Work Text:
The post went live at 9:17 a.m., Seoul time.
A black square. White text.
There were no photos. No tag. No name. Just a quiet black square with white text. It was the kind of announcement that didn’t need glitter or spectacle to matter.
"Thank you to everyone who has continued to support me all this time.
I have an announcement to make.
We registered our marriage this week.
He’s someone I’ve shared victories and losses with, even if no one knew.
I’m grateful to keep building a life with him.
Please continue to support us both.
— Jeno"
No hashtags. No PR gloss. Just the truth, delivered in the same tone Jeno always used when speaking to the public. Quiet, composed, careful.
Within minutes, chaos followed.
Screenshots flooded group chats. Sports forums lit up. “Lee Jeno married?!” trended worldwide in four languages. Fans speculated everything from secret lover to contract marriages. The press started digging, theories multiplying with every passing second.
And Jeno wasn’t even looking at his phone.
He was in the kitchen rinsing rice.
Behind him, Chenle sat on the floor with his back against the couch, sleeves rolled up, hair unbrushed from sleep. He had a toothbrush dangling from the corner of his mouth and his phone in one hand, eyes flicking through the oncoming storm of reactions.
“Wanna hear what the crazy theories are?” he asked, voice muffled by foam.
“No,” Jeno said, still focused on the rice.
“Too bad. Secret lover from your hometown. Fake marriage with a Korean idol. You’re dating your catcher.”
Jeno shut off the tap and looked over his shoulder.
“I don’t even have a regular catcher.”
“That’s what makes it juicy,” Chenle said with a shrug and teasing smile.
He stood up and stretched, tossing his towel on the back of a chair as he walked toward the counter.
“You’re more mysterious than I thought,” he added, setting his phone down.
Outside the window, Seoul was quiet.
Jeno placed the rice into the cooker and pressed the button without a word.
“I’m not going to post a selfie of us making out in the kitchen,” he said.
“Did I ask for that?” Chenle raised an eyebrow.
Jeno gave him a look.
Chenle smiled. “Okay. Maybe I implied it.”
Steam drifted up from the miso pot as they stood in the stillness of their small apartment. It wasn’t much, just two rooms and a narrow balcony, but it had a bed they both fit in, a fridge stocked with things only one of them could cook, and two pairs of shoes by the door.
“Hang on,” Chenle said.
They met at an awards show neither of them wanted to attend.
Tokyo in late summer was humid and bright, and the venue that hosted the international sports awards felt like a hotel lobby dressed up to impress someone who wasn’t coming. Chenle fidgeted in his seat, tugging at the sleeves of his designer suit while a retired volleyball star thanked his sponsors for the third time.
He sighed dramatically, leaned toward his left, and whispered, “How long do you think before they start handing out snacks?”
Jeno, seated beside him, didn’t even turn.
“I’m serious,” Chenle added. “If they make me sit through this whole thing without food, I’m walking out.”
“You’re not going to walk out,” Jeno said.
“I might. They’ve been playing the same piano loop for twenty minutes. I think I’m hallucinating.”
Jeno gave him the tiniest glance.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” he said calmly. “I won’t take it personally.”
Chenle raised both eyebrows, amused. “So serious. You always this fun at parties?”
“I don’t like parties,” Jeno replied. “Especially not this kind.”
“That makes two of us,” Chenle muttered, leaning back in his chair.
They both watched as the next winner stepped on stage. A swimmer from Australia. Jeno clapped politely. Chenle tapped his foot and pulled out his phone to take a photo of the ceiling.
Two hours later, they met again backstage.
Jeno was waiting for his team’s PR assistant to come find him. He had just finished the short interview he was required to give after receiving the International Baseball Achievement Award. Chenle had won one of the Rising Athlete titles for basketball and had barely gotten through his press round without laughing.
Now they stood near the hallway, neither of them in a rush to leave.
Chenle glanced at the water bottles lined on a nearby table, then turned to find Jeno already holding one out to him.
“Thanks,” Chenle said, a little surprised.
Jeno gave him a small nod.
Chenle took a sip of the water and gave him a curious smile.
“You’re quieter in person than I thought.”
“I get that a lot.”
Chenle tilted his head. “You don’t like me, do you?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Still. You’re kind of staring at me like I insulted your mother.”
Jeno blinked once. Then said, “You talk a lot.”
Chenle grinned. “You’d be surprised how many people fall in love with me because of that.”
“I’m not looking to fall in love.”
“You think I am?” Chenle laughed, tossing the cap of the water bottle back into the bin. “I’m here for the drama, not the romance.”
Jeno turned away. “You’ve definitely found it.”
Chenle watched him for a second longer, lips still tilted up in that half playful way he always used when he didn’t quite know what to do with someone. He wasn’t used to being brushed off. Not directly. Especially not by someone like Jeno, who looked like he walked out of a sportswear magazine and spoke like he was giving post game interviews even off the field.
He should have left it there.
But something about Jeno’s steady silence made him want to press just a little more.
“You know,” Chenle said lightly, “if you ever want someone to teach you how to have fun, you know where to find me.”
“I don’t.”
“Then I guess I’ll make it easy for you.” He winked. “It’s Chenle. Just in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t,” Jeno said.
Then he walked away, steps even, shoulders squared.
Chenle stayed where he was, still holding the water bottle, smile slowly stretching into something softer.
“Interesting,” he said to himself.
And maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a conversation at the end of a long, formal night. But later, when he checked his messages on the way back to the hotel, he opened his Instagram and one among the numerous new notifications caught his attention.
leejen_o_423 started following you.
Chenle stared at the screen for a second. Then he smiled.
The message came two days later.
CHENLE ZHONG:
hey. still thinking about the snacks they never gave us 🍿
Jeno stared at it for a long moment before deciding not to reply. He locked his phone, placed it face down on the nightstand, and went back to his post game stretching routine.
The next night, another notification lit up his screen. A reply to one of his story highlights from the game.
CHENLE ZHONG:
your team’s shortstop needs to work on his reflexes lol
(but your pitch in the third inning? insane.)
Jeno read it. Didn’t reply.
But he smiled.
A few days later, a voice note came through. Jeno was in his hotel bed when he played it, the room dark except for the soft blue glow of his phone screen.
CHENLE ZHONG:
🎤
“Remind me why I do this for a living again? My legs are dying, my arms are noodles, and I still have to sit through a film review later like I didn’t already suffer enough on court today.
Anyway. I watched your highlights again. You’re seriously good.”
Jeno listened to it three times before sending a short reply.
LEE JENO:
Film reviews are worse than game losses.
The response came almost instantly.
CHENLE ZHONG:
I knew you had a soul.
Also, finally.
That was the beginning of it.
Their chats never started serious. Just two athletes complaining about training and making fun of each other’s teams. Chenle would send clips of ridiculous on court fouls with dramatic commentary. Jeno would counter with low quality screenshots of baseball memes. Their streak kept growing.
LEE JENO:
(photo of dinner)
Stew.
CHENLE ZHONG:
Did you cook that or run it over with a truck?
LEE JENO:
It’s stew.
CHENLE ZHONG:
It’s a crime.
Sometimes Jeno would wake up to three messages and a photo of the sky outside Chenle’s gym. Other times, he’d send a video of his dog rolling across the floor in a circle, just to hear Chenle laugh.
CHENLE ZHONG:
🎤
“I’m gonna die. Tell her she’s an idiot. I love her.”
Jeno started checking his notifications as soon as he got out of practice. He didn’t admit it, not even to himself, but something about the way Chenle talked made him feel lighter. Like all the pressure could wait a few more minutes.
Then, one evening, something shifted.
Jeno had posted a photo of the sky during golden hour. No caption. Just a shot of orange and grey clouds streaking over the stadium lights.
CHENLE ZHONG:
🎤
“You have a weird thing for skies. That’s your third post like that this month.”
LEE JENO:
🤷
A few minutes passed. Then another voice note came in, quieter this time.
CHENLE ZHONG:
🎤
“Don’t stop, though. I kind of look forward to them.”
