — with that same quiet fondness that always left Leo feeling unsteady.

“What?” Leo asked, pretending not to fidget.

Sangwon shrugged, eyes still tracing him. “You look nice.”

Leo huffed out a laugh. “You sound surprised.”

“Just impressed,” Sangwon said, stepping closer until Leo could feel the faint brush of his breath. He reached up to fix the crooked collar of Leo’s coat. “There. Perfect.”

Leo caught his wrist before he could pull away. His voice came out lower than he meant. “Careful. Keep this up, and I might start thinking you’re flirting.”

Sangwon’s smile curved slowly — the kind that started in his eyes before reaching his lips. “And what if I am?”

Leo froze, breath catching, the heat crawling up his neck betraying him completely. “You—”

“Relax,” Sangwon interrupted softly, laughter threading through his voice as he stepped back. “You’ll overheat before we even get there.”

Leo muttered something under his breath, cheeks still flushed, but the smile that followed was helpless — the kind he didn’t even bother hiding anymore.

The evening air met them with a cool, gentle bite. Seoul stretched out before them — alive, pulsing — neon signs flickering awake as car horns wove through laughter spilling from nearby cafés. The city felt larger than Leo remembered, endless in its noise and colour, yet somehow, walking beside Sangwon made it smaller. Easier to breathe.

When they arrived, Hanmiok was quieter than he expected. Outside, the city buzzed — lights, voices, movement blurring into a restless hum — but inside, everything softened. The low amber glow from the grill painted the private room in warmth, the quiet clatter of dishes filling the space with a calm that felt almost fragile. It was its own small world, sealed off from the night just beyond the door.

Sangwon reached for the handle first. “Ready?” he asked quietly.

Leo hesitated, fingers brushing the bracelet around his wrist — the familiar weight grounding him. “Not really,” he admitted, voice low. “But… I’m here.”

Sangwon’s smile was soft. “That’s enough.”

He opened the door.

For a heartbeat, the room stilled — breath, sound, everything suspended.
Then came the scrape of chairs, the sudden catch of voices — and before Leo could even blink, Jihoon was already on his feet.

“Hyung,” he breathed, the word breaking on a half-laugh, half-sob. “You came.”

The sound hit Leo harder than he expected — familiar, fragile, real.
Then Woochan was there, arms closing around him in a hug so sudden it knocked the air from his chest. Yorch followed, then James, then JJ — a tangle of warmth and laughter and tears.

For a moment, Leo couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Just felt.

A shaky laugh broke out of him, rough at the edges. “I— I missed you guys.”

Woochan was the first to pull back, still grinning through the wobble in his voice. “No kidding. You look different, hyung.”

“Older?” Leo tried.

“Alive,” James said softly.

That did it — something inside Leo cracked open. He swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

The room quieted again, replaced by the fragile sound of breath and memory.

Leo’s voice trembled as he continued, “I’m sorry for leaving like that. For... disappearing. For being the start of everything falling apart. I just—” His throat closed, words splintering. “I thought leaving would fix things. I thought if I wasn’t there, you’d have a chance to move on. To debut. But instead—”

“Stop,” Jihoon said, shaking his head. His eyes were already glossy. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“It’s true,” Leo said, forcing a small, broken laugh. “You know it is. After my scandal, after I left, everything eventually fell apart. The project, the team… I was supposed to protect it, and instead—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Yorch interrupted, his voice steady but soft. “It was never your fault.”

James nodded, slow and deliberate. “You didn’t break anything, hyung. The system did. You just… couldn’t keep carrying it alone.”

“The company was always merciless,” Woochan muttered, his jaw tightening. “It was bound to happen eventually. Every evaluation, every cut, every whisper — we all felt it. You were just the first to take the hit.”

Leo’s gaze flicked between them, eyes glassy. “But I left you there,” he said quietly. “I ran.”

“Because you were drowning, hyung,” JJ said, his usual playfulness stripped away. “And we didn’t know how to reach you. We should’ve done more.”

“You left because you had to,” Yorch added, his tone gentle but firm. “And honestly? I’d rather see you alive and breathing like this than in the shape you were in back then.”

The sincerity in his voice sent a dull ache through Leo’s chest.

Behind him, Sangwon — who’d stayed wordless until now — placed a hand on his back. Just one steady, grounding touch. The warmth bled through the fabric of Leo’s coat, quiet but certain.

Leo exhaled shakily, leaning into it. “You all deserved better.”

“Maybe,” Woochan said with a faint, crooked smile, “but we’re here. Still standing. That counts for something.”

And it did. It counted for everything.

They settled around the table — laughter returning slowly, unevenly, like the first breath after crying. Someone refilled the grill, the sound of sizzling meat cutting through the quiet.

For a while, they talked about small things — the food, the weather, random memories from their trainee days — until Jihoon leaned back in his chair, glancing around the table. “So,” he said, “what now? What’s everyone doing these days?”

“Planning to jump ship,” JJ said easily, though his grin faltered at the corners. “Thinking of auditioning for SM. Maybe they’ll appreciate me more than Bighit ever did.”

“SM?” Woochan raised a brow. “From one hell to another?”

JJ laughed. “A different flavour of hell, maybe.”

“Respect,” James said, lifting his glass.

Jihoon shrugged, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “I might follow suit. Not SM, though — maybe Pledis. Still under Hybe, technically, but at least not directly under Bighit. There’s a rumour they’re starting a new project. Figured I’d give it a shot.”

JJ nodded, thoughtful. “Makes sense. You’d kill it. No doubt.”

Yorch poked absently at his food, eyes downcast. “For me... I’m still figuring things out. Maybe a solo debut, maybe another group. Or a new company altogether. Haven’t decided yet.”

Woochan leaned back in his chair with a lazy smirk. “I’ll probably try YG or The Black Label, if they’ll have me. Another group would be nice — or maybe I’ll just go solo, drop a mixtape, and pretend I know what I’m doing.”

“Please don’t, hyung.” Jihoon teased. “You’ll end up making a diss track about us.”

“No promises,” Woochan shot back, grinning.

Laughter rippled around the table again — softer now, but real.

James was next. “I think I’ll stay for now. There are still people at Bighit I’m close with. Maybe I’ll get another chance. Hopefully, someday… I’ll debut.”

Sangwon finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “You will,” he said with quiet certainty. “You’ve always been the most creative of us. They’d be out of their minds to waste that.”

James smiled faintly. “Coming from you, that means something.”

“And you two?” Yorch asked, glancing between Sangwon and Leo. “What’s the plan for the dream team?”

Sangwon blinked, then chuckled softly. “Me? I think I’ll take a break for now. Maybe do something simple — modelling, part-time jobs, whatever pays the bills.”

“That’s... surprisingly normal of you,” Woochan said, teasing but not unkind.

Sangwon’s smile faltered for a second, then steadied. “Yeah. I think I just want to live quietly for a bit. Normal life sounds nice.”

There was something in his voice then — something small and unspoken, the tremor of fear he hadn’t named. He wasn’t just tired. He was afraid of hoping again.

Leo looked at him — really looked — and his chest ached in recognition.

Then all eyes turned to him.

Leo laughed under his breath. “I don’t really know yet,” he admitted. “For now, I’m just... doing music for fun. Posting small stuff here and there. It’s something I enjoy again. I don’t think I could handle being in the spotlight like before. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Silence lingered for a heartbeat before Woochan nodded. “That’s fair.”

Leo shrugged, gaze lowering. “The hate’s still there, you know? But I’ll figure it out. Later.”

“You will,” Jihoon said quietly. “You always do.”

The conversation softened after that — laughter mixing with nostalgia, the sound of chopsticks against plates filling the spaces between words. It wasn’t perfect. Some moments still carried that quiet ache of things lost too soon, but there was comfort in the familiarity of it all — the teasing, the warmth, the shared understanding that they’d all survived something together.

Then, somewhere between Woochan refilling their drinks and Yorch cracking another joke about Leo’s dramatic apology, it slipped out.

“So, wait,” James said suddenly, squinting across the table. “You two are... living together now?”

Leo froze mid-sip. “Uh—”

Sangwon blinked. “I— wait, did I not mention that?”

The room went silent, then erupted.

“You didn’t?” Woochan gasped, feigning betrayal. “You’ve been hiding this from us?”

“Scandalous,” JJ added, smirking. “Our hyungs, cohabitating in secret?”

Leo’s ears turned bright red. “It’s not like that!”

“Sure it’s not,” Jihoon teased, nudging JJ. “They’ve been dancing around each other since way before we even got a name for the project.”

Yorch grinned. “So what, are you guys... finally official?”

Leo opened his mouth — and closed it again. “We’re just—”

“Not yet,” Sangwon cut in smoothly, smiling without looking at him. “But practically, yes. Just without labels. For now.”

Leo stared at him, mortified. “Sangwon!”

“What? I’m being honest.”

“You’re going to give them the wrong idea.”

“Is it wrong?” Sangwon asked innocently.

Woochan whistled. “Oh, it’s real. Look at him blush.”

“I hate all of you,” Leo murmured, his voice muffled by his hands. The flush came slowly, gathering warmth across his face before sinking down his neck, a tide of colour spreading to his chest — impossible to stop, impossible to hide.

Sangwon just laughed — bright and unguarded — before placing a reassuring hand on Leo’s back. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the bullies.”

“You’re the worst one here.”

“And yet you still wake up next to me.”

The table howled with laughter. Leo groaned. “I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not,” Sangwon said, grinning. “You promised.”

The teasing eventually mellowed into warmth — the kind that only existed between people who had loved and lost together, who knew the weight of one another’s silences.

As the night deepened, the laughter softened to a hum. The plates emptied, the grill cooled, but no one seemed eager to leave.

Leo leaned back, eyes roaming over each familiar face — older now, maybe a little more tired, but still shining in their own ways. He felt it then — the ache, the relief, the quiet gratitude of being here again.

Sangwon’s shoulder brushed his, steady and warm.

When Woochan raised his glass again, his voice carried a little tremor of emotion. “To us,” he said. “Still standing.”

Leo’s eyes stung. He lifted his glass, his voice barely steady. “To us,” he echoed. “And to everything that’s still ahead.”

The glasses clinked softly, the sound small but sure — like a heartbeat restarting.

And as Sangwon’s hand found his under the table, fingers curling quietly around his own, Leo finally believed it.

Maybe this was what healing looked like — not the absence of pain, but the courage to keep showing up.

To still choose hope, even after everything had burned.

When the laughter finally quieted, the night had deepened into something soft and golden — the last of the grill’s heat fading, the air thick with smoke and the faint sweetness of sesame oil.
The waiter had already come by twice to ask if they wanted dessert, but none of them seemed eager to leave.

It was Woochan who finally broke the spell, standing with a groan. “If we stay any longer, they’re going to charge us rent.”

JJ laughed. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing. We’ve faced worse.”

The others began to stand too — chairs scraping, coats pulled on, chatter rising again in a comforting hum.
James was the first to pull Leo into another hug, tighter this time. “Don’t disappear again, hyung,” he said against his shoulder, half-joking, half-pleading.

Leo laughed softly, patting his back. “I won’t.”

Woochan crossed his arms. “He says that every time.”

Yorch nodded solemnly. “He ghosts the group chat like it owes him money.”

“I do not,” Leo protested — but the smile tugging at his mouth ruined the defence.

Jihoon grinned. “Then prove it, hyung. Try replying before a whole week passes.”

“I did!” Leo shot back, a little too quickly.

“Once every two months, hyung,” JJ corrected. “Usually with a thumbs-up emoji.”

Laughter rippled through the room, and even Leo couldn’t help but join in. “Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll text more. I’ll even send memes.”

“That’s a promise?” Woochan asked, squinting suspiciously.

Leo nodded solemnly. “A promise.”

“Good,” Yorch said, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Because we’re holding you to it.”

They lingered a little longer in the hallway — reluctant to let the night end, even as the restaurant staff began wiping tables and dimming lights. Hugs were traded again, quieter this time. Someone laughed through tears; someone else sniffled and pretended not to.

When it was finally Leo and Sangwon left at the door, Yorch called out over his shoulder, “Take care of each other, okay?”

Sangwon smiled. “Always.”

Leo’s voice softened. “I will.”

Woochan grinned, walking backwards toward the street. “Don’t make us wait another two years to see you again!”

Leo chuckled, heart aching in that beautiful, familiar way. “No promises.”

“Yes promises!” JJ yelled.

The group’s laughter trailed into the night as they disappeared one by one — down the narrow Gangnam street, into taxis, under pools of light. The sound lingered, echoing like a song that didn’t quite want to end.

By the time they stepped out of Hanmiok, the city had quieted.
The streets were washed in the soft afterglow of night — neon signs flickering faintly against wet pavement, the air thick with the scent of grilled meat and cold wind. The hum of traffic had mellowed to a distant murmur, the kind that filled the silence without asking to be noticed.

Leo tugged his coat tighter, exhaling a small cloud of breath into the cold. Sangwon walked beside him, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression calm but unreadable under the streetlight’s dim gold.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Their steps were slow, steady — boots brushing against the thin dusting of frost that clung to the ground. The quiet wasn’t heavy, though. It was full — of laughter, still echoing in their bones, of old wounds that didn’t ache quite as much anymore.

Leo’s voice was the first to break it. Soft. “I didn’t think I’d ever see them all together again.”

Sangwon glanced at him. “How do you feel?”

Leo hesitated, searching for the right words. “Lighter,” he said finally. “Like something’s… settled.” He let out a quiet laugh, breath fogging in the air. “I thought it would hurt more. But it didn’t. Not the way I expected.”

“That’s because you finally stopped carrying it alone,” Sangwon said gently.

Leo looked at him — really looked — at the faint colour in his cheeks from the cold, the small curl of his hair peeking from under his beanie. The streetlight traced a soft glow along his jaw. He looked real, grounded, like home in human form.

“Thanks to you,” Leo murmured.

Sangwon smiled faintly. “You did most of it yourself.”

“Still,” Leo said, voice quieter now, “you stayed. You always did.”

“I told you,” Sangwon replied, a teasing note slipping into his tone, “I’m clingy.”

Leo laughed softly, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

They both smiled at that — small, tired, but genuine.

When they reached the small pedestrian bridge near their apartment, Sangwon stopped, leaning against the railing. The Han River sprawled below — black glass rippling under the city’s reflection. The lights shimmered, bending and breaking on the water like fragments of the past still trying to find their shape.

Leo joined him, their shoulders brushing. The quiet between them stretched again — comfortable, steady.

After a long pause, Sangwon said, “You know… I’m proud of you.”

Leo blinked, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For showing up,” Sangwon said simply. “For walking through that door. For staying until the end.”

Leo swallowed, throat tight. “It wasn’t as hard as I thought. I think… seeing them, hearing them—it reminded me why it all mattered. Even if it ended.”

Sangwon nodded slowly. “Sometimes closure isn’t clean. Sometimes it’s just... knowing you did what you could.”

Leo turned toward him then, voice soft but trembling. “Do you think we’ll ever be okay? Really okay?”

Sangwon met his gaze — steady, unflinching. “We already are.”

The words landed like a sigh, quiet but sure. Leo didn’t reply. He just breathed — the cold air filling his lungs, the warmth beside him anchoring him in the moment.

