Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keeho is sure his boyfriend loves him. Really, he is.

He reminds himself of it every morning when he wakes up to Jiung’s sleepy “good morning” text, every afternoon when Jiung waits for him after class with that same small smile, every evening when they sit side by side at their favorite café near campus, sharing a slice of cake and quietly doing their assignments together. Jiung isn’t distant in the ways people usually mean when they say that word. He listens. He remembers the smallest details. He knows how Keeho takes his coffee—too sweet, Jiung always teases—and he notices when Keeho’s fingers twitch with stress before an exam and wordlessly slides his notes closer, a gesture that says, you’ve got this.

That’s why it doesn’t make any sense.

Because every time Keeho tries to reach out—to lace their fingers together while they walk, to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Jiung’s ear, to rest his head on Jiung’s shoulder during late-night movie nights—Jiung flinches. Subtle sometimes, like a twitch of muscle or a small shift backward, but enough. Enough for Keeho to notice, enough for it to sting.

It isn’t rejection in words, but in motion. A quiet pushing away that says not now, not like this.

And Keeho doesn’t understand.

When Jiung asks him out—two years ago now—it feels like a dream. Their first year at Seoul National University is a blur of adjustment and loneliness for Keeho. He’s the new kid who laughs too loud, tries too hard, and always seems to be orbiting around people who don’t quite let him in. Then there’s Jiung—calm, steady, with a voice that always seems to smooth out the noise in Keeho’s head. He’s the first person to talk to Keeho on campus, the first to ask if he wants to sit together at lunch, the first to stay up with him during midterm week and keep him company in the library.

And then, one cold December evening, Jiung asks him to be his boyfriend.

No hesitation. No teasing or half-joking tone. Just a simple, “I like you, Keeho. I want to be with you.”

It feels like everything Keeho has ever wanted.

But that’s two years ago. Two long years of holding back every time his heart aches to reach out. Two years of pretending that “I’m just not into PDA” is enough of an answer when Jiung gently pulls his hand away. Two years of quiet reassurance whispered to himself: He loves me. He’s just not touchy. He’s trying.

Still, the doubt creeps in like frost.

Keeho has always been the kind of person who expresses love through touch. A hand on the shoulder, a hug that lingers, his head resting on someone’s lap while they study. It isn’t even about romance—it’s how he feels connected, how he feels safe. But with Jiung, every attempt meets a quiet barrier, invisible but solid. Jiung smiles, says “you’re cute,” and gently removes Keeho’s hand from his arm. He changes the subject, talks about homework, the weather, anything.

Keeho laughs it off at first. He tells himself that love is more than touch, that Jiung’s love shows up in other ways—in words, in time, in effort.

But lately… it feels like he’s starving.

He can feel the love in Jiung’s eyes, but not in his hands. He can hear it in his voice, but never feel it on his skin. And when the days get long and lonely, when Keeho’s heart aches from missing something he can’t quite name, he wonders if maybe Jiung’s version of love isn’t the same as his.

He doesn’t want to ask. He’s scared to. What if Jiung says something he can’t unhear? What if the truth is that Jiung loves him, but not the way Keeho needs to be loved?

So he stays quiet. He smiles, and nods, and keeps his hands to himself. He laughs at Jiung’s jokes, leans close but not too close, memorizes the sound of Jiung’s breathing beside him, and tells himself that this—this quiet, untouchable love—is enough.

But sometimes, late at night, when Jiung has gone home and Keeho is left alone in his dorm room, his hands ache.

Not from holding too much.

But from not being able to hold at all.

It’s their third year now.

The last few weeks of every semester at Seoul National University always feel like walking through fog — dense, heavy, and endless. Everyone is drained. The library buzzes with quiet panic, cafés are filled with open laptops and half-drunk iced Americanos, and the campus hums with the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights. Keeho feels it too — the weight in his eyes, the dull ache behind his temples — but somehow, it still feels bearable when his boyfriend is around.

Today, they’re at the campus café again. Their spot. The same one by the window, where the afternoon light always falls just right, painting golden streaks on Jiung’s hair. Keeho spots him immediately, sitting with his sleeves rolled up, pencil tapping against his notebook in quiet rhythm. Even like this — tired, half-slouched, dark circles peeking beneath his eyes — Jiung looks calm. Always calm.

“Jiungie,” Keeho calls softly, his voice carrying across the low chatter of the café.

It’s his nickname for Jiung — one he started using early in their relationship, back when everything still felt new and electric. It’s a small thing, a word wrapped in affection, something warm and harmless. Something a boyfriend should be allowed to say.

Except Jiung doesn’t like it. Not in public.

Jiung glances up, eyes flicking quickly toward Keeho, then around the café. His hand reaches out almost immediately, tugging gently on Keeho’s wrist. “Keeho,” he murmurs, voice low, almost pleading. “Slow it down. People can hear you.”

Keeho laughs lightly, trying to smooth the edges of his embarrassment. “Sorry, I forgot,” he says, forcing a small smile as he slides into the chair beside Jiung. He pulls out his notebook, the pages already covered in messy annotations and highlighter marks. He tells himself he’s used to it — the small corrections, the quiet pushes, the way Jiung always seems to want to shrink their closeness just a little bit smaller when others are watching. He’s used to it. Really. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.

The café is comfortably noisy — soft chatter, the steady hum of the espresso machine, the clinking of spoons against ceramic cups. Keeho opens his book, trying to focus on the diagrams of neural pathways sprawling across the page. Medicine is hard. It always has been. But they’ve made it this far — two full years of lectures, labs, sleepless nights, and quiet study sessions like this. That’s something to be proud of, right? That’s proof of partnership, of commitment.

“Jiungie,” Keeho says again after a while, whispering, quieter this time. The word slips out without thought, gentle and familiar. “I can’t understand this part,” he murmurs, pushing the textbook slightly toward Jiung. His voice softens to a whine, not out of annoyance but exhaustion — the kind that makes him crave comfort more than explanation.

Jiung sighs but not unkindly. “Which one?” he asks, leaning closer. His shoulder brushes Keeho’s for a second — a fleeting touch that sparks a rush of warmth through Keeho before it’s gone again.

“This one,” Keeho says, pointing at a diagram of the endocrine system. “I swear I’ve read it ten times and it still doesn’t make sense.”

Jiung smiles faintly, his pencil tracing along the page. “Okay, see this part? The hypothalamus controls—”

“I know that,” Keeho interrupts softly, pouting just a little. “But how does it regulate both the pituitary and the adrenal glands at the same time? That’s what confuses me.”

Jiung chuckles under his breath. “You’re overthinking it again. It’s all about feedback loops, remember?”

He starts explaining, voice low and steady, the way he always does when he’s teaching Keeho something. Keeho listens — or tries to — but mostly he watches the way Jiung’s lips move, the way his brows furrow when he focuses, the way his fingers tap the table in rhythm with his thoughts. He’s beautiful like this, Keeho thinks. Beautiful and far away at the same time.

“Hey,” Jiung says suddenly, snapping his fingers lightly in front of Keeho’s face. “Are you listening?”

Keeho startles, cheeks flushing. “I am! Kind of,” he admits, laughing softly. “You just… explain things so nicely. It’s distracting.”

Jiung rolls his eyes but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re impossible,” he says, shaking his head.

Keeho grins, leaning a little closer, trying again — carefully, tentatively. “But you love me, right?”

Jiung hesitates for just a breath — long enough for Keeho to feel it — before answering. “Of course I do,” he says, eyes softening as he looks back at him. “Now focus. You’ll fail the exam if you keep zoning out like that.”

Keeho laughs again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he says, and flips his notebook to a blank page.

They study in silence after that. Jiung occasionally murmurs explanations, his voice blending with the café’s soft soundtrack, and Keeho nods along, pretending to take notes while his mind drifts. He can feel the warmth of Jiung’s arm just inches from his own. It’s close enough to touch, close enough to feel, but something invisible holds him back. The same quiet wall that’s always there — gentle, unspoken, and steady as ever.

Still, Keeho tells himself it’s fine. Jiung is here. Jiung is his. They’re together. That’s what matters.

But as the hours stretch on and the sunlight fades outside the café window, Keeho feels the ache settle deep in his chest — the same familiar ache that never really goes away.

He looks at Jiung, who’s still reading, brow furrowed, completely focused. He looks at the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the soft fall of his hair. And for a fleeting second, Keeho wants to reach out — just to brush his fingers against Jiung’s hand, just to remind himself that this love isn’t something imagined.

But he doesn’t.

He stays still. Smiling, quiet, patient.

And when Jiung finally looks up and says, “Let’s call it a day. I want to try their tiramisu,” Keeho nods, packing his things, pretending that his hands don’t feel as heavy as his heart.

It’s a full day today, Keeho realizes.

The campus café is alive in that familiar late-semester way — a blur of open laptops, crumpled notes, and caffeine-scented air. Every table is taken. The usual chatter of students mixes with the hiss of the espresso machine and the faint, lazy hum of a playlist someone behind the counter probably made weeks ago. The whole place feels like it’s breathing — busy, restless, and tired.

Keeho sits across from Jiung, his hands wrapped around a warm cup of latte that’s already gone lukewarm. The creamy foam clings stubbornly to the edges, the cinnamon heart in the center long dissolved. He isn’t really drinking it anymore. Mostly, he’s just holding it — something solid and warm between his palms.

Across from him, Jiung is scrolling through his phone. His thumb moves quickly, his face lit by the blue glow of the screen. Every now and then, his expression shifts — a small frown, a half-smile, a quiet sigh — reactions Keeho can’t read from this far away. He’s probably replying to classmates, maybe checking updates in their study group chat.

Keeho looks around the café, his gaze drifting. There’s a table near the window where two girls are whispering to each other, heads bent close, giggling over something on one of their phones. A group of guys are scattered in the corner, surrounded by open textbooks, their voices low but tense as they debate some exam question. And then — near the counter — there’s a couple.

Keeho’s eyes linger there.

The boy is tucking a loose strand of hair behind his girlfriend’s ear, gentle and unhurried. She laughs, swatting at his hand but leaning into his touch all the same. There’s an easy intimacy in the way they move — natural, unthinking, like they’ve done it a hundred times before. It’s nothing grand, just small and tender and real.

“Cute,” Keeho murmurs under his breath, smiling to himself before he can stop it. It slips out quietly — so quietly, he almost doesn’t hear it himself.

Jiung glances up from his phone. “What’s cute?” he asks, his voice casual but edged with curiosity.

Keeho freezes. His eyes widen just slightly, like a child caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. He thought he’d said it too softly for Jiung to hear. “Ah—” he laughs, shaking his head a little. “Nothing,” he says, trying to sound offhand, like it really is nothing.

Jiung’s gaze lingers on him, questioning. “Nothing?”

Keeho nods, still smiling, swirling his spoon absently through the remaining foam of his drink. He keeps his eyes trained on the couple by the counter — they’re laughing again, now sharing a piece of cake. “It’s just… they’re cute,” he admits finally, voice low but steady.

Jiung follows his gaze, eyes landing on the couple too. For a second, he says nothing. His brow furrows just slightly, his mouth tightening in that way it always does when he’s about to say something but rethinks it.

“Keeho—” he starts, tone warning but soft.

“It’s nothing!” Keeho interrupts quickly, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “I just said they’re cute. That’s all. I’m not… I don’t mean anything by it.” He lets out a small laugh, light and airy, the kind that’s meant to ease tension. “Relax, Jiungie.”

Jiung’s eyes flick back to him, that tiny wince appearing again at the nickname. “Keeho, we’ve talked about—”

“I know, I know,” Keeho cuts in gently, his voice still playful but quieter now. “No nicknames in public. Sorry.” He offers a soft smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Jiung sighs and sets his phone down, screen face-down. “It’s not that I don’t like it,” he says after a pause. “It’s just… people might misunderstand.”

Keeho tilts his head, studying him. “Misunderstand what?”

Jiung’s gaze drops to his hands. “You know,” he says vaguely, “we’re on campus. People talk.”

Keeho lets out a quiet chuckle, though it sounds more tired than amused. “Right,” he says softly. “People talk.”

For a moment, the only sound between them is the low hum of conversation from the tables around them. Keeho stares down at his latte, the foam long gone. He presses his thumb against the rim, feeling the warmth fade from it. “You know,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper, “I kinda wish people did talk.”

Jiung looks up, confused. “What do you mean?”

Keeho shrugs, forcing a small laugh. “I mean, if people talk, at least it means they see us together. At least, hopefully I know where I belong here,”

Jiung blinks, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. “Keeho…”

But Keeho’s already smiling again — that same bright, practiced smile he always wears when he’s trying to smooth things over. “I’m kidding,” he says quickly, waving his hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m just tired. My brain’s melting from all this studying.”

Jiung’s expression softens a little, though there’s something uneasy behind his eyes. “You should rest,” he says gently. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately.”

Keeho nods. “Yeah. Maybe.” He leans back in his chair, looking at Jiung across the table. “You’ll wake me up if I fall asleep here, right?” he teases, his voice light again.

Jiung smiles faintly. “I’ll think about it.”

Keeho laughs, but it fades quickly. He looks past Jiung again, to the couple still sitting near the counter — the boy now leaning closer, whispering something that makes the girl’s eyes crinkle with laughter. His chest tightens. It’s not jealousy, not exactly. It’s more like… yearning. Envy. Hope. The quiet ache of wanting something he isn’t sure he’s allowed to ask for.

He looks back at Jiung, who’s already picked up his phone again.

Keeho takes a slow sip of his latte, the taste now bittersweet.

“Cute,” he whispers again, but this time, he doesn’t say it out loud.

Chapter Text

“Do you really think he asked me out two years ago because he actually likes me?” Keeho mumbles, his voice small, half-buried against Theo’s chest.

The question hangs heavy in the room — familiar, frayed around the edges from being asked too many times.

Theo exhales slowly through his nose, the kind of sigh that comes from someone who’s been through this before, too many times to count. He looks down at Keeho, whose head rests just below his collarbone, dark hair spilling across the soft fabric of Theo’s sweatshirt. Keeho’s hands are fidgeting — one twisting the hem of his own sleeve, the other lazily tracing invisible circles on Theo’s palm.

They’re in Keeho’s dorm — the tiny one-bedroom unit that’s too warm because the heater’s been on all day. Keeho has called him earlier to come, saying ‘I’m in the middle of crisis’ with books sprawling on his desk. The room smells faintly of coffee and paper, and there are books stacked haphazardly on the table beside them, medical notes half-open like they’ve been forgotten mid-thought. Outside, it’s late — the kind of late that quiets the whole campus — and the hum of the city beyond the window feels distant.

Theo leans his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes. “Baby,” he says finally, voice low but edged with exhaustion. “Listen. This is, like, the twentieth time you’ve asked me this.”

Keeho doesn’t respond right away. He shifts a little, burrowing closer, as if that might make the question go away or the answer softer. “I just…” he starts, then trails off. “I just don’t get it. He doesn’t touch me, he doesn’t—”

Theo interrupts him gently, brushing Keeho’s bangs away from his forehead. “You won’t know the answer if you keep this to yourself,” he says firmly. “Talk to him, okay?. I love you, but this—” he gestures vaguely, not unkindly, “—this is tiring, baby. You’re chasing circles in your own head.”

Keeho hums quietly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. His thumb presses against Theo’s knuckles, tracing them like a nervous habit. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “But every time I think about asking him, I get scared. What if he says something I can’t handle?”

Theo opens his eyes and looks down at him — really looks this time. There’s a softness there, the kind that only comes from old history and familiarity. “You can handle the truth more than you think,” he says. “You’ve always been the brave one, remember? You were the one who asked me out first in high school.” 

Keeho lets out a quiet laugh, the sound small and tired. “You make it sound like that was courage. I just had no filter back then.”

Theo smiles faintly. “It’s still courage.”

There’s a pause — long, comfortable, and heavy at once. The kind of silence that carries shared years inside it. Theo absentmindedly threads his fingers through Keeho’s hair, and Keeho leans into the touch, eyes half-lidded.

“Seriously,” Theo says after a moment, his tone turning firmer but still kind. “You’ve been asking this question more times than Aera asks me whether I love her or not.”

Keeho snorts softly, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You still answer her every time though.”

“Yeah,” Theo admits, lips quirking. “Because she deserves to hear it. And because she actually asks me, her boyfriend, not someone else.”

Keeho goes quiet at that. The words settle into him, gentle but sharp. He bites the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like maybe the right response is written there somewhere. “You think I’m pathetic, huh,” he mutters after a while, half-joking, half-not.

Theo lets out another sigh, this one gentler. “No,” he says simply. “I think you’re tired. And I think you’re scared. But pathetic? Nah.”

Keeho tilts his head up slightly to look at him, expression soft. “You’re too nice to me.”

“I’ve known you for eight years,” Theo says, smiling faintly. “It’s a bit late to stop being nice now.”

Keeho laughs quietly — really laughs this time — and then buries his face back into Theo’s chest. His voice comes out muffled against the fabric. “Aera doesn’t get jealous when we hang out like this?”

Theo chuckles. “She used to. But now she just tells me to ‘go comfort your ex, he needs it,’” he says, imitating her voice, higher-pitched and playful. “She’s a saint.”

“She really is,” Keeho says, smiling softly. “You got lucky.”

Theo hums. “I know.” He pauses, looking down at Keeho again. “And you will too. But only if you stop pretending everything’s fine.”

Keeho’s fingers still against his hand. He doesn’t look up. “It’s easier to pretend,” he says quietly. “At least when I pretend, I can believe he loves me the way I want him to.”

Theo’s thumb brushes the back of Keeho’s hand, slow and comforting. “And when the pretending stops?”

Keeho exhales shakily, voice small. “Then I’m scared I’ll have to leave.”

Theo doesn’t answer that. He just pulls Keeho a little closer, pressing a brief, sweet kiss to his forehead. “You won’t know until you ask him,” he murmurs.

Keeho closes his eyes, letting the words sink into the stillness of the room. He doesn’t reply. He just sits there, breathing in sync with Theo, the warmth of an old love that has turned into something gentler, something like home.

And somewhere deep inside, he hopes Jiung will one day hold him this way — without hesitation, without the fear of being seen.

The night grows quieter by the minute. The heater hums softly in the corner of Keeho’s dorm, filling the space with a dull warmth that makes everything feel slower — softer. The desk lamp is still on, throwing golden light across the room, catching the edges of half-empty mugs and a pile of open notebooks that no one has touched in hours.

Keeho lies stretched out across the small sofa, his head resting on Theo’s lap. His hair falls in messy strands over his forehead, and Theo’s fingers keep combing through them absentmindedly, untangling each knot with gentle care. It’s a motion that’s become routine — one they’ve fallen into over years of friendship, a rhythm born from comfort and familiarity. Keeho’s eyes are half-closed, his voice a little slurred from exhaustion when he finally speaks.

“Do you think I’ll be okay,” he murmurs, “if someday… what I think really happens?”

Theo’s hand pauses mid-stroke. He looks down, frowning faintly. “What are you thinking about, baby?” he asks, his voice low, careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

Keeho hums softly, eyes still closed. “Something bad,” he says simply.

Theo lets out a quiet breath through his nose, half amused, half concerned. “Bad like… you failed a test bad, or bad like existential dread at two in the morning bad?”

Keeho’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t answer. He’s still, the kind of stillness that comes from being too tired to lie and too scared to tell the truth. His fingers, which had been tapping gently against Theo’s hand a moment ago, stop moving. The only thing that shifts is his breathing — slower now, heavier, as if the air itself is getting harder to hold.

Theo looks at him for a long moment. “Baby,” he says softly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Keeho sighs — a long, shaky sound that seems to pull his whole body with it. He opens his eyes and looks up at Theo, searching for something in his face. Comfort, maybe. Permission to fall apart a little. “Nothing,” he whispers, though the word trembles like a lie.

Theo doesn’t push right away. He just keeps threading his fingers through Keeho’s hair, slow and steady, grounding him. “You always say nothing right before you say something that hurts,” he murmurs.

Keeho’s lips curve into a faint smile — small, wistful. “You know me too well,” he says quietly.

Theo gives a soft huff of laughter. “That’s what happens when your ex turns into your emotional support system,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. But Keeho doesn’t laugh this time. His eyes look far away, somewhere past the ceiling, past the lamp light.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The silence isn’t uncomfortable — just heavy, like both of them are afraid to breathe too loudly in case it cracks open something they can’t fix.

Then Keeho moves. He sits up slowly, his hair messy from lying down, his sweatshirt rumpled. He blinks a few times, then looks at Theo with that same soft smile — the one that never quite hides the sadness behind it. “I think I’ll go to bed. Usually Jiung wants to FaceTime before we sleep,” he says quietly.

Theo studies him. “That’s it?”

Keeho nods. “Yeah.” He forces a bit of cheer into his voice. “Tell Aera I said hi, okay? And… thanks for being here. Again.”

Theo raises an eyebrow, half-smiling. “You say that like I had a choice.”

Keeho giggles under his breath, the sound fragile but genuine. “You always have a choice, Theo.”

“Not when it’s you,” Theo says simply.

Keeho’s heart gives a small, painful tug at that, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he leans in, presses a quick, soft kiss to Theo’s cheek — light, fleeting, like he’s afraid of overstaying the moment. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice a little too bright now. “Love you.”

Theo catches his wrist gently before he can pull away. “Hey,” he says, tone softening. “You sure you’re okay?”

Keeho smiles — wide, tired, convincing. “I’m fine. Promise.”

Theo studies his face, trying to read between the cracks of that smile, but Keeho’s already slipping out of his hold, already turning toward his bedroom door. “Get some sleep, alright?” Theo says finally, though his voice sounds like he doesn’t believe his own words.

Keeho gives a small wave without turning around. “I will.”

And then he disappears into his room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Theo stays where he is on the sofa, staring at the closed door. He runs a hand down his face, exhaling a long, weary sigh. He loves Keeho — not in the way he once did, but in the way that comes from knowing someone too deeply to stop caring. And it hurts, sometimes, watching him fold himself so neatly around his loneliness, pretending it doesn’t exist.

“Damn it, Keeho,” Theo mutters under his breath, leaning back against the sofa. The room feels too quiet now without his voice in it.

He glances toward the closed door one last time before whispering, “I hope you dream of something good tonight.”

And for a while, he just sits there in the glow of the lamp, listening to the silence, wondering if love is supposed to feel this heavy even when it’s over.

Keeho can’t sleep.

The clock on his bedside table glows in dim red numbers: 12:47 a.m. The room is dark except for the thin strip of moonlight slipping through the curtains, pooling faintly across his blanket. The air feels heavy — not warm, not cold, just thick with the kind of silence that presses on his chest and refuses to let him rest. He’s been lying there for hours, tossing, turning, staring at the ceiling as if answers might be written in the cracks of the plaster.

His phone rests beside him on the bed. He stares at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen, before he finally unlocks it. The brightness makes him squint. Without thinking too much — because if he thinks too much, he’ll stop himself — he opens his chat with Jiung.

jiungie

you sleep yet?

i can’t sleep.

He stares at the messages for a few seconds, chewing on his bottom lip. He doesn’t expect an answer. It’s late. Jiung’s always asleep by now, disciplined even in rest. They have another study session tomorrow — their third this week — and Keeho knows Jiung would never sacrifice sleep for something as small as a midnight text.

Still, he leaves the phone unlocked beside him, watching the dots of light flicker faintly on the screen. For a moment, he lets himself imagine it buzzing — a message, a reply, a voice on the other end saying hey, can’t sleep either.

But nothing happens.

He sighs and moves to set the phone down on the bedside table when it suddenly buzzes, the screen lighting up with an incoming call. His heart jumps.

Jiung.

Keeho blinks in surprise before answering quickly, pressing the phone to his ear. “Jiungie?” he says softly.

A low, sleepy hum fills the line. “Why aren’t you sleeping yet?” Jiung’s voice comes through, rough with sleep, soft around the edges in a way that makes Keeho’s chest tighten.

Keeho smiles without meaning to. Just hearing his voice feels like something unclenches inside him. “I can’t,” he murmurs.

Jiung yawns faintly on the other end. “Why?” he asks, his voice lazy, barely above a whisper.

Keeho shifts onto his side, tucking the blanket up to his chin. “Just because,” he says. “Did I wake you up? I didn’t mean to. You can go back to sleep, really. I’ll just make myself some warm milk or something.”

Jiung’s voice softens, still hazy but a little clearer now. “What are you thinking about, Keeho? Hmm?”

Keeho freezes. Jiung knows. He always knows.

Because Keeho only drinks warm milk when his head won’t stop spinning — when the thoughts get too loud, when everything starts to feel too heavy. It’s become one of those silent tells that Jiung picked up early on in their relationship.

Keeho swallows, staring at the ceiling again. “Nothing serious,” he lies quietly. “Just… can’t shut my brain off.”

There’s a pause on the other end — a long, familiar silence that feels like Jiung is deciding whether to push or not. “You’ve got that voice again,” Jiung murmurs finally. “The one you get when you’re thinking about something you won’t tell me.”

Keeho lets out a soft laugh, small and tired. “You know me too well.”

“I should,” Jiung says, voice warm despite the sleepiness. “We’ve been together long enough.”

The silence stretches again, comfortable but fragile. Keeho listens to the faint sound of Jiung breathing — slow, even, grounding. It’s strange how that sound alone can make him feel both loved and lonely at once.

“Jiungie,” Keeho says softly after a moment.

“Mm?”

He hesitates. The question burns in his throat — the same one that’s been haunting him for months now. Do you still love me the way I did? Do you even want me? Am I someone you hold in your heart, or just someone you sit beside because it’s familiar?

He wants to ask all of it. He wants to stop the spiral, stop the guessing. He wants Jiung to reach through the phone and tell him that it’s all in his head.

But he can’t. The words get stuck, heavy, afraid.

“Nothing,” he says finally, the word fragile as glass.

Jiung hums, a sleepy, questioning sound.

Keeho stares at the faint outline of the curtain, how it sways with the wind from the open window. “Jiungie,” His chest feels tight, like something is trying to push its way out. “I love you,” he whispers, the words trembling.

There’s a beat of silence on the other end — a single second that feels like forever. Then Jiung’s voice comes, soft and tired and gentle. “I love you too,” he says.

Keeho smiles, though it aches a little. “Go back to sleep, okay?”

“You too,” Jiung murmurs. “Don’t stay up too long.”

“I’ll try.”

Jiung hums one last time, the sound fading as he mumbles, “Goodnight, Keeho.”

“Goodnight,” Keeho says back, but he doesn’t hang up immediately. He keeps the phone pressed to his ear, listening until Jiung’s breathing evens out, slow and steady. Only then does he end the call.

The room feels a little emptier without the sound.

Keeho sets the phone down beside him and lies back on his pillow. His eyes sting, though he isn’t sure why. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, as if that might make the space beside him feel less cold.

“I love you,” he whispers again into the dark. “I wish that was enough.”

And then he closes his eyes, though sleep still refuses to come. Again.

Chapter Text

The final exams come and go faster than Keeho expects. Not because they’re easy — God, no — but because he and Jiung spend so many long nights bent over their notes together that the blur between days and nights stops mattering. There’s comfort in the rhythm of it: coffee-fueled study sessions, half-asleep jokes, the quiet shuffle of pens and paper. Jiung’s steady voice explaining concepts he already knows by heart, Keeho’s laughter filling the spaces in between. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. And for a while, that’s enough.

Now that exams are finally over, the air on campus feels lighter. The tension that’s been choking the hallways for weeks is gone, replaced by the sound of laughter spilling from dorm windows and the buzz of students celebrating freedom. But as they walk back to Keeho’s dorm, that lightness doesn’t reach them. Not to Keeho, specifically.

The path is quiet. Their steps are slow. There’s space between them — not much, but enough for Keeho to feel it like a draft slipping through an open door. The kind of space that says don’t reach out.

He glances at Jiung walking beside him, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, face half-hidden by his hair. His eyes are fixed ahead, calm as always. Too calm. Keeho wants to say something, anything, to bridge the silence stretching between them.

“Jiungie,” he says softly.

Jiung’s head tilts just slightly toward him. “Hmm?”

Keeho grins, like the sound of Jiung’s voice alone is enough to make his chest unclench. He steps closer, reaching out carefully, threading his fingers around Jiung’s right hand — both of his palms wrapping over Jiung’s cool skin like he’s afraid it’ll slip away.