Jeno didn’t reply. But he saved the audio.
That weekend, Jeno pitched a near perfect game. No walks. No runs. Clean sweep in front of a packed stadium. Reporters swarmed him afterward, asking about his focus, his form, his pregame rituals. He answered calmly, just like always.
Later, when the hotel room was quiet and the lights were off, he took a photo of the scoreboard on his phone and sent it without thinking.
LEE JENO:
For your film review.
Also. You talk a lot. I didn’t think I’d like it.
But I do.
The reply didn’t come right away. But when it did, it stayed open on his screen for a long time.
CHENLE ZHONG:
You’re kind of addictive, you know that?
Jeno read it twice.
Then three times.
Then typed, slowly.
LEE JENO:
You’re worse.
He set the phone down, heart steady but louder than usual.
Outside, the sky over Daegu had already gone dark. But Jeno kept staring at the ceiling, not tired at all.
Somewhere, he knew, Chenle was staring at his screen too.
Jeno wore a mask and a cap pulled low over his hair.
The hood of his sweatshirt was up, his hands deep in his pockets as he stood by the arrivals gate of the Shanghai airport, trying not to fidget. His flight had landed almost two hours ago, but his chest was still tight in that familiar way that only came from doing something no one could know about.
He hadn’t even told his team’s PR. Only Mark knew he was in Shanghai, and even that had taken some careful dodging.
“You’re flying out? You don’t even have a press event there.”
“Just a quick break before training picks up again.”
“You’re weird.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Text me when you land. And don’t die or whatever.”
Jeno had smiled. He texted him. Then got in a cab and sent a short message to the contact saved as 😹.
🐶:
outside.
The reply came quickly.
😹:
door on the left. black gate.
don’t knock too hard. it sticks.
Jeno followed the directions to a quiet residential area in the middle a what seems to be a garden but the size of a park. He spotted the black gate easily. His heart was beating too fast.
He raised a hand to knock. Then the door opened from the inside.
Chenle stood barefoot in grey sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, hair messy from a shower, expression casual like they had done this a hundred times.
“Hi,” he said.
Jeno swallowed. “Hi.”
“You look nervous.”
“I am.”
Chenle smiled and stepped aside. “Come in.”
The apartment was small but full of light. Jeno took in the trophies lined along a bookshelf. There were dishes in the sink and a candle burning on the windowsill.
It felt lived in. Like a place with real mornings.
Chenle closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
“So,” he said. “You really flew all the way here.”
“I did.”
“Just for one night?”
“For now.”
Chenle tilted his head slightly. “Why?”
Jeno turned to face him, hands still in his pockets.
“I wanted to see if it felt different in person.”
Chenle raised both eyebrows, but his smile didn’t falter.
“And?”
Jeno stepped a little closer.
“It does.”
For a moment, nothing moved. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything they hadn’t said. Chenle’s expression softened just slightly.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually do it,” he said quietly.
“I wasn’t sure either.”
“Are you regretting it?”
Jeno shook his head. “No.”
He took another step. Now they were only inches apart. The light from the window hit the edge of Chenle’s collarbone, his jaw, his mouth.
“You talk too much,” Jeno said.
Chenle smiled. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
And then Jeno kissed him.
It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow, like he wanted to be sure. Like he had waited long enough and didn’t want to get it wrong. Chenle’s hand moved to his neck, his fingers curling behind Jeno’s ear.
Jeno leaned in deeper.
Chenle made a soft sound against his lips, something quiet and breathless that sent a shiver straight down Jeno’s spine. The kiss deepened. Hands slid under fabric. Bodies leaned into each other like they had been waiting for the chance to stop pretending.
When they pulled apart, Chenle stayed close. His nose bumped Jeno’s cheek. He gave him a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.
“Okay,” he whispered. “That was better than I thought it would be.”
Jeno raised an eyebrow. “You thought it would be bad?”
“I thought you’d overthink it.”
“I still might.”
Chenle laughed and kissed him again. Just a quick one this time, like he couldn’t help it.
That was how the rest of the day went. Slow and quiet, filled with small touches. Chenle made tea while Jeno sat on the kitchen counter, their knees brushing every time one of them moved. Chenle put on music and danced like an idiot just to make Jeno smile.
He kept reaching out. Not obviously. Just a hand brushing Jeno’s arm as he passed, a warm palm sliding over his back when he leaned down to grab something. Little things. Thoughtless, affectionate things.
Jeno didn’t push him away. He never wanted to.
They watched a movie that neither of them paid attention to. Chenle rested his head on Jeno’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to his jaw. Jeno turned slightly, kissed the top of his head.
They played a video game after that, one that Jeno lost miserably. Chenle teased him for it, laughing until Jeno grabbed the controller and tackled him back onto the couch. They stayed tangled there for a while. Chenle kissed his cheek, then the corner of his eye, then leaned in for another kiss without warning.
“You’re really soft in person,” Chenle said.
Jeno rolled his eyes. “You keep saying that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
That night, they didn’t sleep together in the way most people would assume. No sex. No clothes dropped carelessly on the floor. Just two boys on a bed, sharing space and soft breaths and the kind of silence that felt more intimate than anything else.
Chenle fell asleep first, his head tucked against Jeno’s chest.
Jeno stayed awake a little longer, running his fingers lightly through Chenle’s hair, tracing the back of his shoulder with slow, quiet touches. He kissed the top of his head once, careful not to wake him.
It was just one night.
But it didn’t feel small.
The stadium lights were already warming up when Jeno checked his phone again. No new messages.
He took a deep breath, pulled his cap lower, and tried to focus on the warm up routine. It was an away game, not one that usually pulled huge headlines, but the seats were still filling up fast. The crowd buzzed with that familiar pregame energy. Music, chatter, camera flashes. His teammates were stretching around him, joking like always.
But Jeno couldn’t shake the feeling in his chest. Like something was about to happen. Like someone was already watching him.
He checked his phone again. Still nothing.
“Looking for someone?” Mark asked beside him, nudging him lightly with a shoulder.
“No,” Jeno said too quickly.
Mark gave him a look.
Jeno turned back toward the field. “Just checking the time.”
“Uh-huh,” Mark said. “You’ve checked the time three times in the last four minutes.”
Jeno didn’t respond.
Mark let it go. But Jeno caught the amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Fifteen minutes later, when the team jogged out for batting practice, Jeno glanced toward the stands. He scanned the crowd, fast but careful. And there, three rows behind the third base line, mask on, hood up, sitting between two older women with foam fingers, was Chenle.
He looked directly at Jeno. His eyes were laughing even if his mouth was hidden.
Jeno stared for a second too long. He blinked, adjusted his cap, then turned away quickly before anyone noticed.
He didn’t text. Didn’t smile. Didn’t wave.
But his next pitch came in sharper. His control was better. His rhythm steadier.
Mark noticed. “Someone’s focused today.”
Jeno said nothing.
The game ended 3–1. Clean win. No errors. One strikeout after another.
In the locker room, Jeno checked his phone again.
😹:
good game
you looked hot
I spilled nachos on my pants
worth it
Jeno laughed under his breath.
🐶:
you’re insane
😹:
I’m nearby
alley next to the side exit
10 minutes
Jeno changed quickly and slipped out before media could catch him. His team was used to him ducking out after games. He always blamed the noise. The attention. His coaches chalked it up to personality.
But this time, it wasn’t about needing quiet.
It was about needing Chenle.
He found him exactly where the message said he’d be, leaning against the wall with his hood still up. Chenle looked up when he saw him and grinned.
“You walked right past me during the second inning.”
“I wasn’t looking for you,” Jeno said, even though he was.
Chenle stepped closer. “No?”
“No.”
“Then this is awkward.”
Jeno laughed, short and quiet. Chenle tugged at his hoodie strings and leaned in without warning to kiss his cheek.
Jeno blinked. “Are you trying to get me killed?”
“No one’s watching.”
“They could be.”
Chenle shrugged. “Let them.”