He watched the water ripple below them, the reflections trembling but still there, still beautiful despite the distortion. Maybe that was them too — cracked, but still catching light.

After a while, Sangwon pushed off the railing, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. “Come on,” he said softly. “It’s getting cold.”

Leo didn’t move right away. He looked at Sangwon — really looked — and felt something small, fierce, and fragile stir in his chest.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Sangwon turned, brow raised. “Yeah?”

Leo smiled, a little crooked, a little shy. “Thanks for making me promise.”

Sangwon’s lips curved — that soft, knowing smile that had always undone him. “Anytime.”

Then, after a heartbeat, his tone turned teasing. “You owe me dinner for that, though.”

Leo chuckled, falling into step beside him as they started walking again. “Greedy.”

“Confident.”

“Still greedy.”

Sangwon’s grin widened. “Still yours.”

Leo’s breath hitched, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to. The words hung between them, warm against the chill, sweet and certain.

By the time they reached the apartment, the city had quieted completely. Leo unlocked the door, the familiar creak echoing softly in the hallway. Inside, the faint scent of detergent and gimbap lingered — the remnants of their morning folded into the air.

Sangwon set his coat on the hook. Leo watched him move through the dim light — the small gestures, the easy familiarity of it.

When Sangwon turned, Leo was still standing there, a small, tired smile on his face.

“What?” Sangwon asked, voice gentle.

Leo shook his head. “Nothing. Just... glad you’re here.”

Sangwon stepped closer, close enough that their breath mingled. “Me too.”

For a moment, they stayed like that — forehead to forehead, silence stretching soft and safe between them. No grand declarations, no fireworks. Just the simple, steady rhythm of two people who had found their way back.

Leo closed his eyes, the sound of Sangwon’s heartbeat pressing against his own. “We made it,” he whispered.

Sangwon smiled — the same quiet, trembling smile from the night before. “Yeah,” he breathed. “We did.”

Outside, the city pulsed on — lights blinking against the river, traffic fading into the distance.
Inside, the world shrank to two heartbeats, two breaths, one shared warmth.

And for the first time in months, Leo didn’t feel the ache of endings — only the quiet certainty of something that had survived.
Something that would keep surviving.

Chapter Text

Four days had passed since the New Year, and the city was still shaking off its afterglow. The streets below their building were quieter now — the last of the fireworks long dissolved into memory, leaving behind only soft light and colder air. Inside the studio, warmth lingered in a different way — the kind that came from familiarity, from the hum of something being made together.

The space looked almost like it breathed: cables coiling at their feet, sound panels swallowing echoes, the air thrumming with the soft pulse of the track looping through the monitors. The faint scent of coffee and cedar oil hung between them, and in that dim gold light, they could almost forget that the world existed beyond these walls.

Leo sat by the console, a pencil tapping absently against his thigh, his headphones pushed halfway off his ear. His notebook was open in front of him, pages filled with half-scribbled lines — words crossed out and rewritten until they blurred together. Every few seconds, he would glance at the waveform moving across the screen as if waiting for the sound to breathe on its own.

Beside him, Sangwon leaned forward, fingers gliding over the controls with practised ease. He had a producer’s stillness — quiet, focused, his movements deliberate. But the light caught on the faint furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was thinking too much. Leo had grown used to that sight — the way concentration softened him, how he sometimes bit the inside of his cheek when he found the sound he’d been chasing.

“Let’s run it again,” Leo said softly, eyes still on the monitor. His voice was low, the kind that didn’t disturb the air.

Sangwon’s hand hovered over the board. “From the bridge?”

Leo nodded, absently scribbling something. “Yeah. The bridge feels too clean — like it’s afraid to hurt.”

Sangwon shot him a small, crooked smile. “You always need everything you write to bleed.”

Leo tilted his head, lips curving faintly. “Says the guy who rewrote the chord four times because it wasn’t lonely enough.”

“That’s called precision.”

“That’s called madness.”

They both smiled, and it wasn’t the laughter that filled the room but the quiet after — that slow, settling kind of warmth. The sound of the music filled the silence instead, the melody heavy with something unsaid.

The song was slow — something between a sigh and a confession. It swelled, collapsed, and reached again, like the tide brushing against something it couldn’t quite let go of. Leo listened with his eyes half-closed, his foot tapping softly against the carpet, his pen stilling midair when a note landed just right.

Sangwon didn’t look at him often, but when he did, it was quick, instinctive — the kind of glance that searched rather than observed. He caught the small crease forming at the corner of Leo’s mouth, the rise and fall of his chest as the music sank deeper, and the subtle way his fingers stilled on the desk when the emotion hit.

When the last note faded, Sangwon exhaled. “It’s better,” he said, sitting back. “Still not perfect.”

“Nothing ever is,” Leo murmured, his voice soft, distracted. He turned a page in his notebook, the paper rasping faintly. “But maybe that’s the point.”

Sangwon’s lips curved — not in amusement, but in quiet recognition. “You and your dramatic ass.”

“It’s your fault,” Leo said, a faint smile ghosting his face. “You keep making everything sound like it needs to mean something.”

“It does,” Sangwon replied, his tone almost gentle. “Otherwise, it’s just noise.”

Leo looked at him then — really looked. And for a fleeting moment, the air felt suspended. Sangwon’s face was lit by the screen, eyes faintly glossy from the glow. There was something steady there, something that could hold the world still. Leo’s fingers twitched, as if to reach for something that wasn’t his to touch.

He broke the moment first, leaning back in his chair. “You know,” he said, voice light, “you’ve become annoyingly good at this.”

Sangwon huffed softly, feigning modesty. “It’s because I have a good instructor.”

Leo blinked at him, a beat too long. “I didn’t realise I was inspiring anything other than your caffeine addiction.”

“That too,” Sangwon said, turning a knob that didn’t need turning. His smile lingered, soft and fleeting. “But mostly the music.”

There was a silence after that — not empty, but alive. The kind that breathed and pulsed between them. Leo’s throat felt tight for reasons he couldn’t name. He shifted slightly, his hand brushing the edge of Sangwon’s chair — a brief touch, nothing more, but Sangwon stilled all the same.

Leo cleared his throat, searching for a distraction. “My mom called last night.”

Sangwon looked up immediately, his hand falling from the control panel. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Leo said, eyes dropping to the edge of his notebook. “She asked if I’m coming home. Said it's been too long.” He laughed softly, though it was small, uneasy. “She tried to make it sound casual, but she’s not subtle.”

“She misses you.”

Leo nodded, his gaze distant. “Yeah. My dad was there too — pretending to read the newspaper, but he kept glancing at me through the screen. I could see him smiling when she said my name.” His fingers tightened slightly on the pencil, knuckles pale. “They just… worry. After everything.”

Sangwon’s expression softened, his voice dropping. “That’s what parents do.”

“I told them I’m fine.” Leo hesitated, his tone quieter now, almost fragile. “I told them I have you.”

The air shifted then — something in the space between them tightening. Sangwon blinked once, his lips parting, but no words came immediately. His gaze flickered down, then back up, holding Leo’s eyes longer than he should have. For a moment, it was all there — warmth, affection, reluctance, a hundred quiet things he didn’t know how to name.

“You should go back,” Sangwon said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

Leo studied him, searching his face. The line of his jaw, the way his hand flexed once before curling back against the table. “You really okay with that?”

Sangwon’s gaze wavered before settling, his smile small and sure but not convincing. “Of course. I’ll survive.”

“Survive?” Leo’s lips lifted in faint amusement. “You sound dramatic.”

“Well,” Sangwon said, exhaling softly, “given your texting habits, I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to start leaving notes in bottles.”

Leo laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Just honest.”

Their laughter came and went quickly, like the echo of something fragile. When it faded, the silence that replaced it was softer, but heavier. Leo leaned back in his chair, eyes wandering toward the console lights. “So you won’t miss me at all?”

Sangwon’s fingers stilled on the table. The seconds stretched between them. Then — too quietly, too honestly — “Maybe a little.”

Leo turned, catching the flicker of sincerity beneath the tease. “Just a little?”

“Don’t make me repeat it,” Sangwon muttered, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll regret being honest.”

Leo’s laugh was soft, but his chest felt tight. “You always say that and never mean it.”

Sangwon hummed in agreement, gaze lowering. “Maybe I don’t.”

Leo smiled faintly at Sangwon’s answer, then lowered his gaze to the lyric sheets scattered across the desk. The pencil in his hand rolled between his fingers, stopping at the edge of a half-written line. “I’ll probably leave by the end of the week,” he said quietly. “Stay for maybe two to four weeks, depending on how long my parents can stand me.”

Sangwon’s eyes flicked toward him. “Two to four weeks,” he repeated, like he was testing how the words tasted.

“Give or take two weeks,” Leo murmured. “Unless they surprise me with a family trip or something. My mom’s been talking about travelling.” His mouth curved, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s been years since I saw her that excited.”

Sangwon nodded slowly, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “That sounds nice,” he said, and he meant it — even if the words came out softer than they should have. His thumb traced the edge of the console absently. “You should go. You’ve been cooped up here with me for too long anyway.”

Leo chuckled quietly. “That’s not a complaint.”

“I know.” Sangwon leaned back in his chair, stretching once before resting an arm along the backrest. “Still. You deserve a break. Some air that isn’t trapped between four studio walls.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Tempting,” Sangwon teased, but his eyes softened almost immediately. “No. Just… reminding you the world’s still out there.”

Leo’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable, before he let out a small breath — one that sounded too much like defeat to be relief. “You’ll manage without me then?”

Sangwon smiled — slow, knowing. “You act like I can’t function without supervision.”

“I’ve seen what happens when you forget to sleep,” Leo replied, leaning slightly toward him. “You call four hours of sleep a full night.”

“And you,” Sangwon countered, “call a bag of chips a meal.”

Leo’s lips twitched. “Touché.”

They fell into quiet laughter — low, breathy, the kind that came from exhaustion and something softer. The room seemed to hum with it, that fragile familiarity that always found its way back between them. When it faded, only the faint buzz of the monitors remained, filling the space like white noise for what neither of them could say.

After a long pause, Sangwon spoke again, gentler now. “Maybe I’ll visit my parents too while you’re gone,” he said. “My mom’s been sending me pictures of my sisters every week like I haven’t met them before.”

Leo looked up at that, his expression softening. “You should. You haven’t gone home in months.”

“I know.” Sangwon’s thumb brushed along the side of his mug, tracing an invisible circle. “They’ve been asking when I’ll come by again. My dad pretends he doesn’t care, but he always fixes the porch light before I visit.”

The fondness in his tone lingered, but something else hid beneath it — something like longing. Leo caught it, that flicker in his eyes when he spoke of home, and felt it stir something in his chest.

“That’s good,” Leo said after a beat. “You’ll get to see them. Maybe even… rest a little.”

“Maybe.” Sangwon tilted his head, watching him carefully. “I might even start job hunting again while you’re gone. Can’t keep using you as an excuse.”

Leo’s brow arched. “You’re saying I’m a distraction?”

“The biggest one,” Sangwon replied easily — too easily, like he’d said it a thousand times in his head before saying it aloud. Then quieter, his voice thinning around the edges, “But not one I’d ever want gone.”

The line landed like something gentle and heavy at once. Leo’s fingers stilled on the desk. The pencil rolled off the page, clattering softly against the wood. He didn’t move to pick it up. For a moment, neither of them breathed.

Sangwon glanced up, half-smiling like it might soften the weight in the air. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll start saying things I can’t take back.”

Leo’s throat worked, but no words came. He only looked — really looked — at Sangwon. The lamplight traced gold along his cheekbones, painting his skin in warmth. His lashes cast faint shadows across his face, his mouth curved like he was trying not to smile and failing. Every small detail hit like a heartbeat — familiar, devastatingly so.

Something inside Leo shifted, quiet but certain. He leaned back slightly, but his gaze didn’t waver. “You’ve already said plenty,” he murmured.

Sangwon’s lips parted — a soundless breath, an almost-question — but Leo didn’t let it come. Instead, he reached out, slow enough for hesitation to be visible in every inch of movement. His fingers brushed against Sangwon’s wrist first, feather-light, tentative. The touch lingered — a silent apology, a thank-you, maybe both.

Sangwon didn’t pull away. His gaze followed Leo’s hand as it rested over his, their skin warm where they met. It wasn’t new — they’d held each other a hundred times before, small gestures that didn’t need names — but tonight it felt heavier, trembling with what neither had dared to speak.

“I’ll still be here,” Sangwon said softly after a long silence. “When you get back.”

Leo’s thumb moved slightly, tracing the edge of Sangwon’s palm as if memorising it. “You promise?”

Sangwon met his gaze — steady, tender, no hesitation this time. “I always keep my promises.”

Leo swallowed, something fragile caught in his throat. He wanted to speak — to say the things that lived in every glance, every touch, every morning they’d spent in each other’s quiet — but fear pressed against his ribs, sharp and familiar. So instead, he leaned closer — close enough that the lamplight blurred between them, their reflections ghosting across the studio glass.

Sangwon didn’t move away. His breath brushed against Leo’s cheek, soft and uneven. His eyes flickered — to Leo’s lips, then back to his eyes, lingering there as if searching for permission. But Leo only smiled faintly, that trembling, aching smile that said everything words couldn’t. So instead, he let their foreheads meet — slow, careful — a gesture that felt like both a confession and a plea.

The world shrank to that single point of contact. The hum of the monitors faded, the lights outside dimmed to nothing. Leo’s fingers curled around Sangwon’s hand, grounding himself in the warmth there — in the proof that he wasn’t alone, that maybe he never had been.

“I’ll miss this,” Leo whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Sangwon’s breath caught, his eyes closing briefly. “You’ll come back,” he said — not as reassurance, but as certainty. His free hand lifted, brushing lightly against Leo’s hair, the motion careful, reverent. “You always do.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The track looped quietly in the background — their unfinished song breathing between them like something alive. Then, slowly, Leo pulled back, though his hand didn’t leave Sangwon’s. His gaze lingered on their joined fingers, then rose again, softer now.

“I’ll be gone before you know it,” he said, attempting a smile that didn’t quite hold.

“I know,” Sangwon replied, equally quiet. “That’s what worries me.”

Leo let out a faint laugh, one that broke halfway. “You make it sound like I disappear on purpose.”

“Don’t you?” Sangwon’s tone was light, but his eyes betrayed him — the glint of something raw beneath.

Leo didn’t answer. He only squeezed his hand, a silent apology that Sangwon had long since learned to read.

Then, after a pause, Sangwon smiled — not forced, not fragile, just real. “You should hear this from the start,” he said, voice steadier now, though the faint tremor lingered beneath. He reached for the keyboard, fingers hovering over the spacebar.

Leo nodded, though his hand still rested lightly over Sangwon’s wrist. “Once more,” he said.

Sangwon’s eyes flickered up, meeting his. “Once more.”

He pressed play.

The room filled again — soft piano, layered harmonies, the sound of longing made tangible. They didn’t speak as the track unfolded, the chorus washing over them like something too close to touch. Leo sat still, eyes fixed on the screen but unfocused, his heartbeat syncing with the rhythm they’d built together.

Sangwon leaned back, his gaze slipping sideways toward Leo. There was something in the way he watched — quiet wonder, quiet ache. He didn’t need to look at the screen anymore; he’d memorised every second of the song, just as he’d memorised the person beside him.