Jiung tenses immediately. “Keeho—”

But before he can finish, Keeho rushes in, his words quick and small and hopeful. “No one’s here. No one can watch,” he says, voice laced with a shy laugh, like he’s trying to make it sound lighthearted instead of desperate. He leans in, resting his head against Jiung’s shoulder. The familiar scent of his shampoo and laundry soap fills Keeho’s nose, and something in him sighs in relief.

Jiung’s body is stiff at first, the way it always is when Keeho gets too close, but after a long breath, he lets out a sigh — tired, resigned — and lets it happen.

Keeho feels that small allowance like a victory. “Can we go on a date?” he asks after a moment, swinging their joined hands slightly. “My brain needs refreshments. I feel like I’m gonna combust if I stay on campus another day.”

Jiung hums faintly, the sound somewhere between amusement and weariness. “We went on one. Remember? Yesterday.”

Keeho tilts his head up from Jiung’s shoulder, blinking. “That was not a date. That was us going to the same café we always go to and doing flashcards for three hours.”

Jiung smiles faintly — the kind of smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, you got cake.”

“That doesn’t count!” Keeho laughs, tugging gently at Jiung’s arm. “Come on, not that typical campus café date. I mean something real. Like, I don’t know — the Han River? We can walk, eat tteokbokki, maybe rent one of those stupid duck boats—”

“Keeho…” Jiung interrupts softly, his voice carrying that tone that immediately makes Keeho’s stomach sink.

Keeho’s smile falters. “Hmm?”

Jiung’s eyes flicker toward him, then away again. “You know I don’t like going to crowded places like that. There are a lot of people. A lot of cameras. Someone could—”

“See us?” Keeho cuts in quietly, his voice suddenly sharper than he means it to be.

Jiung presses his lips together. “It’s not—”

Keeho slows down, hand slipping free from Jiung’s before he can stop himself. The loss of warmth stings more than he expects. “Yeah,” he says, forcing a laugh that sounds too hollow, “no, I get it. People can see. People might think things.”

“Keeho, that’s not—”

“It’s fine,” Keeho interrupts again, still smiling, but the edges of his smile tremble. “I get it. You’ve told me before.” He runs a hand through his hair, the motion restless. “It’s just… funny, you know?” He lets out another small chuckle, one that cracks halfway through. “Somehow people’s opinions are more important than me, huh?”

Jiung’s eyes widen a little, his voice gentle but unsure. “That’s not it, Keeho. I just—”

“Yeah,” Keeho says quietly, looking down at the ground where their shadows fall side by side but don’t quite touch. “Maybe they’re more important. As always.”

The silence that follows is heavy. The kind that doesn’t feel peaceful — the kind that sits between them like fog, cold and hard to breathe through.

Jiung shifts, reaching out hesitantly, but Keeho steps just slightly out of reach. It’s not angry — just tired. His shoulders droop a little as he exhales, watching his breath form a faint cloud in the cool night air.

“You know what’s funnier?” he says after a moment, voice soft, almost to himself. “I used to think love could fix anything. That if you just loved someone enough, it’d make everything okay.” He laughs again, a fragile sound. “But maybe I was wrong.”

Jiung’s mouth opens, like he wants to say something, but no words come out.

Keeho looks up at him finally, his eyes dim under the yellow streetlight. “It’s okay,” he says with a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… needed to let it out sometimes.”

Then he takes a small step backward, tucking his hands into his pockets where they can’t reach out anymore. “Goodnight, Jiungie,” he says quietly — the nickname soft, almost a whisper — and then turns toward his dorm.

Jiung stands still for a moment, watching him go, but doesn’t call out.

The distance between them feels longer than the walk ever was.

And for the first time in a long while, Keeho doesn’t look back.

Keeho lies on his stomach, half-buried in his pillow, the faint glow from his phone screen lighting the dark of his room. The FaceTime window fills with chaos — Yechan’s face too close to the camera, mouth full of fried chicken, while Seongil, his best friend, leans in from the side trying to get into the frame. The noise, the laughter, the stupid banter — it all feels like home in a way Keeho hasn’t felt in a while.

“You’re still with him, hyung?” Yechan says, voice muffled as he chews. “Seongil and I vote for a breakup.”

Seongil nods dramatically, pressing his cheek against Yechan’s shoulder so both their faces squeeze into view. “Break up!” he says loudly, grinning like this is a game. “We’re staging an intervention, hyung!”

Keeho chuckles, voice warm, the corners of his mouth curling as he hides his smile in the pillow. “This is exactly what I expected when I called you tonight,” he says, his voice fond even as he rolls his eyes. “Should’ve known you’d gang up on me.”

Yechan swallows his bite, points a greasy drumstick at the camera like he’s making a proclamation. “Serious though, hyung,” he says, suddenly firm. “You deserve better. I love Jiung-hyung, really, but man — he’s kind of an ass. His whole ‘I don’t like PDA’ thing? Please. He can date himself in the future. Or better yet, stay single forever.”

“Hey,” Keeho says, laughing despite himself. “You can’t just say that.”

“Why not?” Yechan fires back, lips curving into that same stubborn smile Keeho recognizes all too well — his own smile, just sharper, younger. “You’re too good for that kind of stuff. You always give and give and he just—” Yechan makes an exaggerated motion with his hands, like shoving something away. “—does that. Flinches like you’re radioactive.”

Seongil bursts out laughing beside him, choking a little on his soda. “Bro, radioactive love!” he wheezes. “Someone make that your next mixtape name.”

“Shut up,” Yechan says, smacking him on the arm before turning back to the camera. “Anyway, point is, hyung, you shouldn’t be treated like that. You deserve someone who doesn’t mind if you just… hold their hand in public, you know?”

Keeho goes quiet for a second. The sound of them laughing fades into a kind of white noise. His eyes soften as he watches Yechan lick his fingers clean, his little brother’s face glowing under the warm kitchen light at home. There’s comfort there — in the messiness, in the noise, in the way Yechan’s always unfiltered but honest. Keeho’s chest tightens in that quiet, aching kind of way.

He exhales, voice gentle. “Are you done with your debate draft yet?” he asks, deliberately changing the subject, his smile small but steady.

Yechan groans immediately, flopping backward in his chair. “Hyuuuung! Stop bullying me!” he whines. “Mr. Park said to finish it this week, okay? I’ll do it. I just need time!” He makes a face at the camera. “Mr. Park’s a loser anyway.”

“Yah!” Keeho scolds playfully, sitting up a little now. “That’s your teacher! Have some respect, you brat.”

Seongil laughs so hard he almost drops his phone. “You sound exactly like your Mom right now,” he says between snickers.

“Good,” Keeho replies, pretending to glare. “Someone’s gotta keep this child from failing school.”

“Hey!” Yechan protests, but he’s smiling — that familiar, lopsided grin that always makes Keeho’s heart squeeze a little. They keep bickering for a few more minutes, their laughter overlapping, Yechan waving half-eaten food at the screen while Keeho teases him about being lazy. It’s easy, natural — the kind of warmth Keeho’s been missing lately without realizing how much.

Then Yechan suddenly goes quiet. He looks at Keeho for a long moment, his expression softening. “Hyung,” he says quietly.

Keeho hums, still smiling. “Hmm?”

There’s a pause. Yechan glances at Seongil, who seems to sense the shift and leans back out of frame, letting them talk. The kitchen light flickers slightly over Yechan’s face. His tone changes — less teasing now, more serious, hesitant like he’s choosing his words carefully.

“If it hurts you more than it makes you happy,” Yechan says slowly, eyes not leaving the screen, “then it’s not love, hyung.”

Keeho blinks, caught off guard.

Yechan continues, voice steadier now. “You always tell me not to settle for people who make me feel small, right? So don’t you do it either. You deserve better.”

The words hang heavy in the quiet that follows.

Keeho doesn’t answer right away. He just smiles — soft and tired — his thumb brushing over the edge of his pillow. “You sound grown up all of a sudden,” he says quietly, trying to make it sound light. “When did you start saying things like that?”

Yechan shrugs, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. “When I got tired of seeing you sad, I guess.”

Keeho laughs weakly, but his voice catches halfway through. “I’m not sad,” he says, though it doesn’t sound convincing.

Yechan tilts his head. “Then why do you look like that every time we talk about him?”

Keeho doesn’t have an answer. He looks away, pretending to fix his blanket.

Yechan sighs softly. “Just think about it, hyung. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah,” Keeho murmurs after a moment, voice barely above a whisper. “I will.”

They talk about lighter things after that — Yechan’s upcoming debate, Seongil’s failed attempt at confessing to someone, their mom’s cooking — but Keeho’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

When the call ends, and the room goes quiet again, the glow from his phone screen fades out slowly, leaving him in the dark. Keeho lies back down, staring at the ceiling, Yechan’s words replaying over and over in his mind.

If it hurts you more than it makes you happy, it’s not love.

Keeho sleeps lightly these days — not the kind of sleep that sinks deep, but the kind that hovers just below consciousness, fragile and half-aware. So when it happens — when the sheets shift, when the mattress dips under another weight — he feels it instantly. A hand, warm and careful, slides around his waist. Fingers brush against the hem of his shirt, then settle flat against his bare stomach, steady and familiar.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His body recognizes the touch before his mind does. The scent of cologne — faint, worn in — reaches him, and his heart clenches. Jiung.

He blinks groggily, eyes heavy as he turns his head slightly toward the warmth behind him. “Jiungie?” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

“Shh,” Jiung whispers against his skin, breath soft at the back of his neck. “Go back to sleep.”

Keeho lets out a quiet hum, somewhere between acknowledgment and confusion. Jiung’s arm tightens around him slightly, drawing him closer until Keeho’s back meets Jiung’s chest, the heat between them almost too much under the blanket. Jiung’s lips press a lazy kiss to the crook of Keeho’s neck — slow, unhurried — and his hand moves in faint circles over Keeho’s hip, his touch so gentle it almost hurts.

It’s tender. It’s loving. It’s everything Keeho has ever wanted.

And still, his heart aches.

He keeps his eyes closed, afraid that if he opens them, this will stop. Afraid that Jiung will vanish like morning light, taking the warmth with him. But even as he lies still, something inside him twists — that small, familiar ache that never really leaves anymore.

Because this isn’t the first time.

It’s a routine now. A quiet, unspoken cycle that keeps repeating itself. Every time Keeho’s walls crack — every time the feelings he’s been swallowing finally spill over, every time he dares to say, I don’t feel enough, Jiung. I don’t know where I stand with you — Jiung always shows up after. Not to talk. Never to talk. But to do this. To hold him. To touch him. To press soft kisses to his skin in the dark where no one can see.

A temporary fix. A wordless apology.

Keeho wants to believe it means something. That maybe, in Jiung’s silence, there’s love — quiet and scared but still there. But part of him knows better.

He swallows hard, trying to keep his breathing steady. “You’re late,” he murmurs finally, his voice soft, barely a whisper.

Jiung hums low in his throat. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says, his tone easy, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

Keeho lets out a small laugh — tired, shaky. “You should be resting,” he says.

“I wanted to see you.”

The words land heavy in Keeho’s chest. They’re sweet, but they sting.

He turns slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Jiung’s face in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. His eyes are half-lidded, calm as ever, a faint smile playing on his lips. Keeho studies him quietly — the slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the small scar near his jaw that only he seems to notice. He’s beautiful, Keeho thinks. Beautiful and distant, even when he’s this close.

“How do you get in?” Keeho asks quietly, his voice gentle but trembling underneath.

Jiung’s hand pauses for a second, then resumes its slow movement against Keeho’s hip. “You gave the key to me,” he says simply.

Keeho smiles faintly, eyes glassy. “I know. I told you you needed to have it in case I was in danger.” He lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Didn’t think the danger would be me breaking.”

Jiung doesn’t respond. His hand drifts higher, tracing soft shapes on Keeho’s ribs, his mouth brushing the base of Keeho’s neck.

Keeho closes his eyes again. He can’t tell if the warmth spreading through him is comfort or pain anymore.

Should he feel happy? That Jiung’s here, finally holding him like this? Should he feel grateful that at least, when no one else is looking, he gets to be loved like this — quiet, secret, but real in his boyfriend’s arms?

Or should he feel sad that Jiung only does this when the lights are off? That Jiung only reaches for him when no one can see?

His throat tightens. “You only come when I’m sad,” he whispers, so quietly that he isn’t even sure Jiung hears.

Jiung’s breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t answer. He just tightens his arms a little, holding Keeho closer, as if that’s an answer in itself.

Keeho bites his lip, tears stinging the back of his eyes. He wants to ask why. Why Jiung can hold him like this in the dark but can’t even touch his hand when the sun is up. Why Jiung says I love you but flinches when Keeho says it back. Why this — this shadowed, hidden version of love — is all he’s allowed to have.

But the words die before they reach his mouth.

Because he knows what will happen if he asks. Jiung will go quiet. He’ll say, You’re overthinking again, Keeho. And Keeho will nod, because he always does, because it’s easier than watching Jiung pull away.

So instead, he lies there, motionless, while Jiung’s fingertips ghost over his skin like a promise that doesn’t last.

He wants to freeze this moment — the sound of Jiung’s breathing, the weight of his arm, the warmth of his chest. He wants to keep it, because he knows in the morning, Jiung will be gone again. The bed will be cold, the key will still be in his drawer, and the ache in his chest will stay exactly where it is.

And yet, even knowing that, Keeho whispers softly, “Don’t go yet.”

Jiung stills. Then he presses one more kiss to Keeho’s shoulder. “I won’t,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

Keeho nods, pretending to believe it. His eyes slip shut. His tears soak into the pillow quietly.

If it hurts you more than it makes you happy, it’s not love.

He’s happy now in Jiung’s arms. But why does his heart hurts more now with the fact that Jiung only hold him like this when nobody’s watching? When it’s dark? When Keeho is rethinking his love choice?

Outside, the city hums — distant, unaware. Inside, the only sound is the rhythm of two heartbeats that no longer move in sync.

Keeho lies there, between wanting to be held and wanting to be free, and realizes something breaks quietly inside him.

He doesn’t know if it’s his patience.

Or his hope.

Or just the last piece of himself still waiting for Jiung to choose him in daylight.

Chapter Text

When the first knock comes, it’s timid — the kind that makes Keeho think it’s just a neighbor with a delivery mix-up. But then it comes again, louder this time, urgent. Relentless, even. He groans into his pillow, eyes still half-shut, and drags himself up from bed. It’s way too early for this. His hair’s a mess, his shirt’s wrinkled, and he hasn’t even brushed his teeth yet. When he opens the door, though, the last thing he expects to see is Theo — wide grin, sunglasses pushed to his head, the kind of energy that doesn’t belong to anyone before 10 a.m. Keeho doesn’t even get a word out before he’s suddenly lifted clean off the ground, slung over Theo’s shoulder like he weighs nothing.

“What—Theo! Put me down!” Keeho yelps, half-laughing, half-terrified, pounding his fists weakly against Theo’s back. But Theo only laughs, loud and unbothered, like the world’s most chaotic kidnapper. “Hi, baby,” he says casually, as if he didn’t just abduct his ex-boyfriend before breakfast. “We’re going out. Yechan texted me last night saying you were sad and asked me to save you. So, naturally, I’m in the middle of a rescue mission.”

Keeho blinks, utterly dumbfounded, as Theo carries him through the dorm hallway. “By saving me, you mean—what, bodily kidnapping?!” he sputters, but Theo just keeps walking, humming like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Details, details, baby. Now, shut up,” Theo says dismissively, opening the car door with one hand while still holding Keeho with the other. He deposits him none-too-gently into the back seat like a sack of flour, and before Keeho can even adjust, Theo’s leaning over to buckle the seatbelt for him, tugging it until it clicks.

Keeho opens his mouth to protest again but freezes when he catches sight of Aera turning in the passenger seat, her smile bright and dimpled as she waves enthusiastically. “Hi, Keeho-ssi! Long time no see!” she chirps, her voice full of warmth.

Keeho narrows his eyes playfully. “Oh, so this is your rescue plan? Making me a third-wheel in your date?”

“Yes,” Theo replies without missing a beat, already jogging around to the driver’s side. He plops into the seat, adjusts the mirror, and grins back at him. “Darling, pass the boba to the sulky princess,” he adds, gesturing at Aera. She giggles and passes a cup of bubble tea over the seat, the condensation cool against Keeho’s still-sleep-warm fingers.

Keeho accepts it, his irritation dissolving the second he tastes the first sip — brown sugar, his favorite. “You guys are ridiculous,” he mumbles, but he’s smiling now.

“Sit tight, Keeho-ssi!” Aera says cheerfully, turning up the radio. “We’re going to the mall. Theo’s buying.”

“Darling, no,” Theo interjects immediately, eyes widening dramatically as he steers out of the parking lot. “This boy’s expensive. Do you know how much he spends on skincare alone? I’ve made that mistake once before, never again. Man’s a luxury item.”

Keeho laughs, the sound bubbling up before he can stop it. “I’m sorry you can’t relate to the art of self-care,” he fires back, leaning forward between the seats. “Some of us like to glow, Theo.”

Aera snorts. “He’s right, babe. Your face wash is a three-in-one shampoo, isn’t it?”

Theo gasps in mock betrayal. “How dare you bring my personal grooming choices into this!” He throws a glance at Keeho through the rearview mirror. “See? This is what happens when I try to help. I pick up one sad boy, and suddenly I’m getting roasted in stereo.”

Keeho laughs again — really laughs this time. It’s the kind that shakes his shoulders, makes his eyes crinkle, the kind that feels good. It’s been days since he’s felt that way. Especially since Jiung left his dorm before sunrise again, since the morning Keeho woke up alone again, since the sheets beside him cold again.

Theo notices, though he doesn’t say anything. He only glances at Keeho once more through the mirror, his smile softening just slightly. He drives a little slower, lets the morning light spill into the car. The city is alive outside — the streets buzzing with chatter, the hum of engines, people starting their day.

In the back seat, Keeho sips his boba and leans his forehead against the window. He can still feel the echo of Jiung’s touch somewhere on his skin, faint now but not gone. The ache lingers. But right now, between Theo’s dumb jokes and Aera’s laughter, it feels… quieter. Manageable.

“Thanks,” Keeho says suddenly, his voice small but sincere.

Theo glances at him. “For what?”

Keeho smiles faintly, eyes still on the passing street. “You know for what. Even if it’s with boba.”

Theo’s grin returns, softer this time. “Always, baby. You know that.”

And as the car speeds down the sunlit road, Keeho lets himself believe — just for today — that maybe this is enough. That maybe, for now, being loved by his friends, loudly and without conditions, is the kind of saving he needs most.

The boutique smells like soft fabric and expensive perfume — the kind of place where the lighting is warm enough to flatter everyone and the music plays low, calm instrumentals that make even heartbreak feel a little cinematic. Aera disappears into the changing room with a triumphant grin, arms full of dresses in shades of pastel and cream. Theo, ever the doting boyfriend, pushes her inside with mock sternness, promising he’ll buy whatever she wants as long as she doesn’t take three hours deciding. Then, with a sigh, he turns back to Keeho, who’s already wandering down an aisle, fingertips brushing the silk sleeves of a baby-blue blouse.

“She’s going to take three hours anyway,” Theo mutters, walking up beside him. “She said she wanted one dress, Keeho. One. And somehow she’s in there with twelve.”

Keeho chuckles, eyes still on the fabric. “You created that monster, you know.”

Theo smirks. “Worth it.” He leans against the rack, watching Keeho’s reflection in the mirror. The soft grin that flickers across Keeho’s face doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Theo notices it immediately. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets the silence settle between them until it feels heavy enough to break. Then, quietly, he asks, “He came again last night, didn’t he?”

Keeho’s hand stills on the sleeve he’s been absently touching. He doesn’t look at Theo — just nods, his gaze fixed on a mannequin across the room. “Yeah,” he says softly, like it’s a secret.

Theo tilts his head. “And left before you woke up again?”

Keeho nods again, and this time there’s a small smile — the kind that hurts more than it heals. “You know him,” he says, trying to sound light. “He’s always early. Morning person and all.”

Theo sighs. A deep, frustrated sound that comes from somewhere in his chest. “Baby, I just… I can’t understand him. He’s confusing. It’s like—he wants you, but only halfway.”

Keeho giggles — that same airy, quiet giggle that feels more like a deflection than amusement. “Try being me then,” he says, finally looking at Theo. His eyes are warm, but tired. “I swear studying medicine isn’t what’s gonna make me lose my mind first. It’s him. And mind you, I’m halfway there already.”

Theo shakes his head, crossing his arms. “You’re not funny right now, baby.”

“Figures,” Keeho says softly. His voice is small, like it’s been worn thin. He turns to the mirror beside him, his reflection framed by rows of expensive dresses. “You know what’s funny, though? You and Aera — you fight, sure. You get mad, jealous, tired. But when she wants something, you give it. When you love her, you show it. It’s loud. It’s visible. Everyone knows.”

Theo frowns, sensing where this is going. “Baby—”

“No, listen,” Keeho says, not unkindly. “When I see you two, it’s like… it’s like watching what love’s supposed to look like. The kind that’s seen, you know? You hold her hand in public, you kiss her forehead when she’s nervous. You don’t think twice about it. You want people to know she’s yours.” He lets out a quiet laugh, more bitter than amused. “Jiung—he’s the opposite. It’s like he loves me in a locked room. In the dark. Quietly. Like it’s a secret he’s afraid to say out loud.”

Theo watches him carefully, his chest tightening. “You think he’s ashamed?”

Keeho shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe not of me. Maybe just… of what we are. Or what people might think. But I don’t get it. I don’t get why love should need hiding. And I’m tired of it.”

Theo doesn’t know how to respond. He runs a hand through his hair, glancing toward the changing room curtain where Aera’s humming softly, blissfully unaware of the tension hanging in the air. He wishes he could give Keeho something — advice, comfort, clarity — but the truth is, he doesn’t have it. He only has the ache of seeing his friend shrink a little smaller every time Jiung’s name is mentioned.

“Maybe you should tell him,” Theo says finally. “Like, really tell him. Not hint around it. Not wait for him to notice. Tell him what you need. Because if he can’t give you that—”

Keeho interrupts with a sigh. “Then I’ll have my answer?”

Theo nods, quiet.

Keeho stares at the dresses again — the soft lace, the neat seams, the easy perfection of them. “You ever wonder,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “if maybe love looks easier on other people because they just fit? Like, you and Aera — you work. You fight, you tease, you drive each other crazy, but you always meet in the middle. With Jiung and me…” He trails off, searching for words. “It’s like we’re always standing on opposite sides of a glass wall. We see each other. We talk. But we can’t quite touch.”

Theo’s about to respond when Aera’s voice suddenly cuts through, bright and excited. “Babe! Look!”

She bursts out of the changing room, twirling in a white floral dress that flares at her knees, laughing as the skirt spins. Theo immediately lights up, whistling. “That’s it. We’re getting that one,” he says.

Keeho smiles — genuinely this time — clapping softly. “You look beautiful, Aera-ssi.”

“Right?” she beams, running to the mirror. “Theo’s paying!”

Theo groans. “I regret everything.”

Keeho laughs again, but the sound fades quickly. As Aera twirls and Theo fusses over the price tag, Keeho steps back, watching them — watching that ease, that kind of love that feels steady and safe, like a heartbeat. He wonders if Jiung ever looks at him like that, out in the open, unafraid.

And then he wonders, quietly and painfully, if he ever will.

Theo’s kiss still lingers on Keeho’s forehead — warm, fleeting, and full of that familiar affection that’s always felt safe, the kind that doesn’t make his chest tighten. When Theo’s car drives away, tail lights glowing red against the evening drizzle, Keeho stands there for a moment longer than necessary, watching until the car disappears at the corner. His fingers tighten around the shopping bag in his hand — the one that holds a new bottle of his favorite toner, courtesy of Aera insisting, “Theo, be a gentleman and pay for Keeho’s too!” He can still hear Theo’s dramatic sigh at the cashier, arms wrapped around him from behind as he whispered, “Baby, I love you, but please—stop using a toner that costs like a mortgage!” Keeho laughed so hard his sides hurt.

Now, back in his dorm, that laughter feels like a different world. He sits on the edge of his bed, the soft hum of the air conditioner filling the quiet, and starts tugging off his socks. He’s humming absentmindedly, still light from the day — until he hears the click of the front door.

“Jiungie?” he calls out, surprised. He stands halfway, expecting a smile, a casual hey, I brought food. Sorry I left earlier this morning — but Jiung’s expression isn’t one of warmth. He’s standing by the door, one hand still gripping the knob, eyes sharp and unreadable.

“You’re still hanging out with him?” Jiung asks flatly.

Keeho blinks, confused. “Huh?”

“Your ex,” Jiung says, shutting the door behind him with a soft thud. His voice isn’t loud, but the tension in it cuts through the air. “Theo.”

Keeho stares at him for a moment, processing the tone — that quiet edge that’s more accusation than question. “Oh—yeah,” he says finally, his tone careful. “Theo said I should get some fresh air. So he brought me to the mall. I got a new toner!” He lifts the bag slightly, smiling, as if that might shift the mood back to something soft, something familiar.

But Jiung only sighs, long and heavy, setting a plastic bag on the table. The smell of takeout fills the space — tteokbokki, maybe, and fried dumplings — comfort food, the kind Jiung always brings when he knows Keeho’s been studying too hard. But the gesture feels hollow now, weighed down by the unspoken.

“I ate already earlier with them,” Keeho tries again, quieter this time. “Have you… eaten yet? We can—”

Jiung cuts in before he can finish. “Do you really think it’s okay to keep seeing him like that?” His tone is sharper now, but controlled, almost too controlled.

Keeho freezes. “Like… that?”

“Yeah,” Jiung says, finally looking at him. His eyes are tired, but there’s something else beneath it — a flicker of jealousy, insecurity, maybe anger. “You go out with him. You let him pay for your things. You laugh with him like—” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Like it’s nothing.”

Keeho’s breath catches. He opens his mouth, closes it again. “He’s my friend, Jiung,” he says softly. “We were just—”

“Your ex turned friend,” Jiung interrupts. “You were just out with your ex, who still calls you baby in public, by the way.”

Keeho’s heart drops at that — the memory of Theo’s teasing words at the cashier flashes in his mind, and suddenly even that warmth feels like a sin. “It’s not like that,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “We broke up years ago. In a nice term. So now, we’re just friends.”

Jiung laughs — a dry, humorless sound. “Yeah? Doesn’t look like it. Doesn’t sound like it either. He calls you baby in front of people, and you just smile like it’s fine.”

Keeho’s chest tightens. He wants to explain — wants to say that’s just Theo, that it’s harmless, that Aera was right there laughing — but the words die before they leave his mouth. Because Jiung’s eyes aren’t looking for an explanation. They’re looking for an apology. For guilt.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Keeho says finally, his voice small. “We were just hanging out. You’ve met Theo before this. You know there’s nothing—”

“That’s not the point, Keeho.” Jiung’s voice is low, steady. “You don’t think how that looks. You never think. You say you love me, but sometimes it’s like…” He stops himself, biting down on the rest.

Keeho feels something twist painfully in his chest. “Like what?” he whispers.

Jiung shakes his head. “Forget it.” He moves to unpack the food, his movements sharp, deliberate. The silence between them stretches — heavy, suffocating.

Keeho stands there for a moment, clutching the shopping bag like it’s a shield. His mouth opens, closes again. What is he supposed to say? That he’s sorry for smiling? For having fun? For breathing a little easier for a few hours? For having an ex who care more about him than his own boyfriend?

Jiung doesn’t look up. “Just… don’t let him call you that again,” he says, quietly but firmly. “It’s disrespectful.”

Keeho swallows. “Okay,” he murmurs.

Jiung nods once, as if the conversation’s over. “Let’s eat.”

Keeho forces a smile — that same practiced one that smooths everything over. He sets the toner bag on the dresser and walks over, sitting across from Jiung. The food smells good, but his stomach feels tight.

He picks up a piece of tteokbokki, but it tastes like nothing. His mind is somewhere else — in the warmth of Theo’s hug, in the echo of laughter that had felt so freeing just hours ago, and now, in the silence of this room that feels smaller every time Jiung sighs.

He doesn’t know how to fix it. Doesn’t even know if he can.

So he just sits there, quiet, pretending this — the food, the silence, the space between them — is enough.