Then he stepped closer again and kissed him properly. Just a soft press of lips. Nothing rushed. Nothing hidden. Jeno’s hand found the back of his neck. They stayed like that for a while, the noise of the city muffled behind them.
When they pulled apart, Chenle bumped their foreheads together.
“You’re better in person,” he said softly.
“You say that every time.”
“Still true.”
They ended up walking along the street together, caps down low, close enough to brush shoulders. Chenle told him about the cab driver who had asked if he was a volleyball player. Jeno told him about how Mark had almost figured something out.
“You need a better poker face,” Chenle said.
“You need to stop showing up at my games.”
“No.”
Jeno gave him a look.
Chenle smiled, smug and bright. “I’m your number one fan. That’s my official title.”
“I didn’t authorize that.”
“Too bad. You don’t get a say.”
Later, they stopped by a convenience store and shared a cup of instant ramen on the curb behind it, tucked between two vending machines where no one would think to look. Jeno passed him the egg from his cup. Chenle gave him the last of the noodles.
It wasn’t glamorous.
It wasn’t planned.
But it was easy. And warm. And exactly enough.
Before they said goodbye, Chenle kissed him again. On the cheek this time. Then once more, right at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re going to miss me,” he said.
“I already do,” Jeno replied.
Chenle lingered for a second, just long enough for his fingers to brush Jeno’s wrist.
Then he walked away.
Training camp was brutal that year.
The coaches were stricter, the drills were longer, and every minute of free time felt like a blessing too fragile to hold. Chenle barely had time to shower between sessions, let alone breathe. His legs ached constantly. His arms felt like sandbags. His brain was fried.
But none of that stopped him from calling or facetiming Jeno every night.
He kept his voice low. Curled up under the covers, the other pressed to his pillow. Most nights, Jeno was already half asleep when Chenle whispered hello. But he always answered.
Tonight was no different.
“Are you tired?” Chenle murmured.
“Exhausted,” Jeno said, looking sleepy in Chenle's screen.
“Me too. My arms might fall off tomorrow.”
“Don’t let them.”
“No promises.”
Jeno laughed quietly. “How bad is it?”
“Worse than pre-season. Coach made me run stairs twice just for laughing during drills.”
“You do laugh a lot.”
“It’s a coping mechanism.”
“Effective.”
There was a pause. Then Chenle sighed and rolled onto his side, back facing the door.
“Wish you were here,” he said.
“I know,” Jeno replied.
The silence after that wasn’t awkward. It never was. Chenle liked the sound of Jeno breathing on the other end. It made the room feel less empty.
He was just about to say something else when the door opened.
Jaemin stepped in with a towel around his shoulders, fresh from the showers and yawning into his arm. He stopped midstep.
Chenle froze.
Jeno’s voice drifted out from the speaker.
“Still there?”
Chenle scrambled. Yanked the blanket over his head, fumbled for the volume button, tried to hide the glow of his screen, but it was too late.
Jaemin had already seen it.
“Wow,” Jaemin said slowly. “Really?”
Chenle peeked out from under the blanket, guilty and annoyed.
“Do you ever knock?”
“It’s my room too.”
“Yeah, well, you could still knock.”
Jaemin crossed his arms and raised a brow.
Chenle sighed. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Jaemin said, dropping onto the other bed. “I’m just saying… of all people.”
“I know.”
“No, seriously. Of all people?”
“I know.”
Jaemin was quiet for a second. Then he leaned back against the headboard.
“I figured something was up.”
Chenle looked up.
“You’ve been different lately,” Jaemin said. “Happier. Softer. You zone out all the time. I thought maybe you found someone.”
Chenle didn’t say anything.
“You look in love,” Jaemin added.
That made Chenle blink.
“You do,” Jaemin said. “And I don’t mean that in a bad way. I just didn’t think it would be Lee Jeno.”
Chenle stayed silent, the phone still clutched under the blanket.
Jaemin tilted his head. “Is it serious?”
Chenle hesitated, then nodded.
“Okay,” Jaemin said simply. “Just… don’t let him hurt you.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it, Lele.”
Chenle looked up. “I mean it too.”
There was a pause. Jaemin stood up, grabbing a fresh shirt from his suitcase.
“I won’t say anything,” he said.
“You won’t?”
“Nope.”
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m your best friend. I’m allowed to be shocked. But I’m not mad.” He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed the towel onto the chair. “Honestly? He makes you look less annoying.”
Chenle grinned. “High praise.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Thank you.”
Jaemin turned off the light. “Just be careful. And if you ever need cover, I’ve got you.”
Chenle stared at the ceiling, heart still racing. He turned the volume of his phone up again as he face it.
“Still there?” he whispered.
Jeno’s voice came through, soft.
“I heard everything.”
Chenle smiled into the dark.
“Guess the secret’s getting harder to keep.”
The locker room had never been quiet, but lately, Jeno had been quieter.
Not moody. Just softer. Less guarded. Less tense in the shoulders, more present in conversations. And most noticeably smiling at his phone more than usual.
Mark noticed.
He noticed the way Jeno glanced at his screen during warm ups. The way he typed with a faint grin while pretending he wasn’t grinning. The way he put in an extra rep during drills and didn’t complain when he was asked to do one more.
He also noticed the way Jeno disappeared after games. Not every time, but often enough. Quiet exits. Ducking press. Leaving early with no clear excuse.
Mark gave it time. A week. Then two. Then he finally spoke up after practice one night, while Jeno was still taping his wrist.
“Is it someone?” Mark asked casually.
Jeno blinked. “What?”
“You’ve been acting weird.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.” Mark leaned against the lockers. “You’re happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
Jeno looked down, hands still on the tape.
Mark watched him for a moment, then added, “I won’t make you say it. But I’d like to know. Just to make sure you’re okay.”
There was a beat of silence. Jeno kept his eyes on the ground.
Then, softly, he said, “It’s Chenle.”
Mark didn’t react at first. Just blinked once, slowly.
“Zhong Chenle?”
Jeno gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
Mark leaned back against the locker and crossed his arms. “Well… that makes sense.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“I’m surprised it took you this long to admit it.”
Jeno let out a quiet breath. “So you’re not weirded out.”
“Jeno,” Mark said, “I’ve seen you get hit in the face with a bat and not flinch. But I’ve never seen you light up like this. It’s not weird. It’s just... real.”
Jeno looked up at him. His expression was open in a way he rarely showed anyone.
“I like him,” he said.
“I figured,” Mark said. “You look like someone who’s trying not to fall too hard but already did.”
Jeno didn’t deny it. He exhaled slowly, like the air had been sitting too long in his lungs. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Yeah.” Mark shrugged. “To everyone else? Not unless they’re looking.”
Jeno finally looked at him.
Mark’s expression shifted, softened.
“You look lighter, man. Like something good is finally yours. Just… don’t break each other, alright?”
Jeno nodded again, quieter this time. “We’re trying.”
Mark clapped a hand to his shoulder.
After that night, things shifted again but in a better way.
Mark started covering for him. Small things. Pulling attention away when someone got too curious. Buying time. Creating space.
It wasn’t long before Jaemin messaged him directly.
Jaemin:
so you know?
Mark:
yeah. you?
Jaemin:
walked in on them mid call. chenle almost died.
Mark:
jeno couldn’t stop smiling for a week.
Jaemin:
good. he deserves that.
From then on, it became quiet teamwork. Invisible help. Code words and strategic scheduling. Mark coordinated hotel exits during away games. Jaemin adjusted practice excuses when needed. Neither of them said much. They didn’t have to.
It wasn’t just about keeping the secret.
It was about protecting it.
It started with a photo.
Blurry. Grainy. Zoomed in from across the terminal. But unmistakable.
Two figures standing at the departure gate of Incheon International Airport. Both in masks and baseball caps. One tall, broad shouldered, hands in his hoodie pocket. The other in black sweats, pulling a carry on behind him.
Someone on Twitter posted it with the caption:
“Is that… Lee Jeno? And is that… CHENLE?? Boarding the same flight?? 👀”
The post didn’t go viral right away. But by nightfall, it was everywhere.