They lingered over the track longer than they should have — each tweak, each replay, a quiet attempt to outlast the thought of goodbye waiting at the edge of every note.

When the final chord faded, it left behind a silence that felt alive. It trembled faintly in the air, still carrying the ghost of sound — as if even the room couldn’t bear to let go. The monitors dimmed, and Sangwon’s hand hovered over the keyboard for a heartbeat before pressing the spacebar. The soft click echoed through the studio like an exhale after something sacred, fragile, and already slipping away.

Neither of them spoke. The hush between them thickened, filled with the small, unspoken things that didn’t fit into language. Outside, the city had fallen into early evening — that muted, pearly hour of Seoul in winter when the air turned sharp.

Leo leaned back, exhaustion and something quieter tugging at his shoulders. His pencil rolled off the console, hit the floor, and stayed there. “It’s strange,” he murmured, voice soft, unsure. “When the music stops, it’s like everything forgets what to do with itself.”

Sangwon looked at him — really looked — the dim lamplight catching the pale curve of his jaw, the stillness in his fingers. “Maybe it just needs time to breathe,” he said after a moment. “You fill spaces until they forget they’re empty.”

Leo let out a quiet huff of laughter, his lips curving with more weariness than amusement. “You make it sound like I’m exhausting.”

“You are,” Sangwon said, the words coming out gentle, almost fond. He glanced away, a smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth. “But only in the best way.”

Leo’s gaze lingered on him, something unsteady flickering in his eyes — half warmth, half ache. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You talk like I’m leaving for a year.”

Sangwon leaned back, his chair creaking softly under the movement. “You’re the one looking at me like it’s a farewell,” he said, tone light but eyes too steady. “You’re leaving in four days, not vanishing into the void after we go to bed.”

For a moment, neither of them could find what to say next. The silence between them was filled with the sound of their own breathing — steady, uneven, trying not to mean more than it did.

Leo sighed dramatically, tipping his head back against the chair, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t help it. You always bring out my tragic tendencies.”

“Tragic?” Sangwon echoed, a quiet laugh slipping through — the kind that softened the air instead of breaking it. “More like ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Leo said, eyes half-lidded, voice low with amusement. “But at least we’re equally ridiculous.”

Sangwon’s laughter blended with his — brief, unguarded — before tapering off into something smaller, something closer to a breath than a sound.

What followed wasn’t silence so much as stillness — the kind that settled gently between two people who had run out of things to say but not out of things to feel. It lingered like warmth after touch, like the faint echo of music long since faded.

Sangwon stood first, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, every motion deliberate — like he was trying to shake off more than just fatigue.
“We should eat something,” he murmured, his voice gentler than the words. “Before I start writing songs about your melodrama.”

Leo let out a soft laugh, the sound small but real. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

He rose too, slower — as though standing meant leaving something behind. His hand brushed the edge of Sangwon’s sleeve in passing, a touch so brief it could’ve been accidental, but it wasn’t. The contact lingered — a whisper of warmth, gone before it could mean too much, or maybe because it already did.

He followed him to the kitchen, where the dim yellow light above the stove cast them both in gold and shadow, softening everything that still hurt to say.

“You sure you don’t want me to cook this time? You look tired,” Leo said, leaning against the counter. His voice was light, but there was a thread of concern in it — one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, still clouded with the weight they’d carried back from the studio.

“No thanks. I prefer not to trust you with heat,” Sangwon said without looking back. The words were dry, but the warmth tucked beneath them gave him away — a kind of fondness that had nowhere else to go.

“You’re so dramatic—”

“Self-preserving,” Sangwon countered easily.

Leo grinned, undeterred, and tugged the fridge door open. “You need me to chop something?”

“No.”

“I’m helping.”

Sangwon finally glanced over his shoulder, amusement tugging at his mouth. “By stealing ingredients?”

“By keeping you company,” Leo said, tone easy — but his eyes lingered a little too long to match it.

Sangwon huffed a laugh and turned back to the stove. “Then maybe start by not setting the air on fire with your flirting.”

Leo froze, half a smile caught mid-curve. “That wasn’t flirting,” he protested — though his voice betrayed him, softer than before.

“Sure,” Sangwon said, and even without looking, Leo could hear the smirk in it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it breathed between them, slow and alive. Leo’s fingers traced the edge of the counter, searching for something to do, while Sangwon stirred the pan with more focus than the task required. The small yellow light above them washed everything in gold — the kind of warmth that pressed against the ribs, quiet and unbearable all at once.

Steam rose, curling softly through the space between them. When Sangwon reached for the soy sauce, his sleeve brushed against Leo’s wrist. Neither moved. The contact lingered, light as a thought, gone before either could name what it was.

By the time they sat down to eat in the living room, the city outside had dimmed. Streetlights haloed faintly against frost-streaked glass, and far below, the murmur of traffic sounded like the world speaking in whispers.

Sangwon leaned against the couch, their dinner spread across the coffee table. “You’re quiet,” he said after a while.

Leo poked absently at his rice. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“Only when I do it for too long.”

Sangwon smiled at that — small, fond. “What are you thinking about?”

“Home,” Leo admitted. “It’s been over a year since I last spent a proper winter there. Mom will probably cook enough to fill the whole table." He smiled, the memory softening the edges of his face. “Dad will probably drag me to the beach at least once, even if it’s freezing. He says the ocean wakes you up.” He made air quotes with his chopsticks, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. “I think he just wants to talk while pretending he doesn’t.”

“Sounds like him,” Sangwon murmured.

Leo looked at him, surprised. “You remember that?”

“You talked about him when we were mixing the EP. Said he always walks ahead but turns around every five minutes to check you’re still there.”

Leo blinked. “You remember everything.”

“Not everything,” Sangwon said softly. “Just you.”

The words landed heavier than either intended. For a moment, Leo didn’t breathe. His eyes flickered toward Sangwon — the steady line of his jaw, the quiet in his expression that always seemed to hold more than he let slip.

To break the tension, Leo exhaled a laugh, small and uneven. “You’re supposed to make this easier, not harder.”

Sangwon’s eyes softened. “I’m trying.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that hummed low beneath the sound of chewing, the heater’s distant hum, the faint pulse of the city. The air felt thick with everything they weren’t saying — the pull of parting that hadn’t arrived yet, already threading itself between them.

“What about you?” Leo asked. “Didn’t you say you might visit your family? Got any plans?”

Sangwon leaned back, shrugging. “Not really. Haven’t thought of any yet. But my sisters keep sending me café photos lately — I think that’s their way of saying they’re going to drag me around the second I decide to go home.”

Leo grinned. “Tragic.”

“Unfortunately,” Sangwon said dryly. “They’ll drag me across town, make me carry their shopping bags, feed me way too much, and still say I look tired and malnourished. Classic sibling hospitality.”

Leo laughed softly. “That’s love, you know.”

“I know.” Sangwon’s lips curved faintly. “It does feel suffocating sometimes. But maybe that’s how I know I belong.”

For a long while, Leo didn’t reply. He just watched Sangwon — the way his eyes lowered when he spoke of family, how the lamplight gathered in the small curve of his mouth, how everything about him seemed gentler when he wasn’t trying to be.

“Send me pictures,” Leo said at last.

“Of my sisters tormenting me?”

“Of you pretending you hate it.”

Sangwon huffed out a soft laugh. “Only if you send proof you’re eating three meals a day.”

“Define ‘meal.’”

“Something that isn’t just a piece of cheesecake.”

Leo smiled, and it reached his eyes this time. “Deal.”

Dinner stretched into the night without them noticing. They stayed there — legs brushing, conversation fading into fragments and shared glances that said enough. The air around them was warm now, heavy with the scent of food and faint cedar, the last remnants of music still vibrating somewhere deep beneath their skin.

When the dishes were finally cleared, Sangwon flicked off the main light. The apartment dimmed to a soft amber glow, the kind that made everything look half-dreamed. Leo sank into the couch again, his body leaning instinctively toward the warmth beside him.

“You know,” he murmured, “if anyone saw us right now, they’d think we’re saying goodbye for good.”

Sangwon’s smile brushed against the quiet. “We just like the drama.”

Leo turned his head slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Then what’s your excuse for looking like that?”

Sangwon’s laugh was soft, almost shy. “Probably the same as yours.”

Something flickered through the air between them — brief, tender, fragile. They didn’t reach for each other immediately, but the space between them seemed to narrow anyway, drawn by some quiet gravity that had always existed.

Eventually, Leo shifted closer, his shoulder brushing against Sangwon’s arm — a fleeting touch, as if to remind himself he still could.
“Four days left,” he whispered, the words falling like a confession more than a count.

Sangwon’s breath left him slow. “Four days can hold a lot,” he said.

Leo let out a faint laugh — soft, cracked at the edges. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Then stop measuring it,” Sangwon murmured. “Time moves more slowly when you stop realising it's there.”

Leo turned to him, a small, crooked smile curving his lips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Sangwon said, eyes gentle. “It would make goodbye take longer.”

The heater clicked softly. Outside, the wind sighed against the windowpane — the kind of cold that never quite touched them here.

By the time they made their way to bed, the air had softened into that fragile kind of peace that only comes after everything has been said — or at least, everything that mattered.
They didn’t speak as they lay down: Leo curling instinctively into the shape of Sangwon’s chest, Sangwon’s arm finding him like muscle memory, like it had always known where to go.

“You know,” Leo murmured into the fabric of his shirt, voice half-lost to sleep, “you’re still terrifying in the mornings.”

Sangwon huffed a quiet laugh, an eyebrow lifting. “So random.” He bent a little closer, a smile ghosting against Leo’s hair. “And you still talk too much before sleeping.”

“Somebody has to keep the silence interesting.”

“Then you’re doing great,” Sangwon murmured — so softly it almost disappeared into the hum of the room.

Leo chuckled, but the sound softened, melting into the quiet. His breath evened out against Sangwon’s collarbone, his hand resting over his heart like it had always belonged there.

Sangwon closed his eyes, pressing his lips lightly to Leo’s forehead — a touch too fleeting to be called a kiss, too deliberate to be anything else.

Outside, the city went on — streetlights flickering, wind carrying the faint scent of winter. Inside, the world stilled around them. The night folded in, gentle and unhurried, holding its breath as two people learned, once again, how to stay in the same silence without fear.

And in that stillness — beneath the warmth, the waiting, the ache of time already passing — they let themselves rest.

The days that followed drifted in slow, heavy loops — the kind where hours felt both fleeting and endless. Each sunrise carried the quiet reminder that time was running out, that four days could somehow hold a lifetime and still not be enough.

Sangwon started waking earlier than usual, as though he could bargain with the morning for more time. Every dawn, the soft winter light slid through the blinds, painting thin silver stripes across the bed where Leo still lay tangled in the blanket. His hair always looked softer in that light, his face half-buried in the pillow, breathing deep, utterly unaware of the world trying to move on without him.

The first morning, Sangwon tugged gently at the blanket. “Up.”

Leo groaned, voice muffled. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Leo peeked from under the blanket, one eye half-open, incredulous. “That’s not a reason. That’s tyranny.”

Sangwon laughed under his breath, a sound that filled the quiet corners of the room. “Tyranny’s efficient. Get up.”

Leo sighed deeply, as if the very act of living was an inconvenience. “You used to let me sleep in.”

“I used to have patience,” Sangwon said, dragging the blanket off him. “Now I have four days left with you, and I’m not wasting them.”

That made Leo pause. His mouth opened — maybe to argue, maybe to agree — but instead he sat up slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep. The sight of him like that — messy-haired, half-scowling, fully human — tugged something loose in Sangwon’s chest. He turned away before the warmth in his expression could be seen.

They started the day like that every morning as usual. Leo complained; Sangwon ignored him. They went out into the brittle cold of January, their breath rising in pale clouds. Seoul in winter wasn’t white, just washed-out — streets crisp with frost, air thin and dry. The kind of cold that bit gently at your skin but left you grateful to feel anything at all.

Sangwon took Leo everywhere he could think of. Cafés tucked into corners of side streets, the record shop where they first argued about sound mixing, even a small gallery by the river where sunlight spilt across white walls. He said it was so Leo would “remember the city properly,” but Leo saw through it — the way Sangwon’s eyes lingered a little too long each time they walked home, as if trying to memorise the shadows falling across Leo’s face.

“You’re overdoing it,” Leo said one afternoon as they stood on a pedestrian bridge, the wind scraping softly against their coats. “You never leave the studio this much.”

“That’s because I never have to,” Sangwon replied, keeping his gaze on the river below. “But you’re leaving. I want to make sure you don’t forget what outside looks like.”

Leo huffed a quiet laugh. “You act like I’m losing my eyesight.”

“Memory fades faster than sight,” Sangwon murmured, almost to himself.

Leo turned to him, his tone light but his eyes gentle. “You’re really sentimental this week.”

Sangwon smiled faintly. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

They kept walking. The silence between them had changed — it wasn’t empty anymore, but heavy, full of everything neither wanted to put into words. Every shared look, every brush of the shoulder, every pause before speaking carried something tender, like a thread drawn too tight but never snapping.

By the second day, Leo had grown clingier — not dramatically, but in ways that made Sangwon’s chest ache. He lingered longer when their hands brushed, sat closer during breakfast, leaned into Sangwon on the subway just because he could. Sometimes he followed him from room to room in the apartment, offering nonsense commentary or singing off-key until Sangwon gave in with a helpless smile.

“You’re like static,” Sangwon said once, turning from the sink to find Leo pressed against the counter behind him. “Always there. No volume control.”

“You love it,” Leo said easily.

“I tolerate it.”

“That’s love, in your language.”

Sangwon laughed quietly. “Maybe.”

And for every moment Leo teased him, Sangwon found a way to even the score. He’d wake Leo up earlier than necessary, open the curtains too fast, and change the playlist halfway through Leo’s favourite song. When Leo grumbled in annoyance, Sangwon only smiled, that small victorious curl of his lips that said he was enjoying this too much.

“You’re annoying,” Leo muttered one evening, throwing a balled-up napkin at him.

Sangwon caught it effortlessly. “You’ve been insufferable all day. I’m balancing the scales.”

“I’m leaving in three days,” Leo said, feigning wounded pride. “You’re supposed to cherish me.”

“I am cherishing you,” Sangwon said. “Just aggressively.”

The words hung there for a second — playful, but layered with something deeper. Leo’s laughter faltered halfway, replaced by the kind of smile that trembled at the edges. “You’re going to miss me so much, it’s going to be embarrassing.”

Sangwon rolled his eyes, but his voice came quieter. “Probably.”

By the third day, their rhythm had softened into something almost domestic. Leo sat at the kitchen counter, writing half-thought lyrics while Sangwon brewed coffee. They spoke in half-sentences, small things like, “Do you think it’ll snow?” and “Don’t forget your charger.”
It was the kind of routine that felt like a memory even before it ended.

That evening, they visited the park near Sangwon’s old apartment — the one with bare gingko trees and benches that creaked. The air was cold enough that their breath lingered like ghosts. Leo sat down, his hands buried in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

“My mom’s going to cry when she sees me,” he said quietly.

“Because she misses you?”

“Because I look tired,” Leo said, smiling without humour. “She always says that.”