Chapter Text

The food between them is mostly gone now, the air thick with silence that neither of them seems willing to break. The takeout containers sit open on the table — the tteokbokki’s sauce has turned sticky and cold, the kimbap half-eaten, the oil on the fried dumplings congealed slightly under the fluorescent dorm light. Keeho’s chopsticks are moving, but barely — he’s been picking at the food more than eating it, forcing himself to chew even though his stomach feels too tight now. He’d already eaten with Theo and Aera earlier, laughing over spicy ramen and shared fries, but the way Jiung’s eyes had flickered tonight — a flash of quiet disapproval, sharp and brief — made him too afraid to say I’m full.

Across the table, Jiung is quiet too. He’s scrolling on his phone, the faint glow lighting up his face. Keeho studies him — the sharp line of his jaw, the small crease that forms between his brows when he’s thinking, the way his fingers move across the screen — steady, precise. It’s the same calmness that drew Keeho to him two years ago. But now, that same calmness feels like distance. Like a wall Keeho can’t climb no matter how many times he tries.

He’s halfway through swallowing a bite of sausage when Jiung speaks, voice smooth and even. “Do you have anywhere to go tomorrow?”

Keeho blinks, caught off guard. “Hm?”

Jiung doesn’t look up yet. “Tomorrow. And the day after,” he continues, thumb still idly swiping across his phone. “Three days, maybe?”

Keeho pauses, chopsticks hovering midair. The shift in tone throws him off — it’s softer now, no trace of the edge from before. Like the argument about Theo never happened. Like nothing’s wrong. That’s how Jiung is — storms that pass without cleanup. He never apologizes, never explains, just resets the weather and expects Keeho to do the same.

Keeho swallows hard, shakes his head slowly. “No. I was just… thinking of going home for a bit.” He pokes at the tteokbokki, the sauce glistening under the light. “But Eomma and Appa are in Venice right now. Anniversary trip.”

“Ah.” Jiung finally sets his phone down, folding his hands neatly on the table. “Great,” he says simply, and that one word — great — carries something strange, unreadable.

Keeho blinks again, uncertain. “…Great?”

“Pack your bag,” Jiung says after a beat, voice calm, steady. “Jeju-do.”

Keeho freezes. “Huh?”

“Three days should be okay for you, right?” Jiung asks, still not looking at him. “I’ve already booked the essentials.”

Keeho’s chopsticks clatter softly against the bowl as he stares, confused. “…Huh? You booked—when?”

“Earlier,” Jiung says, finally meeting his eyes. He reaches for a napkin and leans forward, gently wiping the corner of Keeho’s mouth where a bit of red sauce had smudged. The gesture is tender, practiced, and it makes Keeho’s heart do that familiar stutter — the kind that always happens when Jiung touches him like this, like nothing’s wrong.

Keeho blinks up at him, his lips parting slightly. “You… you booked a trip?”

“Mm.” Jiung nods, matter-of-fact. “You’ve been stressed. We both have. Exams, your friends, everything.” His tone softens further, almost fond now. “You need to rest, Keeho.”

Keeho doesn’t know what to say. His mind is still reeling, still trying to catch up. Just half an hour ago, Jiung had looked at him like he was doing something unforgivable for laughing with his ex. And now he’s planning a getaway?

“Jeju-do sounds good, right?” Jiung says again, pouring a glass of water. He pushes it toward Keeho, the rim just brushing his hand. “Drink,” he says gently, like a command dressed as care.

Keeho takes the glass obediently, blinking in confusion. “Jiungie, I—this is so sudden. When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Jiung replies. “Flight’s at nine. I already booked the hotel too.”

Keeho almost chokes on his water. “You—what? You already—” He stares, wide-eyed. “When did you even plan this?”

Jiung leans back in his chair, picking up his chopsticks again even though his plate’s empty. “Does it matter?” he says quietly. “I wanted to do something for you.”

Keeho’s throat feels tight. He sets down the glass slowly. “Something for me?” he echoes, unsure whether to feel touched or trapped.

Jiung nods once. “You’ve been quiet lately. And distant. I thought… maybe this will help.” His gaze softens, searching Keeho’s face. “It’s not because of Theo, right?”

The name lands like a weight on the table between them. Keeho looks away. “Jiungie…”

“I just don’t like seeing you upset,” Jiung says, his voice low now, almost coaxing. “So let’s go away for a bit. Just us. No distractions.”

Keeho’s heart twists painfully. The way Jiung says it — just us — should sound comforting. It should feel like love. But there’s something underneath it, something that feels more like control than care. More like guilt payment than want.

He tries to smile anyway. “Okay,” he says softly. “Jeju-do sounds nice.”

Jiung’s expression finally eases. “Good.” He stands, brushing his hands on his jeans, and presses a quick kiss to Keeho’s forehead — the kind of kiss that feels too gentle for how heavy the air is. “I’ll pick you up in the morning. Don’t stay up late. Finish your food, you’ve been playing with it all evening.”

Keeho watches him as he walks toward the door, his figure calm and certain, like everything he does always makes sense. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

For a long moment, Keeho just sits there, staring at the food that’s gone cold. The napkin Jiung used to wipe his mouth lies crumpled near his bowl.

He traces the rim of his glass with his thumb, feeling the faint condensation there.

It should feel romantic — spontaneous, even. A surprise trip, a gesture of care. Anyone else would probably smile, feel lucky. But Keeho can’t shake the unease curling in his chest.

Because this is what Jiung does.

He hurts, then soothes.

He builds walls, then hands Keeho flowers to decorate them.

He takes and gives, always in equal measure — enough to keep Keeho from realizing which side of the balance he’s on.

“Jeju-do,” Keeho whispers to himself, trying to sound excited. “Just us.”

But the words feel heavy.

Like a promise and a warning at once.

The sand beneath their feet shifts softly as they walk, the faint hiss of the tide weaving through every footstep. The air at Hamdeok Beach smells like salt and faint citrus — someone’s perfume carried by the wind, someone else’s laughter floating from the far end of the shore. The sky is a lazy watercolor of orange and lavender, the kind of sunset that makes the sea look like it’s breathing. Keeho’s shoes are dangling from his fingers now, his bare feet brushing the cool sand. The grains stick between his toes, but he doesn’t mind. Beside him, Jiung walks quietly, hands in his pockets for most of the walk, except for the times when he reaches over, almost absently, to intertwine their fingers again. It’s a quiet gesture, almost tender, something he didn’t do out of normalcy — and Keeho can feel Jiung’s eyes flicking toward him every few steps, studying him like he’s a puzzle that needs solving.

They landed at CJU just past noon, both tired and need rests. Jiung had driven them straight from the airport, refusing to let Keeho carry their luggage. He’d checked them into a seaside pension — the kind with whitewashed balconies and wide glass windows that look out to the sea. Keeho had smiled then, even if the silence between them felt heavy. He’d told himself it was fine. Maybe this was Jiung’s way of fixing things, of making up for the tension, the accusations, the quiet walls between them. And now, five hours later after rest, they’re here — walking like any other couple might, side by side, their shadows stretched long across the sand.

When they finally sit, the sand dips beneath them, soft and cool. Keeho folds his knees to his chest, his elbows resting on them, eyes tracing the waves as they break, curl, and vanish. Jiung sits close enough that their shoulders brush, his arm stretched behind Keeho’s back. For a while, neither of them speaks. It’s a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, but fragile — like one wrong word could make it collapse.

“Jiungie,” Keeho says softly after a while, the nickname slipping out before he can stop himself. The syllables sound small, almost guilty, carried away by the wind.

Jiung hums in response, low and quiet, not looking at him. He never does when Keeho uses that name, but he never stops him either.

Keeho turns his head slightly, watching the line of Jiung’s profile against the sunset. “Why did you bring me here? Out of sudden?” he asks, voice gentle but curious.

Jiung doesn’t answer at first. His fingers dig absently into the sand beside him, tracing slow patterns that disappear with every breeze. The pause stretches — long enough that Keeho begins to wonder if he’ll respond at all. The sound of the waves fills the space where words should be.

When Jiung finally speaks, his voice is quiet, careful. “You needed a break,” he says simply.

Keeho lets out a small laugh — not mocking, just soft. “From what?”

Jiung shrugs, eyes still on the horizon. “From everything. Study. People. Me.”

Keeho turns to look at him fully now, the setting sun painting Jiung’s face in a warm glow. His boyfriend’s expression is unreadable, but his jaw is tight, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the water.

“I hurt you, didn’t I?” Jiung asks suddenly, his tone slower now, deliberate. The kind of tone that makes Keeho’s heart throb uncomfortably.

Keeho blinks, startled.

Jiung lets out a slow breath, his hand brushing against Keeho’s. “You’ve been hurt many times because of me,” he says quietly. It’s not really an apology — not exactly — but it’s the closest thing Keeho’s ever heard from him.

Keeho presses his lips together, a small, sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just confused,” he murmurs after a while, resting his head gently on Jiung’s shoulder. His cheek fits there like a puzzle, the warmth familiar. “I’m just… confused sometimes. Too many questions in my head.”

Jiung shifts slightly, his arm curling around Keeho’s back, drawing him closer. The waves crash a little harder now, the sound filling the gap between their words.

Jiung’s thumb draws circles on Keeho’s arm, almost absentmindedly. “And Theo’s being the listener every time?” he asks after a while, his tone quieter, though there’s something careful in it — cautious curiosity, almost jealousy wrapped in feigned calm.

Keeho hesitates. He could lie, but Jiung would know. So he just nods, his cheek still pressed against Jiung’s shoulder.

Jiung hums again, but this time it sounds heavier. His hand shifts slightly, resting on Keeho’s back. “He hates me, doesn’t he?” Jiung says, not looking down. The words are quiet, but there’s a bitter twist underneath.

Keeho shakes his head slowly, a faint smile playing at his lips. “No, not hate,” he says softly. “Tired maybe. I’ve been asking him the same questions all the time.” He chuckles under his breath. “He’s probably bored of hearing about you.”

Jiung’s hand stills on Keeho’s back. He looks down finally, searching Keeho’s face — the small smile there, the tired eyes. “You talk about me that much?” he asks quietly.

Keeho lifts his head a little, meeting Jiung’s gaze. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe too much. Maybe not enough.”

Jiung exhales through his nose, a tiny smile ghosting over his lips. “You’re strange,” he murmurs.

Keeho laughs softly. “You tell me that all the time.”

“I mean it every time,” Jiung says, tilting his head slightly so that his cheek rests against Keeho’s head. “So strange that… you stay even when you shouldn’t. Even when I hurt you again and again.”

Keeho smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe I just love too much.”

The sky above them deepens into indigo, the first stars peeking out as the day folds into night. Around them, couples walk hand in hand, children chase the retreating foam, and the sea hums its endless song.

The night air is soft, cool against their skin, carrying with it the scent of salt and something faintly sweet from the little seaside stalls still open behind them. The sand has grown colder now, but Keeho doesn’t move. His back rests easily against Jiung’s chest now, their bodies curved into one another like two pieces that finally, momentarily, fit. Jiung’s arms wrap lazily around Keeho’s waist, his chin tucked against Keeho’s shoulder, the steady sound of his breathing syncing with the rhythm of the waves. For once, there’s no tension, no careful distance. Just the night, the tide, and the weight of each other.

Keeho tilts his head slightly, watching the moonlight shimmer over the water. It’s quieter now; most of the tourists have gone, leaving the beach bathed in a hush that feels almost intimate. He lets the silence linger for a moment before speaking, voice soft but deliberate.

“Why did you ask me out two years ago, Jiung?” he asks, his tone calm — too calm — as if he’s not expecting an answer at all. His eyes stay on the sea, not on Jiung, afraid that looking at him might make him retreat behind silence again.

Jiung hums quietly, the vibration rumbling against Keeho’s back. “Why?” he echoes, as though he’s trying to buy himself a few seconds.

Keeho nods slightly, waiting.

“Because you’re pretty,” Jiung says finally, his voice a little teasing, the corner of his mouth brushing against Keeho’s neck as he presses a small kiss there — light, fleeting.

Keeho groans, half a laugh slipping from his throat. “No flirting now, mister. Your flirting rights have been officially revoked,” he says, twisting slightly to look at Jiung, his lips pulling into a grin.

Jiung chuckles, the sound low, chest vibrating against Keeho’s back. “Oh really? Since when?” he asks, pretending to sound offended.

Keeho swats at his arm playfully. “Since you accused me of cheating with my ex,” he says, fakes pouting, his words carry a trace of something heavier underneath. “I’m hurt, you know.”

That makes Jiung go quiet. The laughter fades between them, replaced by the hush of the waves again. His arms stay around Keeho, but they don’t squeeze as tight. For a moment, the only sound is the sea breathing and the distant music from a food stall radio.

“You can’t really blame me,” Jiung murmurs eventually, voice softer now, almost sheepish. “He’s still all over you, even knowing you have a boyfriend. Me. The boyfriend. I’m hurt too.”

Keeho tilts his head back a little, trying to catch Jiung’s expression. His lips curl into a disbelieving smile. “My boyfriend’s dumb. He has a girlfriend, dumbass,” he says, laughter slipping through his words.

Jiung blinks, caught off guard. “Wha— since when?” he asks, confusion threading through his voice.

Keeho turns fully now, his body half-turned toward Jiung, eyes glinting with amusement. “Since forever? They’ve been together for, what, three years now? Aera, remember?”

It takes Jiung a second. He blinks again, eyes widening slightly as if a switch just flicked on in his head. “Wait— Aera? That Aera? Aera from Art department?”

Keeho laughs, the sound loud and full this time, echoing faintly into the night air. “Yes, genius. That Aera. Theo’s girlfriend.”

Jiung groans, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, embarrassment coloring his cheeks even in the dim light. “So I’ve been jealous for nothing?”

Keeho grins, leaning back against his chest again. “Dumbass,” he says softly, and Jiung’s chuckle joins his, both of them laughing into the night like kids again.

Keeho feels Jiung’s fingers find his again, their hands tangling loosely. Jiung plays with his rings, turning them absentmindedly. The breeze picks up, brushing against Keeho’s hair, and for a moment, everything feels still.

Then Jiung’s voice breaks the quiet again. “Do you still remember Intak?” he asks suddenly, his tone shifting into something more thoughtful.

Keeho hums, his head tilting slightly. “Your neighbor?” he says, brows furrowed as he searches his memory. “That cute Intak guy?”

Jiung groans in response, thumb brushing over the back of Keeho’s hand. “Yeah. Him.”

Keeho glances at him. “Why? What about him?”

Jiung exhales, slow. “He’s the one who pushed me to ask you out,” he says simply.

Keeho blinks, surprised. “What?”

Jiung nods, his lips twitching slightly into a faint smile. “Yeah. I told him about you — about how you were in my anatomy class and how you always looked like you were about to fall asleep but still got the highest scores. He laughed at me for weeks because I kept making excuses to talk to you.”

Keeho chuckles softly, his heart tugging a little. “You were so awkward back then,” he teases gently.

Jiung grins faintly. “Still am.”

“True,” Keeho agrees, a small laugh escaping him.

Jiung looks down at their hands, his thumb tracing slow circles against Keeho’s skin. “He told me,” he says after a pause, “that if I didn’t ask you out, someone else would. And the thought of that made me feel—” He stops, eyes flickering away, searching for the right word. “It made me feel sick, actually.”

Keeho’s smile falters, replaced by something softer, sadder. “So you asked me out because you didn’t want to lose me?”

Jiung hesitates. “I guess… yeah,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t know how to love you properly back then. Still the same now. I just knew I didn’t want to see you with someone else.”

Keeho lets that sink in. The waves keep rolling, the wind brushing against their faces. The moonlight makes everything look gentler than it feels.

He leans his head back against Jiung’s shoulder again, staring at the sea. “So that’s that,” he says quietly, “you asked me out because you’re scared someone else might.”

Jiung doesn’t reply. His hand stills against Keeho’s, the weight of his silence louder than any words could be.

Keeho exhales, a shaky breath. “I guess I’ll take what I can get for now,” he says softly, smiling like it’s nothing.

Jiung breathes out, his lips close to Keeho’s temple, voice muffled against his hair. “Sorry’s not gonna make it better now, huh?” he says quietly, not really a question, more like he’s thinking out loud. There’s no defiance in his tone this time, no hint of annoyance. Just tired honesty.

Keeho doesn’t move for a moment. He stares out at the horizon, at how the dark water swallows the last of the sunset. Then he sighs softly, turning his head slightly toward Jiung. “Not really,” he says, his voice gentle but steady. “But I still need my ego boost. So you better apologize properly. I’ve been hurt enough these two years.”

Jiung chuckles, a small, breathy sound at first — but then it grows. A real laugh, deep and unguarded, spilling out of him before he can stop it. It’s rare, that sound. It vibrates through Keeho’s back, through the air, until Keeho can’t help but start laughing too, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin he can’t fight.

“What?” Keeho says between giggles, twisting to face him. “You think I’m joking?”

Jiung’s still laughing, his eyes curved into crescents. “You’re so dramatic sometimes,” he says, shaking his head, and the sight of him like this — soft, light, alive — makes Keeho’s heart squeeze. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jiung laugh this freely before. It feels like a glimpse of something he’s always hoped was there, hidden under all that restraint.

“Come on,” Keeho insists, poking Jiung’s chest with a finger. “Apologize properly. No half-assed apologies in this relationship. I deserve a full one. Bonus points if you make it sound formal.”

Jiung raises an eyebrow, still grinning. “Formal?”

Keeho nods solemnly, his lips twitching. “Like a court apology. I’m your judge. You’re the guilty one. Be respectful.”

“Oh my god,” Jiung groans, but he’s still smiling. “Fine, fine. Ahem.” He sits up slightly, clears his throat with exaggerated seriousness, and holds up his hand like he’s taking an oath. “I, Choi Jiung,” he begins, voice trembling from suppressed laughter, “am deeply and sincerely sorry for being a bad boyfriend who accidentally hurts his very cute, very patient, and very dramatic partner for approximately—” he pauses, pretending to think, “—two years and counting.”

Keeho bites his lip, trying to keep a straight face but failing completely. He bursts into laughter, burying his face in Jiung’s shoulder. “You’re so dumb,” he manages to say between giggles.

Jiung laughs with him, wrapping his arms around Keeho and pulling him tight against his chest. “I’m sorry for hurting you, your honour,” he says, his words muffled by Keeho’s hair now. “I promise to be a better boyfriend from now on.”

Keeho looks up at him, mock-serious. “Promises need proof, Mr. Choi.”

“Oh yeah?” Jiung teases. “What kind of proof?”

Keeho grins, holding out his hand dramatically. “Kiss my hand.”

Jiung laughs again, that same warm, unguarded laugh, but he doesn’t hesitate. He takes Keeho’s hand in both of his, brings it close, and presses a gentle kiss against the back of it — soft, lingering, real. The kind of kiss that feels like it’s trying to erase everything that ever hurt.

Keeho’s smile softens. “Approved,” he says, voice quiet now. “You may go free now, Mr. Choi.”

Jiung chuckles, their laughter blending again before fading into a long, comfortable silence. The waves fill the gaps between their breaths, the sand cool beneath them. Keeho leans against Jiung’s chest again, tracing invisible circles on his knee.

For a while, there’s only the sound of the sea.

Then Keeho speaks, so softly that Jiung almost misses it. “Can I still put my hope for this relationship, Jiungie? Do I deserve to experience love again at least? From you?”

His voice wavers just slightly on the nickname — the same one he’s always been careful with, always said like a secret. It hangs in the air between them, trembling.

Jiung freezes. His hand stops moving where it rests on Keeho’s arm. He looks at him for a long time, eyes searching Keeho’s profile like he’s reading something written there. Then he leans forward, presses a slow kiss to the back of Keeho’s hand — gentle, deliberate.

“I love you,” Jiung whispers.

Keeho’s chest tightens. It’s the kind of answer that both soothes and breaks something inside him. He smiles, small and tired, turning his face toward Jiung’s shoulder, hiding there.

The sea murmurs in the background, the stars scatter across the dark sky, and Keeho closes his eyes.

Jiung’s heartbeat is steady under his ear, familiar, almost enough.

Almost.

Chapter Text

The next day, the world feels brighter — or maybe it’s just Jeju. The sky is an impossible shade of blue, so clear that even Keeho’s mood seems lighter for once. Sumokwon Theme Park is alive with noise and color: the hum of roller coasters, the laughter of kids chasing each other with ice cream cones, the sugary scent of fried snacks and cotton candy floating in the air. It’s busy, crowded, loud — but somehow, it feels good. It feels like a breath they both needed after too many days spent inside quiet rooms full of things unsaid.

Keeho sits on a wooden bench near a row of food stalls, his lap dotted with bits of pink cotton candy that stick to his jeans. He’s halfway through a huge puff of sugar when Jiung returns, holding two cups of soda in one hand. His hair’s a little messy from the wind, shirt sleeves rolled up, and there’s something easy in the way he walks toward Keeho — less guarded than usual, more… open.

Jiung doesn’t say anything at first. He just comes up behind Keeho and places a hand on his shoulder, the familiar weight grounding but new somehow. His fingers press gently against Keeho’s collarbone before he leans in and tugs him closer by the shoulder, settling beside him on the bench.

Keeho blinks, his cotton candy halfway to his mouth. “You’ve been touching me a lot since yesterday,” he says, his voice lilting with teasing curiosity. He turns his head slightly, eyes glinting with amusement. “Not that I’m complaining, but who are you and what have you done to my anti-PDA boyfriend?”

Jiung snorts softly, handing him one of the sodas. “You don’t like it?” he asks, pretending to sound casual, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Keeho grins, accepting the drink. “No, I love it,” he says with mock seriousness, “but I just want to make sure I’m not hallucinating.” He pokes Jiung’s arm lightly with the straw. “I mean, yesterday you held my hand in public, and now—” he gestures dramatically at Jiung’s hand still resting on his shoulder, “—you’re practically initiating PDA. Should I call a doctor?”

Jiung laughs, a quiet, low sound that makes Keeho’s grin widen. “Maybe I just realized I’ve been dumb,” Jiung says, leaning back slightly, eyes scanning the crowd in front of them. His hand doesn’t move, though — if anything, it slides lower to Keeho’s upper arm, thumb brushing back and forth in absentminded circles.

Keeho bites into the fluffy pink candy, his smile softening. “You? Dumb? I’d never say it out loud,” he says, grinning playfully.

“Yeah?” Jiung asks, arching an eyebrow. “You just did.”

“I’m just quoting you,” Keeho says, shrugging, his tone light and teasing. “You said it first.”

Jiung shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “You’re impossible sometimes.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Keeho says, popping another piece of cotton candy into his mouth. His lips turn blue from the food coloring, and when Jiung glances at him, he snorts softly.

“What?” Keeho asks, eyes narrowing in amusement.

“You look like you lost a fight with a snow cone,” Jiung says, laughter bubbling up again.

Keeho gasps dramatically. “Wow, so now you’re bullying me? First, you accuse me of cheating. Then, you mock my snack choices. That hurts, Jiungie. And yet, I’m still here, loving you.”

Jiung smirks, tilting his head. “That’s on you.”

Keeho scoffs, pretending to be offended. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Choi Jiung.”

“Am I?” Jiung murmurs, leaning closer now. His voice drops slightly, quieter — gentler. His hand finds the back of Keeho’s neck, thumb brushing lightly at the base of his hairline. The air shifts — softer, heavier — and Keeho feels his breath catch for a second.

“Yeah,” Keeho says finally, quieter this time. “You are.”

Jiung’s eyes soften, and he smiles — small but real. Then he leans in and presses a kiss against Keeho’s temple, slow and warm. It’s not rushed or hidden; it’s the kind of kiss that lingers for a moment, the kind that says I see you, I’m trying.

Keeho freezes for half a second — not because he’s shocked, but because he wants to remember this. This exact second. The faint sweetness of the cotton candy on his tongue, the fizz of the soda in his hand, Jiung’s breath against his skin, the sound of laughter and roller coasters in the background.

Then he smiles — really smiles — and leans into Jiung’s shoulder, resting his head there. “You know, if you keep this up,” he murmurs, eyes closing slightly, “I might forgive you completely.”

Jiung huffs a laugh. “That’s the goal,” he says.

Keeho chuckles softly. “Good. Then I’ll allow you to buy me churros later as part of your redemption arc.”

“Churros, huh?” Jiung says, pretending to think. “Do I get a discount if I keep holding your hand?”

Keeho tilts his head up, smirking. “Depends. Are you planning to stop?”

Jiung meets his gaze, something warm flickering in his eyes. “No,” he says simply.

And just like that, they fall quiet again. The sound of the park swells around them — laughter, rides creaking, the smell of caramel and sea breeze mixing in the air. Keeho feels Jiung’s arm tighten around him slightly, and he melts into the warmth, closing his eyes.

For once, there’s no need to question, no space for doubt.

Just the press of a hand, the taste of sugar, and the quiet kind of happiness that feels almost like hope.

The air around them is still warm from the late afternoon sun, the sky painted in streaks of soft orange and pink. They’re still sitting on that same bench in the middle of the park, surrounded by laughter and the distant melody of carnival rides spinning in rhythm. The churros Keeho begged for earlier — heart-shaped, perfectly golden, dusted with cinnamon sugar — are half-eaten, flakes of sugar stuck to the corner of his lips. Jiung watches him with quiet amusement, occasionally brushing a crumb off Keeho’s cheek.

Keeho giggles as he licks a bit of sugar from his thumb. “See? I told you the heart-shaped ones taste better,” he says, proud, his voice half-muffled by the bite of churro still in his mouth.

Jiung laughs softly. “They taste exactly the same as the normal ones,” he says, but his tone is indulgent, not argumentative.

“No, no, no,” Keeho insists, waving his half-eaten churro like a wand. “It’s heart-shaped, so it’s love-shaped. Love makes it taste better. Science, Jiungie.”

Jiung chuckles, shaking his head. “Science, huh?”

“Mm-hmm,” Keeho says, nodding solemnly before biting into another piece. “Proven by me. A very trustworthy source.”

Jiung’s reply is cut short when a familiar ringtone breaks through the background noise. Keeho pauses mid-bite, blinking down at his phone screen lighting up beside him on the bench.

Theo 😎 calling…

His heart jumps a little — not from fear, but the small jolt of guilt that comes with seeing that name when he’s with Jiung. He fumbles for the phone, about to decline the call with a mumbled “I’ll text him later,” when Jiung reaches over and snatches it before Keeho can move.

“Jiung—” Keeho starts, startled.

But Jiung’s already pressing accept, his expression unreadable as he puts the phone to his ear.

“Jiung, no—give it—” Keeho reaches for it, but Jiung lifts his arm out of reach, a calm but firm look in his eyes that stops Keeho mid-motion. There’s no anger — not yet — but there’s that controlled edge that makes Keeho’s stomach twist.

“Baby! Why are you ignoring my messages?” Theo’s voice booms through the tiny speaker, loud enough that Keeho flinches even from where he’s sitting. “Where are you, by the way? I’ve been knocking on your door for like an hour now, I thought you died or something! You’re not dead yet, right? Aera cooked something for you. You need to try it once at least before you die. You know she didn’t cook often!”

Keeho’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, Theo—” he whispers, trying to gesture for Jiung to hand the phone over. But Jiung doesn’t even glance at him. His tone is calm, almost too calm, when he finally speaks.

“Your baby’s in Jeju, Theo-ssi,” Jiung says evenly, voice steady, controlled. “With me. His boyfriend. And I’d really appreciate it if you stopped using that nickname now.”

Keeho freezes, lips parting slightly. He doesn’t hear Theo’s full response — just muffled syllables, the rise in tone, the sound of disbelief — but he knows that tone in Theo’s voice. Defensive. Sharp.

“Oh, the infamous non-PDA Jiung-ssi,” Theo’s voice finally filters through, dripping with disdain. “I don’t really like you, you know that, right?”

Jiung exhales through his nose, still not looking at Keeho. His grip on the phone doesn’t tighten, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that Keeho can feel from where he sits, a quiet storm brewing behind his composure.

“Same here, Theo-ssi,” Jiung replies, his tone steady but laced with that cutting calmness that makes Keeho’s chest clench. “You’re not exactly special enough for me to lose sleep over your disdain feelings toward me.”

Keeho’s heart starts pounding. “Jiungie, stop,” he says softly, voice shaking just a little. He reaches for the phone again, but Jiung’s free hand comes up — not to push him away, but to gesture gently for him to stay still. His eyes stay on the distance, unfocused, his voice smooth as ever.