People started comparing shoes. Digging up photos. Matching the logo on Chenle’s luggage. Zooming in on body language. Fan accounts turned on full alert mode. Tags flooded with edits, rumors, commentary.
By morning, jeno chenle was trending across three platforms.
Jeno woke up to hundreds of notifications. Mentions. Speculation threads. Even journalists were joining the conversation.
He stared at the screen, heart pounding. The phone buzzed again. And again.
He turned it over. Face down.
But the panic had already settled in his chest.
The team had practice that morning. Jeno showed up late. He hadn’t eaten. His fingers shook when he laced his cleats. Mark watched him from across the locker room but didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
Halfway through drills, a staff member tapped Jeno’s shoulder and told him he was needed upstairs.
He didn’t ask why.
His agent was waiting in one of the conference rooms, arms crossed, phone on the table beside him.
“I’ll get straight to it,” he said. “You’re pulling out of the relationship. Immediately.”
Jeno stood frozen by the door. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb. You saw the leak.”
“I did.”
“Then you understand what’s at stake.”
Jeno didn’t answer.
The agent tapped the phone once, bringing up a document. “You’ve got a multi-year deal pending with a major brand in Korea. They’re prepping your face for campaign shoots and broadcast slots. Do you know what the clause says about image violations?”
“That’s not—”
“They classify 'unauthorized public entanglement with another celebrity' as a liability,” the agent cut in. “Especially cross-league. Especially same gender. Especially when you’re both in the prime of your careers.”
Jeno’s throat tightened. “It’s not a scandal. We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I’m not saying it’s wrong. I’m saying it’s bad timing. And in this business, timing is everything.”
Jeno looked away.
His agent’s voice lowered. “You’re twenty-four. This is your peak. You don’t get many windows like this. If this spirals, you’ll be defined by it. Not your stats. Not your record. This.”
Jeno clenched his jaw.
“This is a directive,” the agent said. “Not a suggestion. End it. Quietly. Or watch everything you’ve built slip through your fingers.”
The room fell silent.
Jeno didn’t argue. He just stood there, fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.
He didn’t know how he got through the rest of practice. The ball felt wrong in his hand. The weight on his back felt heavier. Mark didn’t press. Just kept close without saying anything.
That night, Jeno called Chenle.
The screen lit up. He stared at it for three full seconds before answering.
“Hey.”
“You saw?” Chenle asked, no greeting, no hesitation.
“Yeah.”
“I knew it would happen. Not this soon, but I knew.”
There was silence on both ends.
Chenle’s voice came again, careful but edged.
“What did they say?”
“They want me to end it.”
He heard Chenle breathe in. Then out.
“Are you going to?”
Jeno didn’t know how to answer.
“I’m trying to protect you,” he said quietly.
Chenle’s voice was calm, but his words were sharp.
“Don’t turn me into something you need to hide.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ve been quiet. Careful. I’ve never once asked for more than you could give. But this... this is too much.”
“You don’t understand what I’m risking.”
Chenle didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.
“I’m not something you throw out when it gets inconvenient.”
“Chenle—”
“I deserve better than that.”
Jeno couldn’t breathe.
And when they hung up, nothing felt real. Not the silence of his apartment. Not the ache in his chest. Not even the phone in his hand.
He didn’t sleep that night.
He couldn’t.
The next day, he played the worst game of his season.
Two errors. No control. Missed opportunities. His name started trending again, this time for the wrong reasons.
Fans speculated about injury. About pressure. About distractions.
None of them knew the truth.
Two more days passed.
Then, on the fourth night, Chenle opened the door to his apartment in Shanghai and found Jeno standing there.
No cap. No mask. Just him.
Chenle stared, frozen in place.
Jeno looked tired. Pale under the hallway light. Shoulders heavy. Eyes glassy.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” Jeno said. “I just got on a flight.”
Chenle’s voice barely came out. “Why?”
“Because I can’t lose you.”
Jeno stepped forward.
“I’m scared. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know if I’ll be enough. But I want you more than I want to be safe.”
It was quiet.
Chenle didn’t speak. He just reached out and pulled Jeno into his chest.
They stood there for a long time. No big declarations. No solutions.
Just the decision to keep choosing each other.
Even when it's hard.
The rules were different now.
Every movement had to be calculated. Every glance measured. Every silence intentional. One wrong step and the story would spiral all over again.
Jeno deleted every old message. Every photo. Even the folder he’d once hidden inside a folder inside another. His phone felt emptier. So did everything else.
But not for long.
Mark handed him a printed itinerary three days later. No digital trail. No names on file.
“Seoul to Taipei,” Mark said. “Connecting to Shanghai. You’ll land just after midnight. Jaemin’s picking him up.”
Jeno stared at the paper. “How did you—”
“I’ve got a friend in media relations who owes me a favor,” Mark said, shrugging. “It’s quiet for now, but don’t expect that to last.”
Jeno looked up. “Thank you.”
Mark didn’t answer right away. He just sat down on the bench across from him.
“You know I don’t say this kind of stuff a lot,” Mark said. “But I really meant it, Jeno. Don’t break each other. If you’re going to choose this, then fight for it. Smart. Clean. Quiet. But fight.”
Jeno nodded. His throat was too tight to speak.
Chenle waited in the back seat of Jaemin’s car outside the airport. Hoodie zipped to his chin. Mask on. His leg bounced uncontrollably.
Jaemin was eating fries.
“Relax,” he said. “You look like you’re waiting to do a drug deal.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“At lying?”
“At waiting.”
Jaemin smirked. “You’re in love. Of course you’re bad at waiting.”
The car door opened quietly. Jeno slipped in and pulled the hood over his head. They didn’t speak right away.
Chenle didn’t need words.
He leaned across the seat and hugged him so tight that Jeno’s hat got knocked sideways. Jaemin looked away and rolled down the window like it made a difference.
They drove in silence after that. Just breathing the same air felt like enough.
The apartment Jaemin borrowed for them was in a quiet part of the city. No neighbors. No press. No risk.
Jeno dropped his bag by the door. Chenle stood in the middle of the room, unsure whether to speak or move.
Jeno didn’t hesitate. He walked straight to him, pulled him into a kiss that tasted like longing and apology, and let his hands curl into the back of Chenle’s sweatshirt.
No panic. No shame.
Just them.
They didn’t talk about the photo. Or the fans. Or the pressure.
They just held each other.
Later, they lay side by side on the couch, legs tangled, a shared blanket over their knees. Chenle played music quietly from his phone. Jeno’s fingers traced shapes along Chenle’s wrist, soft and steady.
“Did you get in trouble again?” Chenle asked, voice low.
“Yeah,” Jeno said.
“Do they know you’re here?”
“No. Only Mark.”
Chenle didn’t ask more. He knew the cost of this love. He felt it every day. But still, he asked—
“Was it worth it?”
Jeno looked at him. Really looked.
“You are.”
That night, they didn’t sleep much. Not because they were afraid. But because they knew how short the hours were. Every second mattered.
They talked in whispers. About stupid things. About music, and food, and how Jaemin once got a nosebleed during drills and blamed the weather.
They laughed quietly, mouths close.
Chenle kissed the inside of Jeno’s palm. Jeno kissed the corner of Chenle’s smile.
They stayed like that until dawn, hearts tucked into each other.
The next morning, Jeno was gone before the sun rose. Jaemin drove him back in the dark. No one saw them. No one spoke.
When Jaemin returned to the apartment, Chenle was still awake. Sitting by the window. Watching the light break over the skyline.
“You okay?” Jaemin asked, handing him a bottle of water.
Chenle nodded.
“Was it worth all that?” Jaemin said.
Chenle took a sip. “Yeah.”
Jaemin smiled. “Then we’ll keep going. One step at a time.”
The world didn’t pause just because they were in love.
It moved forward, fast and demanding, filled with matches, interviews, travel, early practices, sore muscles, and tight schedules. Nothing stopped, not even when everything inside Jeno was telling him to.