Sangwon looked at him — really looked. The soft gold of the streetlight caught the shadows beneath Leo’s eyes, the faint curve of his mouth that tried so hard not to tremble. “She’s not wrong,” Sangwon murmured.

“Neither are you,” Leo said, glancing up. “You’ve been running on caffeine and emotion since New Year’s.”

“That’s my charm.”

“That’s your problem,” Leo said, and smiled again — small, but real.

They fell quiet after that. Wind rustled through the branches above them, the faint hum of the city stretching into the distance. Leo’s hand brushed against Sangwon’s on the bench, a small, uncertain touch that didn’t retreat. Sangwon turned his palm upward, wordlessly. Their fingers laced together without a sound.

Neither of them moved for a long time.

On the morning of departure, the sky was a pale blue, cloudless and cold.
The air inside the apartment was still, heavy with the kind of quiet that made even small sounds feel too loud. Sangwon stood by the kitchen counter, folding Leo’s scarf with practised care. It wasn’t necessary — just something to keep his hands busy.

Leo emerged from the bedroom, hair still damp, suitcase dragging softly behind him. The sight hit Sangwon like something physical — the way Leo’s coat collar was turned up against his jaw, the way his hand lingered on the doorknob as if it might buy him a few more seconds.

“Got everything?” Sangwon asked. His voice came out steadier than he felt.

“Think so,” Leo said. “Unless I left my sanity somewhere between your alarm clock and your wake-up calls.”

“You didn’t have any to begin with,” Sangwon said, smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Leo caught that. “Hey.” He stepped closer, his tone gentler now. “It’s just a couple of weeks.”

“Two or three. Or four,” Sangwon murmured.

“Give or take,” Leo added, half-teasing. “You’ll blink and I’ll be back annoying you again.”

“I don’t think blinking’s long enough,” Sangwon said softly.

That silenced Leo. His hand reached out almost without thought, brushing the sleeve of Sangwon’s sweater — a small, grounding touch. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

“I’m trying to make it feel real,” Sangwon whispered.

Neither of them spoke after that. The air pressed around them, thick with everything that didn’t fit into words. When they finally left, locking the door behind them, the sound of the latch clicked too sharply, like an ending trying to pretend it wasn’t.

The cab ride to the airport was quiet — the kind of quiet that held more meaning than sound could bear. The city outside slid by in blurs of grey and pale gold, early commuters hunched in their coats, the world moving on as if nothing was ending. The heater hummed low, filling the small space between them, but the warmth never quite reached the heaviness in their chests.

Leo sat by the window, his reflection faint against the glass — eyes distant, mouth drawn tight like he was afraid of saying too much. Beside him, Sangwon watched the passing streets, fingers curled loosely in his lap. Every so often, he’d glance sideways, checking if Leo was still there, as if his presence might dissolve if he looked away for too long.

They didn’t speak at first. The hum of the tyres on the asphalt carried their silence easily.
Then, halfway through the highway, Leo’s hand inched toward Sangwon’s, resting briefly against his sleeve — not a gesture of comfort, but of grounding. A quiet question: you still with me?

Sangwon turned his palm upward, meeting it halfway. Their fingers didn’t intertwine, not fully, just brushed — the kind of touch that said more than a hundred reassurances could.

“You’re cold,” Sangwon murmured.

Leo’s voice came softly, his breath fogging faintly on the window. “I’m fine. Just… wishing we had one more day.”

Sangwon’s hand tightened slightly. “You’d only ask for another after that.”

Leo smiled without looking at him. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Sangwon said, his tone catching. “It’s just—once you start wanting more, it’s hard to stop.”

Leo didn’t answer, but his thumb brushed lightly across Sangwon’s knuckles, a slow, quiet apology for what neither of them could change.

The cab turned off the main road. The driver didn’t speak, only hummed faintly to the radio — a melody too soft to place, something old and wistful that almost hurt to hear. The city began to thin, buildings giving way to open stretches of sky. The horizon ahead was pale with morning light, the colour of beginning and ending at once.

Neither of them moved their hands. The silence settled heavier, as if each passing minute was a step closer to something they didn’t want to face.

When they finally saw the airport rising ahead — glass and steel catching the light — Leo’s heart sank, a dull weight pressing behind his ribs. He withdrew his hand slowly, as though letting go might soften the inevitability.

Sangwon glanced out the window, swallowed hard, and reached for his bag. “We’re here.”

They stepped out of the car together, the chill air rushing in like an interruption. Their footsteps fell into near-perfect rhythm — a habit they hadn’t meant to form — as they crossed through the sliding glass doors.

The terminal swallowed them whole.
All around, the world moved in practised rhythm — the roll of suitcases, half-heard announcements, the hiss of an espresso machine that smelled like someone else’s morning. Everything felt too bright, too alive, too indifferent to what they were trying so carefully not to say.

They walked side by side until the crowd began to thin, until sunlight spilled in pale sheets across the polished floor. The air shifted there — quieter somehow, heavier. Leo felt it settle beneath his ribs, dull and certain. When the check-in counters came into view, his heart sank — not suddenly, but slowly and heavily, like something lowering itself inside his chest.

They stopped without meaning to.

For a moment, neither knew what to do with their hands. Leo shoved his into his coat pockets, then pulled them out again, fingers twitching with restless energy. Sangwon crossed his arms, unfolded them, then let them fall uselessly at his sides. Their gestures mirrored each other — small, hesitant, pained in their own quiet way.

“So,” Leo said at last, voice light but thin around the edges. “This is it.”

Sangwon’s gaze flickered up. His expression was unreadable — somewhere between a smile and a flinch. “Two weeks,” he said, his tone too even to be steady.

Leo tried to return the smile, but it cracked. “Maximum three or four.”

A breath of laughter slipped from Sangwon, short and fragile. “Don’t start.”

“You’re going to miss me,” Leo said, half-teasing, half-hoping.

“I already do,” Sangwon murmured.

The words hung between them — simple, soft, devastating. Leo blinked hard, but his throat tightened anyway, and the tears came despite his effort to swallow them back. Sangwon’s breath caught at the sight, his own composure unravelling. His jaw clenched once before it trembled, and when he spoke, his voice broke against the air.

“Hey,” Leo said quietly, stepping forward. His hand lifted — unsure, trembling — before settling at the back of Sangwon’s neck, thumb brushing against warm skin. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m fine,” Sangwon lied, though his shoulders had already given him away. “It’s just—”

“I know,” Leo whispered. His thumb traced the damp curve of a cheekbone, chasing a tear that wouldn’t stay still. “It’s not forever. Three or four weeks. You’ll blink, and I’ll be back.”

Sangwon let out a wet, shaking laugh. “You make it sound short.”

“It is,” Leo said, a faint smile trembling at the corner of his mouth. “And if it’s not, I’ll fly you over myself. First-class. You can drool on the window while pretending to sleep.”

That earned a real laugh — broken, but alive. “You’d really do that?”

“Try me.”

Then came the gate announcement — sharp, impersonal, mercilessly clear. The world surged forward around them, but they didn’t move.

Leo leaned in until their foreheads met, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. His voice came soft and unsteady. “I’ll come back before you finish missing me.”

Sangwon’s eyes closed, lashes wet. “You won’t,” he breathed, and his voice trembled like something pulled thin. “But I’ll be here anyway.”

Neither spoke after that. The moment simply lingered, stretched — two people suspended between staying and leaving. The crowd blurred around them, the world a stream of sound and colour, but they stood still in their own quiet orbit.

When Leo finally drew back, it was slow — deliberate, reluctant — like his body refused to follow what his heart already knew. His hand slipped down Sangwon’s arm, fingers ghosting over skin before falling away.

Sangwon tried for a smile, but it came out broken, weighed down by something unspoken. “Go,” he said, voice low. “Before I make you miss your flight.”

Leo let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Their eyes met one last time — and that was enough. Every word they couldn’t say flickered there: the ache, the promise, the love folded into silence.

Leo turned toward the gates. Each step felt like a betrayal of gravity. He looked back once — just once — catching Sangwon standing motionless beneath the cold morning light, jaw set, eyes shining.

Sangwon watched until Leo’s figure disappeared into the stream of travellers, until the movement of the crowd filled the space he left behind. The stillness hit him only then — that hollow quiet that follows the sound of departure.

He stayed there until the ache inside his chest finally broke through. The first sob came quietly, then another, until he wasn’t holding it back anymore.

Outside, the winter light spilt across the glass, pale and silver.
Sangwon stood in it, eyes red, breath shaking, Leo’s warmth still ghosting along his skin.

It would only be weeks. Maybe a month.
But standing there, beneath that vast and empty light — it already felt like forever.

Chapter Text

The plane had been in the air for barely an hour when Leo realised sleep wouldn't come.

The quietness of the Business-class surrounded him—soft engines, half-drawn curtains, the dim hush of people already lost to their movies or dreams. But his mind kept replaying the same moment: Sangwon's face behind the airport glass, blurred by reflection, by distance, by the fact that he hadn't dared to look back twice.

He tilted his seat a little, staring at the pale wash of clouds outside. Morning light from Seoul had long faded into a slow descent of darkness; somewhere over the ocean, day and night were folding over each other. He traced that invisible line with his eyes, thinking how distance could stretch so gently yet feel like being torn.

He hadn't even tried to nap. The attendants passed now and then, refilling his glass, asking if he wanted dinner. He only smiled, shook his head, and pretended to study the faint glint of ice in his drink. Every few minutes, he would reach for his phone, thumb hovering over the screen before he caught himself. There was nothing new to see. The last message still waited there—text me when you land. Simple. Ordinary. Heavy.

The plane's low hum filled the silence between his breaths. It reminded him of the studio—the faint buzz of monitors, the metronome ticking somewhere in the corner, Sangwon's voice half-singing, half-laughing whenever he missed a note. The memory almost made him smile, except it hurt too much to hold for long.

He shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket across his lap. The seatbelt brushed cold against his wrist, and his fingers tightened around it. It was easier to focus on small things—the texture of the fabric, the soft air, the sound of metal—than on the emptiness beside him.

But inevitably, his thoughts drifted back to the airport—
to that last stretch of morning light slanting through the glass, cold and mercilessly clear. He could still see the check-in counters lined in silver and white, the world moving around them while time stood still. They'd stopped there without meaning to, the rhythm of their steps breaking in quiet surrender.

Neither had known what to do with their hands. Leo had shoved his into his coat pockets, pulled them out again, then clenched and unclenched them as if his fingers could decide for him. Sangwon had crossed his arms, unfolded them, let them fall uselessly at his sides. Their gestures had mirrored each other—small, restless, aching with the same wordless dread.

He remembered the light glancing off Sangwon's lashes when he'd finally looked up. The attempt at a smile that flickered, too thin to hold. The tremor at the corner of his mouth when Leo, trying to keep things light, said something about two weeks—three at most—and the way that tiny number seemed to break him.

There had been laughter, soft and shaky, born only to keep them from unravelling. It filled the space between their breaths until Leo saw the shine in Sangwon's eyes and realised it wasn't laughter anymore. His chest had gone tight then, the sound of boarding calls echoing overhead while his heart beat in a rhythm that didn't match anything around them.

He could still feel the warmth of Sangwon's neck beneath his palm—the way he'd reached out before he could stop himself, thumb brushing against a single tear as though he could erase it. The way Sangwon had leaned in, helplessly, like gravity had betrayed them both. Foreheads touching, breath mingling, silence burning through the noise of the terminal.

They hadn't said goodbye. Not really. Just promises folded into quiet gestures—Leo's hand sliding down Sangwon's arm, their fingers brushing once before falling apart. When he turned toward the gates, the world had blurred into motion again, everyone moving except them. He had looked back only once, and there was Sangwon, still standing beneath the pale morning light, eyes bright and unguarded, trying to smile through it.

That image stayed with him even now, high above the clouds.

Leo closed his eyes, pressing his thumb against his temple. The hum of the plane blurred into a low rhythm, steady and distant, like the heartbeat of a memory he couldn't silence. He wondered what Sangwon was doing now—if he'd gone back to the studio after leaving the airport, if the lamp was still on, if the track they'd finished played faintly from the speakers as he worked.

A part of him wanted to believe it did.

He opened his eyes again, letting the faint overhead light wash over him. The glass of water beside him trembled slightly with the turbulence, and he steadied it instinctively. It struck him then how easily habits formed when someone had shared your days long enough—how reaching to keep something from spilling felt like reaching to steady another person.

Hours passed that way, the sky shifting from velvet to a dull blue that hinted at dawn somewhere unseen. Leo's body ached from stillness, but his mind refused to rest. Every passing cloud looked like the space between here and there, like a pause stretched thin.

He checked the flight map again—three hours left. Beneath the screen's sterile glow, a small photo of Sydney blinked, bright and far too calm. Home. The word felt strange after so long.

He leaned back, drawing in a quiet breath that trembled on the way out.
He wasn't afraid of seeing his mother; he was afraid of what her eyes might hold. Worry, maybe. Or pride. Or both. He hadn't been home since before everything had fallen apart, before the headlines, before the silence that followed. He'd written, called, said he was fine—but mothers always knew when fine meant otherwise.

Three hours later, the captain's voice eventually broke through the hum, announcing their descent. Seatbelts clicked, lights brightened. Leo rubbed his palms together, the sound barely audible over the engines. The pressure built in his chest, half anticipation, half ache. He thought of what Sangwon had said before the gates closed—You'll come back.

He'll make sure of it.

Outside, the city lights began to surface through the clouds, scattered like reflections of stars. The sight made his throat tighten. Sydney. Familiar and foreign all at once.

As the plane tilted lower, Leo let his gaze rest on that view. The ocean shimmered faintly beneath, dark and endless, carrying him toward something that felt like both beginning and return.

He didn't blink until the wheels touched the ground.

The cabin lights dimmed as passengers shuffled down the narrow aisle, their voices hushed, their footsteps echoing softly against the carpet. Leo sat for a moment longer, unmoving, as if motion itself felt like a betrayal. Then, slowly, he gathered his things — passport, phone, bag — each movement deliberate, careful, the quiet choreography of someone afraid to let anything slip through his fingers.

When he finally stood, the air around him seemed thinner. The faint hum of the plane's engine still lingered in his ears as he stepped into the jet bridge, and then — a rush of warmth. Sydney air hit him full in the chest: a humid, salt-laced breeze, summer pressing against his skin with open arms.

The sky outside was a burnished blue. He could feel it even from within the glass corridors — that familiar brightness, soft and heavy, the kind that always made him think of homecoming and endings at once.
Sydney in January. The thought alone carried the weight of years.

The arrivals hall glimmered ahead, all chrome and gold and light. The chatter of voices filled the air — laughter, the thud of footsteps, the sharp call of names reunited. He tried to focus on the rhythm of it, grounding himself in the ordinary, but his pulse wouldn't settle. The sound of luggage wheels scraping against tile blended with the faint echo of announcements. Everything felt slightly unreal, like a memory replaying through fog.

And then — she was there.

His mother stood just past the barrier, small against the tide of people, her posture taut with searching. Her hands were clasped over her bag, eyes scanning each face that passed with a mix of hope and fear she probably thought she was hiding.
When she found him, it was as if the world stopped holding its breath.

"Eomma," he called, though the word came out softer than he meant, almost fragile.