“Well,” Jiung continues, “no more calls. No more texts. And no more dropping by his door. You’ve done enough ‘checking up,’ haven’t you? Let’s not disturb my quality time with my boyfriend anymore.”

Keeho’s throat feels dry. He can’t hear Theo’s words clearly now — just the muted sound of something angry, frustrated, Theo’s voice raised but half-cut by Jiung’s tone. The tension thickens in the air, pressing heavy between them.

“Give the phone back to Keeho,” Theo says finally, his voice low, commanding, sharp enough that Keeho catches the words even from where he sits.

Jiung’s jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before his lips twist into a small, humorless smile. “Nope,” he says quietly, almost polite. “This stops here. Bye.”

Then — click. The call ends.

Silence drops instantly, so heavy it almost hums. The sound of the park rushes back in — laughter, wind, a vendor yelling about fresh corn dogs — all too loud, too alive compared to the sudden stillness between them.

Jiung sets the phone down gently on Keeho’s thigh and exhales through his nose. He leans back on the bench, running a hand through his hair, looking out at the crowd. His jaw is still tense, but his expression is unreadable — somewhere between anger and quiet exhaustion.

Keeho just sits there, staring down at his phone, his fingers frozen around the half-eaten churro still in his other hand. His mind is blank for a few seconds, eyes wide, breath shallow.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even know what to say.

Every word feels wrong. Too small. Too late.

Jiung’s hand eventually finds his again, their fingers brushing softly. When Keeho looks up, Jiung’s gaze meets his — tired, soft, apologetic, but still stubbornly certain.

The park is thinning out now — the once-bustling air now replaced by the quiet hum of evening. The carousel lights still spin in the distance, faint music echoing faintly through the cooling air. A group of kids runs past them, laughter fading into the night as the crowd starts to scatter toward the exit. The bench beneath them feels heavier than before. Keeho sits still, his half-eaten churro limp in his hand, the sugar already melting against his fingers. Jiung’s words come quiet but clipped, carrying that gentle authority that makes Keeho’s stomach twist.

“Are you finished yet?” Jiung asks, glancing at the paper wrapper crinkled in Keeho’s lap. “Let’s go. It’s getting late now. We have an early flight tomorrow.”

Keeho doesn’t answer. He just stares down at the churro like it suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world. He lifts it a little, showing Jiung the half-bitten heart shape, like proof of his silence. “Halfway,” he mutters softly, eyes still fixed on the sugary dough.

Jiung exhales, his tone softening instantly. “Okay,” he says, nodding once. “Finish it first. I’ll go buy us some water, and then we—”

Before he can even stand up, Keeho reaches out. His hand finds Jiung’s wrist, tugging it just enough to make him stop. It’s a gentle pull — hesitant, small — but Jiung pauses anyway. Keeho doesn’t say anything right away. He just shifts, leaning his head against Jiung’s shoulder, pressing into that familiar space between the curve of Jiung’s neck and collarbone. His breath trembles a little when he exhales, the smell of cinnamon and sugar lingering between them.

“Are you mad at me again?” Keeho finally asks, voice small, muffled against Jiung’s shirt.

Jiung looks down at him, caught between surprise and quiet frustration. “Keeho…” he starts, sighing through his nose. He hesitates, his fingers twitching slightly, wanting to reach out, but unsure how to hold the moment.

Keeho stays still. “You are, aren’t you?” he says again, quieter this time. The way his voice wavers makes Jiung’s chest ache.

“I’m not—” Jiung stops himself. He swallows, closes his eyes for a second, and then lets the air out slowly. “I’m not mad,” he says finally, his tone quieter, almost weary. “Just tired. You know how Theo talks to you sometimes—it’s not just that nickname, Keeho. It’s—” He pauses, shaking his head. “It’s how it looks. To everyone else.”

Keeho’s fingers curl against Jiung’s sleeve. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. His voice comes out soft, pleading. “I’m sorry,” he says, words almost lost in the hum of the park. “I… I’ll tell Theo to stop when we get back, okay? I promise.”

Jiung doesn’t respond right away. He just watches the horizon — the fading light reflected on the ferris wheel across the park — before turning his gaze down to Keeho, who’s still nibbling quietly on the last bite of his churro like a nervous child trying to make himself small. 

Keeho tries to cough the tension — a small, shaky sound that doesn’t really make it past his throat. “Please don’t be mad at me,” he says again, a little faster this time, like repetition might fix everything. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. He’s just… Theo. You know how he is. He calls everyone something stupid. He calls Aera ‘Pumpkin Princess’ sometimes for god’s sake.”

That earns a small huff from Jiung — not quite a laugh, but something close. “Pumpkin Princess?” he repeats, voice flat, but his lips twitch upward.

Keeho smiles weakly at that, encouraged. “Yeah. She pretends to hate it, but she actually loves it. Theo’s just—how Theo is. Loud. Dumb. Kind of annoying. But harmless.”

“Harmless,” Jiung echoes, his tone somewhere between skeptical and thoughtful.

Keeho nods against his shoulder. “Harmless,” he repeats. “Really. You don’t have to be jealous of him, Jiungie.”

Jiung goes silent at the nickname, the faintest tension flickering across his face. But he doesn’t correct Keeho this time. Instead, he reaches up, brushing his thumb gently across Keeho’s jaw, turning his face just enough so that their eyes meet.

“I’m not jealous,” he says quietly. “I just don’t like people thinking they can talk to you like that. Especially him.”

Keeho’s heart thumps. He doesn’t know how to respond — not without saying something that might sound wrong again. So he just smiles, small and tired, eyes heavy. “Then just tell me next time,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “What makes you uneasy, sad or angry. Just… tell me, okay? I’ll listen. I’ll change it for you.”

Jiung stares at him for a long second. Then he sighs — not in irritation, but in something that sounds like defeat and love all tangled together. “You always say that,” he murmurs, his thumb still tracing along Keeho’s jaw. “You always say you’ll listen. And then you look at me with those eyes, and I forget what I was angry about.”

Keeho giggles quietly, the sound soft and broken around the edges. “That’s my superpower.”

Jiung smiles faintly. “Yeah, I know,” he says, pressing a light kiss to Keeho’s hair.

For a while, neither of them speaks again. The world moves around them — children laughing, music echoing faintly from the ferris wheel, the scent of popcorn drifting through the air — but on that bench, it’s just them, breathing in the same rhythm.

Keeho finishes the last of his churro, brushing sugar from his fingers, his head still resting against Jiung’s shoulder. “You’re really not mad, right?” he asks one last time, soft, almost hopeful.

Jiung exhales, his hand finding Keeho’s and squeezing gently. “Not anymore,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Just… stay here for a bit.”

Keeho hums, nodding, a smile forming on his lips as he burrows closer. “Okay,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

And in that quiet space — between apology and forgiveness — Keeho lets himself believe, just for a moment, that this small peace will last. 

Chapter Text

The night before their flight back to Seoul drapes itself in quiet, like a thick, tender blanket. The only sound in the hotel room is the soft hum of the air conditioner and the muffled crash of waves far beyond the balcony door. Keeho emerges from the bathroom, steam curling behind him, hair still wet, dampening the collar of his white bathrobe. He’s rubbing at his hair with a towel when Jiung catches his wrist mid-motion, wordless, tugging him gently but firmly toward the bed.

Keeho laughs, stumbling a little, towel slipping from his hands as Jiung pulls him down. The mattress dips under their weight, and Keeho lets out a surprised squeak when Jiung’s arm wraps around his waist, legs caging his own, pulling him close until their noses almost touch. “Wha—Jiungie!” Keeho protests, half laughing, trying to sit up. “I literally just showered, I’m already clean now, don’t—”

Jiung doesn’t answer. He just presses a kiss to Keeho’s neck — soft, slow, like an apology whispered through skin — and breathes out against his collarbone. “We’re going back tomorrow,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost thoughtful. His hand moves in small, lazy circles on Keeho’s hip, thumb tracing the edge of the robe.

Keeho giggles, his laughter breaking the stillness. “Well, we can’t stay here forever, can we?” he says, eyes fluttering shut as Jiung’s fingers continue their gentle rhythm. “We have life back there in Seoul too. New semester in two months. And then our lives will be full of midterms, labs, more caffeine-fueled breakdowns. You know, the fun stuff.”

Jiung hums quietly, nose brushing the side of Keeho’s throat. “I know,” he says. His tone is different though — soft, but heavier, like he’s thinking of something he can’t quite say. Silence stretches for a while, comfortable at first, until Keeho notices the stillness in Jiung’s hands.

Then Jiung speaks again. “Are you tired of me?”

Keeho blinks. “Huh?”

Jiung lifts his head just enough for their eyes to meet. His gaze is steady but fragile, like he’s afraid the answer might hurt. “Are you tired of me?” he repeats, quieter this time. “Of… this?” His thumb brushes over the curve of Keeho’s jaw. “Of my distance. Of how I pull away every time you initiate something?”

Keeho stares at him for a moment, caught off guard by the vulnerability in Jiung’s voice. “Why are you asking that now?” he whispers, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of Jiung’s sleeve.

“Because,” Jiung says, voice rougher now, “I keep thinking about it. Every time you smile, every time you try to hold my hand — and I flinch. I see the look on your face, even when you try to hide it. I know it hurts you, Keeho. And I hate that.”

Keeho’s smile falters, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches up, pushing Jiung’s bangs away from his forehead. “You don’t have to say it like that,” he says softly. “You make it sound like you’re confessing a crime.”

Jiung gives a faint laugh — one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe it is,” he says. “Maybe it’s cruel to love someone and still hold back every time they try to reach for you.”

Keeho’s chest tightens. He sits up slightly, resting his hands on Jiung’s shoulders. “Hey,” he says gently, searching Jiung’s face. “Sometimes… I think I understand. You don’t owe me anything you can’t give. Not everyone shows love the same way.”

Jiung looks down. “But you’re touch. You’ve always been touch. I can see it in how you hug people, how you laugh, how you lean into everything. It’s how you speak love. And I—” He stops, exhaling through his nose. “I keep taking that from you.”

Keeho shakes his head, smiling faintly, even though it hurts. “Sometimes? Yeah,” he admits, voice low. “Sometimes I feel like I’m starving, and you’re standing right there, holding everything I want but won’t hand me. When I need to beg for something that I deserve.”

Jiung’s breath hitches, and Keeho laughs softly, brushing it off before it can land too heavy. “But I also know,” he continues, “that some people just don’t have it in them to be touchy twenty-four-seven. I’m the opposite of that person, so maybe if my needs aren’t filled enough, it’s not your fault. Maybe it’s mine.”

“Don’t say that,” Jiung whispers, his hand coming up to cup Keeho’s cheek. “It’s not your fault for wanting love the way you do.”

Keeho leans into the touch automatically, eyes half-closed. “Then it’s not yours either,” he murmurs. “For giving it the only way you know how.”

There’s a silence then — deep, fragile, suspended in the sound of the sea outside. Jiung studies him like he’s trying to memorize him, thumb tracing the corner of his lips. “You really think we’ll be okay?” he asks.

Keeho smiles — soft, tired, but genuine. “I don’t know. I hope so,” he admits. “But tonight, you’re holding me. So maybe that’s enough for now.”

Jiung lets out a breath, something unspoken unraveling between them. He presses a kiss to Keeho’s forehead, then another to his nose, then one more — lingering — on his lips.

Keeho closes his eyes, letting the quiet swallow them whole. And for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t think about what’s missing. He just feels — the warmth of Jiung’s hands, the salt in the air, the weight of love that still, somehow, feels like hope.

The kiss begins slow — hesitant, almost shy — the kind of kiss that feels like they’re both learning each other all over again. Jiung’s lips are warm, moving softly against Keeho’s, uncertain but deliberate, like he’s tracing an apology without words. The sound of the ocean filters through the half-open balcony door, waves rolling against the shore in rhythm with the soft breaths between them. Keeho can feel Jiung’s hand sliding up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin with care that makes his chest tighten.

Jiung has kissed him before, of course. A handful of times, usually after Keeho’s quiet storms — those moments when Keeho couldn’t hold it in anymore, when the loneliness cracked him open, when he whispered through tears, “Why won’t you kiss me? I’m your boyfriend, for fuck’s sake.” Jiung always did, then. A small, quick kiss, gentle and comforting — something to soothe, not something that lingered. But this one… this one feels different.

This kiss feels like a promise. Like Jiung is trying, really trying, to rewrite every night Keeho fell asleep wondering if he was too much or not enough.

Keeho lets himself melt into it. He leans forward, hands finding Jiung’s shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Jiung deepens the kiss slightly — still soft, still tender — before pulling back just enough to breathe. Their foreheads touch, and for a long moment, they just stay like that, breaths mingling, eyes closed, the world outside forgotten.

Jiung presses a small kiss to Keeho’s forehead, then to the tip of his nose. “I’m not lying when I told you you’re pretty, you know that right?” he whispers, his voice low, his breath brushing Keeho’s skin.

Keeho smiles, cheeks flushed pink under the dim hotel light. “You sure you’re not just saying that because I look pathetic in a bathrobe?” he teases softly, trying to keep the mood light, though his heart feels heavy in his chest.

Jiung chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “No,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over Keeho’s cheek as he speaks. “You’re pretty when you laugh, when you’re mad at me, when you pout, when you make that face before you cry. You’re pretty when you talk too much. You’re just… pretty.”

Keeho giggles, the sound airy and soft, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. “You’re saying all the romantic things tonight,” he says between quiet laughs. “What’s gotten into you, huh?”

“Redemption arc,” Jiung says, a little smirk tugging at his lips before he presses another kiss — this one on Keeho’s temple. “My official redemption arc.”

Keeho snorts, laughing into Jiung’s chest. “Is this your way of saying sorry for two years of emotional starvation?”

“Maybe,” Jiung admits, his voice low but teasing. “Better late than never, right?”

Keeho tilts his head up, his smile crooked but warm. “I’ve gotten more kisses tonight than I did in the two years we dated,” he says, the words half a joke but not entirely free of truth.

Jiung freezes for a heartbeat — and then laughs, breathless and quiet, pressing his lips to Keeho’s nose again. “Then I guess I have a lot of catching up to do,” he murmurs.

“Mm, you do,” Keeho hums, his eyes fluttering shut as Jiung starts to scatter small, fluttering kisses across his face — his forehead, his cheeks, the corner of his lips, his chin. Keeho giggles through it, the sound vibrating between them, light and alive. “Hey— that tickles— yah!” he laughs, squirming slightly as Jiung nuzzles into his cheek.

“Good,” Jiung mumbles against his skin, smiling into the kiss. “You deserve to laugh more.”

Keeho stops moving, his laughter softening into something quieter — a tremor in his chest. He opens his eyes and finds Jiung looking at him with that rare, unguarded gaze — the one that makes Keeho feel seen, the one he always chased.

For a moment, everything feels suspended — the air, their breaths, time itself. Keeho’s heart beats steady against Jiung’s, and he wonders if maybe this is what he’s been waiting for all along. Not grand gestures. Not public affection. Just this — Jiung trying. Jiung choosing him, even in the smallest ways.

“Thank you,” Keeho whispers, voice trembling just enough to make Jiung look up in surprise.

“For what?” Jiung asks softly.

Keeho smiles, brushing his thumb across Jiung’s jaw. “For trying,” he says.

Jiung doesn’t answer. He just leans in, pressing one last kiss — slow, deliberate — to Keeho’s lips, before resting his forehead against his again. “You’re worth the effort,” he whispers, almost like he’s afraid to be heard.

And for the first time in a long time, Keeho lets himself believe it.

Their lips meet again — slower this time at first, but with more intention, more urgency. Jiung’s hand cups the back of Keeho’s neck, guiding him closer, until there’s no space left between them. The kiss deepens — not rough, but full of the kind of hunger that comes from years of holding back. Keeho can taste the faint hint of mint from Jiung’s breath, feel the warmth of his skin under his fingertips. Every inhale feels heavier, every exhale laced with something that trembles between comfort and desperation.

Keeho lets Jiung take the lead, his hands naturally sliding up to Jiung’s shoulders again — but Jiung catches them halfway. He intertwines their fingers, presses Keeho’s wrists gently against the pillow above his head. The movement isn’t forceful, not possessive — just steady, grounding. A silent reminder of I’m here. I’m not leaving. Their kiss falters only to start again, breaths mingling, hearts racing in unison.

When Jiung starts trailing kisses down, from Keeho’s lips to his jaw, then to the soft skin just below his ear, Keeho’s breath catches. The touches are light but unhurried, like Jiung is memorizing him all over again. He feels the warmth of Jiung’s breath, the soft brush of lips against his skin, and it makes a shiver run down his spine. His hands twitch where Jiung holds them, and he lets out a small moan between gasps.

“Ah— Jiungie…” Keeho whispers, voice coming out softer than he intends, caught between a sigh and a plea. The nickname slips out naturally — instinctive, intimate, something he’s called Jiung since the early days when everything still felt new and unbroken. Something that makes Jiung flinch every time he hears it.

And that’s when everything stops.

Jiung freezes — his lips still pressed against the side of Keeho’s neck, his breath caught halfway. The silence that follows feels loud, the kind of silence that fills the whole room. Slowly, Jiung pulls back, his eyes darting up to Keeho’s face, his expression unreadable — like something in that single word flipped a switch inside him.

Keeho blinks, confusion flooding in where warmth once was. His lips part slightly, still swollen from the kiss. “Um… what?” he asks softly, the word coming out uncertain, searching. His heartbeat stutters, not from the kiss now, but from the sudden cold in Jiung’s gaze.

Jiung doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flicker over Keeho’s face, as if trying to hide something, trying to gather a thought he doesn’t want to say out loud. “Nothing,” he says finally, too quickly, the word clipped, rushed — the kind of tone that sounds like an escape rather than reassurance.

Keeho sits up a little, propping himself on his elbows, his bathrobe slipping slightly off one shoulder. “Did I… say something wrong?” he asks, his voice quieter now, smaller, afraid to push but unable to ignore it.

Jiung shakes his head — once, sharply — and stands up in a motion too fast to feel casual. “No, you didn’t,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, his back already turned toward Keeho. “I’ll go shower now.”

“Jiung—” Keeho starts, reaching out instinctively, but Jiung doesn’t turn around.

“Just—” Jiung cuts in, still not looking at him, his voice low, controlled, like he’s holding something tight in his chest. “Just… give me a minute, okay?”

The sound of the bathroom door closing echoes louder than it should. Keeho stays still, hands limp in his lap, the soft sound of waves outside the balcony now the only thing filling the air. The warmth from Jiung’s touch lingers on his skin, but it feels like it’s fading too fast — replaced by the familiar chill that always follows when Jiung pulls away.

He exhales slowly, his chest tight, eyes fixed on the closed bathroom door. “You’re doing it again,” he whispers to no one, the words barely audible. “Running.” He sighs softly, “what did I do wrong this time?”

The silence answers him, and Keeho lies back down, staring up at the ceiling, the taste of Jiung still on his lips — bittersweet, just like always.

Chapter Text

The days after Jeju drift by like a slow, gray tide. The warmth of the beach, the laughter, the whispered apologies — all of it fades too quickly, replaced by the hollow quiet of Jiung’s absence. On the flight back to Seoul, Jiung barely speaks. He spends most of it with his headphones on, eyes fixed on the window, while Keeho sits beside him, pretending to nap just so he doesn’t have to pretend everything’s okay. Every time their arms brush, Jiung shifts away slightly. Every time Keeho tries to start a conversation — “Want the snacks?” or “Do you wanna go to the toilet?” — Jiung just nods and hums, polite, distant. By the time they land, it feels like Jeju never happened at all.

Now, back in his family home, Keeho lies sprawled on the couch, still in his oversized hoodie and sweatpants, a cup of cold tea forgotten on the table. Their parents are still off in Venice, sending cheerful photos of gondolas and art galleries that Keeho hearts without reading. The house feels too quiet except for the occasional shuffle of Yechan’s slippers and Haeun’s humming from the kitchen.

Haeun — or Anna, as everyone calls her — finally gives up pretending not to notice his sad little sighs these three days after he’s back. She sits beside him, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and pulls him into her chest like she used to when he was a kid who came home crying about losing a school art contest. “Honeymoon’s over, huh?” she says softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re more depressed now than before you went. What happened, aegi~?” Her voice is teasing, but gentle, the kind of tone that tells Keeho she’s worried even if she’s trying not to show it.

Keeho laughs weakly against her shoulder, a sound that barely qualifies as a laugh. “Nothing happened,” he says, eyes on the wall. “Just… nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t make you look like this,” Haneul says, tilting his chin up to meet her eyes. “Come on, spill. Noona will listen.”

Before Keeho can answer, Yechan walks in from the kitchen holding a bottle of water. He’s wearing his oversized hoodie and that permanent big-brother energy even though he’s the youngest. He hands the water to Keeho and says flatly, “His boyfriend’s being avoidant again.”

“Yechan—” Keeho warns, but Yechan doesn’t even look at him.

“Like, seriously,” Yechan continues, sitting down on the armrest beside them. “Hyung, dump him. I’m serious this time.”

Haeun frowns lightly, looking between them. “Being avoidant again? What did he do this time?”

Keeho sighs, holding the water bottle in both hands. “Nothing, that’s the thing. He didn’t do anything. He just… stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“Stopped talking, stopped calling, stopped—” Keeho waves his hand weakly, trying to find the right words. “Stopped being there, I guess. It’s like after Jeju, something switched off. He’s avoiding me again, and I don’t know why. I thought—” He pauses, a bitter laugh escapes. “I thought we were better. I really thought we were okay this time.”

Yechan leans back, crossing his arms. “Classic. The man gives you one decent weekend and suddenly you’re back to defending him like he’s a misunderstood poet.”

“Yechan,” Haeun warns, but Yechan keeps going.

“No, seriously, noona. I’ve seen this too many times. Hyung’s like, blinded by nostalgia or something. Every time that guy shows up, he’s all ‘maybe this time it’ll work,he’s trying’ and every time it ends the same way — radio silence and heartbreak.”

Keeho chuckles softly, half amused, half aching. “When did you become the love expert, huh?”

“When I stopped letting people treat me like a backup plan. Like you did,” Yechan shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

“Ouch,” Haeun mutters, half laughing.

Keeho presses the cold water bottle against his cheek, trying to hide the way his lips tremble. “You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple,” Yechan says, leaning forward. “If someone makes you doubt your worth every other week, you leave. That’s the rule.”

Haeun squeezes Keeho’s shoulder gently. “What Yechan’s trying to say, in his very rude Yechan way, is that you deserve someone who doesn’t make you feel small, aegi.”

Keeho smiles faintly at that, but his voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “But I love him, noona.”

The room goes quiet for a moment. Even Yechan doesn’t have a quick comeback this time.

Haeun sighs softly and smooths his hair again. “Love’s supposed to make you feel full, not hollow, Keeho,” she says, voice soft but firm. “If it keeps breaking you down, maybe it’s not love anymore. Maybe it’s just hope wearing love’s clothes.”

Keeho laughs again, a shaky sound. “You sound like one of those poetry books Theo reads.”

“Good taste then,” Haneul says, smiling a little.

Yechan stands, stretching his arms. “Well, I’ll just say it plain: Jiung hyung sucks. I said what I said.”

“Yechan,” Haeun scolds, though she’s smiling, almost agreeing too if Keeho doesn’t send daggers to his younger brother.

“What? It’s true. If he doesn’t wanna hold hyung’s hand in public, fine. But now he doesn’t even wanna talk in private? Nah, dump him.”

Keeho looks down at the half-empty water bottle, his thumb brushing over the condensation. “He used to say he was just uncomfortable,” he murmurs. “That people would look. That it’s hard for him to be open. I told myself it was okay. That I could wait until he’s ready. But now I’m just… tired.”

Haeun leans forward, her voice soft. “Then rest. Don’t wait for him to love you properly to feel peace.”

Keeho nods, his eyes misty, his smile faint but real. “True. Maybe I just need some rest.”

“Or a new boyfriend,” Yechan mutters, earning a sharp pinch from Haeun.

Keeho laughs, this time genuinely, letting himself sink into the couch between them. For the first time in days, it feels a little lighter. But still, somewhere inside him, that quiet ache remains — the one that whispers, Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he’ll try again.

And even though Keeho knows he shouldn’t listen to it, he still does.

The kitchen smells like chili and garlic and something faintly smoky — the kind of scent that clings to the air long after dinner is done. Keeho sits at the table, stirring his half-finished fried rice with the spoon, zoning out between bites. His thoughts wander — to Jeju, to Jiung’s hand in his, to the silence that followed afterward like a tide pulling everything away. He swallows, even though the food tastes bland now. The house hums faintly — the TV running in the living room, Haeun’s laughter somewhere beyond the wall, the faint rattle of Yechan’s water bottle. The world keeps moving, even if Keeho feels stuck somewhere in the middle of it.

Then, suddenly, there are arms around his waist — strong and familiar, pulling him back with a squeeze that jolts a startled laugh out of him. “Baby! Miss you,” Theo’s voice sings into his shoulder, muffled but warm. His cheek presses into Keeho’s back, his breath tickling the fabric of Keeho’s T-shirt.

Keeho jolts, then bursts into giggles, twisting around. “Yah, Choi Taeyang! I’m ticklish. Stop!” he squeals, swatting lightly at Theo’s shoulder but not really meaning it. When he turns, he’s already smiling — the kind of smile that doesn’t come often these days.

Theo grins, eyes creasing. “That’s my cue to hug tighter then,” he says, pulling Keeho in properly. His cologne smells like citrus and mint — sharp but oddly grounding. For a second, Keeho lets himself melt into it, his head fitting easily under Theo’s chin.

When Theo finally lets go, he sits beside him, scanning the table like a detective. “What’re you eating?” he asks, leaning forward and peeking into Keeho’s bowl.

“Fried rice,” Keeho says, nudging the plate toward him. “Noona made it. Wanna try?”

Theo squints suspiciously. “Nope. Not risking my life today.”

Keeho blinks. “Huh?”

Theo shakes his head solemnly. “Your sister’s a monster when it comes to spice. I just know that fried rice is hell in disguise.”

Right on cue, Haeun’s voice echoes from the living room. “True! Aegi’s been sad, so I put extra chili! He can cry through a different source now — not just from his eyes!”

Keeho snorts, almost choking on his rice. Theo laughs so hard he has to hold onto the counter. “I swear she’s the most evil woman I’ve met,” he says between laughs.

“You’re still scared of her, huh?” Keeho teases, finally smiling more easily.

“Scared? Me? No. Respectful fear. Big difference,” Theo says, raising an eyebrow dramatically.

From the fridge, Yechan’s voice pipes up, muffled behind the door. “Respectful fear my ass. You cried last time she made kimchi stew.”

“I did not!” Theo protests, indignant.

“Did too,” Yechan says, emerging with a bottle of water and pointing it at him accusingly. “Hyung was red like a tomato and begged for milk.”

Keeho laughs so hard his spoon nearly falls. “I remember that! You were sweating buckets.”

Theo gasps, hand to his chest. “Traitors. The both of you.”

“You’re sad? Why?” Theo suddenly ansks again, tone light but edged with concern.

Yechan doesn’t even hesitate. “His boyfriend’s avoiding him again. Put some sense in him, please, Theo-hyung. You’re our last option now.”

Theo stills, his grin faltering. He looks at Keeho quietly. His voice drops low, soft but worried. “Baby?”

Keeho looks up, spoon halfway to his mouth, and forces a small smile. His eyes crinkle, but not from laughter this time. Theo notices the puffiness — the faint redness clinging to the edges, the way Keeho’s lashes look heavier, like they’ve already been wet once today.

“Oh, baby…” Theo breathes out, his voice full of ache.

Keeho shrugs, keeping the smile. “What?” he says, then shoves another spoonful of rice into his mouth, chewing too quickly.

Theo reaches out, thumb brushing under his eye carefully. “You’ve been crying again,” he says, not a question.

Keeho pulls back slightly, chuckling like it’s no big deal. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Yechan snorts as he takes a sip of water. “Tired of being ignored, maybe.”

“Yechan,” Haeun warns again, but her eyes flick toward Keeho too, concern soft but heavy.

Theo sighs, sitting back, crossing his arms. “What happened this time?”

Keeho doesn’t answer. He stirs the rice, making tiny circles with the spoon. The sound of metal against porcelain fills the silence.