He had grown used to routine. It was how he stayed afloat. Eat, train, game, sleep. Predictable. Sharp. Controlled. There was no space for softness in a life like his. And yet he had carved out some anyway, quietly, in the dark.
But softness didn’t survive well in silence.
He hadn’t seen Chenle in twelve days. And though it wasn’t the longest they had gone apart, it felt heavier this time. Like the air around him had thickened. Like every day without him weighed more than the one before.
The messages were brief. Hidden between flights and press conferences. Disguised by apps and locked behind passwords. Still, they mattered more than anything else.
😸
My bed’s too big without you.
🐶
So is the space beside mine.
😸
I stole your hoodie. Again.
🐶
I was hoping you would.
But texts couldn’t fill the gaps. And sometimes Jeno sat alone in his room, staring at the wall, trying to remember the sound of Chenle’s laugh. The real one. The one he only made when no one else was listening.
It felt like loving from behind glass.
Chenle was unraveling differently.
He had spent months following the rules. Walk behind, stay quiet, avoid eye contact, say nothing, smile through it. But love, when it’s real, doesn’t shrink to fit someone else's comfort.
And he was tired of pretending he wasn’t in love.
It hit him on a quiet morning in Beijing. Chenle opened his suitcase, looking for a clean shirt.
He pulled out the black hoodie instead.
Soft. Worn. Familiar. The Seoul Phoenix crest stitched just beneath the collar. Jeno’s team.
He held it in both hands. The scent was faint now, but it was still there. That comforting mix of detergent and aftershave and something that just felt like home.
He hesitated. Then pulled it over his head.
Not to show off. Not to prove anything.
Just to feel close.
The event was small. Just a live Q&A at a mall in the outskirts. Around thirty fans, a few press photos, and a quick panel. He and Jaemin shared the stage, passing a single mic back and forth.
No one noticed the hoodie at first.
But eventually, one fan asked.
“Chenle, are you into baseball now?”
Jaemin’s gaze flicked sideways. Chenle didn’t miss it.
He adjusted the mic in his hand and smiled.
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Been watching more lately. The Phoenix are pretty fun to follow.”
Nothing else. No wink. No pause. Just casual interest.
But fans were fast.
Someone snapped a photo.
The internet caught it before he even got back to the car.
They were halfway through post game recovery when Mark handed him the phone.
“You seen this yet?”
Jeno looked down.
Chenle. On stage. His hoodie. His smile.
His chest tightened.
He watched the video again. And again. It didn’t say anything directly. But it said enough.
Mark sat beside him in silence.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Jeno answered.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
Mark didn’t speak for a moment. Then quietly, he said, “You think this is going to start something?”
“It might.”
“And you? What are you going to do?”
Jeno didn’t know. His stomach twisted with something between panic and awe.
He wasn’t angry.
Just afraid.
That night, Jeno sat on the edge of his bed. He didn’t know what he wanted to say until he was already calling.
No video. Just voice.
🐶
🎤 You wore it.
😸
🎤 I missed you.
🐶
🎤 You didn’t tell me.
😸
🎤 I knew you’d try to stop me.
🐶
🎤 Maybe I would’ve.
😸
🎤 I just wanted one thing that still felt like mine.
He stayed quiet for a long time after that.
Then finally, he whispered.
🐶
🎤 I’m still scared.
😸
🎤 I am too. But I don’t want to be scared of loving you anymore.
Jeno closed his eyes.
🐶
🎤 You looked good.
😸
🎤 I always do.
Three weeks later, Jaemin convinced him to come.
The Phoenix had a home game. It was late, but Chenle cleared his evening.
They didn’t buy VIP seats. Didn’t sneak through backdoors.
Just third base side. Two rows behind a column. A hoodie and a baseball cap, sunglasses even though the sun had already set.
He sat there quietly, only nudging Jaemin when a foul ball almost reached them. Clapping softly after each strikeout. But when Jeno stepped onto the mound, he couldn’t help it.
He leaned forward.
Jeno didn’t see him at first.
But Mark did. And he didn’t say a word.
And when Jeno finally looked up during the fifth inning, just for a second, their eyes locked across the stadium.
Chenle didn’t wave.
He didn’t need to.
That night, long after the final pitch, the messages came.
😸
You saw me?
🐶
I always do.
😸
You were incredible tonight.
🐶
You scare me sometimes.
😸
Why?
🐶
Because you’re braver than me.
😸
Then follow me.
Jeno typed slowly, then hit send before he could change his mind.
🐶
I will.
Jeno didn’t sneak into the arena this time.
No tinted van. No service entrance. No hiding behind Mark’s shoulder while staff distracted security.
He just walked through the crowd like any other ticket holder. Cap low, hoodie plain, mask snug against his jaw.
And still, people noticed.
Not all. But enough.
One girl passed him in the corridor and did a double take, whispering too loudly to her friend. Someone else angled their phone in his direction, pretending to film the banners on the ceiling.
But Jeno kept walking. Hands in his pockets. Face calm.
The arena lights were bright, but Jeno kept his cap low as he and Mark made their way to their seats.
It was a packed game. Chenle’s team was facing one of the top local rivals, and the buzz around the court was electric.
They sat near the middle, where the view was perfect and the risk of recognition was higher. Jeno could already feel a few glances settling on them, but he didn’t care.
Chenle was already on the court, warming up.
The ball spun lazily from hand to hand as he moved through his drills. He looked relaxed. Focused. Alive.
Jeno couldn’t look away.
“You know,” Mark murmured, passing him a drink, “you don’t blink when he’s playing.”
Jeno didn’t answer.
Mark elbowed him gently. “Just saying. You’ve got it bad.”
“I’ve had it bad,” Jeno said. “I just stopped pretending I don’t.”
And when Chenle's eyes swept the stands, they stopped. Just for a second.
Jeno didn’t wave. He didn’t smile.
But Chenle blinked once. And that was enough.
They watched the game in silence after that. Every time Chenle touched the ball, the arena roared. He moved with sharp grace, cutting through defenders, weaving into space like he was born there.
In the third quarter, he hit a deep three, turned midair, and smiled just before his feet touched the ground.
Jeno knew that smile.
Mark caught him grinning.
“Oh yeah,” Mark muttered. “That one was for you.”
Jeno didn’t deny it.
The game ended in a win. Barely. Overtime again. Chenle was drenched in sweat, chest heaving, arms lifted as the final buzzer sounded.
The team jogged off the court toward the tunnel but Chenle didn’t follow.
Not right away.
He lingered.
He turned to the crowd, lifted a hand, and waved. Just once. Nothing too big. But enough.
Fans screamed.
And Chenle didn’t rush it. He smiled. Tossed his wristband to a kid in the front row. Let his gaze drift slowly, casually, across the crowd.
For a moment, his eyes locked on Jeno’s section.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then he was gone.
Back into the tunnel. Back into the locker room. But the imprint of him stayed.
Jeno exhaled, slow.
“You good?” Mark asked as people around them began to stand.
“I’m fine,” Jeno said, but his voice cracked a little.
Mark patted his shoulder. “He saw you.”
“I know.”
“And he stayed.”
Jeno nodded. “I know.”
They left with the rest of the crowd. No one stopped them. Some looked. A few whispered.
But Jeno didn’t shrink.
He walked a little taller than before.
It didn’t take long for the whispers to turn into full-blown noise.
By the time Jeno and Mark were halfway to the parking garage, someone had already uploaded a blurry photo to Twitter.
“Wait is this… Jeno??? At Chenle’s game???”
The replies exploded.
“That’s definitely Mark beside him omfg”
“They were sitting near our section, we saw them during warmups”
“Jeno Lee… soft launching a basketball boyfriend???”
Another video surfaced an hour later. Shot from behind, it showed Chenle lingering after the final buzzer, glancing toward the stands.
Zoom. Enhance. Pause.
“Tell me he didn’t look RIGHT at him.”
“HE WAVED. TO. THAT. SECTION.”
“Let me dream in peace please”
“It’s them. It’s always been them.”
By midnight, a fancam compilation was trending.