But she heard it. She always did.

Her whole face broke open — the kind of expression that started in the eyes and rippled outward, raw and unguarded. She gasped, one hand flying to her mouth, and then she was moving. Running. Not gracefully, but with that desperate, trembling joy that made strangers turn to watch.

He barely had time to drop his bag before she reached him. She wrapped him up immediately, arms around his shoulders, her body shaking with the force of her relief.

"My son," she whispered, the words half-breath, half-tear. "You're really back."

Leo let out a soft breath that wasn't quite a laugh. He hugged her back tighter, his chin brushing the crown of her head, her perfume filling the air — a faint sweetness of rose and clean linen, a scent stitched into every memory of home. "You're acting like I haven't been home for years," he murmured, his voice quiet, muffled against shoulder hair.

She pulled back, just far enough to see his face. The overhead lights washed her in pale gold, glinting off the wet shimmer in her eyes. "And you're acting like that's not true," she scolded softly.

Leo smiled sheepishly. "I called and texted, though."

"You sent emojis," she countered, giving his arm a playful smack. "Do you think that counts as communication?"

"Expressive communication," he said with mock seriousness.

Her lips twitched despite herself. "Aigoo, always unserious," she muttered, shaking her head — but there was relief in the motion, like teasing him helped her remember he was real again.

He laughed under his breath, the sound trembling slightly. "Where's Dad? I thought he'd be here."

She sighed, exasperation soft but practised. "That man got called into work at the last minute. You know how he is — pretended it was nothing, but I could tell. He was pouting over breakfast like a child. Said he'd be home by the time we get back."

Leo grinned faintly. "Still pretending he's not sentimental?"

"Exactly. That's what happens when you marry a man who thinks feelings are allergic reactions." She rolled her eyes, but her tone was fond, the kind of affection that had weathered years.

He let her talk — about Dad, about breakfast, about how much the dog had grown — and with every word, the ache in his chest began to ease. He didn't interrupt. He just listened, savouring the music of her voice filling the sterile air of the terminal, the way it always had when he was younger.

When she finally paused to breathe, she looked up at him again. Her gaze softened, her smile thinning into worry. "You're really alright?" she asked. "Because you said that on the phone, but you know I can tell when you're lying."

Leo blinked, startled by how easily she’d sliced through the quiet. “I’m fine, really,” he said, voice light but unconvincing. Then, after a brief pause, his tone softened, a hint of warmth creeping in. “There’s this... persistent person who keeps making sure I don’t look like a walking corpse every day.” A small, almost embarrassed smile tugged at his lips.

Her brows lifted, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Persistent person?”

He let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “It’s Sangwon.”

Recognition flickered instantly across her face, softening her features.
“Ah,” she said, drawing the sound out with a knowing smile. “The one you never stop talking about.”

Leo groaned, half embarrassed, half amused. “Was I really that obvious?”

She tilted her head, grinning. “You mentioned him more times than you mentioned what you were eating. That’s saying something.”

"I was just saying he's... helpful."

"Helpful, hm?" She hummed, pretending to consider it. "Well, I'm glad someone's been staying by your side in my place — nagging you, feeding you, knocking some sense into that head of yours."

"Eomma," he protested, though his voice had softened. "I'm not a kid anymore."

She smiled — the kind that softened her whole face, reaching her eyes and unravelling something tight inside him. “You’ll always be one to me.”

For a heartbeat, he couldn’t find his voice. His gaze slid away, the lump in his throat heavier than any words. Silence felt safer, easier than speaking, but no less full of everything he wanted to say.

"Come on," she said gently, slipping her arm through his. "Let's go home."

The air outside greeted them in a hush of warmth. Nightlife in Sydney was alive, but quiet — the airport lights throwing long pools of gold across the asphalt, the air heavy with sea salt and summer. The breeze that brushed his face felt both foreign and achingly familiar.

Their driver stood waiting near the curb, the family car idling under the soft hum of fluorescent lamps. The city skyline shimmered faintly in the distance, its edges blurred by the humidity that always followed coastal heat.

His mother looped her hand around his arm as they walked. "You didn't pack too much this time," she observed, eyeing his suitcase.

"Just the essentials," he said. Then, sheepishly, "And some snacks Sangwon shoved in."

Her eyes glinted. "I like him already."

Leo looked away, pretending to be engrossed in adjusting his luggage strap.

The car door opened with a familiar click, the air-conditioning washing over them as they settled into the back seat. His mother sat beside him instead of across — the same way she used to when he was small and would fall asleep against her shoulder on long drives.

Sydney at night rolled past in a blur of motion — streetlights streaking gold across glass, the dark curve of the harbour glinting silver beneath a low-hanging moon. The sound of cicadas lingered faintly even through the closed windows, the steady pulse of summer at its fullest.

Leo thumbed his phone open, typing before hesitation could catch him.

Leo: landed safe. 10 p.m.
Leo: i didn't sleep a wink.

His mother leaned over with the stealth of someone who had perfected curiosity. "Who are you texting?"

He didn't even bother to hide his grin. "Sangwon. He told me to text when I landed."

"Ah," she said again, that same knowing tone. "Tell him I said thank you for taking care of my son."

"I will," he promised — though his voice carried a shy warmth. Then he lifted the phone. "Can we take a picture together? Need to send him a proof."

She scoffed, pretending exasperation. “Unbelievable.”

“Eomma,” he groaned.

“Fine, fine,” she relented, laughter spilling easily into her voice as she leaned in. "Come on, make sure I look decent."

The flash caught them mid-laughter — her hand raised, his eyes crinkled, the kind of photo that captured something real instead of perfect.

He sent it off. Then, as the car moved through the sleeping streets, he found himself checking the phone again. And again. The blue light flickered over his face every few minutes.

His mother watched quietly. She said nothing — only smiled faintly, resting her chin on her hand as the city slipped by. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle. "You know, you keep looking at that thing like you left half your heart behind."

Leo looked up, startled, but she was still gazing out the window, pretending not to see the way he froze.

After a pause, she changed the subject. "How's Seoul? Cold?"

He relaxed a little. "Freezing," he said with a laugh. "Nothing much has changed. I got lost for a while, but..." He trailed off, his voice softening. "Sangwon showed up at my door every day until I stopped pretending I didn't need help."

She smiled. "Persistent, like I said. Someone's got to keep you alive."

"Yeah. That's how he ended up moving into my studio apartment."

Her brow lifted. "You told me that already. You called to ask my permission first, remember?. Said it was too quiet for you alone."

Leo blinked, caught off guard. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything," she said simply. "Mothers don't forget what makes their sons sound happy."

He looked down, a quiet laugh catching in his throat.

"Maybe you just can't survive without him," she teased suddenly.

He groaned. "Eomma!"

"What? I'm just saying—"

"Don't."

She chuckled, clearly delighted at having gotten a reaction. "Fine, fine. I'll stop. For now."

The car turned onto a quieter road — rows of jacaranda trees casting shadows across the pavement, their purple blossoms scattered like old confetti. Through the tinted glass, Leo watched them drift past, a slow flutter of colour under the streetlights.

"So," she said after a moment, her voice soft, almost testing the calm between them. "Did you get to see your friends again?"

Leo's lips curved, slow and unsure, the kind of smile that came from someplace half-buried. "Yeah," he murmured. "They invited me to a gathering. Sangwon dragged me there, actually. I'm glad he did. I saw Jihoon, Woochan... everyone. It felt like time hadn't moved at all—like we were just kids again."

She let out a soft breath, her voice warm with relief. "Good," she murmured. "You needed that. You've always carried too much on your own, Leo. Sometimes I think you mistake silence for strength... when all I really want is for you to breathe, to stop holding everything in. You don't always have to be strong, you know."

Leo turned his gaze toward the window, the city lights smearing faintly across the glass. His reflection hovered there—blurred, almost ghostlike against the night sky. "I know," he said softly. "I still feel guilty sometimes, though... for leaving them when I did. Things fell apart right after. It felt like I was one of the reasons it did."

His mother's expression shifted—something fragile flickered behind her eyes, a mix of ache and understanding. For a moment, she just looked at him, her lips parting as if to speak but catching on the swell of emotion instead. Then her hand reached for his, fingers cool and steady against his restless ones.

"Hey," she murmured, her thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles, grounding him. Her voice came quiet but certain, carrying the kind of strength born from love, not force. "Listen to me. You didn't break anything, Leo. You left because you needed to breathe. You can't keep trying to save others when you're the one drowning."

Her words lingered in the dim light—soft, unwavering—wrapping around the silence like a quiet promise that he didn't have to carry everything alone anymore.

"You did your best," she continued, her tone steady and warm, the kind of warmth that softened years of distance in an instant. "And that's enough. It's always been enough."

Leo swallowed hard at her words, his throat tightening as his vision blurred. The weight in his chest loosened, trembling on the edge of release. Slowly, he leaned closer, the movement hesitant at first—like he was afraid the moment might vanish if he reached too quickly. His head found her shoulder, his cheek brushing against the familiar fabric of her blouse. It smelled faintly of starch, of home, and something deeply human—comfort.

"I missed this," he murmured, his voice barely more than breath.

"I know," she said softly, her fingers threading through his hair in a tender, familiar rhythm. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "You're being clingier than when you were ten."

A shaky laugh slipped from him, half a sob, half a smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Her eyes softened, the corners crinkling with quiet affection. "Take it however you want," she said. "I'm just happy to have you beside me again."

For a while, the car sank into a peaceful hush—the hum of the engine blending with the soft crackle of cicadas outside. The city lights thinned into darker streets, familiar silhouettes flickering past the windows. Each turn carried a piece of memory, like threads quietly stitching him back to where he'd once belonged.

By the time they turned through the gates, the clock on the dashboard flickered 10:42. The night had fully settled — a slow, velvet dark scattered with faint stars. Summer hung heavy in the air, warm and thick, the kind of night that hummed softly with crickets and distant wind.

The house came into view, half-bathed in the amber glow of the porch lights. The pool shimmered nearby, still as glass, holding the curve of the moon in its reflection like a secret it didn't want to spill.

The car rolled to a gentle stop. The driver stepped out, the muted click of doors breaking the hush.

Leo followed, stepping carefully onto the gravel, his shoes crunching in the quiet. The warm air brushed against his face, tinged with the faint salt of the ocean somewhere beyond the hill. He drew in a slow breath, as if the air itself was reminding him he was really back.

His mother joined him, closing the distance with unhurried steps. Her eyes softened as she looked up at the house, then at him. Without a word, her hand found his again—her fingers warm now, a steady presence against the faint tremor in his.

"Welcome back home, son," she said, her voice hushed but full, carrying everything she didn't have to explain.

He turned to her, and for a moment, he couldn't speak. The porch light caught the edge of her smile, the faint lines at the corners of her eyes carved from years of waiting, of hoping. The ache in his chest rose, gentle but deep.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For waiting. For believing in me."

Her gaze softened further, eyes shining with the kind of love that didn't fade, no matter how long the silence. "Always," she said simply.

The word lingered between them—small, infinite, enough.

Above them, the sky stretched wide and blue-black, the stars trembling faintly in the humid air. Somewhere beyond the hills, a wave broke, its sound carried through the night like a promise.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Leo felt it—not just arrival, not just relief, but something whole, warm, and steady.

Home.

When Leo stepped through the door, the air felt different — still familiar, but heavier somehow, like the house had been holding its breath for him. The faint scent of soy and clean laundry lingered in the air, the same as it had years ago. The soft yellow glow of the living room spilt into the entryway, casting long shadows on the floor.

And there — sitting stiffly on the couch, hands folded like he didn’t quite know what to do with them — was his father.

He looked the same, mostly. A little greyer around the temples, a little slower when he rose to his feet, but still that same solid, quiet figure. For a second, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt tight with everything unsaid. His father’s eyes widened briefly — surprise, relief, pride — before he masked it behind a small, careful nod.

“Appa,” Leo said, his voice soft, unsure.

“Welcome back,” his father echoed, a low rumble in his throat, roughened by emotion he didn’t quite know how to show.

It only took one step — one small, deliberate step — for Leo to close the distance. His father hesitated, as though trying to hold back months of restraint, then reached out. The movement was awkward at first, stiff, before it melted into something raw. His arms wrapped around Leo with quiet urgency, the kind that spoke of nights spent worrying and mornings pretending not to.

The hug was tight. Unspoken. Real.
Leo felt his father’s hand grip the back of his jacket, fingers trembling just slightly, and in that silence, he heard everything: the relief, the regret, the pride.

Behind them, his mother’s voice floated in, teasing but bright. “Look at him pretending not to care, but hugging you tighter than I ever could.”

“What nonsense— ” his father muttered in protest, but still refused to let go.

Leo laughed softly into his shoulder — a choked, trembling sound that loosened something deep inside him. It had been years since their family had felt this close, this whole.

Dinner followed soon after — though feast would’ve been a better word. The table was overflowing: steamed fish glistening in soy, japchae tangled with sesame, perfectly grilled meat, and the comforting steam of his favourite tofu stew.

“You cooked all this before going to pick me up?” Leo asked, stunned.

“Of course,” his mother said proudly, chin lifting. “You think I’d let my son come home to an empty table?”

He laughed — half touched, half overwhelmed. “It looks like you cooked for ten people.”

“Then eat for ten,” she said, waving her chopsticks.

They ate together, conversation flowing like calm waves. His mother asked about Seoul — her questions tumbling one after another — while his father mostly listened, eyes occasionally softening when Leo’s laughter broke through. Sometimes his father would interject with a dry comment, earning a playful glare from her.

They talked about everything and nothing. She told him how his father grew restless whenever he didn’t call, how she replayed the unreleased tracks he sent her when she missed his voice, how even their dog had started sleeping on his bed again.

“She probably smelled your scent on the blanket,” his mother said with a fond sigh. “The maid had to clean fur off your sheets three times last month.”

Leo laughed until his chest hurt. “I can’t believe she misses me that much.”

“She’s just like us, then,” his father said quietly, eyes flicking toward him.

The room softened with that — a silence that felt full rather than empty. His mother smiled faintly, and for a moment, the world outside their little circle didn’t exist.

Later, Leo spoke about Seoul — about Sangwon dragging him to cafés at impossible hours, about mornings that started too early and nights that ended in music. His voice lifted as he spoke of writing songs again, not for deadlines or charts, but for himself.

“He even sits with me when I work sometimes,” Leo said, smiling without realising it. “We have the same taste. So he helped me out now and then.”

His parents just watched, smiling quietly. Neither said a word about how bright he looked when he spoke that name, how much lighter his voice had become. It was enough to see life blooming again in their son’s face.

After a while, his father asked gently, “So, what do you plan to do now?”

Leo hesitated, running his thumb along the rim of his bowl. “I’ve been thinking about studying fashion,” he admitted. “Not sure yet, but… I want to explore it.”

His father nodded thoughtfully. “When you decide, let me know. I’ll help however I can.”

The words were simple, but they hit deep. There was no weight of expectation this time — just quiet support. Leo’s chest tightened. “Thanks, Appa,” he said softly.

His mother smiled, ever the peacemaker, her tone light again. “Enough serious talk! Eat before it gets cold. I didn’t spend all afternoon cooking for nothing.”