“Baby,” Theo says again, voice quieter now, careful. “Talk to me. Please.”

Keeho shrugs again, small, shoulders folding in. “Nothing new,” he says finally, softly. “Just… the same old thing.”

Theo tilts his head. “He’s avoiding you again?”

Keeho nods. “Yeah. He… he was fine in Jeju. We were good, actually. Better than before. Then suddenly, I don’t know, it’s like something snapped.”

Theo presses his lips together. “Did you fight?”

“No. That’s the thing. We didn’t. Everything was fine. He was fine. He kissed me, held me, said he’d try more — and now, it’s like I don’t exist again.”

Theo leans forward, elbows on his knees. “And you’re just letting him do this to you? Again?”

Keeho exhales, eyes flicking toward his bowl. “What am I supposed to do? Chase him again? I already did that. Every time I try, he just… runs further.”

The silence that follows is thick, broken only by the faint clatter of Yechan’s fork. Then Yechan says bluntly, “He’s an ass.”

Theo glares. “Yechan—”

“True,” Keeho interrupts, smiling weakly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m the problem here.” He sighs, pushing the bowl away and leaning back in his chair. “I just… don’t know how to stop loving him yet.”

Theo’s face softens instantly. He reaches out, brushing Keeho’s bangs aside. “You don’t stop, baby,” he says quietly. “You just… need to learn how to love yourself more instead.”

Keeho looks at him for a long second before laughing softly. “Since when did you become poetic?”

“Since my best friend keeps breaking my heart for someone who doesn’t deserve it,” Theo says simply.

Haeun hums from the other room. “Marry him, Keeho. He’s smarter than your boyfriend.”

Theo smirks. “You hear that? Parental approval secured.”

Keeho laughs, small but real this time, his shoulders shaking. “You two are insane. You have Aera, dumbass.”

Theo leans in, eyes kind but teasing. “Yeah, I love her too much to cheat. But hey, at least we’re the kind of insane that loves you right.”

Keeho looks down at his empty bowl, the faint smile still on his lips, and whispers, almost to himself, “Yeah… maybe that’s enough for now.”

The late afternoon sun pours lazily through the living room curtains, soft and gold, wrapping the room in the kind of quiet warmth that makes everything feel slow. The TV hums in the background, playing some old rerun neither of them is watching. Keeho sits half-curled on the couch, legs tucked under himself, his cheek pressed against Theo’s chest. He can feel the slow, steady rhythm of Theo’s heartbeat beneath his ear — grounding, familiar, too safe for his own good. His voice comes muffled, small against Theo’s hoodie.

“He asked me to stop you from calling me baby, by the way,” Keeho says, the words tumbling out somewhere between a sigh and a confession. His voice sounds tired, not angry, not even upset — just tired.

Theo blinks, his hand stills mid-motion where it had been absently tracing circles on Keeho’s back. “Jiung said that?” he asks finally, a faint frown forming between his brows.

Keeho hums softly in response, nodding without lifting his head. He mumbles into Theo’s chest, the fabric muffling his words. “Hmm. So you stop calling me baby. He’ll be mad.” A pause, then, in a smaller, more curious tone, “Why do you call me baby in the first place, though?”

Theo chuckles, the sound low and fond, his fingers resuming their slow path through Keeho’s hair. “You really forgot?”

Keeho hums again, sleepy and comfortable. “Maybe.”

Theo leans back a little, eyes distant for a moment as if replaying old memories. “Remember when you couldn’t sleep back in school year?” he starts softly, smiling as he speaks. “When you’d call me at two in the morning because you were thinking too much about everything — your grades, your parents, what you wanted to do after graduation — and you’d be crying like the world was ending?”

Keeho tilts his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded. “When we were still dating?”

Theo nods, thumb brushing the edge of Keeho’s temple. “Yeah. That night I told you to warm some milk. You were stubborn, said it was gross, but you drank it anyway. Then you passed out mid-call.” He laughs under his breath, the memory softening his tone. “You slept like a baby after that. So yeah… a baby. You.”

Keeho laughs, the sound bubbling out of him easily. He pushes lightly at Theo’s chest, mock-glaring. “A literal baby, I see. I thought it was some term of endearment.”

“It is endearing,” Theo teases, grinning down at him. “Just also literal.”

Keeho shakes his head, still smiling as he collapses back against Theo’s chest. “You’re impossible.”

Theo hums, a smile curling on his lips. “And yet, you still like me enough to keep hugging your ex like this.”

Keeho snorts softly. “Shut up.”

They sit like that for a while — the quiet in the room now the kind that feels full instead of empty. Theo’s fingers find their way into Keeho’s hair again, combing through it lazily, untangling soft strands. Outside, the city hums quietly — cars passing, distant voices, the faint wind tapping at the windows.

After a while, Theo says, almost casually, “So… I can’t call you baby again after this?”

Keeho doesn’t move, his head still resting against Theo’s chest. “Yeah? Not in front of him, at least,” he mumbles, voice a little smaller now.

Theo raises an eyebrow. “Not in front of him,” he repeats, testing the phrase. “But in private, it’s fine?”

Keeho hums noncommittally. “Maybe. He doesn’t like it, though. Thinks it’s weird that an ex calls me that. Disrespectful even. His word, not mine.”

Theo scoffs quietly, leaning his head back against the couch. “Disrespectful my ass. Hell, even Aera said it’s cute,” he mutters. “She literally said, ‘Your baby is my baby too. Keeho’s our baby!’ On our first meet, remember? She’s fully on board. Even wants to take custody if I ever makes you sad.”

Keeho laughs again, covering his face with one hand. “You two are insane.”

Theo smirks, nudging him gently with his elbow. “Maybe. But at least we’re not jealous of harmless nicknames.”

Keeho opens his mouth, ready to defend Jiung, but nothing comes out. Instead, he just lets out a small exhale and buries his face deeper into Theo’s chest, as if he can hide from everything there. The steady thump of Theo’s heart fills his ears again, and it’s almost enough to drown out the swirl of thoughts he can’t put into words.

Theo’s hand pauses in his hair. “He really said he’d be mad?” he asks quietly.

Keeho nods, not lifting his head. “Yeah. He said it’s… weird.”

Theo’s jaw tightens slightly, but his voice stays soft. “You know what’s weird? Getting mad about a name that came from a place of comfort. It’s not about the word — it’s about who gave it meaning.”

Keeho doesn’t reply right away. His fingers trace absent patterns against Theo’s hoodie, small and distracted. “Maybe,” he whispers finally. “But I don’t want to make him angry. I don’t want to mess things up again.”

Theo sighs quietly, his fingers still moving through Keeho’s hair. “You keep trying not to mess things up,” he says gently. “But baby—”

Keeho looks up sharply, a tiny smile forming. “Theo.”

Theo smirks, unbothered. “Fine, Keeho. You keep trying to be smaller every time he asks for space, but you can’t shrink yourself into the version of love he’s comfortable with. You’ll disappear that way.”

Keeho’s lips part slightly, eyes glassy with something fragile, unspoken. “I’m not disappearing,” he says softly. “I’m just… trying to make it work.”

Theo studies him for a moment, his expression softening. “And is it working?”

Keeho’s silence answers for him. The quiet stretches, heavy now, pressing between them like thick air.

Finally, Keeho gives a small, tired laugh. “You’re still terrible at being subtle, you know that?”

Theo grins, leaning down to press a light kiss on the top of his head. “And you’re still terrible at pretending you’re fine.”

Keeho exhales slowly, eyes closing, letting the weight of Theo’s words and warmth ground him — even if, somewhere deep down, he knows this kind of comfort is only temporary.

Chapter Text

The message comes at 4:27 a.m. — a quiet hour that feels suspended between night and morning, where even the world seems too tired to breathe. Keeho’s phone buzzes on the nightstand, a small flash of light cutting through the dark of his room. He blinks, eyes dry, unfocused, the weight of exhaustion still heavy in his chest. He hasn’t slept properly in days — maybe weeks, if he’s being honest. The kind of half-sleep where your body rests but your mind doesn’t stop running. Where the dark becomes an echo chamber of what ifs and whys that never go quiet.

He picks up the phone, squinting against the brightness. The name on the screen hits him like something physical — Jiung. His heart stumbles, stutters, before catching itself again, as if reminding him that it still knows this name too well. The text is short, simple, almost too normal.

Are you at your parents? Can I see you?

It feels like warmth and coldness at the same time — a contradiction that burns and soothes in the same breath. For a second, Keeho doesn’t breathe at all. Just stares at the words until they blur together. After a month. After all the silence, the unanswered messages, the hollow weeks of wondering if he should just delete Jiung’s contact altogether, there it is. Not an apology, not an explanation — just a question.

His chest tightens, something trembling under his ribs. Can I see you?

He wants to say yes. God, he wants to say yes so badly. The ache of missing Jiung has been sitting heavy in him since they landed back in Seoul — that quiet kind of missing that seeps into everything. Into his breakfast, into his sleep, into the way he stares at his phone like it might light up with the one name that never does.

But at the same time, there’s a cold, sharp edge cutting through his warmth. Fear. The kind that lives under your skin and whispers, What if it’s not what you think? What if he’s just here to end it properly? Closure — the word sounds peaceful when people say it, but Keeho knows better. Closure can hurt more than silence.

He puts the phone down on his chest, staring at the ceiling. The faint pattern of light from the street outside makes soft stripes across the wall. He thinks about Jiung’s face — the way he looked under the Jeju sunset, eyes soft and mouth hesitant when he called his name, that sacred nickname. He thinks about how Jiung froze right after that — the way he pulled away, how distance suddenly built itself up again like a wall between them. He’s been trying to climb that wall for weeks, scraping his heart raw every time, and now here comes the builder himself asking to see him.

Keeho’s throat feels tight. He rolls onto his side, facing the window. The night air is cool, the sound of early birds faint outside. The world is starting to wake up, and he feels like he hasn’t slept at all. His mind races — What will he say? Will he apologise? Will he say it’s over? Or will he just act like nothing happened?

He doesn’t know what he wants anymore. Maybe he just wants to stop guessing. Maybe he just wants Jiung to say something. Anything.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard, the empty text box blinking at him like it’s daring him to respond. It’s ridiculous, how much power one message can hold. He types, deletes, types again.

Sure. The park near 7/11.

Simple. Emotionless. Controlled. The opposite of how his heart feels right now.

He hits send before he can second-guess it, and immediately, the silence that follows feels heavier. His phone screen fades to black again, leaving him in the dark with nothing but his thoughts.

He turns over, buries his face in the pillow, but it doesn’t help. His brain’s still running, wild and tangled. What if Jiung just wants to end it properly? What if he says we should take a break? What if he doesn’t say anything at all — just stands there, looking at Keeho with those unreadable eyes that make him feel like he’s always guessing wrong?

Keeho sighs. His hand finds its way to his chest, right where it hurts the most. He tries to remind himself that he’s strong, that he’s survived worse pains before, that this — this confusion, this ache — will fade too. It has to.

But deep down, he knows the truth. This one feels different. Jiung isn’t just another person who walked away. He’s the quiet, gentle voice that Keeho learned to fall asleep to, the warmth he’s been missing even when he’s surrounded by people who love him. And if this ends today, what will happen to him? What will wait for him in the future?

He glances at the clock again. 4:35 a.m. The minutes stretch out like hours. His eyes sting, but not from tiredness. From the heavy mix of hope and dread and the cruel, human need for closure — even if it breaks him.

“Just one more time,” he whispers to no one, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “Just one more time, I’ll try.”

But the word try doesn’t sound like hope anymore. It sounds like surrender.

The morning feels too early to be real — the kind of cold, pale blue hour where the city hasn’t decided to wake up yet. The sky above Seoul is still faint, just a smudge of dawn light trying to push through the clouds. Keeho sits on the park bench, his breath coming out in visible puffs, a small hot pack tucked between his hands that barely does anything against the biting wind. His fingers are stiff, his shoulders hunched into his scarf, and his heart — his heart feels like it hasn’t warmed up in a long, long time.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet where even the rustle of dead leaves sounds loud. He watches the empty swings move slightly with the breeze and thinks, I should’ve stayed home. But he knows he wouldn’t have. Even if Jiung didn’t show up, he would’ve waited here until the sun fully rose, until the light burned away the last of his hope. Because that’s who he is — someone who waits, even when it hurts.

Then he feels it — that faint, familiar shift in the air beside him. A weight sinking into the bench. The subtle warmth of another presence next to his, so close he can feel it but not close enough to touch. Jiung. He doesn’t even need to look; he knows the rhythm of that breathing, the way the world seems to hold itself still when Jiung is near.

Neither of them speaks at first. The silence stretches long, thick enough to swallow words whole. Keeho stares at his hot pack, the faint condensation on the plastic. He can feel Jiung looking at him, but he can’t bring himself to return it. He doesn’t trust what might spill out if he does.

“How have you been?” Jiung’s voice finally breaks the air — quiet, careful, like he’s stepping on cracked glass.

Keeho exhales slowly, watching the cloud of his breath dissolve into the air. He almost laughs at the question. How have you been? Like a month of silence can be smoothed over with small talk. Like Jiung didn’t disappear from his world as if two years of their life together could be erased by distance. As if their relationship is just a game for him— a game to see which one of them can give in first.

Jiung shifts a little beside him, hands clasped together between his knees. Keeho catches it in his peripheral vision — the nervous movement, the bite of Jiung’s lip, the way he’s fidgeting. The same signs from before, the ones Keeho used to find endearing. Now they just make his chest ache.

“We’re done now?” Keeho asks finally, his voice soft, tired — not accusing, not angry, just… empty. Like he’s already braced for the answer. He still doesn’t look at Jiung, his eyes trained on the patch of frost forming on the pavement.

Jiung’s head snaps towards him. “Keeho—”

“A month, Jiung.” Keeho’s voice trembles, but it’s steady enough to cut through the cold. “A whole month of silence.” He lets out a small, breathy chuckle, but there’s no trace of humor in it — it sounds more like disbelief. “You know what sucks? Being an over-thinker. Because you start building stories in your head to fill the gaps someone else leaves. And I’ve had to build a whole novel just to explain your silence.”

“Keeho, please—”

“I thought maybe,” Keeho continues, his tone still calm — too calm, like someone who’s already cried everything out — “you were just busy. Then I thought maybe I said something wrong. Then maybe you were sick. But eventually…” he takes a shaky breath, “I started thinking maybe this was your way of ending it. That avoidance is easier than breaking up with me face-to-face.”

“No—” Jiung’s voice breaks, too soft, too fast, trying to catch up.

“Then what?” Keeho cuts in, finally turning to look at him. His eyes glisten under the weak morning light — not angry, just tired. The kind of tired that comes from loving someone too deeply for too long. He studies Jiung’s face — familiar, heartbreakingly familiar — and wonders if it’s the last time he’ll ever see it up close like this.

Jiung doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, his lips part, but nothing comes out. And then, without a word, he leans forward and pulls Keeho into a hug.

The movement is sudden, almost desperate. His arms wrap around Keeho’s shoulders like he’s afraid Keeho might vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Keeho freezes for a second, his hands still clutching the useless hot pack between them, before he lets his body go limp and just… lets him.

“I’m sorry,” Jiung whispers against his shoulder, the words muffled but trembling. “I’m really sorry.”

Keeho exhales shakily, eyes closing. The smell of Jiung’s cologne — faint and familiar — hits him like a wave. His body remembers this before his heart does.

“I… have my thoughts bothering me,” Jiung continues, voice unsteady. “And I really thought—”

“Avoiding me was your best choice?” Keeho finishes for him, his voice no louder than a whisper. He lets his head rest on Jiung’s shoulder, the fabric cold against his cheek. He doesn’t push him away, doesn’t pull him closer either. Just stays still, suspended in that fragile space between forgiveness and exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” Jiung repeats, and this time Keeho can hear the sniffle, the small break in his tone. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have avoided you.” His breath hitches, his words stumbling. “You deserve to be mad at me. You have every right to be. But please—” His voice cracks. “Please don’t break up with me.”

Keeho can feel it — Jiung’s tears soaking lightly through his sweater, his shoulders shaking. His grip tightens like he’s clinging to the last thread of something that’s already unraveling.

And Keeho just lets him. He lets himself be held, lets his body go limp against Jiung’s chest. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t cry. He just listens — to Jiung’s shaky breaths, to the faint sound of the wind brushing through the trees, to the distant hum of the city slowly waking up.

After a month — after all the silence, after all the unanswered questions — Keeho finally has his boyfriend’s arms around him again. And somehow, this hurts more than all the nights he spent alone.

The morning light over Seoul is faint, pale, almost shy — the kind of glow that leaks through windows but doesn’t quite warm the air. The 7/11 café isn’t crowded, only the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of someone making instant coffee fill the stillness. Keeho sits on the stool by the window, his chin in his hand, looking at the empty road outside. His breath still fogs up the glass when he exhales. The city is only half-awake, and so is he.

Then Jiung returns from the counter, a small grin on his face, holding two pink cups of strawberry ice cream. “Your favourite,” he says softly, placing one in Keeho’s hand like an offering, as though this small, frozen dessert could fix everything that’s broken.

Keeho blinks at it. “Jiung, it’s—” he looks at his watch, squinting at the glowing numbers, “five fifty-four. Who eats ice cream at this hour?” His voice is still rough from lack of sleep, his tone teetering between disbelief and exhaustion. The ice cream feels cold even through the paper cup, and he stares at it like it’s mocking him.

“Oh, right, right,” Jiung mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “Too cold. Um… coffee? You want coffee? Ramen, maybe? Something warm? I’ll get something, just, wait here for a min—” He’s halfway standing when Keeho reaches out, catches his wrist, and tugs him back down into his seat.

“Sit,” Keeho mutters, the corners of his mouth twitching into a sleepy half-smile. “I’ll just eat this one. I’m sleepy.” He lays his head down on the table, still holding the spoon, lazily scooping at the ice cream like he’s too tired to commit to the act of eating.

Jiung sits, laughing quietly under his breath. “Did I wake you up?” he asks softly, brushing away a stray strand of hair that’s fallen over Keeho’s face. “I swear, I was gonna text you later this morning. But… my finger slipped.”

Keeho snorts softly, a sound that’s halfway between amusement and disbelief, not lifting his head from his arm. Jiung chuckles again, the kind of laugh that tries to sound light but trembles with guilt beneath it. His fingers find their way back into Keeho’s hair — slow, careful strokes like he’s afraid to break him.

For a long moment, they stay like that — just the two of them against the silence of the waking city. Jiung’s hand moves to Keeho’s face, tracing the outline of his features like he’s memorizing them again after forgetting how they looked. The soft pad of his thumb runs over Keeho’s eyebrow, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his lips. His voice comes out quiet. “You look thinner.”

Keeho hums, a tired sound, not looking at him. “Thanks to who, I wonder,” he says, his tone teasing, but there’s a quiet ache under it. He sits up straight then, stretching a little, the empty ice cream cup between his hands. “Let’s go home,” he murmurs. “Noona’s gonna kick my ass if I’m still out at this hour. Eomma’s not home, and she thinks she’s fully in charge.”

Jiung nods, wordless, and lets Keeho tug his hand as they walk out of the convenience store. The early morning air hits them — sharp and cold, but clean. The world outside is just beginning to stir: an old man unlocking his bakery, a cyclist passing by, the faint sound of traffic starting in the distance. The two of them walk side by side in silence.

Keeho’s fingers are cold, but Jiung’s hand in his is warm — steady, grounding. They don’t talk. They don’t need to. Every step back toward Keeho’s house feels both comforting and unbearably heavy, like walking through a memory that refuses to fade.

When they finally reach the small street in front of Keeho’s house, Jiung stops walking. For a moment, he just stands there, looking at the small gate, the empty yard, the faint light in the kitchen window. Then, without warning, he pulls Keeho into his arms again — tight, desperate.

“I’m sorry,” Jiung whispers against Keeho’s ear, his voice trembling. “You can be mad at me. You can take your time. I’ll wait for you, even if it takes forever. But please… don’t break up with me. Don’t let me go. Don’t leave me. I’m begging you.” His breath is unsteady, his words caught between guilt and fear. “Please,” Keeho can feel the dampness against his neck — sniffles, faint hiccups that Jiung tries to hold back but can’t.

Keeho stands there for a moment, frozen, then lets himself melt into the hug. His arms find their way around Jiung’s waist, his cheek pressed against Jiung’s chest. His voice comes out muffled, soft. “Yechan said to dump you,” he says, almost teasingly, though his words are quiet — like he’s too tired to laugh but still wants to lighten the air.

Jiung immediately pulls back, his hands moving to Keeho’s cheeks, squishing them between his palms. His eyes are wide, red at the corners. “No,” he says quickly, shaking his head, panicked. “Don’t listen to him. No. Please no. I’ll— I’ll buy the new PS5 for him. The newest one. Just— just don’t listen to him, okay?”

Keeho blinks up at him, lips slightly puckered from how Jiung’s squishing his face. “And for me? I deserve something too,” he asks, his tone mock-serious, his lower lip jutting out in a pout.

Jiung exhales a short, helpless laugh — half-relief, half-in-love — and his voice turns soft again. “For you?” he says, brushing his thumb along Keeho’s jaw. “I’ll do anything. Ask for anything. I’ll do it. I’ll even buy you that Rolex you’ve been eyeing. Just… please don’t break up with me.” There’s a tremor in his words now, a kind of desperation that comes from someone who’s finally realized what he’s about to lose.

Keeho chuckles quietly, his expression softening. He looks at Jiung — really looks — and for the first time since two years of dating, he sees something raw and unguarded in him. His voice comes out slow, quiet, but certain. “Just don’t leave me hanging again,” he says, meeting Jiung’s eyes. “That’s all I’m asking.”

And for a moment — just one fragile, fleeting moment — it feels like everything stops. The world outside fades, the wind softens, and all that’s left is this: Jiung’s arms around him, their breaths tangled in the cold morning air, and the quiet promise that maybe, somehow, they’ll find their way back again.

Chapter Text

The afternoon shine sneaks lazily through the curtains, painting Keeho’s room in a soft haze of gold. The air is warm from the heater, thick with that comforting scent of fabric softener and a little of the cologne he sprayed last night before crashing onto his bed. The blankets are wrapped around him like armor, his hair a mess against the pillow. For once, he’s sleeping deeply — the kind of sleep that’s heavy, quiet, and rare.

Until his bedroom door slams open.

“Hyung! Wake up!” Yechan’s voice bursts into the room, loud and annoyed and very much not the kind of sound Keeho wants to hear first thing in the morning. Keeho groans, turning over, shoving his face deeper into the pillow as if that could block out his brother’s energy.

“Pretty hyungie, wake up before I splash water on your face,” Yechan warns again, his tone playful but threatening enough that Keeho knows he means it. Before Keeho can even mutter something back, the bed dips, and Yechan is climbing onto it, his cold feet brushing against Keeho’s leg.

“Mmhh?” Keeho groans, his voice muffled, low, still half-asleep. He blinks one eye open to see his little brother sprawled beside him like a koala, arms already thrown around him. “Let me sleep more. Why are you here?” His voice is rough, still stuck in that space between dream and reality. Yechan’s hair is right in front of his face, the kid’s warmth pressed against him. Sure, Yechan’s always been clingy, but this? This feels like a hostage situation.

“Wake up,” Yechan says again, voice muffled against Keeho’s shoulder. “Your distant boyfriend’s downstairs. Why’s he here anyway? Ruining my eyesight. Handsome, yes — no lies there — but he makes me wanna punch his face. Ugh! Annoying!”

Keeho blinks again. “…Huh?” He pushes himself up on one elbow, squinting, hair falling into his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Jiung hyung’s downstairs,” Yechan says flatly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Said he wants to bring you on a date.” He pauses dramatically, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to process his own words. “Also, he bought me a PS5. A PS5, hyung! The newest one!”

Keeho frowns, still confused. “What?”

“Yeah!” Yechan continues, waving his arms now. “Like I’m ten or something. What’s that supposed to mean, huh? He knows I despise him and now this? Trying to buy me off? Corruption. Bribery. Manipulation.” His words are coming too fast, his tone a mix of disgust and disbelief. “Though—” he sighs dramatically, “I’ll take it. I appreciate it, thank you very much. But still. What is he doing here at 12?”

Keeho just stares for a moment, his brain still catching up. Jiung. Here. In his house. Downstairs. After weeks of distance without any news, after tears and silence and guilt and soft apologies whispered in the dark this morning, Jiung is suddenly here again. The thought makes his stomach twist, something between panic and a quiet flutter of warmth.

“Jiungie?” he whispers, voice almost too soft.

“Hmm.” Yechan nods, leaning back with a smirk that screams older-younger-brother arrogance. “Now wake up. He bring flowers, hyung. Flowers. He didn’t hit his head somewhere in his self quarantine time, right?”

Keeho can’t help it — a small, breathless laugh escapes him, though it’s short, uncertain. “Flowers?”

“Yeah. Big ass pink flower,” Yechan says, already standing from the bed and stretching. “He’s downstairs talking to Noona about something. I think he said he planned a date, but she’s grilling him like it’s a job interview.” Yechan turns toward the door, then stops, his grin widening. “Up, hyungie,” he says, tapping Keeho’s butt twice for emphasis. “You’re not gonna make him wait, are you?”

Keeho groans, rolling over and throwing his arm over his face, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “I swear you’re enjoying this too much,” he mutters.

“Obviously,” Yechan says without shame, his voice trailing as he walks out the door. “I’m getting free entertainment and a PS5. Best morning ever. Though I don’t believe him. Still.”

The door closes behind him, leaving the room quiet again. Keeho sighs into his pillow, eyes staring up at the ceiling. For a few seconds, he just lies there — his heart beating faster than he wants to admit. Jiung is downstairs. With flowers.

After everything that’s happened, part of him still feels raw — uncertain whether to smile or to cry. But another part of him, the one that’s still hopelessly in love, feels something flicker in his chest. Warm. Gentle. Relief.

He sits up slowly, running a hand through his messy hair, his heart thumping harder with every passing second. “Flowers, huh,” he murmurs under his breath, a small, incredulous smile tugging at his lips.

Then, with one deep breath, he stands up and mutters to himself, “Fine, Jiung. Let’s see what you’re trying to pull this time.”

Keeho takes his time coming down the stairs, the soft creak of the old wooden steps somehow louder than usual. He’s fully dressed — jeans, a cream sweater, hair styled just enough to hide the fact that he rushed it — but inside, he still feels half-asleep, like his heart hasn’t decided whether to calm down or race. The smell of coffee and toasted bread drifts up from the kitchen, wrapping the air in warmth, and with it comes the sound of laughter — Haeun’s sharp and confident, Jiung’s quieter, slightly nervous, like someone trying to be polite in foreign territory.

When he finally turns the corner into the living room, the sight almost makes him stop in his tracks. Jiung’s sitting there on the couch, hands clasped together on his knees, posture too straight to be natural. He looks awkward — charmingly so — and beside him on the coffee table rests a bouquet of pink flowers, tied neatly with a pale ribbon. Pink. Keeho’s favorite. It’s ridiculous, and so incredibly Jiung, that his lips twitch into an involuntary smile.

“Aegi~ You’re up already?” Haeun’s voice breaks through first, warm and teasing. She’s leaning against the counter, mug in hand, her hair tied back. “You wake up late today. Not the usual.”

Keeho blinks, snapping out of his momentary daze. “Couldn’t really sleep last night,” he says softly, scratching the back of his neck. His voice comes out hoarse, half embarrassed. He walks toward the couch, the space between them suddenly smaller and heavier than he remembers.

Jiung looks up at him then — really looks at him — and that small, awkward smile widens into something soft and genuine. “Hi,” he says, the word carrying so much that Keeho feels his chest tighten.

“Hi,” Keeho replies, sitting down beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Jiung’s coat sleeve. For a second, they just stare — like the last month of silence and ache and uncertainty is hovering between them, visible in the air but too fragile to touch.

Then Jiung moves first. He picks up the bouquet and holds it out. “For you,” he says simply, almost shyly.

Keeho blinks at it — the pink roses, the small daisies tucked between them — then takes it carefully, like he’s holding something breakable. “Thank you,” he murmurs, smiling small.

“Welcome,” Jiung says. His voice is quiet but sure. Then, before Keeho can say anything else, Jiung leans forward and presses a quick, soft kiss to his forehead.