🎥 #JenoAtTheGame
Footage of Jeno watching Chenle play
Clip of Jeno smiling during warmups
Chenle’s wave
Screengrab of a fan tweet saying: “You don’t look at a friend like that.”
TikTok edits followed the next morning. Set to soft R&B and dramatic voiceovers.
“This is not a drill. He sat through the whole game. In the open. For him.”
What surprised them most, more than the theories, more than the slow motion glances was how supportive the reaction became.
Sure, there were doubters. There always were.
But the louder voice was joy.
“Two elite athletes, just quietly rooting for each other? That’s love.”
“Let them date. Let them win. Let them cook.”
“Why are my parents more in love than me??”
By the time Jeno checked his phone the next morning, his name was trending under athletes in love.
He blinked at the screen.
Then he opened his messages.
🐶
I think they’re onto us.
😸
Took them long enough.
His agent didn’t call. He showed up.
Jeno had just finished icing his shoulder when the knock came.
Manager Kim stepped in, sharp suit, sharper tone.
“What were you thinking?”
Jeno leaned back in the chair, already exhausted.
“I bought a ticket. Watched a game. That’s legal, isn’t it?”
“You weren’t watching just any game.”
“I know.”
“You were recognized.”
Jeno didn’t deny it.
“We’ve been trying to steer the conversation away from the airport leak. This will bring it right back.”
“Maybe it should.”
His agent paused. “You’re risking everything. Your privacy. Your endorsements. You think they’ll all keep quiet if this becomes real?”
Jeno didn’t shout. He didn’t flinch. He just said the words like they’d been sitting in his mouth for months, waiting.
“I love him.”
The room stilled.
“I’m done living like I’m doing something wrong.”
Manager Kim sighed. Not angry. Just tired.
“You don’t owe the world your heart,” he said. “But you don’t control what they do with it either.”
“I know.”
There was a long silence between them.
Then, his agent said, “Just be careful.”
“I am.”
And he was. But he wasn’t afraid anymore.
Mark and Jaemin kept coordinating.
Little gaps in schedules. Empty apartments. Cities that overlapped for just a day.
Sometimes Jeno would land late, half asleep and hungry, and find Chenle waiting for him with ramen and a grin.
Other times, Chenle would collapse into Jeno’s chest the second the door closed behind him. Like gravity only worked when they were together.
They started calling those places “safe houses.”
They didn’t belong to either of them, not really. A rented flat in Busan. A teammate’s cousin’s place in Shanghai. A condo Mark had leased under a fake name.
But inside those walls, they were just two men in love.
They cooked together. Burned things. Tried again. Chenle teased Jeno for cracking eggs too hard. Jeno chased him around the kitchen with a spoon full of chili oil.
They folded laundry and made the bed too messy to sleep in.
They fell asleep with Chenle curled up wearing Jeno’s Phoenix hoodie, one sock missing, mouth open just a little.
Jeno would wake first and watch him. Always watch him.
Sometimes he still couldn’t believe it was real.
😸
I left a chocolate bar in your bag. Don’t blame me if it melts.
🐶
I already ate it.
😸
Rude.
🐶
Sweet.
😸
Miss you again.
🐶
Me too. Next week?
😸
I’ll be there.
The next time they were in the same city, they didn’t bother hiding.
Jeno wore a plain cap and sunglasses. Chenle didn’t even bring a hoodie. They sat together at a late night ramen place near the edge of town.
No cameras. No disguise. Just tired smiles and elbows touching.
And when someone walked past them and whispered, “I think that’s them,” neither of them moved.
They just kept eating.
Because love wasn’t a scandal.
Not here.
Not anymore.
Later that night, in one of their safe houses tucked above a sleepy grocery store in Suwon, they were sprawled on the couch. Chenle had claimed one end, legs across Jeno’s lap, while a muted nature documentary flickered on the TV. Neither of them was really watching.
Jeno had a hand on Chenle’s shin, thumb brushing idly over bone.
“You know,” Chenle mumbled, “I used to think I’d never be this kind of person.”
“What kind?” Jeno asked.
“This soft. This… cheesy.”
Jeno smiled. “You still pretend you’re not.”
“I try,” Chenle said, eyes fluttering shut. “But it’s hard when you do stupid things like kiss my knee for no reason.”
Jeno leaned down and did it again, just to be annoying. A small kiss to the inside of Chenle’s knee, followed by another just above his sock.
Chenle’s lips curled at the edges.
“You’re the reason I’m like this,” he whispered.
Jeno didn’t answer right away. He rested his chin on Chenle’s leg, watching his profile under the soft yellow lamplight.
“You’re the reason I’m still doing this,” he said quietly. “Baseball. Everything. You make it feel worth something.”
Chenle opened his eyes. He blinked slowly, like the words were too much and not enough at once.
He didn’t say anything. Just sat up, swung his legs around, and moved until he was straddling Jeno’s lap.
No rush. No hunger. Just closeness.
He held Jeno’s face in both hands and kissed him like they had forever.
Jeno held him back like he didn’t care who was watching anymore.
They stayed like that for a long time. Wrapped up in warmth. Every breath quiet. Every heartbeat shared.
The next morning, they made pancakes together.
Or tried to.
Jeno nearly set off the smoke alarm twice, and Chenle kept flipping them too early, turning the first few into shapeless, half-raw messes.
“Why are they bubbling like that?” Jeno asked, frowning at the pan.
“Because you stirred too much,” Chenle said, stealing a bite off the plate.
“You stirred too little.”
“I stirred the perfect amount.”
“You’re the most arrogant pancake chef I’ve ever met.”
Chenle licked syrup off his thumb. “And yet… you love me.”
Jeno caught his wrist, kissed the syrup away. “I really do.”
Chenle softened. “Me too.”
They ate sitting on the floor, plates balanced on their knees, Jeno’s hoodie half draped over Chenle’s legs like a shared blanket.
Outside, the city moved. Trains ran. People hurried to work. But inside their little safe house, time slowed.
Jeno thought, maybe this was the real reason he could keep doing it. Keep playing. Keep fighting. Keep living like the world would let him.
Because here, with Chenle pressed against his side, sticky with syrup and grinning like a troublemaker, life didn’t feel like something to survive.
It felt like something to stay for.
It started with a jersey.
Not even the full thing, just the sleeve. A glimpse of white and maroon at the edge of the frame during a livestream Chenle did for fans. He was on the couch, hair still damp from a shower, talking about a new training program and sipping from a water bottle.
Then he shifted, reaching for his phone charger.
And for just half a second, the edge of the sleeve rose up.
The Phoenix logo. Clear as day.
The chat didn’t miss it.
“Wait is that Jeno’s team??”
“that’s a phoenix jersey oh my god”
“is he wearing his bf’s clothes again?”
“AGAIN????”
The clip hit Twitter before the stream ended.
#PhoenixChenle trended in three languages.
Jeno saw it halfway through a post practice stretch. Mark handed him his phone with a look that said brace yourself.
Jeno clicked the link. Watched it in silence.
“You okay?” Mark asked.
“I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
Not because of the jersey. But because he already knew what would happen next.
And it did.
His agency called within the hour.
“Keep it quiet,” his manager said over the phone. “No comments. No likes. If someone asks, say you were surprised too.”
“I was surprised,” Jeno replied dryly. “He didn’t tell me.”
“That doesn’t make this better. It makes it worse.”
Jeno leaned against the locker, staring at the scuffed tile floor.
“What do you want me to do? Pretend I don’t know him?”
“I want you to think long term. Endorsements. Branding. The league’s tolerance has limits.”
“And mine doesn’t?”
There was silence on the other end.
Then, carefully, “Just… hold the line, Jeno. Don’t push it.”
But the line was already blurring. It had been for a while.
Later that night, they met at a friend’s apartment in Gangnam. Mark had arranged it through someone who owed him a favor. Quiet place. Underground parking. No questions asked.
Chenle was already there when Jeno arrived, barefoot in sweatpants, eating ice cream straight from the tub.