Laughter broke the heaviness like sunlight after rain. Chopsticks clicked, soup simmered, and soft conversation drifted between them.

They never mentioned the devastating months — the silence, the noise, the chaos he’d escaped. And Leo was grateful for that unspoken grace.

For this warmth.
For this peace that asked for nothing but his presence.
For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a guest in his own story. He just felt at home.

The echoes of the late dinner still lingered—laughter clinging to the corners of Leo’s mind, the taste of his mother’s cooking still faint on his tongue. But now, the house had gone still. Not peaceful, not empty—just waiting. The kind of quiet that settles after joy, too full to dissolve yet too fragile to touch.

The clock read 11:43. He sat on the edge of the bed, the towel sliding down from his shoulders in a slow collapse of fabric. Damp strands of hair curled along his neck, cool against skin that still held traces of heat from the bath. The bedside lamp bled a muted amber glow over everything—his profile, the curve of his collarbone, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Even the light seemed hesitant to move, clinging to surfaces as if afraid of being left behind.

Around him, everything felt suspended.
The half-zipped suitcase was by the door.
The shirt draped over the chair.
The faint thread of steam still ghosted through the half-open bathroom door.

He rubbed his palms together absently, chasing the warmth that was already fading from his skin. Each breath came slow and heavy—not from tiredness, but from the quiet weight pressing behind his ribs, a heaviness that swelled in the absence of noise.

Through the cracked window, the night pushed its way in—warm, thick, smelling faintly of salt and wet grass. Cicadas sang in long, even strokes, their rhythm so steady it almost hurt. It was a sound that pulsed like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to him.

Leo reached for his phone. The glass was cold, startling his fingers. Sangwon’s name glowed against the dark screen—small, familiar, cruelly ordinary.
The last message still sat there. Delivered.

No reply.

Something fragile in his chest shifted, then folded. He told himself it was fine—that it hadn’t even been a day, that nine p.m. in Seoul meant nothing, that people didn’t disappear just because they went quiet. But logic has no weight when loneliness begins to take shape.

Maybe Sangwon was working again, scribbling lyrics in his notebook. Or asleep, face buried in a pillow with a book spread open near him. Leo pictured it too easily: those long lashes brushing his cheeks, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the soft, unguarded curve of his mouth that always undid him.

He swallowed hard. His thumb hovered above the screen, trembling faintly in the glow. He could almost see him—the crooked grin that never lasted, the small pout when he lost an argument, the way laughter seemed to break from him reluctantly, as if joy embarrassed him.

I miss him.

The thought struck like a bruise pressed too soon.
It had only been less than twelve hours, yet the distance had already grown unbearable.
Seoul wasn’t an ocean away; it was a hollow carved under his ribs, filling with air each time he tried to breathe.

He dragged a hand through his hair, leaving damp streaks against his forehead, trying to anchor himself in the physical, in the present. But the stillness kept blooming, thick and suffocating, until even the walls felt like they were waiting for him to speak.

He exhaled—shaky, resigned—and pressed the call button.

One ring.
Two.
Then—

“Hello?”

The voice that answered was low, frayed at the edges. The kind of roughness that belonged to sleeplessness—or tears that had already dried.

Leo froze, breath catching in the space between relief and fear. The rustle of sheets came through the line, soft and uneven, and something about it twisted inside him—the sound of someone trying too hard to sound fine.

“Hyung?” Sangwon’s voice came again, thinner this time, trembling through the distance. “Are you there?”

Leo wanted to ask are you okay? but the words stopped at the back of his throat. Some silences, he knew, were gentler than questions.

So instead, he breathed out, slow and deliberate, letting the air soften the tremor in his voice.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

The hush that followed wasn’t empty. It hummed faintly, alive with shared breath and all the unsaid things hanging between them.

“I…” His fingers tightened around the phone, pulse echoing against the small bones of his wrist. “I missed you.”

Another silence. Then the faint drag of fabric, a sigh that seemed to crumble halfway through.
“I miss you too.”

It was hardly more than a whisper, but it landed deep—like a hand pressing lightly over a wound.

Neither spoke again for a while. The line filled with breath, with the small, fragile sounds of life continuing on both ends. Leo leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed, feeling the phone warm against his ear. His other hand drifted upward, brushing through his hair, following the tremor of his pulse at the base of his throat.

He wanted to ask everything: Did you eat? Did you sleep? Are you okay without me there?
But all that left him was a single, uneven exhale.

“You didn’t read my text,” he said at last, his voice thin, caught between teasing and ache. “Were you busy?”

A pause stretched until it felt like a held breath. Then, soft and cautious:
“I was napping.”

Leo’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re a terrible liar.”

A small laugh threaded through the line—brittle, but it reached him. He could picture Sangwon sitting in the dark, one knee drawn up, rubbing at tired eyes. Maybe the blanket pooled around his waist, the room faintly lit by the city outside. The image ached with tenderness.

“You sound tired,” Leo whispered. “You should rest.”

“I can’t,” Sangwon said after a beat, the words sinking low. “Not really.”

Leo swallowed, the ache in his chest pulling tighter. “Yeah. Me neither.”

The hush that followed wasn’t lonely anymore. It felt like two hearts learning the same rhythm from opposite ends of the world.

“I was with my parents tonight,” Leo said quietly, almost to himself. “Mom cried before I did at the airport. Dad tried not to, but when he hugged me…” He let out a soft, cracked laugh. “It felt like he’d been holding his breath for years.”

Sangwon’s quiet chuckle drifted through the receiver, and Leo smiled through the sting behind his eyes.

“It was nice,” he murmured. “Dinner, the way they looked at me—like I wasn’t broken anymore. Like they could finally exhale.” His voice thinned. “They didn’t ask about anything. They just… stayed.”

He paused, tracing a finger along the seam of his blanket, as if following the thread of memory there. “I didn’t realize how much I missed that,” he admitted softly. “The sound of plates, Mom talking too fast, Dad pretending not to laugh. For a moment, everything felt... untouched by time.”

The smile faded from his lips, replaced by something quieter. “But when it got quiet again—after they went to bed—it hit me how long it’s been since I’ve felt that kind of love up close. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything back.” He drew in a trembling breath. “It made me wonder if I even deserved it.”

Sangwon didn’t answer, but Leo could hear him breathing—slow, uneven. It wasn’t silence so much as a shared ache, something tender and unspoken stretching between them.

Leo laughed once, softly, though it came out thin. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I guess I just…” He stopped himself, biting down on the words miss you most when things are good.

The quiet that followed hummed faintly through the line. Two hearts learning the shape of absence together.

Then, softly—Sangwon’s voice, low and rough at the edges:
“It’s strange. It’s only been half a day.”

Leo shut his eyes, the sound of it sinking beneath his skin. “Yeah,” he whispered. “And it already feels like something’s missing.”

For a moment, there was only breath—two people breathing through the same ache—and then Sangwon let out a small sound that could have been a laugh if it hadn’t broken halfway. “It shouldn’t feel this long,” he said. “You’re just… there. You only left this morning.”

Leo could hear the faint scrape of a hand against fabric, a movement that sounded like someone trying to hold still. “I know,” he said quietly. “But the hours stretch weird when you’re waiting for someone.”

Sangwon drew in a shaky breath. “I keep catching myself listening for your annoying voice. For you, moving around. It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid.” Leo’s throat tightened. “I keep turning around like you’ll be there, asking if I’ve eaten yet. The room feels wrong without you with me.”

There was a pause, long enough that Leo almost thought the call had dropped. Then, very softly, “You make it sound like you've been away for years. It's only been less than half a day.”

Leo let out a soft breath that wavered at the edges. “Maybe. But it feels longer.”

Another silence. It stretched thin, trembling at the edges. Then a faint sound—Sangwon’s laughter, wet and quiet. “We’re really hopeless, aren’t we?”

“Completely,” Leo breathed.

He rolled onto his side, cheek sinking into the pillow. The empty half of the bed gaped beside him, all the space between his arm and the wall heavy with absence.

“Are you lying down?” he asked.

“Mhm. You?”

“Yeah,” Leo said softly. “Just… weird being here again.” He stared at the ceiling, watching the light from the pool flicker across it. “It’s too quiet. I keep expecting you to barge in and tell me to put my phone down and sleep.”

Sangwon’s laugh came through, low and wistful. “You really want me to nag you from miles away?”

“Maybe.”

The line went quiet again. He could hear a faint inhale, sharp and thin, before it smoothed into a sigh. When Sangwon finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “You’ll get used to it. Being apart.”

Leo’s gaze slid to the hollow side of the bed. The sheet was still cool there. “I don’t think I want to.”

The admission fell out of him bare, too raw to catch.

Sangwon’s voice came out unsteady, gentled by ache. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” he said softly. “It makes pretending feel impossible.”

Leo turned onto his back, the phone pressed to his ear like something to hold onto. “Then don’t pretend,” he murmured. The plea came out unsteady, as if it had been waiting in his chest all night.

There was a small sound from the other end—a breath, maybe, or the quiet start of a laugh. “You really are impossible.”

“Heard that a lot.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold anymore; it throbbed with warmth, with all the words that couldn’t make it past the ache of wanting. Leo lay still, breathing into the receiver as if the sound alone could bridge the distance.

“You still there?” he asked at last.

“Yeah,” Sangwon said. His voice had gone soft around the edges, the kind of softness that comes right before tears. “I’m not hanging up yet.”

“Good.”

The word left him like a sigh. He shut his eyes, the lamp’s glow dimming behind his lids. “What’s it like there?”

“Cold,” Sangwon whispered. “The kind that gets into your throat. I left the window open.”

“You’ll get sick again.”

“Maybe I just wanted to feel something.”

The honesty in that undid him. “Sangwon…”

There was a pause—thin, breathless. Leo could hear the faint rustle of fabric, the sound of a hand dragging across a pillow. Then came a soft exhale, fragile enough to sound like breaking.

“I just wish you were here,” Sangwon said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “With me.” The words weren’t heavy, but they landed like a blow — gentle, devastating. “I’m being dramatic, I know. You just got home.”

Leo’s chest tightened, the air catching in his throat. He shut his eyes, his voice soft when it came. “Still,” he breathed. “I wish the same.”

The line crackled faintly — a small, lonely sound that seemed to echo the silence between them, filled with everything they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

Sangwon laughed once under his breath—a tired, aching sound. “You’d hate it here right now. The room’s freezing. The sky’s been grey all day. I keep forgetting to turn the heater on.”

“I wouldn’t care,” Leo murmured. “I’d still want to be there.”

Silence again. Not empty—just too full.

When Sangwon finally spoke, his voice had softened to something near a whisper. “Tell me what it’s like there.”

Leo drew in a slow breath. “Warm,” he said softly. “The air feels heavy—like it’s trying to hold me still. The cicadas won’t stop, and the pool smells faintly of salt. Everything’s alive, but…” His voice faltered. “Too alive. And too quiet without you.”

A sound slipped through the line—half laugh, half sob. “You need to stop saying things that make my chest hurt.”

Leo’s breath caught, a trembling smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry.”

“No,” came the whisper, thin and uneven. “You’re not.”

Leo could almost hear the curve of a smile in it, one that cracked instead of comforted.

His gaze drifted back to the ceiling, eyes unfocused, as if he could stare straight through it. “You know what the worst part is?” he murmured, his voice hovering between confession and surrender. “Every time I close my eyes, it feels like you’re here with me. I can almost hear you breathing beside me.” He drew in a shaky breath. “But when I open them…” His throat worked around the words, tight and unsteady. “You’re not.”

Another small, helpless sound slipped through the receiver—half a groan and half a sigh.
“Hyung,” Sangwon breathed, his voice thick with something caught between ache and affection. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to sleep after.”

Leo’s laugh came quiet, breaking at the edges. “Maybe that’s the point,” he murmured. “Maybe I don’t want either of us to.”

Sangwon exhaled—a trembling breath that seemed to hold more than words could bear. When he spoke again, his voice was low, frayed, but gentle. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. “You sound exhausted.”

A pause lingered—soft, heavy, breathing between them. The line hummed with quiet static and the faint pulse of distance. Somewhere in that stillness, Sangwon hoped his words might stop Leo from saying anything else—from turning longing into language, from making the ache beautiful enough to hurt more.

Finally, Leo broke the hush, his voice small and frayed at the edges. “Only if you do too.”

A breath of laughter brushed through the receiver, faint as wind. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Moments passed, stretching into the kind of silence that felt full rather than empty. Before long, their voices faded—along with the promises—until only the slow rhythm of breath remained: two heartbeats finding the same pace across the static, steady and alive despite the miles between them.

Leo curled slightly, phone pressed close enough to feel its faint warmth against his palm. “Don’t hang up yet,” he whispered.

“I won’t,” Sangwon’s reply came almost immediately — soft but steady, as if the words themselves were keeping him intact, caught somewhere between comfort and ache.

They stayed like that — wordless, waiting — letting the silence breathe for them, a fragile thread stretched thin across the ocean, holding until it couldn’t anymore.

Eventually, Leo’s eyes drifted shut. The sound of Sangwon’s breathing folded around him, soft as waves against the shore. The ache in his chest eased — not gone, but gentled — content to hurt quietly, in rhythm with another heart.

He didn’t know who fell asleep first.

But when the call finally faded sometime past one, the phone slipped from his hand, its screen dimming against the sheets, still faintly warm. The room stayed wrapped in silence: summer murmuring outside, the pool catching the moonlight in slow ripples, the window breathing in the sea.

Leo turned in his sleep, a small smile ghosting his lips—as if the sound of Sangwon’s voice still drifted through the quiet.

And far away, under the same sky, another figure lay half-awake, smiling that same quiet smile, breathing to the same rhythm.

Two beds. One heartbeat.

And for a moment, the distance between them forgot to exist.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind him with a softness that still managed to echo.
For a moment, Sangwon only stood there, his hand resting on the knob, the echo blooming and fading around him until there was nothing left but the dull hum of the refrigerator somewhere in the distance.

He'd come straight from the airport, yet the apartment looked untouched — as though time had politely waited for him to return before moving again. The faint scent of laundry detergent hung in the air, clean but hollow. Even the light slanting through the blinds felt foreign, like it belonged to a different kind of day.

He drew in a breath that didn't quite make it to his lungs. The quiet pressed against his ears, thick, unyielding. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, the weight of his shoes dragging across the floor.

The clock above the television blinked 12:03 p.m.

It struck him how absurdly ordinary that was — that the world could still count hours when his own had stopped.

He caught his reflection in the mirror near the living room and froze. The man staring back at him looked wrecked. Eyes rimmed red, lashes clumped from tears he thought he'd wiped clean. His hair had collapsed in every direction, the collar of his coat damp and creased.

He almost laughed, except it came out like a sigh. "I'm pathetic," he muttered, though the word barely reached the air.

The mirror, merciless as always, gave nothing back.

He peeled the coat off slowly, the fabric sticking slightly to his sweater, heavy with the smell of morning and airport air. The motion should have felt freeing, but instead it felt like shedding something that had kept him together. He draped it over the couch — Leo's side — and stood there longer than he meant to.

The apartment was the same, and that was the worst part.
Two mugs still sat on the table, one half-full with cold tea. The blanket Leo had thrown aside last night was still crumpled, holding the faint curve of his body. The air still carried a trace of his cologne, so faint that Sangwon almost doubted it — until the ache in his chest said otherwise.