Keeho freezes. His whole face warms in seconds, and when Jiung pulls back, Keeho can feel the blush spreading to his ears. He looks away, trying not to grin too obviously, but Haeun’s amused laugh ruins his attempt.

“Well, well,” she says, crossing her arms. “Someone’s trying to redeem himself.”

Jiung laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Trying,” he admits.

Keeho glares playfully at his sister. “Noona…”

Haeun just smirks. “Bring him back by midnight the latest, okay?” she says, directing it to Jiung this time, “don’t make him sad again. Or I’ll make you regret,” her tone light but firm — the protective sister stance fully on display.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jiung says immediately, straightening up like he’s being given military instructions.

Before the moment can settle, Yechan’s voice booms from upstairs. “Hyung! Buy me a croffle on the way back!” There’s the faint sound of buttons being smashed, followed by the victory music from his game.

Keeho groans, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God, he’s already using the PS5.”

Jiung laughs, loud and genuine this time. “Noted!” he shouts back toward the stairs, earning another triumphant yell from Yechan.

Haeun just shakes her head, sipping her coffee, starts walking to the stairs. “I hope you know you’re stuck with our family chaos now,” she says to Jiung, amused.

“I think I’ve been stuck for a while,” Jiung replies softly, glancing at Keeho — who’s still hiding behind the bouquet, cheeks red but smiling.

For a long second, everything feels right again. The air hums with the quiet comfort of familiarity — the teasing, the laughter, the small acts of affection that feel like sunlight peeking through the cracks of a long winter. Keeho looks at Jiung from the corner of his eye and sees that same old tenderness there — the one that always made him fall a little harder, even when he swore he wouldn’t.

“Let’s go before my siblings say more embarrassing things,” Keeho finally says, standing up, trying to hide the grin tugging at his lips.

“Too late,” Haeun calls out behind him, shouting her syllables. “Don’t forget to kiss him properly this time!”

“Noona!” Keeho groans again, turning red to the tips of his ears.

Jiung just laughs, standing too, holding the door open for him. “Guess I’ll have to listen to your sister,” he says under his breath, smiling down at Keeho.

Keeho rolls his eyes, but his heart’s already melting. “We’ll see about that,” he mumbles — though the way he grips Jiung’s hand as they step out says otherwise.

The date has been good—almost too good, Keeho thinks, as he leans against the cool bench armrest. They ate, went to arcade, Jiung even won him a pink rabbit stuffed toy. The air now feels cleaner than usual, softer too, the kind of quiet afternoon that makes everything look like a movie scene. The sunset spills its golden hue over the park, touching the lake nearby with streaks of orange and rose. Children laugh in the distance; a man walks his dog along the path, the rhythmic sound of footsteps and tiny barks mixing with the faint hum of traffic from the main road. It feels alive and peaceful all at once. And between all of it—just him and Jiung.

Jiung’s beside him, a small smile playing on his lips, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun is slowly melting into the skyline. His hand rests loosely over Keeho’s shoulder, the warmth seeping through the fabric of his jacket. The silence between them isn’t awkward anymore—it’s soft, filled with everything that doesn’t need to be said out loud.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Keeho murmurs, his voice calm and slow, eyes half-lidded as he leans further into Jiung’s hold. His cheek brushes against Jiung’s arm. He smells faintly of coffee and that woody perfume Keeho once picked out for him, back when they still laughed more than they argued.

“Not as pretty as you, though,” Jiung replies, tone gentle but deliberate, his eyes shifting from the sky to Keeho.

Keeho snorts, a small laugh slipping out before he can help it. “You’re still on warrant, mister. No flirting,” he teases, bumping Jiung lightly with his shoulder.

Jiung chuckles, playing along. “Oh? I thought I already redeemed myself when I bought you those churros back in Jeju?”

Keeho hums, pretending to think, tapping his chin dramatically. “Hmm… that redemption arc got canceled when you ghosted me for a month after that. So… yeah,” His tone is light, joking even—but Jiung feels the sting of truth under it.

His laughter fades, freezes on that bench. His smile falters just a little. “I’m sorry—” he starts, voice tentative, but Keeho cuts him off before the word can fully settle in the air.

“Stop with the sorry’s,” Keeho says, turning to face him properly this time. His eyes are soft but firm, the corner of his lips lifting into something halfway between a smile and a sigh. “I’m getting bored of that.”

Jiung blinks, caught off guard, unsure whether to speak or stay quiet. Keeho just looks at him for another second, then points forward, toward the horizon. “Look! Sunset!” he says suddenly, his tone bright again, as if to erase the heaviness that just brushed between them.

And Jiung follows his gaze. The sun is half hidden now, its lower edge swallowed by the distant hills, streaks of gold turning to deep amber. Keeho’s eyes reflect it perfectly—the light hitting them in a way that makes them gleam. Jiung smiles, his chest tightening in that familiar ache—the one that comes from loving someone so much it almost hurts.

He looks at Keeho for another moment, the way his cheeks glow under the fading sunlight, the way his smile curves so easily, the small crinkle beside his eyes that shows when he laughs. Jiung can’t help it. If he can’t flirt with words, he’ll do it with something else.

So he leans in—slowly at first, almost unsure—then closes the space between them. His lips brush against Keeho’s in a soft, tentative kiss. Keeho freezes for a second, then lets out a small giggle, the sound muffled between them. Jiung smiles against his lips and kisses him again, this time deeper, more certain.

The world fades a little around them. The laughter of children, the sound of the wind, even the low rumble of cars—all of it slips away. It’s just the warmth between them, the quiet rhythm of their breathing, and the familiar scent of each other. When they finally pull back, their noses are almost touching, both of them smiling widely.

“I love you,” Jiung says first, voice low but steady.

Keeho’s heart flutters at that. He stares at Jiung for a second, the sunlight catching in his hair, the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks. Then he smiles—small but real. “I love you too,” he says, and before Jiung can react, he leans in to press another quick kiss to his lips.

He lingers there just a moment, close enough that Jiung can feel his breath when he whispers, “Don’t make me tired of this unending circle, please.”

Jiung exhales, a long, quiet sigh that seems to carry every ounce of guilt he’s been holding. He wraps his arms around Keeho, pulling him close enough that Keeho can hear his heartbeat, fast and shaky. “I won’t,” he murmurs into Keeho’s hair. “I promise. No more distance between us. I’ll promise you that.”

Keeho closes his eyes, his head resting against Jiung’s chest. For a moment, everything slows down. The world turns gold, and then dim. And all he can feel is that heartbeat—steady, trembling, love—and the warmth of Jiung’s hand in his. He doesn’t know if promises like that can really hold forever. But right now, in this quiet slice of sunset, it feels like they might.

The car hums softly in the driveway, headlights still glowing faintly against the familiar white gate of Keeho’s house. The world outside is quiet now — the kind of quiet that only happens in residential streets late at night, where even the wind sounds tired. Inside the car, though, everything feels alive. The heater hums low, the air still thick with laughter from a few minutes ago. Keeho’s cheeks are flushed pink from the warmth and from Jiung’s endless rambling. It’s 11:57 p.m. Three minutes before curfew, and Jiung’s already trying to make it last just a bit longer.

“Can you just stay here? A little bit longer? Please.” Jiung mumbles suddenly, the words low and sulky. His tone sounds childish, and Keeho can’t help but laugh.

“Here? In the car?” Keeho giggles, looking up at him with that teasing glint in his eyes. His voice comes out breathy from all the laughing they’ve done.

Jiung nods, face all serious despite his ridiculous words. “Mmm. Live here,” he insists, wrapping his arms around Keeho in a sudden tight hug. Keeho lets out a squeaky laugh, his face buried into Jiung’s chest.

“Let me go! I can’t breathe, you idiot!” he laughs, smacking Jiung’s arm lightly as his boyfriend only squeezes tighter. The sound of Keeho’s giggle fills the small space, soft and warm, bouncing against the car windows like music.

Jiung just hums in response, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Keeho’s head — a soft, unhurried thing. His lips linger there for a moment, and Keeho can feel the way Jiung exhales, his breath heavy with that kind of peace that only comes when he’s holding the person he doesn’t want to lose.

When Jiung finally lets go, his voice drops low and steady. “Be ready at 8 tomorrow. I’ll pick you up,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Keeho tilts his head, confused, blinking up at him. “Huh?”

“You’re okay with cartoons, right?” Jiung continues, completely ignoring the confusion on Keeho’s face. “I’ve already bought the tickets. You’ll like it.”

Keeho blinks again, still processing. “Wait—what?” he repeats, chuckling.

“8 a.m. sharp,” Jiung continues, his tone turning mock-commanding. “Make yourself pretty. Though…” he pauses, pretending to think hard, eyes narrowing in fake contemplation. “You’re already pretty. On second thought, maybe wear something ugly.”

Keeho bursts out laughing. “What?!”

Jiung grins, leaning back smugly in his seat. “Yeah. Don’t want another man flirting with you. Prevention is better than murder.”

Keeho rolls his eyes but can’t stop smiling. “You’re insane,” he says through his laughter.

“I’m serious,” Jiung insists, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips too.

Keeho shakes his head, still giggling. “Wait, Jiung, what’s happening? What’s all this?”

Jiung turns to him fully then, the soft yellow glow from the streetlights catching on his face, making him look almost unreal. “Tomorrow,” he says simply, a small smile forming, “movie date.”

Keeho’s brows lift in surprise. “A date? Again?”

“Yes,” Jiung says, his tone firm now, eyes warm. “Zootopia. You’ll like it. The rabbit looks like you.”

Keeho bursts out laughing again, his hand instinctively smacking Jiung’s arm. “I look like a rabbit now?”

Jiung smirks, shrugging like it’s a universal truth. “A cute one. Always hopping around, stressing me out.”

Keeho laughs so hard he has to hold his stomach. His voice softens when he finally catches his breath. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Jiung only grins wider, looking a little sheepish but also proud. “I’ll redeem myself,” he says after a beat, the laughter in his tone fading into something quieter. “You deserve better, so I’ll be better. For you.”

That makes Keeho stop laughing. The sincerity in Jiung’s voice catches him off guard. He looks up, really looks, and sees the guilt still tucked behind those dark eyes — but there’s something else there now too. A promise.

Keeho’s smile softens. “You better keep that,” he says quietly.

“I will,” Jiung replies, not missing a beat.

Silence settles again, the soft hum of the car filling the space. The clock on the dashboard ticks over to 00:01. Technically, he’s late now — but neither of them moves. Jiung’s gaze lingers on Keeho’s face, his hand hesitating in the air before finally reaching out to brush his thumb over Keeho’s cheek. The touch is feather-light, hesitant, like he’s afraid the moment might vanish if he presses too hard.

Keeho leans into the touch without thinking, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. When he opens them again, Jiung’s closer.

“The traffic will be bad,” Keeho whispers, but his voice lacks conviction.

“Worth it,” Jiung murmurs.

And before Keeho can say anything, Jiung leans in — slow, deliberate, like he’s giving him a chance to move away. But Keeho doesn’t. He closes the distance himself, their lips meeting halfway.

It’s not desperate this time. It’s warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that says we’re still trying. Jiung’s hand comes up to cup the back of Keeho’s neck, and Keeho’s fingers curl lightly around Jiung’s coat sleeve. When they pull apart, Jiung’s eyes are soft, searching.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jiung whispers.

Keeho nods, his smile small but real. “Eight a.m. sharp,” he teases.

“Don’t forget,” Jiung says.

“Wouldn’t dare.”

Keeho opens the car door, stepping out into the cool night air. The chill hits his skin instantly, but there’s a warmth in his chest that lingers, stubborn and bright. He turns back once, and Jiung’s still there — smiling, waiting until Keeho’s safely inside before he drives off.

When Keeho finally closes the front door behind him, he leans against it for a second, a soft laugh escaping his lips. His cheeks still warm, the taste of strawberry chapstick faint on his mouth.

A date.

Again.

So this time, he lets himself be happy for once.

Chapter Text

The days that follow are a kind of softness Keeho hasn’t felt in a long time. The kind that fills every corner of his life with quiet laughter and something warm that never seems to fade. A month has passed since that night on the bench — a whole month of morning texts, random visits, shared meals, and gentle goodnights that leave Keeho smiling even as he drifts off to sleep. The ache that used to live in his chest has gone quiet; no more tossing and turning until dawn, no more crying quietly into his pillow. Jiung has been consistent — patient, kind, endlessly apologetic without being suffocating — and Keeho can feel the difference. He feels safe again.

“Ugh. New semester,” Keeho groans dramatically, his head falling back onto the sofa like the world has ended. “I wanna puke.” His voice echoes through Jiung’s living room, muffled only slightly by the thick throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He shifts until his cheek rests against Jiung’s chest, nuzzling into him like a lazy cat.

Jiung laughs softly, his hand automatically finding Keeho’s hair, carding through the soft strands. “Hey,” he says gently, “at least it’s our last year now. We can do this.”

Keeho lifts his head slightly to pout up at him. “Yeah, last year. Then graduate! Then work! Then suffer again!” he declares, his voice muffled against Jiung’s shoulder.

Jiung chuckles, brushing a stray strand of hair out of Keeho’s face. “You sound like an old man already,” he teases.

“I am an old man,” Keeho mumbles, shifting again until he’s half-sprawled across Jiung’s lap. His body melts easily against Jiung’s warmth, and the scent of Jiung’s laundry detergent — the same lavender kind Keeho once teased him for — makes his chest feel light.

They’re at Jiung’s house today, mostly because of Yechan’s meddling and whining. Keeho still remembers how his little brother had stood in the living room that morning, hands on his hips like a disapproving parent. “I hate when you’re being distant,” Yechan had said to Jiung, “but I hate it more when you don’t know when or where to do PDA either. Move! Go to your house! I wanna watch TV.” Haeun had just laughed from the kitchen, shaking her head while Keeho sat there, red-faced and sputtering.

Now, though, Keeho can’t deny how comfortable it feels to be here — to have this quiet, domestic kind of peace with Jiung. The TV hums softly in the background, some random cooking show neither of them is really watching.

Jiung’s voice breaks through the soft quiet. “Wanna eat?” he asks, brushing his fingers through Keeho’s hair again. “I’ll prepare something. You haven’t eaten since morning.”

Keeho blinks up at him, already starting to sit up. “Okay. Let’s go! Let me help!” he says quickly, a small smile playing at his lips.

Jiung tugs on his hand, gently pulling him back down to the sofa. “Yeah, no,” he says with a teasing grin. “Eomma will kill me if her kitchen burns down.”

Keeho gasps in mock offense. “Hey! I’m not that bad!”

Jiung raises an eyebrow, pretending to think. “Remember the time you tried to make ramyeon and nearly melted the ladle?”

“That was ONE time!” Keeho protests, sitting up fully now, cheeks pink.

“Uh-huh? We will not repeat that one time,” Jiung hums, pretending to be unimpressed. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to Keeho’s temple before standing. “Kimchi jjigae sound good?”

Keeho pouts, crossing his arms. “I can help,” he insists again, lower lip jutting out.

Jiung glances over his shoulder as he ties the apron around his waist, eyes glinting. “Yeah, help with the fire extinguisher later too, okay?” he jokes, grinning as he starts chopping ingredients.

Keeho gasps dramatically, throwing a couch pillow at him. “I hate you!”

Jiung bursts out laughing, catching the pillow before it hits the counter. “You love me,” he says, still laughing, his eyes bright with affection.

Keeho huffs, pretending to sulk, but the corners of his mouth betray him. “Debatable,” he mutters, though his voice is too soft to sound convincing.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Jiung teases, turning back to the cutting board.

Keeho stands after a beat, padding barefoot into the kitchen despite Jiung’s protests. He leans against the counter beside him, watching the way Jiung moves — sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration. There’s something deeply endearing about it, the domestic rhythm of the moment. Keeho smiles to himself before reaching for the green onions.

“Fine,” he says softly. “I’ll just… supervise.”

Jiung glances at him from the corner of his eye, pretending to be suspicious. “Supervise, huh?”

“Yeah,” Keeho says with mock seriousness. “To make sure you don’t put too much gochugaru like last time.”

“That was on purpose,” Jiung defends himself.

Keeho smirks. “Sure it was, Mister ‘Why Is This So Spicy.’ Lucky me, I eat chillies for breakfast.”

Jiung laughs, a loud, genuine sound that fills the kitchen. He shakes his head, leaning closer for a second to bump their foreheads together. “You’re such a menace,” he murmurs affectionately.

Keeho smiles softly. “You like it.”

“Yeah,” Jiung says, without hesitation this time. “I do.”

The air goes quiet again, the kind of quiet that feels full — full of warmth, full of unsaid things that don’t need to be spoken. Keeho watches Jiung stir the pot, the steam rising up in soft curls, and something in his chest swells — that familiar, fragile feeling of being exactly where he’s meant to be.

Jiung turns to him suddenly, spoon in hand. “Taste,” he says, holding it up like an offering.

Keeho leans in, blowing gently on the spoon before taking a sip. The warmth spreads instantly, and he hums softly. “Perfect,” he says, smiling up at Jiung.

Jiung grins, setting the spoon down. “Of course it is. I’m cooking for my favorite person.”

Keeho laughs quietly, his voice soft. “You’re still on my ban list, remember?”

Jiung just shrugs, stepping closer until their faces are only inches apart. “Yeah,” he whispers, “but you love me anyway.”

Keeho pretends to think for a moment before smiling. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I do.”

Jiung’s smile widens, and before either of them can say anything else, he leans in and kisses Keeho — slow and gentle, tasting faintly of chili and warmth.

The smell of kimchi jjigae still lingers in the kitchen, a gentle warmth that seeps into the air. Keeho’s sitting at the small wooden table, bowl in hand, while Jiung sits across from him, his chopsticks moving with easy rhythm as he places bits of meat and tofu into Keeho’s bowl like it’s second nature. The radio hums softly in the background, some old love ballad Jiung’s mom always leaves playing. Everything feels comfortable—quiet laughter, the occasional clinking of chopsticks, the little glances they steal in between bites. It’s the kind of scene Keeho once thought he’d lost for good.

Then, without warning, the front door bursts open. “Big bro! Smell good. As usual. What are you cooking—oh, hello Keeho-ssi!” a voice calls out, bright and familiar in a way that immediately fills the space.

Keeho looks up. Standing at the doorway is Intak, Jiung’s neighbor and self-proclaimed little brother figure. He’s wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, hair a little messy like he’s just rolled out of bed, and he bows slightly, though his expression looks mildly confused to see someone else at the table. Keeho returns the bow, polite as ever, offering a small smile.

“Hi,” Keeho says, tone soft and polite, the corners of his lips curving just enough to show friendliness. He knows of Intak—Jiung talks about him sometimes in stories about their high school days. But this is the first time Keeho’s meeting him properly, face to face.

“Hyungie, I want to eat too. Eomma doesn’t cook today,” Intak grumbles as he kicks off his sneakers and makes his way to the kitchen without hesitation. “She said she’s tired of me cooking ramyeon when she already cooked. Like hey, we want differences! My palate says no to samgyetang for the fifth time this week alone.” He grabs a bowl from the counter like he owns the place, ladling out a generous serving of the jjigae and scooping rice from the cooker.

Jiung deadpans, not even looking up from feeding Keeho another spoonful. “And your last choice is raiding my kitchen?”

Intak flops into the seat beside Keeho with exaggerated exhaustion. “Hey! I’m your favorite dongsaeng. I deserve care.” He starts eating immediately, stuffing his mouth like a starved kid, not even waiting for permission.

Keeho can’t help but giggle, the sound light and musical. It escapes before he can stop it, and it’s soft but warm enough to make both Jiung and Intak glance up.

Intak pauses mid-bite, eyes brightening as he points his chopsticks at Keeho. “Oh yeah! Keeho-ssi,” he says between mouthfuls, “I’m impressed you’re still hyung’s partner, though.”

Keeho blinks, chopsticks hovering above his bowl. “Pardon?”

“Yeah,” Intak continues, undeterred, already reaching for more food. “Since the first year, right? Really. Never thought Jiung hyung can commit to the act properly. I’m—ouch! Yah, that hurts, hyung!” he yelps, clutching his leg under the table.

Jiung has kicked him squarely in the shin, his face a picture of mock innocence. “Ignore him,” he mutters, shaking his head. “He just likes to blabber nonsense.”

Keeho raises an eyebrow, hiding his amused smile behind his spoon. “Oh really?” he says, voice laced with teasing. “Because it sounds like he knows quite a lot.”

Intak pouts dramatically, rubbing his shin. “Hyung’s been violent since kindergarten! But yeah, I was there when he confessed. I’m the reason you two are even dating! Thanks to me!” he announces proudly, grinning wide.

“Yah,” Jiung warns, glaring at him.

“What? It’s true!” Intak protests. “He literally sat on the field for hours writing your name in his notebook before he chickened out, and I had to—ow! Again?”

Keeho bursts out laughing now, the sound bubbling up freely. He tries to cover his mouth with his hand, but it’s no use—his laughter fills the kitchen, bright and contagious. Jiung groans, face buried in his palm, while Intak continues rubbing his leg like an injured soldier.

“Ah, so you were the accomplice,” Keeho teases, leaning a little toward Intak. “I should thank you then, right?”

Intak beams, puffing out his chest like he’s just received an award. “Exactly! Cash is accepted. Eomma cuts my allowance this week.” He grins.

Keeho nearly chokes on his rice, giggling uncontrollably. “Cash?” he repeats. 

Jiung’s glares at Intak, muttering under his breath, “Remind me to change the lock on my door.”

Intak just smirks, clearly having too much fun. “Or you can just ask Jiung hyung to pay for you. He’s rich!”

Keeho is full-on laughing now, leaning into Jiung for support. Jiung, despite himself, starts laughing too—quiet at first, then freely, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You are insufferable,” Jiung says finally, though there’s no real bite in his voice.

Keeho looks up at him, still giggling. “You love it.”

Jiung smiles softly, reaching up to wipe a stray grain of rice from Keeho’s lip. “Yeah,” he admits, his tone low and fond. “I really do.”

The three of them fall into easy chatter after that — Intak telling ridiculous stories about their school days, Keeho teasing Jiung for his high school poetry phase, and Jiung pretending to be offended by everything. The kitchen fills with warmth — laughter bouncing off the walls, the smell of kimchi stew still heavy in the air, the soft glow of the overhead light wrapping around them like a quiet hug.

For a moment, Keeho watches the two of them bicker, his heart full. It’s strange — this simple, noisy domesticity, this kind of happiness that feels both fragile and solid at once. Jiung glances at him through the laughter, eyes soft, a small smile pulling at his lips. Keeho smiles back.

And just like that, in the middle of the chaos, Keeho realizes — this is what it feels like to belong.

The smell of dish soap and kimchi jjigae still lingers faintly in the air — a mix of warmth and homeliness that clings to the edges of the kitchen like an afterthought. The laughter from earlier has died down, fading into something softer, gentler, almost sacred. Keeho sits lazily in the dining chair, one leg tucked under him, his cheek resting against his palm as he watches Jiung and Intak by the sink. The way they argue feels so familiar, so alive, that Keeho can’t help but smile. It’s ridiculous, honestly — two fully grown men, sleeves rolled up, suds flying, both acting like washing dishes is a matter of life and death. Yet, in that ridiculousness, there’s something warm, something real. Something Keeho hasn’t felt in a long time — peace.

“I did the cooking, so you help me with the washing!” Jiung says, voice half exasperated, half teasing. His forearms glisten with soap bubbles, hair falling slightly into his eyes. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the one he tries to hide when he’s pretending to be annoyed.

“No, I’m a guest! I shouldn’t be doing house chores !” Intak shoots back, his tone full of mock offense as he points dramatically at Keeho. “Keeho-ssi isn’t washing either!”

“That’s my boyfriend, you dumbass,” Jiung replies without missing a beat, suppressing a laugh. “He’s exempt.”

“Favoritism!” Intak groans loudly, clutching his chest like he’s been betrayed. “Pure favoritism! Nepotism! Everyting-ism!” But he’s smiling, too, his laughter mixing into the domestic hum of the house. It’s loud, easy, familiar — the kind of sound that fills the cracks of silence left behind by too many quiet nights.

Then, the sharp vibration of Keeho’s phone breaks the moment. The buzzing hums against the wooden table, a small interruption in their soft chaos. Keeho picks it up absently, thumb brushing over the screen as he glances at the name. Theo. The name flickers in his chest like a drop of cold water. He hesitates — just a heartbeat too long — enough for his smile to waver slightly before he presses the call button.

“Baby!—I mean, Keeho! Are you done with your boyfriend yet?” Theo’s voice bursts through the speaker, familiar and loud and full of teasing about the nickname correction that makes Keeho laugh instantly. It’s like muscle memory — the kind of laugh that happens before the brain catches up.

“They’re in the middle of washing the plates,” Keeho says, voice light as he leans back in his chair, watching Jiung flick soapy water at Intak like a kid.

“They?” Theo asks immediately, his tone sharpening with mock suspicion.

Keeho hums, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Hmm. Jiung and Intak, his neighbor. Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” Theo says after a pause. Then his voice softens a little. “Anyway, Eomma told me to call you. She said she’s been trying to reach Noona and Yechan, but they’re not picking up. So she told me to call you instead.”

Keeho blinks, sitting up a bit straighter. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Appa wants you to accompany him fishing,” Theo says, laughter lacing his words now. “He said you don’t spend time with him anymore. Saying ‘Keeho’s big enough now and Appa’s love is not good as his boyfriend’. He’s been sulking.”

Keeho bursts out laughing, loud and unrestrained, his hand pressed to his stomach. “Appa said that?”

“Hmm,” Theo hums dramatically. “And me too! I can’t call you baby, and now you don’t have time for me either. I’m sulking too.”

Keeho groans, still laughing. “You’re so dramatic,” he says through his laughter, voice light and fond.

“Maybe,” Theo says, mock sighing. “But admit it, you miss me a little.”

Keeho pauses for half a second, then grins, soft and teasing. “Maybe,” he says quietly. “Okay, I’ll head home soon. Tell Eomma I got the message.”

“Got it. Oh — and tell your boyfriend to stop monopolizing you. Redeeming himself my ass. Bye, baby!” Theo adds before hanging up, his tone still joking but carrying something genuine underneath.

When Keeho lowers his phone, Jiung’s already walking over, drying his hands on a towel. His expression is calm, but his eyes flick briefly to the phone in Keeho’s hand, Theo’s name still plastered on the phone, and there it is — that little crease between his brows, the telltale sign of jealousy he never quite hides well.

“Appa wants me home,” Keeho says quickly, his voice soft, almost apologetic. He smiles, hoping it eases whatever worry’s building in Jiung’s head, and reaches out to take his hand. “Fishing duty.”

Jiung’s expression softens instantly. His thumb traces absent circles over the back of Keeho’s hand, a quiet, absent gesture. “Okay. I’ll drop you off,” he says, already reaching for his keys on the counter like it’s a given.

Keeho shakes his head, smiling gently. “No, it’s okay. I can go home by myself.”

Jiung doesn’t look convinced. His mouth opens, ready to argue. “It’s freezing outside,” he says, his tone threaded with worry. “Come, let me—”

Keeho laughs softly, tugging on his sleeve before he can finish. “It’s okay. You cooked, you washed the dishes, and you entertained Intak. You’ve done enough for today. I can go home by myself,” he says, eyes crinkling with warmth.

From the sink, Intak calls out loudly, “Yeah, hyung! Let the boyfriend go home alone so he misses you more!”

“Shut up,” Jiung says automatically, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward, betraying him.

Keeho giggles, pressing a hand to his chest as if to keep the laughter in. “See? Even your dongsaeng agrees,” he teases.

Jiung lets out a dramatic sigh, defeated. “Fine,” he says, reaching for his phone. “At least let me call you a taxi. You’re not walking home in this cold.”

Keeho grins, already slipping on his coat. “Deal.”

A few minutes later, the yellow taxi Jiung ordered pulls up in front of the house. The headlights cut through the winter mist, illuminating the driveway in a faint halo of light. The air outside bites cold, frosting every breath they take. Keeho stands by the door, hands tucked in his coat pockets, as Jiung fusses with his scarf and collar like an overprotective parent.

“Call me when you get home safe, okay?” Jiung says, his voice low but warm. His fingers linger near Keeho’s cheek as if reluctant to let go.

Keeho nods, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “I will. Don’t worry too much, dad.”