“You saw it?” he asked.
Jeno nodded, dropping his bag on the floor.
“Sorry,” Chenle said. “It wasn’t on purpose.”
Jeno sat beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touched.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“No, it’s not.”
They stayed quiet for a while. The TV played something neither of them was watching.
Then Chenle said, softly, “Do you ever think about… not hiding?”
Jeno turned to him. “You mean coming out?”
Chenle didn’t say yes. He didn’t need to.
“I think about it,” Jeno admitted. “Every day.”
“And?”
“And I’m scared.”
Chenle looked down at the spoon in his hand.
“I am too.”
Jeno reached over and took the tub from him, setting it aside. Then he laced their fingers together.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “But I want to figure it out with you.”
Chenle smiled faintly. “Even if it’s messy?”
“Especially then.”
They didn’t make decisions that night. But they didn’t need to.
They cooked again, badly. Fell asleep with a movie still playing. Woke up wrapped around each other, too tangled to tell where one started and the other ended.
And when Chenle opened his phone the next morning, he found new fan tweets bookmarked for him.
“every time chenle wears phoenix gear my lifespan shortens”
“do they think we can’t SEE them”
“atp just date and drop the mixtape”
He showed them to Jeno, who snorted into his coffee.
“You’re not helping,” Jeno muttered.
Chenle kissed his cheek. “I’m not trying to.”
From then on, they didn’t hide as much.
If they were in the same city, Jeno went to Chenle’s games. Sometimes with Mark. Sometimes alone. He sat in plain view and clapped like everyone else.
Chenle stopped ducking out of arenas in a rush. Sometimes he lingered, waved to fans, let himself be seen.
The rumors didn’t stop.
But the sky didn’t fall either.
In fact, more fans began rooting for the. As individuals, as athletes, maybe even as something more.
One popular account called them “sports soulmates.” The phrase stuck.
They didn’t speak about it publicly. Not yet. But behind closed doors, something had shifted.
They were no longer just surviving the pressure.
They were choosing each other inside it.
🐶
You left your water bottle again.
😸
You can keep it. Mark says you need to hydrate more anyway.
🐶
I drink plenty.
😸
Your skin says otherwise.
🐶
Your mouth is annoying.
😸
You love my mouth.
🐶
Unfortunately.
😸
See you Friday?
🐶
I’ll be there.
They didn’t talk about it directly.
Not to reporters. Not to teammates. Not even to each other, not at first.
But everything had changed.
It was in the way people looked at them now. Longer. Sharper. More curious.
The fan reactions had been loud, but the silence after was louder. Agencies met behind closed doors. PR teams debated strategy. Words like contain and reframe were whispered into phones and passed through assistants like secret codes.
Jeno and Chenle weren’t told to deny anything. But they weren’t told to confirm it either.
Instead, they were told to “hold the line.”
Which meant nothing and everything at once.
Jeno sat on the bench during a media timeout, towel over his shoulders, watching the LED ads roll around the stadium walls.
His coach clapped a hand on his shoulder as he passed. Mark tossed him a water bottle with a nod. The camera panned to the dugout, paused for a beat, and then cut away.
Later, someone would DM him a screencap of that second.
“The way you always look like you’re waiting for someone.”
“You love like a sports movie.”
“Is he in the stands again today?”
He wasn’t. Chenle had a game in Hangzhou that night.
Jeno knew the tip off time by heart. Knew the time difference too. He always did.
When his game ended, he ducked out of the post win interview early, claiming a sore ankle, and was in the backseat of Mark’s car by the time Chenle’s game hit halftime.
He watched the stream with his earphones in, face lit up by his phone screen.
Chenle was playing well. Fast. Sharp. On fire.
Jeno caught himself smiling halfway through the third quarter and leaned his head back against the seat.
“Mark,” he said suddenly.
“Yeah?”
“If we made it to the finals… and he was there in the crowd… would you think that’s crazy?”
Mark kept his eyes on the road.
“No. I’d think that’s brave.”
That night, Chenle called him first.
😸
🎤 That dunk was for you.
🐶
🎤 It better have been. I almost swerved into traffic.
😸
🎤 You watching in real time again?
🐶
🎤 Always.
😸
🎤 I miss you.
🐶
🎤 I know. Me too.
A week later, Chenle’s team landed in Seoul for an exhibition game.
Jeno showed up to the arena wearing a cap and a loose hoodie, Phoenix colors, and entered through a side entrance Jaemin had arranged.
Mark waited with him in the staff hallway.
Inside, the court was loud. Fans were chanting. Cameras flashed. Chenle hadn’t come out yet.
Jeno fidgeted with his phone, then tucked it away again.
“You okay?” Mark asked quietly.
“I don’t know how to just be… normal anymore,” Jeno said.
“You were never normal to begin with.”
Jeno laughed. “Thanks.”
Then the announcer called Chenle’s name.
The roar of the crowd was instant. It cracked the air open.
And Jeno stepped out into it.
Not onto the court. Just into the tunnel where the bench sat. No big statement. No spotlight. But enough for Chenle to see him as he warmed up.
And he did.
Even from across the court, even with a hundred people in between, Chenle saw him.
Their eyes met.
And Chenle smiled.
The kind that wasn’t for the cameras.
The kind that said: You came.
Jeno stayed until the third quarter. Then slipped out the back with Mark again, hoodie up, heart full.
He didn’t need to be seen.
He just needed to be there.
Later that night, Chenle posted on Instagram.
No selfie. No caption.
Just a blurry picture of the court, and one clear shot of the Phoenix logo stitched on the inside of a hoodie collar.
The fans lost their minds.
“CHENLE IN JENO’S CLOTHES AGAIN STOP IT”
“THEY ARE MARRIED IN SPIRIT”
“Just tell us already we’re begging”
And still, neither of them said a word.
Because sometimes silence was protection.
And sometimes it was a love language too.
😸
You looked good in the dark.
🐶
I thought I was hiding.
😸
Not from me.
🐶
Stay one more day?
😸
I already extended my flight.
🐶
You didn’t tell me.
😸
I wanted to surprise you.
🐶
You’re really bad at that.
😸
You’re really bad at hiding how much you like it.
🐶
Unfortunately.
The rain came that morning. Soft at first, then heavier.
The city felt slower under the clouds. The kind of day made for staying inside, for bare feet on hardwood floors, for mismatched mugs and the clink of chopsticks against ceramic.
They didn’t do anything special.
That was the point.
Chenle padded into the kitchen in Jeno’s old team hoodie, sleeves too long. His hair was still wet from the shower, and his voice was scratchy when he spoke.
“You don’t have milk.”
“I have almond milk,” Jeno said from the couch.
“That doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
Chenle muttered something under his breath and reached into the cabinet for cereal anyway. Jeno watched him from where he was curled up under a blanket, phone facedown, TV on mute.
It had been a long few weeks. Headlines. Messages. Interviews. That strange middle place between privacy and exposure. A space where they were both seen and not seen, held and questioned and left alone all at once.
But today felt like nothing was waiting.
Just them. Just here.
“Come sit,” Jeno said quietly.
Chenle brought his bowl over and sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch, shoulder pressing into Jeno’s knee.
They watched the rain roll down the window for a while. No conversation. No noise.
Just the soft tap of rain on glass, and the kind of silence that felt earned.
“I thought I’d be more scared,” Jeno said eventually.
Chenle tilted his head, waiting.
“Of people finding out,” Jeno added. “Of not being able to take it back.”
“And now?”
Jeno looked down at him. “Now I want to give you everything.”
Chenle smiled faintly, his fingers grazing the edge of Jeno’s knee. “You already have.”
It was quiet again for a moment.
Then Jeno leaned forward, slowly, reaching for something tucked behind the couch cushion.
Chenle blinked when he saw it. Just a small, folded envelope. The edges were creased like Jeno had been holding onto it for a while.
“What’s that?”
Jeno handed it to him.
Inside was a photo.