He swallowed hard. His eyes burned again.

That final glance — that last look — replayed in Sangwon’s mind with relentless clarity. Leo, pausing at the gate to spare him a last glance, eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears, sunlight bending through the glass to catch the fragile edge of his emotion. A silent plea hovered in the air, small, desperate, impossible to ignore: Please wait for me.

The memory hurt like breathing through glass.

Before he faltered, Sangwon forced himself toward the kitchen. His steps were heavy, unwilling, as though each one cost something. The silence followed him there, too — sharp around the edges, filled with the faint echo of Leo's voice teasing him for burning garlic, or for humming while he cooked.

He hesitated at the doorway. The kitchen light was gentle, but it spilt across surfaces that seemed too big now, too empty. The cutting board leaned against the backsplash, and the apron — his apron — hung beside the fridge, its strap tangled slightly, waiting.

It had always been their space.
Leo leaning on the counter, chin in hand. That infuriating habit of slipping behind him to backhug mid-stir, pressing his cold nose against the side of Sangwon's neck until he squirmed.

The memory rose vivid and unbearable.

He reached for the apron anyway. The fabric brushed his fingers — soft, ordinary — and the motion of slipping it over his head felt like a ritual, something grounding in a world that no longer made sense.

He told himself he was hungry. That Leo would scold him for skipping lunch. 

That he had promised.

Eggs. That was all he could handle.

The fridge door opened with a hollow thud, spilling a faint breath of cold into the room. He cracked the eggs into a bowl, the shells snapping like brittle glass. The sound filled the silence for a moment before dissolving into the low hiss of oil meeting heat.

He moved without thought. Stir, fold, turn. His hands knew what to do even if his mind didn't. The scent of butter rose in thin ribbons through the air — too rich, too warm for a heart that couldn't taste it.

Somewhere between the second and third stir, he caught himself glancing over his shoulder — the instinctive kind, the kind born from habit. Expecting a presence. Expecting Leo's voice.

But the space behind him stayed still.

He laughed quietly, the sound fragile, almost swallowed by the sizzle of the pan. "You'd complain this looks sad," he murmured, voice trembling with a tenderness too sharp to name. "Then finish all of it and ask for dessert."

When the eggs were done, he plated them carefully. Too carefully. As if neatness could stand in for company.

He carried the plate to the couch — because the dining table felt wrong now. Too open. Too aware of the absence opposite him.

He ate in silence. The fork clinked softly against the porcelain, each sound too crisp, too intrusive. The food was warm, but it tasted like nothing. His stomach protested halfway through, but he kept going until the plate was clean — because promises mattered, even small ones.

When he set the dish aside, the quiet returned in full, heavier than before. The air around him pulsed with memory — every surface whispering he was here.

He needed something to fill it. Anything.

So he stood and walked toward the bookshelf, his reflection passing faintly across the window as he moved. Outside, sunlight pressed weakly through the clouds, the kind that looked tired. His fingers skimmed the rows of spines, stopping at one by instinct — an old novel, dog-eared and worn. A comfort book, or something that used to be.

He carried it to the bedroom, moving slower now, as though each step might wake a ghost.

The door creaked open. The air inside was different.

Still. Thicker.

It smelled like Leo.

That soft, clean scent that lingered on sheets after long nights — faint shampoo, warmth, and something indefinable that made home feel smaller in the best way.

Sangwon froze at the threshold. His heart clenched.

The bed was still unmade, the blanket half-pulled, the pillow on the right side pressed with a shallow indent. That empty hollow — that soft dip — hurt more than he thought it would.

He sat down carefully on the edge, the mattress dipping just enough to remind him that it had once dipped deeper. The book rested unopened on his lap.  

He tried to read. He really did.

One line. Another. The words blurred and swam, refusing to hold shape. His eyes traced sentences without grasping them, each letter twisting into echoes of memory — the tilt of Leo’s voice as he teased, leaning lazily against the headboard, reading blurbs aloud just to irritate him, the small, infuriating habit that had always been impossibly endearing.

He could still hear it: that laugh that started soft, fractured mid-breath, then settled deep somewhere beneath his skin.

He could still picture him: stretched across the bed, head resting in Sangwon’s lap, lashes brushing lightly against his skin, breathing slow and steady, as if the world itself could pause just for him. The way he would give up halfway through some teasing when Sangwon decided to erase his presence with a focused return to his book, letting Sangwon’s fingers drift through his hair instead — soft, impossibly fine, almost weightless. His hair had always been too soft, his weight too real, too tangible, too present to ever be forgotten.

Those memories throbbed in Sangwon's chest like a heartbeat of its own, relentless, intimate, aching.

He blinked hard, but the tears came anyway — quiet, almost polite, one falling onto the open page with a small dark bloom. He brushed at it quickly, but it only smeared the ink.

Another fell. Then another.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes, breathing unevenly, chest rising with effort. The sound that slipped from him wasn't a sob — just air breaking.

He set the book aside, its spine landing against the sheets with a muted thud. Then he lay down, curling instinctively toward the empty half — Leo's half — until the blanket was half-draped across him.

His hand reached out blindly, fingers grazing the pillow until they found it. He pulled it close, inhaling sharply as the faint, familiar scent hit him — warm, lingering, impossibly Leo — and it made his lungs ache as though he were drawing in the memory itself.

He held it tighter, breath stuttering against the cotton, tears slipping silently down his cheeks. The ache no longer crashed over him; it trickled instead — slow, persistent, merciless. The thought of enduring nearly a month without him pressed at his chest like a weight too heavy to lift.

Minutes stretched, folding over one another until time lost its shape. The ceiling blurred, the walls receding, and the world contracted to the soft, desperate rhythm of his own trembling breaths.

Eventually, his grip loosened. His body went still, coiled and quiet, surrendering to the exhaustion that wasn’t peace, but something near enough to it.

The pillow beneath his cheek was damp. The room around him hummed faintly, the city's distant pulse leaking through the walls. Somewhere, a car horn echoed, low and far away.

He exhaled softly, a sound that could have been a name if it had strength left to be one.

Then, finally, sleep took him — not gentle, but deep enough to steal thought.

The book lay open on the bed beside him, its pages curling slightly in the draft that crept through the cracked window. The curtains swayed once, then stilled.

And as afternoon thinned into dusk, the silence deepened — holding him, holding the ache, holding the memory of a warmth that had only left this morning but already felt impossibly far.

The world had folded itself into dusk when he stirred.

A low hum filled the apartment — the sound of the fridge, the whisper of the city beyond the thin glass of the window. The air was dim, purple around the edges, the kind of light that didn't belong to any hour. His body felt heavy, wrapped in the thick stillness of a nap that hadn't meant to happen.

Sangwon blinked, disoriented. The pillow under his cheek was cold, damp against his skin. For a moment, he didn't move, only listened — to the faint echo of his own breath, to the emptiness that pressed back against it.

Then the ringtone broke through.

It startled him — soft, but enough to crack the silence open. His phone buzzed against the nightstand, screen glowing faintly in the dark.

He reached for it slowly, fingers brushing across the wood before finding the device. His eyes were still swollen, lids heavy and raw. When he saw the name lighting up the screen, his throat closed.

Leo.

He didn't hesitate. The call connected before the second ring ended.

He swallowed hard, breath catching in his chest before he managed to speak.

“Hello?”

His voice came out low — hoarse, cracked at the edges, the kind of sound that betrayed the hours he’d spent silent, holding everything in until it pressed against his ribs. The word was small but heavy, almost a plea, and the silence that followed made it ache louder. He swallowed hard, throat working as if forcing the air through hurt might make it less real.

He prayed Leo wouldn’t notice. Though deep down, he knew he always did.

On the other end — nothing. Just a faint inhale, the quiet rustle of air that sounded like someone steadying themselves before stepping into something fragile.

“Hyung?” His voice wavered, thinner now, tremulous through the distance that felt far too wide. His hand tightened on the phone as though his grip could make the silence end. “Are you there?”

A beat. Then, at last — Leo’s voice. Soft, careful.
“Yeah. I’m here.”

The sound of it hit him like warmth breaking through a frozen room. Sangwon’s eyes fluttered closed; his body went slack with relief so sharp it almost hurt. He pressed the phone closer to his ear, knuckles whitening against the casing, desperate to catch every breath that followed. The faint hiss of static mixed with Leo’s uneven breathing — real, alive — and for a heartbeat, it almost felt like touch.

A long pause stretched. It wasn’t empty; it pulsed faintly, like two heartbeats trying to sync from miles apart.

Then came Leo’s voice again, quiet and trembling:
“I… I missed you.”

The words shattered something delicate inside him. His lips parted, but the air in his chest wouldn’t move — everything caught somewhere between his ribs. He wanted to answer, to spill everything — how the silence in their apartment had teeth, how the cold had crept into every part of the bed that wasn’t already bruised with his loneliness — but all that escaped him was a whisper, trembling and raw.

“I miss you too.”

The words fell soft but certain, like something sacred left in the dark. He could feel them land in the air between them, suspended there — fragile, alive.

Silence followed again, thick but not suffocating. Just full. He could hear Leo breathing on the other end, the faint drag of fabric, a shift that sounded almost like Leo turning over. And in that space, Sangwon could almost pretend there was no distance.

He shifted slightly, laying back against the pillow, the phone balanced beside his ear. One hand came to rest over his chest — his heartbeat fast and unsteady under his palm, as if his body hadn’t yet caught up with relief. He could almost imagine Leo’s weight beside him, their shoulders brushing in the quiet.

Then Leo spoke again, voice soft but threaded with something that tugged faintly at the edges of guilt.
“You didn’t read my text. Were you busy?”

Sangwon froze for a heartbeat. His thumb brushed over the corner of the blanket, twisting the fabric absently. Then, quietly —
“I was napping.”

It was easier than admitting he’d been crying until exhaustion took him.

Leo let out a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

A sound slipped from Sangwon — brittle, but lighter. The tiniest ghost of laughter, rising despite the ache. That familiar tease in Leo’s voice — the warmth of it, the way it came so naturally — pressed against something tender inside him until his throat burned all over again.

He pushed himself upright, shoulders slouched. The blanket slid down to his waist, pooling around his hips. He rubbed at his face with both hands, as if he could scrape off the exhaustion clinging to his skin, as if erasing the evidence might make him sound more okay than he was.

Leo’s voice came again through the line, softer now, almost like a whisper leaning against his ear.
“You sound tired.” A pause. “You should rest.”

Sangwon stared at the faint glow of his phone screen, eyes rimmed red, voice quiet but steady.
“I can’t,” he said after a moment. “Not really.”

For a second, there was nothing — just a faint crackle, a shared silence. Then Leo’s answer came, almost tender in how softly it landed:
“Yeah. Me neither.”

The hush that followed was different this time — not lonely, but full, like their breaths had learned to move in the same rhythm despite the miles.

Sangwon let out a shaky breath. The stillness of his room tilted toward Leo’s voice, as if everything inside it leaned in to listen. Every sound from the other side — the faint drag of Leo’s sleeve, the shift of his breathing — was something Sangwon caught and tucked into the hollow parts of himself, the ones that used to be filled by presence.

Then Leo spoke again, voice quiet and careful, as though he were speaking to the dark.
“I was with my parents tonight,” he said. “Mom cried before I did at the airport. Dad tried not to, but when he hugged me…”

A laugh — soft, cracked — slipped through.
“It felt like he’d been holding his breath for years.”

Sangwon’s lips curved faintly, the ache in his chest folding in on itself. He could picture it — Leo’s mother’s tearful smile, his father’s awkward stillness. The image made warmth and grief mix so tightly that he couldn’t separate them.

Leo continued, quieter this time. “It was nice. Dinner, the way they looked at me — like I wasn’t broken anymore. Like they could finally exhale. They didn’t ask about anything. They just… stayed.”

Sangwon’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp against his skin. He could hear it in Leo’s tone — the fragile relief that came only after years of quiet hurting. He wanted to tell him he deserved it, that he’d never been broken at all, only tired, only human — but his throat wouldn’t move.

“I didn’t realise how much I missed that,” Leo murmured. “The sound of plates, Mom talking too fast, Dad pretending not to laugh. For a moment, everything felt... untouched by time.”

Then, softer — almost too quiet to catch:
“But when it got quiet again—after they went to bed—it hit me how long it’s been since I’ve felt that kind of love up close. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything back. It made me wonder if I even deserved it.”

Sangwon’s fingers twitched over the blanket, curling weakly. The ache in his chest spread outward, filling him with a strange kind of helplessness. He wanted to tell Leo he deserved everything — love, forgiveness, peace — but he knew if he did, Leo would only laugh it off, call him dramatic, move on. So he stayed quiet.

Leo let out a small, broken laugh.
“Sorry, I’m rambling. I guess I just…”
He trailed off.

Sangwon waited — one breath, two — but Leo didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Somehow, his heart already understood. The ache of being missed by someone who should be happy, who was happy, burned quietly in his chest. Cruel and comforting all at once.

At least he knew he hadn’t been forgotten.

The hush that followed was heavy, like longing made tangible — something that breathed between them.

Then Sangwon’s voice came, quiet.
“It’s strange. It’s only been half a day.”

Leo’s answer came on a breath. “Yeah. And it already feels like something’s missing.”

Sangwon’s throat tightened. Slowly, he lay back down, the motion instinctive, seeking gravity. The mattress dipped under his weight as he turned onto his side, the blanket folding around him. His hand reached out — almost helplessly — for Leo’s pillow, drawing it close until it pressed against his chest. The small action made him tremble.

“It shouldn’t feel this long,” he whispered. “You’re just... there. You only left this morning.”

Leo exhaled, voice trembling.
“But the hours stretch weird when you’re waiting for someone.”

Sangwon’s fingers clenched tighter around the sheet. A fragile sound escaped him — half a laugh, half a sigh, something caught between fondness and ache.
“I keep catching myself listening for your annoying voice. For you, moving around. It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Leo said. His voice broke faintly on the words. “I keep turning around like you’ll be there, asking if I’ve eaten yet. The room feels wrong without you with me.”

The words landed deep — soft, but cutting, a blade wrapped in warmth. Sangwon felt them sink into him, and for a heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe. His fingers twitched against the blanket, curling inward as though trying to hold himself together through sheer will. His chest felt too small to contain it — the ache, the longing, the fragile, unbearable tenderness that came from hearing Leo sound like this.

He pressed his thumb against the side of his phone, grounding himself on the faint vibration of Leo’s voice, as if clinging to proof that he was still real somewhere beyond the silence. But the ache only deepened, blooming in places he didn’t have words for.

Sangwon’s breath caught, his throat tightening as he pressed his fingers to his temple — an instinctive, desperate gesture, like maybe he could rub the ache away if he tried hard enough. He shut his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, but every inhale dragged like it hurt. Every second that Leo stayed quiet only made it worse, made the distance between them feel like something living.

“You make it sound like you’ve been away for years,” he whispered, the edges of his voice soft but trembling. “It’s only been less than half a day.”

For a moment, Sangwon could almost feel Leo’s breath through the receiver — faint, trembling, intimate in a way that felt almost cruel. It hit him how much he missed the ordinary things: the sound of Leo’s laughter echoing in the same room, the warmth of his shoulder brushing his. It wasn’t supposed to hurt this much, and yet, it did — unbearably so.