Jiung gives him a mock glare but his smile betrays him — that soft, small smile that looks like it belongs only to Keeho. “Be careful.”

Keeho looks at him for a long moment, the streetlight reflecting in his eyes. He reaches up, tugging lightly at Jiung’s scarf to straighten it, fingertips brushing his chin. “I’ll be fine. You take care of yourself too, hmm?” he murmurs, voice barely above the whisper of the wind.

And before Jiung can reply, Keeho leans in. Brief but lingering — the kind that leaves everything around them suspended in quiet. Their breath mingles in the cold, and the world narrows down to just that — the taste of warmth in winter air, the way Jiung’s lips tremble slightly against his.

“I love you” Keeho whispers, smiling against his mouth.

“Too,” Jiung breathes back, his voice rough and quiet, hand still hovering near the back of Keeho’s neck. “I love you too.”

Keeho pulls away, that same small, bright smile still painted on his face as he steps into the taxi. He waves through the window, eyes on Jiung until the car starts moving. Jiung stays there, standing on the curb with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching until the red tail lights fade into the distance.

The air is cold — sharp enough to sting his cheeks — but his chest feels warm. It’s the kind of warmth that lingers even after the door closes, after the laughter fades, after the car disappears down the empty street.

“You’re still with him.”

The room is dim, the only light coming from the streetlamp bleeding faintly through the blinds. Two silhouettes stand by the window — one leaning against the frame, the other pacing, tension thick between them. The air feels heavy, like something fragile about to break.

“Just shut up.”

The silence that follows hums low, dangerous — the kind that makes the walls feel too close, the quiet too loud.

“You promised to just try, hyung. A try doesn’t last this long.”

Silence again. 

“Just… shut your mouth. He doesn’t need to know.”

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun filters lazily through the canopy of trees, scattering golden flecks across the wooden table where Keeho and Jiung sit. The campus park is quieter now — new semester begins, the post-lunch chatter gone, replaced by the occasional hum of cicadas and the faint rustle of leaves. A soft breeze brushes past, carrying with it the faint scent of spring grass and distant coffee. It’s the perfect weather to study, but Keeho is far from studying. His face is buried in his arms, his hair a tousled mess of defeat, while Jiung sits across from him, trying to hide his amusement.

“Can you just kill me?” Keeho groans, his voice muffled by the sleeves of his oversized sweater. He doesn’t even lift his head. “I can’t do this anymore. My brain’s melting. I’m gonna die before I even graduate.”

Jiung laughs quietly, flipping through the notes sprawled before them — though it’s clear he’s paying more attention to Keeho than to the actual content. “Dramatic,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Keeho finally lifts his head, cheeks puffed out, his eyes narrowing at Jiung like an offended cat. “Why did I even take medicine? Who told me this was a good idea? I should’ve just been pretty and jobless.” He sighs dramatically, dropping his pen and pointing at the sky like he’s declaring his misery to the gods. “Do I need to contribute to society too? Haven’t I suffered enough?”

Jiung bursts out laughing, the sound echoing lightly under the tree. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, leaning his chin on his hand. “You said the same thing last semester during anatomy.”

Keeho gasps as if Jiung has just revealed a national secret. “That’s because anatomy was evil. Who needs to know about that many bones? Who decided humans needed that many bones? Greedy.”

“Greedy?” Jiung repeats, laughing harder. “You make it sound like the human body is hoarding extra ribs for fun.”

Keeho huffs and slumps again, his cheek pressed to his notebook. “You’re laughing, but I’m genuinely in pain. I’ve been reading this same paragraph for, what—” he glances at his phone “—two hours. And I still have no idea what it means.”

Jiung leans over, gently taking Keeho’s notebook and scanning the highlighted mess of text. “You highlighted every sentence,” he points out, trying not to smile. “That’s not how highlighting works, genius.”

Keeho shoots him a glare. “I’m highlighting my misery, okay?”

Jiung shakes his head, chuckling softly. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small pack of biscuits. “Here. Sugar helps your brain.” He slides it across the table.

Keeho looks at it for a second, unimpressed. “What is this? Charity?”

“Motivation,” Jiung says, opening his own notebook. “For every right answer, you get one biscuit.”

Keeho narrows his eyes. “You think I’m five?”

“I think you act like it sometimes. Remember that rabbit from Zootopia? Exactly like you. Copy paste,” Jiung says, smiling playfully.

Keeho gasps again, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse me, I’m a mature, responsible adult—”

“Who begged me to kill him five minutes ago,” Jiung interrupts smoothly.

Keeho stares at him for a beat before breaking into a small, reluctant smile. “I hate you,” he says, reaching for a biscuit anyway.

Jiung laughs, shaking his head. “You said that yesterday.”

Keeho chews in silence, refusing to look up. “I hate you everyday,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Jiung to hear.

Jiung pretends not to, flipping another page, his smile lingering. The sun is setting now, painting everything in amber. Keeho stretches, sighing as if he’s just run a marathon, before resting his chin on his notebook again.

“Hey,” Jiung says softly, his voice lower now, almost fond. “You’ll get it. You always do. You just like complaining along the way.”

Keeho hums, eyes half-lidded. “Maybe. But if I ever refuse to be a doctor, remind me of this day. Remind me how close I was to quitting life.”

Jiung chuckles, reaching across the table to flick Keeho’s forehead gently. “I’ll remind you every single day.”

Keeho pouts, rubbing his forehead where Jiung flicked him. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, his tone somewhere between grumbling and affectionate.

Jiung just smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re cuter,” he says quietly.

Keeho looks at him then — really looks — and his lips twitch, a shy smile finding its way back. For a second, neither of them says anything. Just the sound of the leaves, the quiet buzz of campus in the distance, and the soft thump of Keeho’s heart that somehow feels too loud for the silence.

“Okay, I’ll focus again,” Keeho says finally, pretending to refocus on his notes. “But if I fail this, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” Jiung says, still smiling. “But you’re passing, Keeho. You always do.”

Keeho rolls his eyes, but the warmth in his chest betrays him. “Flatterer.”

“Realist,” Jiung corrects.

And as the wind picks up and the sunlight fades, the two of them stay there — surrounded by books, laughter, and the quiet comfort of something that feels a lot like forever.

The corridor is alive with the late afternoon buzz of students — laughter spilling from the open walkway, the echo of footsteps against polished tiles, and the rustle of pages in someone’s hands as they rush to class. Keeho and Jiung walk side by side, their shoulders brushing, the easy rhythm of two people who’ve spent too long learning each other’s pace. Keeho’s holding his iced latte in one hand, mid-rant about their professor’s impossible assignment, while Jiung listens — half-smiling, half-tired — until it happens.

A blur of tall and fast moves toward them, and before Keeho can even react, strong arms wrap tightly around his waist, lifting him half off the ground.

“Uff—!” Keeho chokes, his drink wobbling dangerously in his grip.

“Stephen! Hi!” a bright, deep voice laughs into his ear, the accent soft and familiar in a way that makes Keeho blink before the realization hits.

“Soullie?” he gasps, twisting in the stranger’s arms, eyes widening. Then the shock melts instantly into pure joy. “Soullie!” He beams, that kind of radiant grin that lit up the whole corridor — the kind that makes his eyes curve like crescents and his dimple appear instantly.

The man — tall, warm-skinned, with an easy grin and eyes that gleam mischievously — nods quickly. “Yeah! Okasan finally got promoted here! So I’m staying for good! I just got enrolled here!” His voice is filled with excitement, and his hands stay right there on Keeho’s waist, holding him close as he speaks, as if they’ve never been apart.

Keeho laughs, eyes sparkling. “You’re serious?! After all those years?”

“Yeah! No more long-distance FaceTimes that cut off every five minutes!” Soul laughs again, his grip on Keeho tightening in the kind of way that looks a little too familiar.

Then Jiung clears his throat. Loudly.

Keeho blinks, realizing how close they are — how Soul’s hand still rests at his waist, fingers almost brushing the hem of his shirt. Awkwardly, Keeho steps back a little, gently prying himself free, though he’s still smiling. “Oh yeah — Soullie, meet my boyfriend, Jiung!” Keeho says quickly, motioning between them with his free hand. “Jiung, this is Soul. My childhood friend!”

Jiung’s smile appears, polite but tight at the edges. He nods once, extending his hand toward Soul. “Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice even — too even, like he’s rehearsing it.

Soul looks down at the offered hand, hesitates, then looks back up at Keeho, confused. “Boyfriend? I thought Theo hyung—”

Keeho cuts in fast, almost tripping over his words. “Yeah, my boyfriend. One and only,” he says, his laugh nervous, too high-pitched. He grabs Soul’s hand and practically forces it into Jiung’s, shaking it for them. “Choi Jiung. Soul. Shake hands. Nice. Great.”

Soul raises an eyebrow but lets out a small chuckle, glancing between them. “Whatever you say, Stephen,” he says lightly, though there’s a teasing note in his tone that doesn’t escape Jiung’s ears.

Before anyone can say another word, someone yells across the courtyard, “Haku Shota!”

“Oh no,” Soul groans, throwing his head back. “Seobi’s gonna kill me. I was supposed to help him carry books.” He laughs again, easy and careless as ever, before leaning forward — and without hesitation, he presses a quick kiss on Keeho’s cheek. “See you around, Stephen! I need to go before he actually kills me.”

Keeho’s frozen for a second — cheeks burning, words dying on his tongue. Jiung’s face hardens instantly, the faintest twitch in his jaw, his smile gone before it can even form again.

Soul waves once and runs off, vanishing into the sea of students, leaving a thick silence behind.

Keeho turns to Jiung, trying to play it off with a sheepish grin. “He’s always like that—”

“Yeah,” Jiung cuts in quietly, his voice low. “I can tell.”

Keeho blinks. “Jiung—”

But Jiung’s already turning, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve, the set of his shoulders stiff. “We’re going to be late for the next class, let’s go” he says shortly, already starting to walk ahead.

Keeho frowns, stepping after him, grabbing the edge of his sleeve. “Hey. Are you—”

Jiung stops, but he doesn’t look back. “What?”

Keeho hesitates, his hand still clutching Jiung’s sleeve. “You’re mad.”

Jiung lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “No, why would I be mad? You just got kissed by your childhood friend in front of me. Totally normal.”

Keeho sighs, tugging a little harder on his sleeve. “It’s not like that, Jiung. He’s just—he’s always been affectionate like that. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Jiung turns halfway then, his eyes finally meeting Keeho’s. “Doesn’t mean anything?” he repeats, the words slow, heavy. “Because it sure didn’t look meaningless to me.”

Keeho’s mouth opens, but the words won’t come out. His heart beats uncomfortably in his chest. “You’re being ridiculous,” he finally says, a little defensively. “You know me better than that.”

“Yeah,” Jiung says, his tone cutting in a way that makes Keeho flinch. “I thought I did.”

Keeho steps closer, his voice lowering. “Jiung.”

But Jiung shakes his head, stepping back instead. “I need to get to class,” he says, barely above a whisper now. “Come if you want. Who knows you wanna catch up with your so-called friend.”

And with that, he walks away — fast, purposeful — his hands shoved into his pockets, his back straight, not turning around once.

Keeho stands there, his fingers still hovering mid-air where they’d tugged at Jiung’s sleeve just seconds ago. Around him, the world moves on — laughter, footsteps, the chatter of friends passing by — but all Keeho can hear is the echo of Jiung’s voice, low and cold, still ringing in his ears.

Jiung’s distancing himself again. 

The late afternoon light bleeds weakly through the windows of the lecture hall, streaks of orange and gold cutting across the empty desks. Most of the students have already left, their laughter echoing faintly down the hallways, but Keeho and Jiung remain behind — one sitting, one standing. The air between them is heavy. Too quiet. Too careful. The kind of silence that stretches until it becomes unbearable. Keeho fiddles with the corner of his notebook, the page already crumpled from how tight he’s been gripping it. He opens his mouth once, twice, before he finally dares to speak.

“Jiung, I—”

“Come,” Jiung cuts him off, his voice flat. “It’s late. Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t even look at Keeho when he says it. His hands are already moving, brisk and mechanical, gathering his pens, stacking his books, closing his laptop. Everything about him feels… distant. Controlled. His every movement feels like it’s keeping something in check. Keeho watches him quietly, his stomach twisting, because he knows that tone — the one that sounds like Jiung is keeping all his anger behind his teeth. The tone he makes every time he’s making space for himself, without Keeho in it.

Keeho swallows hard, his fingers clutching his bag strap. “Jiungie—”

“Don’t.” Jiung’s voice cracks like a whip this time. He doesn’t raise it, but the sharpness cuts through the still air, and Keeho freezes mid-sentence. Jiung’s shoulders are tense, his back turned. “Don’t call me that,” he says quietly, tightly. “It’s public. People can hear. Pack your things. I’ll walk you home.”

For a moment, all Keeho can hear is his own heart pounding in his ears. The word don’t echoes in his head, the way it bounces off as if the nickname is a forbidden thing to say, as if calling his boyfriend with some term of endearment physically hurts him, and it stings more than he wants to admit. Jiung’s tone — cold, clipped — makes something small and fragile in Keeho’s chest crack just a little.

He doesn’t say anything after that. He just nods, wordlessly, and starts packing up too. His hands are shaking slightly as he shoves his notes into his bag, his throat tight and dry. The air feels colder now, emptier.

When they step outside, the sun is already setting, a dusky blue bleeding into the horizon. The campus paths are mostly empty — just the sound of their shoes against the pavement, rhythmic and distant. Neither of them speaks. Jiung walks a little ahead, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his expression unreadable. Keeho follows quietly, his head slightly bowed, watching the shadows of their steps stretch long under the streetlights. The distance… they are there again, after a month of absence.

Every now and then, Keeho opens his mouth to say something — anything — but every word dies before it leaves his lips. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t even know what exactly broke. Is it his fault again? Like the old times? 

The silence follows them all the way to Keeho’s dorm building. The lights from the entrance spill out warmly, contrasting sharply with the chill wind brushing against their cheeks. Keeho stops a few steps before the door, turning to Jiung slowly.

“See you,” he says softly, finally finding the courage to speak.

Jiung exhales, his breath fogging in the cold. For a second, he just stands there — still, quiet — and then he moves. He reaches out, grabs Keeho’s hand gently, and pulls him into a hug. His arms wrap around him firmly, holding him close, his chin resting on top of Keeho’s head.

Keeho stiffens for a moment before melting into the embrace, pressing his face against Jiung’s shoulder. The warmth of it makes his throat ache.

“Don’t be mad,” Keeho whispers, his voice trembling. “Please, Jiungie—”

“Don’t,” Jiung interrupts again, though his voice is softer this time. He sighs, his breath fanning against Keeho’s hair. “Keeho… you really need to set a limit a bit from people, you know?” His tone isn’t angry now, but it’s tired. Frustrated. Hurt. “First your ex, now your childhood friend. It’s… it’s disrespectful. I’m standing right there. I’m your boyfriend. It’s ridiculous even, to be looked like a fool every time you’re like this.”

Keeho’s heart drops. He clutches Jiung’s coat tighter, his fingers curling into the fabric. His voice breaks when he answers. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to make you feel—”

Jiung rubs his hair softly, almost out of habit. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know you didn’t mean it. But Keeho, you have to understand what it looks like. What it feels like for me. You’re laughing, hugging people who— who used to mean something to you. I’m not mad that you have friends. I’m mad that it looks like I’m the only one drawing a line.”

Keeho pulls back slightly, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “I— I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. They’re just friends, Jiung. I swear.”

“I know,” Jiung says again, but his tone is quieter now. He reaches up and adjusts the collar of Keeho’s sweatshirt, his fingers brushing against his neck like a sigh. “I’m not trying to control you. I just… wish you’d think a little more about how things look. How they make me feel.”

Keeho nods, his voice small. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Don’t be mad at me. Please, I’ll be careful. I didn’t want to hurt you.” His words start to blur as tears roll down his cheeks, his breath hitching. “I don’t want to fight with you again.”

Jiung watches him quietly for a moment before sighing again, rubbing his face with one hand. “Just…” He hesitates, then steps back, his tone returning to something softer. “Just have some limits. That’s all I ask.”

Keeho nods again, wiping his face with his sleeve. “I will. I promise.”

Jiung gives him a faint, tired smile — one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes — and tugs gently on Keeho’s sleeve, straightening it like he always does. “Go in,” he says quietly. “It’s late. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.”

Keeho bites his lip, staring at him for a moment longer. “You’re not… mad anymore, right?”

Jiung doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes — something between exhaustion and affection — and then nods once. “Sleep well,” he says finally, his voice low.

Then he turns and walks away, his hands shoved into his pockets again, his steps slow but certain.

Keeho stands there in front of the door, watching his silhouette fade under the streetlight. The winter wind brushes against his cheeks, cold against the tracks of his tears. He wipes his face with his sleeve again, taking a shaky breath.

He doesn’t know what hurts more — Jiung’s words, or the way he’s learning to accept that this kind of silence, this kind of on and off distance, might just be part of love he needs to adapt.

Chapter Text

The morning air is soft — crisp, still holding that lingering chill before the sun properly wakes. The kind that bites gently at your nose and makes every breath feel a little too fresh. Jiung’s steps are slow against the pavement, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, a quiet rhythm in sync with the distant hum of a city still yawning awake. The campus is peaceful this early — only a few students here and there, coffee cups in hand, scarves wrapped up to their ears.

When he finally turns the corner toward Keeho’s dorm, he spots him right away — standing by the entrance, a little bundle of beige and black. Keeho’s wearing a beige sweater that swallows him whole, a black beanie tugged down low over his hair, and a black mask covering half his face. But even with all that, Jiung notices immediately. His eyes. Those usually bright, playful eyes are red and puffy. Not swollen enough to scream heartbreak, but enough that something sharp twists in Jiung’s chest — guilt, not concern. Because he knows he’s the reason.

Keeho stands awkwardly by the steps, hands hidden behind his back, rocking lightly on his heels as if he’s trying to look casual. When Jiung gets close enough, Keeho blurts out, “Here,” and thrusts something forward. A small paper bag.

Jiung blinks, taking it slowly. “What’s this?”

“Cookies,” Keeho says quickly, too quickly. His eyes dart everywhere but at Jiung.

Jiung glances into the bag, the faint smell of chocolate and sugar escaping the folded top. “Cookies?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

Keeho nods, still refusing to meet his gaze. “Yeah. I… bought them. Last night.”

There’s a pause — the kind that stretches long enough to make both of them uncomfortable. Jiung hums softly, inspecting the bag for a second before tucking it neatly under his arm. “Why?”

Keeho’s fingers fidget at his sides. Then, slowly, he looks up. The mask hides most of his face, but Jiung doesn’t need to see his mouth to know what he’s feeling. It’s in his eyes — that quiet, vulnerable look that always cuts deeper than words. “Are you still mad?” Keeho asks finally, voice barely more than a whisper.

Jiung exhales through his nose, steady and quiet. “Did you cry?” he asks instead.

Keeho’s gaze drops instantly, his hand coming up to rub the edge of his sleeve. “No,” he mumbles. But his voice cracks on the word, and Jiung doesn’t need to press further. The slight tremor in his tone, the puffiness in his eyes — it’s answer enough.

Jiung steps forward, closing the small distance between them. He reaches out, fingers brushing over the edge of Keeho’s beanie, straightening it a little. The gesture is small, wordless — but his hand lingers there, sliding down to cup the side of Keeho’s face gently. Then, without a word, he pulls Keeho into his arms.

“Why did you cry?” Jiung murmurs, voice soft, careful. The kind of softness he reserves only for Keeho.

Keeho stays still at first, rigid, like he’s afraid the hug isn’t real. But after a moment, his shoulders drop, and he leans in, burying his face against Jiung’s chest. His voice comes out muffled through his mask and Jiung’s coat. “Just sad.”

“Why sad?” Jiung presses quietly, rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back.

Keeho’s next words are quiet — fragile, trembling. “My boyfriend’s being distant again.”

Jiung’s breath catches. Then he lets out a small, rueful chuckle — one that sounds more like a sigh than laughter. He pulls back just enough to see Keeho’s face. “I’m not being distant, Keeho.”

Keeho finally looks up at him, his eyes glimmering faintly in the morning light. “You refused my touch yesterday,” he says softly, voice trembling. “You got mad at me for calling you Jiungie. You even walked away without looking back once.” His words fall fast, like they’ve been waiting all night to escape.

Jiung blinks, then lets out a quiet chuckle — not mocking, just questioning. He lifts one hand, brushing it through Keeho’s hair, his thumb lingering on his temple. “Why the obsession with calling me Jiungie, though?” he teases gently. “Cute, sure, but my name’s already pretty enough, don’t you think?”

Keeho frowns under his mask, his brow furrowing. “I want names of endearment,” he mutters, his tone slipping into a pout. “Even you always call me just Keeho. Everyone calls me Keeho. We’re boyfriends, Jiung. Boyfriends. Not… acquaintances.”

Jiung bursts out laughing — a real, bright laugh that echoes faintly through the quiet morning. He tilts his head back, grinning, and the sight makes Keeho’s pout deepen, though it also tugs a tiny smile from him.

“You’re ridiculous,” Jiung says finally, shaking his head. He reaches out again, tugging Keeho closer by the wrist until their foreheads almost touch. “Okay, fine. But not Jiungie. That’s lame.”

Keeho narrows his eyes slightly, his voice muffled but firm. “I want Jiungie.”

“Nope.” Jiung’s grin widens. “Call me Jyung. Cute. Short. Exclusive.”

Keeho lets out a small, dramatic groan, stomping one foot lightly against the pavement. “That’s even worse,” he complains, but the faint shake in his shoulders tells Jiung he’s holding back a laugh.

Jiung chuckles, pressing a kiss against the top of Keeho’s beanie — a soft, lingering one that makes Keeho still for a heartbeat. “But you’ll still say it,” Jiung murmurs, his lips still brushing the fabric.

Keeho grumbles, but the corners of his mask twitch upward. “Fine,” he says eventually, his tone a mix of annoyance and affection. “I’ll call you Jyung.” He pauses, then adds quickly, “and you call me Kyo.”

Jiung tilts his head, amused. “Kyo?” he repeats, like he’s tasting the sound of it. He hums in approval. “Alright. Jyung and Kyo. Deal.”

Keeho’s eyes curve into crescents, the corners of his mask lifting just enough for Jiung to see the smile beneath. “Deal,” Keeho says softly.

Jiung brushes his thumb across Keeho’s cheek again — a wordless apology that lingers longer than it should. “Come on,” he says after a moment, voice lighter now. “Let’s get breakfast before class. I’m starving.”

Keeho perks up a little. “You didn’t eat yet?”

“Nope,” Jiung says, slipping his hands back into his pockets. “Figured I’d wait for someone to show up with cookies.”

Keeho’s eyes widen slightly. “You’re not—”

“Oh, I am.” Jiung grins, holding up the small paper bag. “You’re eating them with me. No way you bought all these just for me.”

Keeho laughs softly — a sound that trembles at the start but steadies by the end. “You deserve them,” he says, voice quiet but warm. “Even if they’re from the convenience store.”

Jiung feigns a gasp. “You didn’t even bake them?”

Keeho shakes his head, smiling under his mask. “I’d burn my dorm, idiot. But I did walk to the store in the cold just to buy them, so that’s, like, emotional effort.”

Jiung chuckles, his grin widening. “Then we’ll share them equally,” he says, nudging Keeho lightly with his elbow. “And we’ll save the last one for Yechan. He deserves to suffer a little.”

Keeho bursts into laughter, his shoulders shaking. “You’re evil.”

“Correction,” Jiung says, starting to walk beside him, their steps syncing easily. “I’m Jyung.”

Keeho groans but keeps smiling, trailing after him. The morning feels lighter now — like all the leftover weight from yesterday has started to melt away with the sun.

And as they walk down the quiet path toward the small café near campus, Keeho glances up at Jiung from behind his mask, heart fluttering as he tests the nickname softly.

“Jyung,” he calls.

Jiung glances sideways, one eyebrow raised, lips already curving. “Yeah, Kyo?”

Keeho looks away quickly, pretending to study the trees ahead. “Nothing,” he murmurs, though his smile is unmistakable.

Jiung chuckles under his breath, eyes softening as he watches him.

The soft buzz of the campus café hums around them — the clinking of mugs, the low chatter of students rushing through breakfast before their morning lectures. The smell of toasted bread and brewed coffee drifts lazily through the air, blending with the early light filtering in through the tall glass windows. Jiung sits across from Keeho at a small corner table, the kind of spot they always choose — tucked away, half-hidden behind a row of potted plants.

Keeho’s plate sits untouched. A perfectly golden slice of toast, scrambled eggs beside it, cooling slowly as time passes. He’s been staring at it for ten minutes now, chin propped on his palm, eyes distant. Jiung notices, of course he does. He always does. He lowers his own cup of coffee, the rim leaving a faint ring of warmth on the table.

“Eat,” Jiung says finally, voice calm but firm. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Keeho blinks, caught. His lips part like he wants to say something, but it takes a few seconds before he actually speaks. “You’re really not mad at me anymore, right?” he asks, slow, cautious — like he’s afraid of the answer.

Jiung leans back slightly in his chair, one eyebrow lifting. Then, after a beat, he chuckles. “No, Keeho. I’m not mad at you. I wasn’t even mad yesterday.”

Keeho pouts immediately, his lips tugging downward as he crosses his arms on the table. “Kyo,” he corrects softly, voice barely above the hum of conversation around them. “Not Keeho. I’m Kyo. And you ignored me at Professor Kim’s class yesterday. You know I suck at his subject!” He sounds wounded, petulant even, like a child caught in unfair treatment.

Jiung’s chuckle grows warmer, the corner of his lips curving upward. “Okay, okay. Kyo,” he says, his voice light. “That’s not me being mad though. I was just focusing. One of us has to make these four years of medicine worth it, don’t you think?”

Keeho huffs softly, his pout still very much in place. Jiung only smiles, cutting his toast into neat little squares before sliding the plate toward him. “Eat,” he says again, but this time his tone is gentler. When Keeho doesn’t move, Jiung rolls his eyes and spears a piece of toast with his fork, holding it up. “Here,” he says, holding it in front of Keeho’s mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Keeho glares at him for half a second before breaking into a reluctant grin. He leans forward and takes the bite, chewing slowly. “I hate you,” he mumbles through his mouthful.

Jiung smirks. “Heard that everyday.”

Keeho swallows, eyes softening. “Promise?”

Jiung tilts his head slightly, still mid-bite. “Promise what?”

Keeho lowers his gaze, playing with the edge of his napkin. “That you won’t… distance yourself again,” he says quietly. The words hang between them, fragile and heavy all at once.

Jiung’s fork stills midair. He looks at Keeho for a long moment before exhaling softly, setting the utensil down. “Well,” he says after a pause, tone light but edged with something that doesn’t quite match his smile, “let’s see your behaviour after this.”

Keeho’s eyes widen, and he immediately sits up straighter. “I behaved!” he whines, his voice rising just enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. He lowers it again, cheeks flushing pink. “Soullie’s just like that! Since we were kids.” His lips push into another pout, one hand waving dismissively.

“Keeho.” Jiung’s voice cuts through, low and warning — the kind of tone that makes Keeho freeze instantly.

He swallows, fidgeting. “It’s like…” he starts again, softer this time. “It’s weird, I know. But Soul’s like a younger brother to me, you know? Like Yechan. Harmless.” His eyes flicker up to Jiung, hesitant. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Jiung doesn’t reply right away. His gaze drifts somewhere past Keeho, to the window where students walk by with backpacks slung over one shoulder, laughter echoing faintly outside. He sighs, quiet but long, and picks up his coffee again. “Finish your food,” he says simply.

Keeho stares at him for a second — at the tightness in Jiung’s jaw, the way his fingers tap absently against his cup. Something inside him sinks. “Jiungie,” he calls softly.

Jiung looks up sharply, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. The glare isn’t harsh, but it’s enough to make Keeho’s shoulders tense.

“Sorry…” Keeho murmurs, voice small. “Jyung. Don’t be mad. I just—”

Jiung cuts him off, his tone suddenly calm in that way that feels more dangerous than yelling. “No. It’s okay,” he says evenly, setting his cup down. “Go on. He’s just a friend, right? A childhood friend at that. Sure.”

Keeho’s mouth opens, but the words catch in his throat. The café suddenly feels too quiet, the background chatter fading into something distant. He wants to say something — to explain, to insist — but the look on Jiung’s face tells him it won’t help.