A Polaroid, slightly faded. Taken during a road trip about a year ago. Jeno’s hoodie wrapped around Chenle’s shoulders. A gas station in the background. Both of them smiling, eyes crinkled, heads tilted toward each other.
Chenle traced the edges with his thumb.
“You kept this?”
“It’s been in my wallet since that day.”
He reached into his back pocket then. Took out a small velvet pouch.
This time, it was the ring.
Simple. Smooth. Silver.
No theatrics.
Just Jeno, kneeling on the floor, his voice low but steady.
“Marry me,” he said. “Not for the fans. Not for the press. Just because I want to keep coming home to this. To you. Like this.”
Chenle didn’t say anything at first.
Then he set the photo down, reached out with both hands, and pulled Jeno into a kiss that said everything.
Yes.
Always.
Already yours.
They didn’t post about it.
Not then.
They didn’t wake up early that day.
It was already past nine when Chenle blinked his eyes open and realized the sun was slanting across the blanket in gold ribbons. The room smelled like skin and laundry and the faint trace of Jeno’s shampoo.
He turned over and found him there.
Warm. Asleep. Face pressed into the pillow, one arm curled loosely around Chenle’s waist.
“Hey,” Chenle whispered. “You’re drooling.”
Jeno stirred, but didn’t open his eyes. “It’s love. Deal with it.”
Chenle laughed under his breath and brushed Jeno’s hair back gently.
He didn’t feel nervous. Not even a little.
That surprised him.
Because the word marriage used to feel like a wall. Like something they couldn’t have. Not now, not yet, maybe not ever. Not when half their life was built on codes and tunnels, missed calls and plane rides, rooms they never signed for under their real names.
But now it felt like something else entirely.
Not a performance.
Not an escape.
Just the next true thing.
“Do we have to wear suits?” Chenle asked eventually, pressing his nose to Jeno’s shoulder.
“I’m wearing jeans.”
“Good. I’m not brushing my hair.”
“Disgusting,” Jeno mumbled.
“You chose me.”
“Unfortunately.”
They got up an hour later. Moved slowly. Made coffee. Took turns with the shower. Jeno let Chenle use his favorite cologne. Chenle didn’t tease him for fixing his collar three times in the mirror.
It wasn’t a big ceremony. Just a quiet civil registration. Two witnesses. No vows.
But Jeno still brought a ring in his pocket.
He had worn one since the night he proposed. Now Chenle would wear his too.
They met Mark and Jaemin near the government office. The weather was cool. Overcast. The kind of day that wouldn’t burn too bright, wouldn’t be remembered by the city, but would live forever in the hearts of four men standing quietly under a sky the color of soft ash.
“You sure you want to do this?” Jaemin asked with a crooked smile.
Chenle looked at Jeno. Then at the paper in his hand.
“Yeah,” he said. “I really do.”
“Good,” Mark said, squeezing Jeno’s shoulder. “Then let’s go.”
Inside, it didn’t take long. Just names. Signatures. A small nod from the clerk who processed the form.
Jeno looked over at Chenle as the final stamp landed on the page. Their hands were still linked.
And suddenly, it was real.
He felt his chest swell with something too big for words. Not pride. Not even joy.
Something deeper. Something quiet and rooted.
Like arriving at the place you’d been walking toward your whole life.
They didn’t go for anything fancy. Just a small family run restaurant tucked between buildings.
They ordered too much, grilled meat, fried dumplings, bowls of steaming jjigae, and shared everything.
Jaemin kept trying to take photos of them.
Mark kept stealing bites from everyone’s plate.
They laughed more than they talked. It felt good. Simple. Like a soft exhale after years of holding in too much air.
When it was time to go, Chenle slipped his hand into Jeno’s again.
No one said anything. But they all noticed.
They always did.
The post went live at 9:17 a.m., Seoul time.
A black square. White text.
There were no photos. No tag. No name. Just a quiet black square with white text. It was the kind of announcement that didn’t need glitter or spectacle to matter.
"Thank you to everyone who has continued to support me all this time.
I have an announcement to make.
We registered our marriage this week.
He’s someone I’ve shared victories and losses with, even if no one knew.
I’m grateful to keep building a life with him.
Please continue to support us both.
— Jeno"
No hashtags. No PR gloss. Just the truth, delivered in the same tone Jeno always used when speaking to the public. Quiet, composed, careful.
Within minutes, chaos followed.
Screenshots flooded group chats. Sports forums lit up. “Lee Jeno married?!” trended worldwide in four languages. Fans speculated everything from secret lover to contract marriages. The press started digging, theories multiplying with every passing second.
And Jeno wasn’t even looking at his phone.
He was in the kitchen rinsing rice.
Behind him, Chenle sat on the floor with his back against the couch, sleeves rolled up, hair unbrushed from sleep. He had a toothbrush dangling from the corner of his mouth and his phone in one hand, eyes flicking through the oncoming storm of reactions.
“Wanna hear what the crazy theories are?” he asked, voice muffled by foam.
“No,” Jeno said, still focused on the rice.
“Too bad. Secret lover from your hometown. Fake marriage with a Korean idol. You’re dating your catcher.”
Jeno shut off the tap and looked over his shoulder.
“I don’t even have a regular catcher.”
“That’s what makes it juicy,” Chenle said with a shrug and teasing smile.
He stood up and stretched, tossing his towel on the back of a chair as he walked toward the counter.
“You’re more mysterious than I thought,” he added, setting his phone down.
Outside the window, Seoul was quiet.
Jeno placed the rice into the cooker and pressed the button without a word.
“I’m not going to post a selfie of us making out in the kitchen,” he said.
“Did I ask for that?” Chenle raised an eyebrow.
Jeno gave him a look.
Chenle smiled. “Okay. Maybe I implied it.”
Steam drifted up from the miso pot as they stood in the stillness of their small apartment. It wasn’t much, just two rooms and a narrow balcony, but it had a bed they both fit in, a fridge stocked with things only one of them could cook, and two pairs of shoes by the door.
“Hang on,” Chenle said.
He walked into the bathroom, pulled out his phone again, and took a photo of the two toothbrushes in their usual spot beside the mirror. One blue, one white. The ceramic cup holding them had a tiny crack near the base, from when Jeno had dropped it months ago.
He opened Instagram. No filter, no tags. Just the caption:
Shared wins, shared mornings.
By the time he wandered back to the kitchen, it already had thousand of likes.
“You’re enjoying this,” Jeno muttered as he stirred the soup.
“Not as much as I’m enjoying watching you sweat,” Chenle replied, reaching for the teacups.
Then he paused. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
Jeno turned to look at him. Chenle’s voice had dropped just slightly, the way it always did when he was being careful. His arms were crossed, but his eyes weren’t teasing anymore.
Jeno reached across the counter and took his hand.
“I’m sure,” he said.
Chenle exhaled through his nose, his fingers curling gently around Jeno’s.
“You said it nicely,” Chenle murmured.
Jeno kissed his hand. “Was I supposed to say something mean?”
Chenle hummed. “You could’ve said you were taken by someone tall, hot, and rich.”
“I did say victories and losses.”
Chenle shoved him. Jeno laughed.
“We’re going to be trending for a week.”
“Already expected it.”
“And our fans are going to lose it.”
“Some of them already ship us.”
Chenle laughed under his breath.
“Congratulations, then.”
The rice cooker beeped. Jeno let go of his hand and served them both.
They ate at the table, legs brushing beneath it. Chenle kept sneaking glances at his phone until Jeno reached over and turned it facedown.
“No more Twitter,” Jeno said.
“Yes, sir.”
The news outside would keep spinning. People would dig up old livestreams and hoodie sightings, blurry photos of Chenle in Jeno’s team cap, clips of Jeno attending a basketball game alone, sitting beside someone just out of frame.
Let them, Jeno thought.
Across from him, Chenle was eating quietly, hair a mess, lips pink from the miso. It was a soft image, one the world had never seen.
He looked up, met Jeno’s gaze, and smiled like he’d been doing that for years.
Maybe he had.
Maybe it had always been leading to this.
It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t noise. It was something slow and steady.
It was the off-season.