“Maybe. But it feels longer.”

After a long pause, Leo’s reply came through softly — laced with that familiar, weary tenderness that always managed to undo him. Sangwon’s pulse stuttered, a deep ache settling low in his chest. The sound of Leo’s voice filled the quiet, and for a second, it felt like breathing underwater — slow, muffled, too full of everything he couldn’t say.

His own laugh came out wet in response, trembling at the corners. “We’re really hopeless, aren’t we?”

“Completely.”
A breathy response from Leo came through the line, light but cracked around the edges.

Sangwon pressed his palm over his heart, as if he could calm the uneven rhythm beating there. The faint rustle on Leo’s end — a soft shift of fabric, a sigh — made his throat tighten. He could imagine it too clearly: Leo lying down somewhere far away, eyes half-open, wearing that small, tired smile he always had when pretending he wasn’t lonely.

“Are you lying down?” Leo’s question drifted through, quiet, unguarded.

Sangwon smiled bitterly. “Mhm. You?”

The word came out smaller than he meant it to, almost fragile, like even speaking risked breaking something inside him. He shifted onto his side, the movement slow, deliberate — not to get comfortable, but to keep from shaking. The blanket clung to him when he pulled it higher, wrapping himself in the faint ghost of warmth.

His fingers sought Leo’s pillow again, trembling slightly as they traced over the faint creases — the kind left behind by someone who used to sleep there. He drew it close until it rested beneath his chin, the fabric cool against his skin. The scent lingered — faint, clean, achingly familiar — and it undid him completely.

It wasn’t comfort. It was a memory. A quiet cruelty disguised as closeness. The ache bloomed deep in his chest, slow and merciless, and still, he pressed closer, burying his face in it like it could bring Leo back if he just wanted it hard enough. The cold around him seeped into his skin, but none of it compared to the emptiness beside him — wide, hollow, merciless.

“Yeah,” Leo’s voice came in a whisper. “Just... weird being here again.”

There was a pause — a soft exhale through the line, fragile and human. Then, quieter:
“It’s too quiet. I keep expecting you to barge in and tell me to put my phone down and sleep.”

Sangwon’s eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting on a breath that trembled faintly. The static in Leo’s voice reached through the silence like a thread, fragile and alive. It wasn’t enough — it could never be enough — but he clung to it anyway.

The sound pressed into him, heavy and tender, until breathing felt like surrender. His throat burned with the weight of unsaid words — I miss you, I can’t do this, it’s too quiet without you too — but all that left him was silence. A silence that trembled, full, alive with everything they didn’t say.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out as a laugh — soft, uneven, tender enough to sting. “You really want me to nag you from miles away?”

“Maybe,” Leo breathed, quiet but raw, the word carrying that familiar quiver that wasn’t quite laughter.

The pause that followed was thin, fragile. Sangwon could feel every beat of his pulse, hear every soft breath through the line. He forced himself to breathe — slow, shallow — just to hold onto the rhythm of it.

“You’ll get used to it,” he murmured finally, the words trembling against his lips. “Being apart.”

Leo’s reply came almost immediately, low and weighted, every syllable trembling under its own honesty. “I don’t think I want to.”

The words hit him like a hand pressed to a bruise — too gentle, too much. His pulse stumbled. His throat locked up around a sound that didn’t quite form.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he whispered, “It makes pretending feel impossible.”

“Then don’t pretend,” Leo’s voice came, soft and steady, like a confession disguised as a mercy.

Sangwon shut his eyes tight, lashes damp. His grip on the phone tightened until his fingers ached, like holding on harder could bridge the miles between them. “You really are impossible.”

“Heard that a lot.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It hummed faintly, alive with shared ache. Sangwon could almost hear Leo breathing — slow, steady, fragile — and his chest ached in time with it, like their hearts were struggling to remember how to beat separately.

“You still there?” Leo asked gently.

“Yeah,” Sangwon said, voice hushed, breaking just slightly. “I’m not hanging up yet.”

“Good.”

Sangwon smiled faintly, eyes glistening. The ache in his chest softened, only to deepen again when Leo spoke next.

“What’s it like there?” came Leo’s quiet question, curious and tender.

Sangwon turned his head toward the window, the faint city lights shimmering like ghosts in the glass. “Cold,” he murmured. “The kind that gets into your throat. I left the window open.”

“You’ll get sick again.”

“Maybe I just wanted to feel something.”

The truth slipped out before he could stop it. His chest tightened at the silence that followed — at the way it stretched, heavy and fragile.

“Sangwon...”

Leo’s voice carried something careful, almost pleading.

Sangwon exhaled shakily, the sound breaking on its way out. “I just wish you were here. With me.” His voice was barely audible now, a whisper stretched thin by distance. “I’m being dramatic, I know. You just got home.”

“Still,” Leo said, trembling, “I wish the same.”

Sangwon pressed his forehead against the pillow, eyes burning, and let the heat of his own tears sting his cheeks. His heartbeat thudded unevenly in his ears — raw, human, desperate. The ache swelled until it felt alive, lodged beneath his ribs like a thing with its own weight and will. His hands fisted the pillow, pressing so hard the fabric creased under his fingers, as if the act alone could anchor him to the world.

“You’d hate it here right now,” he said softly. “The room’s freezing. The sky’s been grey all day. I keep forgetting to turn the heater on.”

“I wouldn’t care,” Leo murmured. “I’d still want to be there.”

The words struck through him like an arrow, slow and relentless. They slipped into him quietly, but the hurt came fast. His breath hitched — sharp, broken — before he forced it steady. His body curled tighter under the blanket, shoulders trembling as though the fabric alone could hold him together. He buried his face deeper into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of Leo lingering there, burning through him — familiar, cruel, irresistible.

He tried to swallow the sob rising in his throat, but it clawed at him relentlessly, unrelenting. His chest heaved with every heartbeat; every exhale felt like a compromise. You have no idea, he thought, wild, aching. You have no idea what you do to me.

If Leo saw him now — trembling, red-eyed, unraveling quietly in the dim room — he’d never forgive himself. Thank God it was just a voice call. The distance was mercy, fragile and cruel.

When he finally exhaled, it was slow, trembling, so careful it almost hurt. He had hidden it well. Leo didn’t seem to hear. The thought made something twist inside him, a cruel mix of relief and grief. Part of him was grateful. Another part — the larger, rawer part — wished he hadn’t. Wished Leo had heard the break in his voice, the quiet ruin he had become.

His hand drifted down, brushing the edge of the phone, and he pulled it close, pressing it against his chest like the pressure could shrink the impossible distance. His breath came slow, controlled, though his body screamed in quiet agony. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — too calm for the storm inside. “Tell me what it’s like there.”

Leo’s reply came gentle, half-drowsy, almost dreamlike. “Warm. The air feels heavy — like it’s trying to hold me still. The cicadas won’t stop, and the pool smells faintly of salt. Everything’s alive, but...” He paused. “Too alive. And too quiet without you.”

The words struck him through and through — like light cutting through old bruises. Sangwon’s lips parted, but no sound came. The confession wrapped around him, delicate and unbearable, a beauty too sharp to touch.

He let out a trembling laugh, soft, cracked, broken in the way only longing can make you laugh. “You need to stop saying things that make my chest hurt.”

“Sorry,” Leo whispered.

“No,” he breathed, voice breaking on the word, “you’re not.”

A small, broken smile touched his lips. Tears finally slipped free — warm, soundless trails down his cheeks. Every breath felt like glass in his lungs.

Leo’s voice came again, low, almost a lullaby. “You know what the worst part is? Every time I close my eyes, it feels like you’re here with me. I can almost hear you breathing beside me.” His voice faltered. “But when I open them... you’re not.”

Sangwon’s breath caught — the kind that hurts to hold in. His fingers trembled harder as they clutched the pillow, his whole body quivering from the effort of keeping quiet. The phone pressed close against his ear, as if proximity could undo the distance. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves. “Hyung,” he whispered, voice breaking between ache and affection. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to sleep after.”

Leo laughed softly — fragile, like something breaking but pretending not to. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I don’t want either of us to.”

The words hollowed him out completely, leaving a raw, gnawing emptiness that pulsed from his chest to the tips of his fingers. Sangwon curled tighter into himself, ribs pressing against his knees, each ragged, uneven breath a quiet surrender to the ache. He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, teeth biting down on the tremor in his throat, swallowing hard to keep from letting it escape, as if the sound of his own despair would shatter the fragile world around him. Every nerve burned with need — a desperate, impossible longing for him — and yet he could not reach. Tears spilling hot and insistent, soaking the pillow beneath him, tracing silent rivers of grief and yearning. The ache was a weight, an anchor, a pulse that had no words, only the unbearable sensation of wanting.

He clutched the pillow harder, nails digging faint crescents into the fabric as though holding onto it could hold onto Leo too. His body shivered lightly, trembling not from cold but from the intensity of the missing, the unbearable distance. A small, bitter part of him wished Leo could see — could see the way he was unravelling, how every word from him was a blade and a balm all at once. But another part was quietly thankful: this was only a voice call. Only a thread of sound. Leo couldn’t witness the full devastation, and for now, that thin mercy let him hide behind silence.

Sangwon exhaled slowly, the breath trembling and uneven as it left him, carrying the weight of everything he could not say aloud. “Go to sleep,” he whispered, voice low and frayed, almost breaking under the effort. “You sound exhausted.”

A pause lingered — soft, heavy, alive with static and the quiet rhythm of two breaths separated by miles. Beneath it, Leo’s breathing remained steady, human, unbearably alive. Sangwon’s thumb hovered over the edge of the phone, brushing it gently, as though he could transfer even a fraction of his longing through the contact.

He wanted the conversation to end. He wanted Leo to stop saying things that made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t contain. And yet, a small, insistent part of him — desperate, foolish — wanted him to keep talking, to fill the empty space with the sound of his voice. If the pain could anchor him, even slightly, to reality, perhaps he could endure it.

Finally, Leo spoke again, voice small and tired, roughened by weariness yet tethered to him across the distance. “Only if you do too.”

A faint, trembling breath of laughter escaped Sangwon, half in quiet amusement at Leo’s words, half in the ache of knowing he actually agreed to finally sleep. Still, he whispered, voice fragile, “Promise?”

“Promise.”

The word slipped from Leo like a fragment of something precious, torn from the last of his strength — soft, fleeting, almost too fragile to hold.

The silence that followed was thick, full — two steady breaths, distance collapsing into rhythm. Sangwon’s eyes drifted closed, lashes damp, the faint prickle of tears still warm against his skin. His body stilled, though a tiny tremor ran through his shoulders, the kind that came from exhaustion and longing so deep it refused to quiet.

Even in the dark, he could hear Leo breathing. He could feel the faint, fragile hum of his voice through the phone pressed to his ear, and it anchored him, painfully, to this moment.

“Don’t hang up yet,” Leo whispered, barely audible, and the sound made something twist inside Sangwon — desire, need, and relief tangled into one sharp ache.

“I won’t,” Sangwon murmured back, voice small, breaking — as if the promise itself were a lifeline. He couldn’t, even if he tried. This call was all that held him together tonight, the only tether keeping him from fracturing entirely.

He smiled faintly — tired, broken, almost ghostlike — as the phone slipped from his fingers, resting against Leo’s pillow. The glow dimmed. Around him, the world narrowed to breath and static, to the thrum of Leo’s presence lingering just beyond reach. His chest tightened, warmth and ache colliding as he clutched the phone closer, as if pressing it to himself could pull the distance into shape.

He drifted under slowly, body loosening while his heart stayed painfully awake, clutching at the sound like a whispered prayer. Outside, the city held its breath — lights blinking in hesitant, tired heartbeats, wind pressing faintly against the window like fingertips tracing his skin.

And when sleep finally claimed him, his last thought was not of the miles between them, but of the warmth that lived in Leo’s voice, tender and real, and heartbreakingly near.

The call stayed connected long after.
Two breaths, one rhythm —
until even the night forgot where one ended and the other began.

The light that crept through the curtains was pale and hesitant, the kind that didn’t quite belong to morning yet.

Sangwon woke when the clock ticked 8 a.m., the morning air brushing against him colder than usual. The absence of Leo’s warmth pressed against him immediately, a hollow he could feel deep in his chest. He frowned at the empty side of the bed, tracing the sheet with a fingertip as if he might find some trace of him there.

He stretched his body while still lying down, limbs long and lazy, letting out a yawn that trembled slightly, betraying the remnants of exhaustion from the night. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling, fixating on the faint cracks and shadows, but really, he was drowning in the weight of his thoughts. 

Yesterday’s memories pressed close — the rawness of the airport goodbye, the helpless tears, the way the call had almost let Leo hear him unravel. Each moment, though recent, felt surreal, like he had been trapped in someone else’s dream and only now was waking up to the quiet reality.

A hot sting gathered in his eyes, tears swelling unbidden at the ache loneliness always brought. He exhaled, holding back the first ones with a shuddering breath, before sitting up slowly. His hand ran through his hair, a desperate, unthinking attempt to anchor himself to the present, to ground the spinning ache in his chest before it could swallow him again.

His gaze fell to his phone, still lying near the pillow from the call that had kept him tethered to Leo just hours ago. The screen was dark. The call was off. His heart sank slightly, imagining Leo’s phone probably dead, left forgotten in the rush and exhaustion of returning home. Knowing him, Sangwon thought, he probably hadn’t even considered charging it. The quiet gnawed at him — he had at least expected the subtle comfort of waking up to Leo’s breathing, the faint rhythm of his presence lingering in the lines of the call.

He picked up the phone and set it on charge by the nightstand, thumb brushing over the screen in a brief, almost futile hope. A quick “Morning” text was sent, words as simple as they were weighted with expectation and the fear of disappointment. He hated waiting. He knew it would likely come back empty-handed, knowing Leo’s morning habits, but still, the impulse rooted him, desperate for connection.

Sighing, he let the weight of both anticipation and resignation settle in his shoulders. The bed felt impossibly large and cold without the small chaos of Leo beside him — the way he always found a way to disturb Sangwon’s carefully folded blankets, tug at the corner of the pillow, or mutter something distractedly while brushing past him.

With a reluctant motion, he pushed himself to his feet, the movements lazy, almost automatic, drained of energy. There was no spark, no motivation to stir the apartment into life, no hunger to start the day beyond the mechanical. He decided to take a quick shower, an attempt to shake off the heaviness clinging to him. 

Cooking was out of the question; it would be far too lonely to make anything for just himself, especially in the kitchen that had always been filled with the clatter of pans and Leo’s teasing interruptions. No one to scold or to watch him mess things up. No one to feed.

The thought of Leo rose unbidden again, a ghostly ache that curled around his chest and throat. Sangwon let out a quiet, bitter laugh, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, before reaching for the towel and moving toward the bathroom.

He stepped inside, the warm tiles cool beneath his feet, the scent of soap and water filling the air as he let the door close softly behind him. A shiver ran through him, more from the lingering loneliness than the cold. The water wouldn’t fix the hollow ache, but he welcomed the simple act of washing, letting the steady stream of water carve through the tension in his limbs.

He knew the day was going to be long. 

And he wasn’t excited for it.