Jiung pushes his plate slightly toward him again, voice steady but distant now. “Eat before it gets cold,” he says, not meeting Keeho’s eyes.

Keeho stares down at the toast — the small, uneven squares Jiung had cut for him earlier — and forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He picks one up slowly, brings it to his lips, and chews.

It tastes dry.

Across from him, Jiung takes another sip of coffee, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, his expression unreadable. The silence between them stretches, fragile and taut, threatening to snap with even one more wrong word.

And yet, Keeho can’t stop himself. He swallows hard, voice barely a whisper. “You really don’t believe me, do you?”

Jiung doesn’t answer right away. He sets down his cup, looks up at Keeho with that calm, careful expression — the kind that hides more than it reveals — and says quietly, “Finish your food, Kyo.”

It’s gentle. Too gentle. Like a rehearsed calling. And that, somehow, hurts more than anger ever could.

The lecture hall smells faintly of new paper, coffee, and that sterile chill from the air-conditioning that always hums a little too loud in the mornings. Sunlight spills weakly through the tall windows, slicing through the rows of empty seats in thin, dusty beams. Keeho trudges in quietly, his steps slow, his hands buried in the sleeves of his oversized cardigan. His mask hides most of his face, but the tired slump in his shoulders says enough. It’s too early for another round of emotional hangover.

He chooses his usual seat — front row, second from the left. The one by the window where the sunlight hits just right but not enough to blind him. His bag lands on the floor with a soft thud. He sits, pulls out his notebook, and just… stares at it. Lines blur. His pen doesn’t move. The lecture hasn’t even started, and already, his brain feels full.

The classroom’s mostly quiet — just the low murmur of a few students trickling in, the occasional sound of chairs scraping. Then, behind him, a familiar voice breaks through the dull rhythm of the morning.

“Why the long face, baby?”

Keeho doesn’t even need to turn to know who it is. The tone — half teasing, half fond — gives it away immediately. He looks over his shoulder anyway, and there’s Theo, lounging in his seat like he owns the place, twirling his sunglasses between his fingers. The smirk is there, same as always, but the concern tucked beneath it is too familiar to miss.

Keeho lets out a small groan, slouching forward. “No calling me that,” he mutters, voice muffled through the mask. His tone is more whine than protest, but Theo hears the exhaustion behind it.

Theo tilts his head, studying him like he’s some kind of case study. “You cried again,” he says finally, not as an accusation, but a statement — blunt, certain. He leans forward over the back of Keeho’s chair, the metal creaking slightly under the shift of his weight, and reaches out to gently rub the corner of Keeho’s eye with his thumb. “Your eyes give it away every time, baby.”

Keeho swats at his hand half-heartedly, cheeks puffing under the mask. “Hmm,” he hums softly, not even trying to deny it. “He’s mad again.”

Theo’s eyebrows lift slightly, and the corner of his mouth tugs up. “And the reason this time?” he asks, leaning back again, tapping his sunglasses against his knee in a lazy rhythm.

Keeho hesitates for a second, then mumbles, “Soullie.”

Theo pauses mid-tap. “Soullie?” He leans forward again, elbows resting on his knees. “Haku Shota?”

Keeho nods, fiddling with the corner of his notebook. “Hmm. He enrolled here,” he says quietly. “Said mama got promoted here, so now he’s staying for good.”

Theo lets out a low whistle. “That kid’s finally back in town, huh?” His tone is neutral, but the smirk that creeps back onto his lips betrays him. “And?”

Keeho finally looks up at him, his eyes round and a little sad. “Kissed me on the cheek. In front of him,” he says simply. Then, after a pause, he sighs. “Typical Soullie, never learned about personal space, can’t keep his hands to himself when I’m around.”

Theo raises an eyebrow, the smirk deepening. “And I’m guessing Jiung didn’t take that well?”

Keeho groans, the sound muffled again as he lets his forehead fall against his folded arms on the desk. “He’s mad,” he says, voice small and tired. “Worse, actually. He’s ignoring me. Again.”

Theo chuckles lowly, leaning back in his chair. “Cold war treatment, huh?”

Keeho doesn’t lift his head. “It’s not funny,” he mumbles into the fabric of his sleeve.

Theo hums, the sound halfway between amusement and pity. “You know, I never understood that guy,” he says finally, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “How can he ignore you? You’re like… human sunshine. Even when you’re annoying.”

Keeho lifts his head just enough to glare weakly over his shoulder. “Gee, thanks.”

Theo grins, unfazed. “Anytime.”

There’s a beat of silence before Keeho sighs again. “It’s just…” he starts, frowning down at his notes that he hasn’t touched, “I thought we were okay again. You know? After the break. After everything. Like… we’re fine for the whole month, you know that. But it’s like every time he sees me talk to someone else — especially a guy — he shuts down.”

Theo listens quietly, arms folded now, sunglasses still dangling from his hand. “Possessiveness,” he says softly, though his tone stays casual, almost too careful.

Keeho looks down again, voice small. “He’s trying, Theo. He really is. He just… gets jealous easy. And I…” He trails off, unsure how to finish that thought. “I guess I don’t help either. I don’t know how to say no to people about limits.”

Theo tilts his head, his gaze sharpening just a little. “Even Soullie?”

Keeho fidgets, pressing his pen cap between his fingers. “He’s like my little brother,” he says quietly. “That’s all. Jiung knows that, but…” He exhales, shoulders slumping. “He still gets mad.”

Theo leans forward again, close enough for Keeho to feel the warmth of his breath on the back of his neck. “Maybe you should stop explaining yourself to people who don’t listen,” he says, voice lower now, quieter.

Keeho groans softly, muffled into his sleeve. “Don’t start, Theo.”

The door at the front of the lecture hall opens then, and a few more students begin to trickle in. The low murmur of voices fills the space again, and the moment passes — Theo stretches in his seat, Keeho still slumped forward, tracing invisible lines on his notebook with his pen.

Theo glances down at him once more, his expression softening slightly. “Hey,” he says quietly, just enough for Keeho to hear. “You’ll be okay. You always are.”

Keeho hums a soft, halfhearted sound in reply, still staring at the desk. “Yeah,” he whispers, mostly to himself. “I just wish I believe that too.”

The air on campus feels soft that afternoon — warm sunlight cutting through the leaves, a lazy breeze slipping through the open courtyard. It’s the kind of weather that makes people linger outside between classes instead of rushing off. Keeho sits on a wooden bench near the fountain, one leg crossed over the other, his earbuds dangling uselessly around his neck. He’s not really listening to music — just waiting. Jiung’s class runs ten minutes longer today, so Keeho scrolls aimlessly through his phone, occasionally glancing toward the direction of the building where Jiung should be coming out from soon. His tote bag sits by his side, a half-drunk iced coffee beside it, condensation dripping down the cup.

Then, suddenly — a familiar, boisterous voice cuts through the hum of chatter.

“Stephen!”

Keeho looks up just in time for a tall figure to plop down beside him with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Soul’s grin is bright enough to rival the sun itself, his eyes practically sparkling as he grabs Keeho’s sleeve. “Look! I brought Seobi!” he announces proudly, like he’s introducing some celebrity guest.

Behind him stands another guy — shorter, calm, with sharp, expressive eyes and an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Seobi, this is Stephen! My friend,” Soul says quickly, and before Keeho can even blink, Soul’s already taken his hand and pressed it into the other boy’s, forcing a handshake.

“Hello, sunbaenim. Nice to meet you,” Jongseob says, bowing politely as he shakes Keeho’s hand.

Keeho laughs softly, eyes crinkling. “Soullie, you can’t just drag your friend here and force him to shake hands with me,” he scolds lightly, voice laced with amusement.

Soul beams, completely unfazed. “No, Seobi wanted to meet you! I told him I have a pretty friend here in SNU, and now he’s been up my ass all morning, saying ‘when can I see him, when can I see him,’” Soul explains animatedly — which earns him a light smack to the chest from Jongseob.

Keeho’s laughter bubbles out instantly, soft and melodic. “You guys are too much,” he says, shaking his head as he looks at Jongseob. “I’m Keeho. Your name’s Seobi?”

Jongseob snorts, crossing his arms. “Jongseob, actually, sunbaenim. This boy—” he jerks his thumb at Soul “—has been westernising my name for weeks. Calls me Seobi or J-sup now.”

“J-sup?” Keeho repeats, laughing even harder. “That’s actually kinda cute!”

Jongseob shrugs with a grin. “It’s grown on me. You can call me J-sup too, sunbaenim.”

“Alright, deal,” Keeho says, patting the bench beside him. “Come sit. And just call me hyung, okay? No need for ‘sunbaenim.’”

Jongseob plops down beside him, Soul practically sprawling while Jongseob sits with the posture of someone trying not to look amused.

Keeho leans back, resting his hands on his knees. “So,” he starts, “what course did you guys end up taking? I still remember you hated math, Soullie. So I’m sure my course is out of your list.”

Soul groans dramatically. “Nope! Psychology!” he says proudly, puffing his chest out.

Keeho blinks. “Psychology?!”

“Don’t sound so surprised!” Soul laughs, tossing his head back.

“He sleeps halfway through every lecture,” Jongseob interjects dryly, not even bothering to hide his smirk.

Keeho giggles again, covering his mouth with his sleeve. “Ah, that sounds more like it,” he says teasingly. “Oh! Jiung mentioned Intak’s taking psychology too. But he’s in second year now — maybe you’ll see him around.”

The moment the name Intak leaves Keeho’s mouth, something flickers across Soul’s expression — just for a second. A pause. His grin falters slightly, and his tone drops when he repeats, “Intak?”

Keeho tilts his head, noticing. “Yeah. Hwang Intak. Jiung’s neighbour. He takes Psychology too. You know him?”

Soul blinks, quickly recovering his usual brightness. “Hmm? Oh, nothing,” he says with a faint, almost too-casual laugh. “Just… heard the name before.” But his eyes gleam with something unreadable — interest, maybe, or memory. Keeho can’t quite tell.

Before Keeho can ask more, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Kyo, come.”

Jiung stands a few steps away, his expression calm — maybe too calm — as his eyes flick briefly toward Soul and Jongseob. He doesn’t say much else, just reaches out and takes Keeho’s hand in his.

Keeho startles a bit, blinking up at him. “Oh, okay. My time to go,” he says quickly, scrambling to grab his bag. “Bye, Soullie. Bye, J-sup. See you around, okay?”

Soul waves cheerfully. “See you, Stephen!”

“Bye, hyung,” Jongseob says politely, bowing slightly.

Soul watches them go, his usual grin slipping into something quieter, more thoughtful. His eyes follow their retreating figures until they disappear around the corner.

Jongseob glances at him, curious. “Dude, we know Intak hyung. Our gaming buddy right? Why did you said that earlier?” he asks.

Soul doesn’t answer immediately. He taps his knee lightly, his expression unreadable now. “Seobi-ah,” he says finally.

“Hmm?”

“That new boyfriend of Stephen,” Soul starts slowly, voice calm but edged with something heavier, “he’s… a bit familiar, don’t you think?”

Jongseob blinks. “Familiar? How so?”

Soul leans back, crossing his arms, eyes still fixed on the path Keeho and Jiung walked. “Just a feeling,” he says softly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes this time. 

Chapter Text

The sky bleeds gold and lilac — the kind of soft, fading light that makes everything look gentler than it feels. The air is crisp, the faint hum of cars in the distance mixing with the occasional laughter of students heading home. It’s early evening, the campus winding down to its quieter rhythm. Keeho walks a few steps behind Jiung, his bag slung loosely over his shoulder, sneakers scuffing against the pavement. Jiung’s hands are buried deep in his jacket pockets, his steps steady, deliberate — too deliberate. He hasn’t looked back once.

“Jiungie,” Keeho calls softly at first, his voice almost swallowed by the wind.

No answer.

Keeho quickens his steps, tugging lightly at the strap of Jiung’s backpack. “Jiungie,” he says again, a little louder this time, more desperate.

Jiung doesn’t even turn his head. “I’ve told you to stop calling me that, Keeho,” he says flatly, voice low but cold enough to sting.

Keeho blinks, startled by the tone. “But you’re ignoring me!” he blurts out, frustration creeping into his voice. “You haven’t said a word since we left campus! What did I do wrong again?”

Jiung exhales sharply but doesn’t stop walking. His shoulders are tense, his pace quickening like he’s trying to outrun the conversation.

Keeho’s heart pounds in his chest. He hates this — the silence, the distance, the invisible wall that always seems to build between them no matter how hard he tries to tear it down. “You’re always like this,” he says, his voice trembling. “Distancing yourself, shutting me out, like I’m supposed to just guess what’s going on in your head.”

Still nothing. Jiung’s jaw clenches, his back rigid.

Keeho’s throat tightens. “You’re mad because I talked to Soullie at the park earlier?” he asks, louder now, voice cracking slightly. “Is that it? Am I that wrong for talking to a friend who’s been gone for fifteen years? Who just finally came back?”

That’s what finally makes Jiung stop. He turns abruptly, the movement sharp, controlled — too controlled. The fading sunlight catches the edge of his expression, carving out the line of his jaw and the furrow of his brows. “I don’t even care about your friend, Keeho. Just not by hugging you like they own you,” Jiung says, his voice steady but hard, cutting through the quiet like glass. “Keeho, do you even hear yourself? Like still hanging out with your ex wasn’t enough, now it’s a clingy childhood friend too? Do you not see what that makes me look like? Do you not see what that says about you?”

Keeho stares at him, stunned. His hands tremble slightly at his sides, his throat dry. “What that says about me?” he repeats, his tone softer — almost confused — before it sharpens. “That I’m affectionate? Because I have people who actually care about me? More than my own boyfriend?”

Jiung scoffs under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t, Jiung,” Keeho snaps, his voice rising now. “Tell me! What does that say about me? A touch-starved person? A skin hunger?” His words tumble out fast, angry, wounded. “What do I look like to you, Choi Jiung?”

The name lands heavy in the air — no nickname, no softness. Just the full name, sharp as a knife. The sound of it makes Jiung flinch slightly, but he doesn’t look away.

Silence stretches between them, heavy and aching. The kind of silence that makes the world feel smaller. Then Jiung speaks — slow, deliberate, each word falling like a blow.

“A cheater.”

Keeho blinks. For a second, he’s sure he misheard. His breath catches in his throat. “What?”

Jiung’s expression doesn’t falter. His voice is calm — too calm. “That’s what it says about you. You look like a cheater, Yoon Keeho.” He steps closer, his tone firm now, the hurt barely contained beneath it. “I’m your boyfriend. And with you acting like this — hugging people like that, letting them kiss you, clinging to them like I’m not even there — what else am I supposed to think?”

Keeho shakes his head quickly, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Jiung, no, that’s not—”

Jiung cuts him off, raising a hand slightly. “You don’t get it. You keep saying ‘they’re just friends,’ ‘it’s harmless,’ but Keeho—” He exhales, his shoulders sagging slightly. “It’s not about what they mean. It’s about what you do. And how it makes me feel like I’m nothing to you when you act like that.”

Keeho’s lip trembles. “You are everything to me,” he whispers, the words almost breaking as they leave him. “You know that.”

Jiung closes his eyes briefly, the fight leaving his voice, replaced by something weary and sad. “Then act like it,” he says quietly. “Because right now, you’re not.”

The silence that follows feels colder than the evening breeze.

Keeho’s eyes glisten, tears threatening to spill. He takes a shaky step forward, reaching out for Jiung’s hand — but Jiung steps back instead.

“I don’t deserve a cheater in my life, Keeho. Nobody deserve that,” Jiung says finally, voice low but resolute. He reaches out, almost instinctively, to fix the collar of Keeho’s sweatshirt — gentle, familiar, painfully soft. “Go in,” he murmurs.

Keeho can’t move. His body feels frozen, like the words have rooted him to the spot. His voice breaks when he finally speaks. “Jiung, please—”

But Jiung’s already turning away, his figure retreating under the fading orange glow of the streetlights. He doesn’t look back.

Keeho stands there on the walkway, the sound of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, the world blurring at the edges. The wind shifts, brushing against his cheeks, and only then does he realize — he’s crying again.

The sky deepens into blue, the stars just starting to peek through, and Keeho stays where he is, watching Jiung’s back disappear into the distance. His breath comes out shaky, the ache in his chest sharp and hollow all at once.

The door clicks shut behind him — soft, almost soundless — but in the quiet of his dorm room, it feels like a thunderclap. Keeho stands there for a long moment, back pressed against the wood, his breath shaky and uneven. The air feels too still, too heavy, like it’s pressing down on him. His hands are trembling. He doesn’t even take off his shoes. The world outside hums faintly — the muffled sound of traffic, laughter from students in the hallway — but inside, it’s suffocating silence. He feels it settle deep in his chest, spreading like ice.

His bag slips off his shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud, but he doesn’t move. He just slides down slowly, back against the door until he’s sitting on the cold tiles. His palms cover his face, the tips of his fingers brushing his hairline, and his breath comes out in uneven gasps. The word rings in his head — over and over and over again, relentless like a cruel echo.

Cheater.

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head like he can force it away, but it won’t stop. It keeps replaying, Jiung’s voice — calm, cutting, final — replaying until it doesn’t even sound like Jiung anymore. It sounds like his own voice, whispering it back to himself, quieter each time but sharper too. Cheater. Cheater. Cheater.

He swallows hard, his throat dry and burning. “No,” he whispers into his palms, his voice hoarse, weak. “I didn’t… I didn’t cheat.” But the words feel empty. Meaningless. He says them again anyway, quieter this time, like he’s begging himself to believe it. “I didn’t. I didn’t.”

But then the images come — Soul’s arms around him, the kiss on his cheek, Theo’s term of endearment to him, the laughter, the way Jiung’s expression changed. The way he froze. The way he walked away every time. And Keeho’s stomach twists painfully, guilt clawing its way up his chest.

Maybe Jiung’s right. Maybe it did look wrong. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it doesn’t matter what it meant to him if it hurt Jiung.

He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes until he sees white. His breath trembles. “I messed up,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I messed up again.” He tilts his head back against the door, staring up at the ceiling through blurred vision. The faint light from his desk lamp paints soft gold over his skin, but he feels cold, hollow. “Why do I always ruin things when they’re finally okay?”

The word comes back again, uninvited, cruel. Cheater.

Keeho lets out a small, broken laugh — the kind that comes right before crying. “A fucking cheater, Yoon Keeho,” he says under his breath, the words bitter on his tongue. He tries to shake it off but can’t. He stands abruptly, walking toward his desk like movement might help, like doing something might make the word stop spinning in his head. His reflection in the window stares back at him — puffy eyes, trembling lips, his beanie still slightly crooked. He doesn’t even recognize himself.

He touches his cheek — the one Soullie kissed — and his fingers freeze. “Is that what did it?” he murmurs, his voice small, breaking. “Was that it?” He swallows hard, blinking back more tears. “I didn’t even… I didn’t even mean it.”

His voice wavers, cracking in the quiet. “But maybe that’s worse,” he whispers. “Maybe that’s worse because I didn’t mean it, but I still let it happen. I still let him touch me. I still laughed.” His chest tightens, a painful pull that makes it hard to breathe. “I let Jiung think—” He stops, covering his mouth as a sob escapes.

He turns away from the window, dragging himself to the bed. His body feels heavy, like he’s moving underwater. He sits down on the edge, his hands gripping the blanket until his knuckles turn white. “I’m not a cheater,” he says again, firmer this time, but his voice shakes too much for it to sound convincing. “I’m not. I love him. I love him.”

But the echo in his head won’t stop. Cheater. Cheater. Cheater.

He presses his hands to his ears, shaking his head violently. “Stop,” he whispers. “Please stop.” But it doesn’t. It never does. The sound morphs — Jiung’s voice, Theo’s teasing laughter, Soullie’s bright ‘Stephen!’ — all of them swirling together until his head aches.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, curling into himself, small and trembling. The tears come quietly at first, then harder, rougher, until he’s gasping for breath between them. He hates himself for it — for crying again, for being weak, for not knowing how to fix things.

When his breathing finally slows, the room feels colder. The clock ticks softly somewhere near his bed. He stares at the faint light seeping through the curtains, eyes swollen and unfocused. His voice is barely a whisper when he finally speaks again. “He’s right,” he says, the words tasting like metal. “I’m a cheater.”

And even though deep down, some small, buried part of him knows it isn’t true — knows he never meant to hurt Jiung, never meant to cross a line — it doesn’t matter. Because right now, sitting alone in the dim light, all he can feel is guilt. Heavy, choking, endless guilt.

Keeho closes his eyes and lets the word echo one last time in the hollow of his mind.

Cheater.

Maybe he is.

The ringing cuts through the silence — sharp, insistent — dragging Keeho out of a foggy, heavy sleep. The room is dark except for the faint light spilling from his phone on the nightstand. He groans softly, blinking as his vision adjusts. For a moment, he doesn’t remember where he is. Then the ache behind his eyes reminds him — his dorm, his bed, the clothes still clinging to his body from that morning. He didn’t even change. He lifts his arm, sluggishly reaching for the phone, the screen lighting up his tired face. 9:45 p.m.

“Damn it…” he mutters under his breath. His voice sounds dry, barely there. The phone keeps vibrating in his hand, Yechan’s name flashing on the screen. Keeho sighs, thumb hovering over the green button before he swipes to answer.

“Hmm?” His voice is groggy, lazy — half-asleep, half-gone.

“Did you two fight again?” Yechan’s voice comes through, loud but laced with worry. There’s noise in the background — voices, movement, the faint hum of a TV maybe. Keeho frowns, squinting at the ceiling.

“Huh?” he hums again, rubbing his eyes.

“Theo hyung asked me to check on you,” Yechan says quickly. “You wouldn’t open your dorm door, and you’re not answering his calls. He’s losing it out there.”

Keeho blinks. “He called?” he asks, his tone slow, sleepy. He squints at his screen again, tapping the log open. His breath hitches. Forty-eight missed calls. Forty-eight.

“Oh,” he mumbles, trying to focus his blurry eyes. “He did call. I… didn’t hear that.”

The line goes quiet for a few seconds. Keeho can hear Yechan breathing, then shifting — maybe pacing. When Yechan speaks again, his voice is softer, hesitant. “You took them, don’t you?”

Keeho stills. His fingers tighten slightly around the phone. He doesn’t answer immediately. He doesn’t need to. Yechan’s silence stretches, heavy, knowing.

Finally, Keeho sighs. “Just one,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think it can make me pass out this long though.” He tries to sound casual, but his tone cracks halfway through.

There’s a pause. Yechan’s next words come slower, quieter — the kind of quiet that means he’s trying not to freak out. “You study medicine, hyung,” he says gently. “You know how that thing works.”

Keeho shuts his eyes. The room feels colder now. “Yeah…” he murmurs. “Guess I do.”

“What did he do now?” Yechan asks, a bit more carefully this time.

Keeho stays quiet for a long moment, staring at the ceiling like the right words might appear there. His throat tightens. “Called me a cheater,” he finally whispers.

There’s silence. Then —

“THE FUCK?! WHAT?!” Yechan’s voice explodes through the speaker, making Keeho wince and pull the phone away from his ear.

“Yah, I’m gonna be deaf,” Keeho jokes weakly, forcing a small laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Why did he fucking say that?!” Yechan shouts again, his voice echoing like he’s pacing now. “Excuse me?! What the hell did he mean by that?! You? A cheater? That guy’s lost his damn mind!”

Keeho chuckles softly, though it’s cracked and fragile, like something about to break. “Soullie,” he says, quietly, the name slipping out like it’s heavy. “And Theo. Boom. I’m the cheater now.”

Yechan goes silent. There’s a long sigh, and then — “Hyung… are you serious right now? Because I swear to God—”

Keeho interrupts softly, voice trembling. “He saw Soullie kiss me on the cheek. Saw Soullie hugs me at the park. You know how he is. He just got back, and he’s the same — clingy, loud, affectionate.” Keeho laughs bitterly. “And Jiung just… saw that.”

“Okay, but Theo hyung?” Yechan presses. “How does Theo hyung even fit into this?”

Keeho rubs at his temples. “Theo… he’s just there. He always is. Jiung’s been… weird about that too.” He sighs, leaning back against the wall. “Maybe he’s right, though. Maybe I really don’t know how to limit myself around people without hurting him.”

“Keeho hyung.” Yechan’s tone changes — calmer, firmer. “Don’t do that. Don’t twist yourself into the villain again.”

Keeho’s lips tremble. “Because I am, Yechan. Every time he looks at me like that — like he’s trying to trust me but can’t — it’s like something breaks inside me. I keep telling myself he’s wrong, that I’m not… that. But maybe I am. Maybe I really am what he thinks.”

Yechan exhales loudly, frustrated. “You’re not,” he says, low and serious. “You’re not, hyung. You’ve always been like this — too soft, too kind, and people take that the wrong way. That’s not cheating.”

Keeho laughs again, hollow. “Then why does it hurt like it is? Why does his so-called accusation’s haunting me?” he whispers.

Yechan’s voice drops. “Because you love him too much,” he says. “And because he’s supposed to love you better than this.”

Keeho’s throat closes up. He looks at the phone screen — at Yechan’s name glowing faintly in the dark — and his vision blurs. He blinks hard, but the tears come anyway. “I’m just tired. I don’t know what to do anymore,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to lose him, but I don’t know how to make him believe me.”

Yechan’s voice softens again. “Then stop trying to prove it, hyung. The right person doesn’t need proof.”

Keeho doesn’t answer. He just sits there, listening to Yechan’s breathing on the other side of the line. For a long moment, neither of them speak.

Then Keeho exhales shakily, curling into himself again. “Thanks,” he whispers. “For calling.”

“Always,” Yechan says. “And hyung?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t take another one tonight. Promise me.”

Keeho stares at the bottle on his desk — the label half-faded, the cap slightly open. He nods, even though Yechan can’t see it. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Promise.”

The steam still lingers in the air, soft and hazy, curling around Keeho’s shoulders as he steps out of the bathroom. His damp hair clings to his forehead, small droplets of water tracing down his neck before disappearing into the collar of his oversized white T-shirt. The room smells faintly of eucalyptus and shampoo — clean, calm, almost too peaceful for the heaviness sitting in his chest. He runs a towel through his hair, half-heartedly, just enough to stop it from dripping, when his phone lights up again on the desk.

He glances at it through the mirror — FaceTime: Theo — and lets out a soft groan. Great. Round two. It’s 11:53 p.m. He has class tomorrow. He hesitates for a second before swiping to answer, the front camera opening to his flushed, tired face.

“Before you’re mad at me too, I’ll explain myself first,” Keeho says quickly, propping the phone up on the edge of his table. He’s multitasking — talking and reaching for his skincare bottle, trying to sound casual as if he hasn’t spent most of the night crying. “I accidentally took two—” he stops, pointing a finger toward the screen like a warning, “—and you’re not telling Yechan, okay? D-O-N-T. The boy will explode. Anyway, I’m fine. Just passed out the second my head hit the pillow.”

Theo’s expression on the screen is unreadable — that half-frown he gets when he’s trying not to yell but already halfway there. “You promised to stop taking it, Keeho,” he says finally, voice calm but sharp around the edges. “You know it’s bad for you. Out of all people, you know that.”

Keeho stays quiet, dabbing the expensive toner Theo bought for him months ago gently across his face. The cotton pad trembles a little in his hand, though he pretends not notice. He doesn’t look at the screen. He just moves on to the next bottle — moisturizer, tapping it into his skin like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Keeho,” Theo says again, softer now. “Talk to me.”

Keeho exhales slowly. “I am talking to you,” he says with a forced chuckle. “See? Functioning, coherent, moisturized.”

Theo sighs. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Keeho asks, voice too light, too thin.

“That thing where you joke your way out of breaking.”

Keeho freezes. His fingers still on his cheek. For a moment, the silence between them stretches, only the faint buzz of the ceiling light filling it. Then Theo says again, gentler this time, “Baby.”

The word lands softly but cuts deep. Keeho looks down, the humor draining from his face. “He dumped me,” he says suddenly.

Theo blinks, straightens. “What?”

Keeho presses his lips together, then lets out a small, bitter laugh. “I think he dumped me. Earlier.”

Theo’s brows knit together. “Wait, what are you talking about? When? What happened?”

Keeho hums quietly, pretending to focus on the moisturizer he’s now rubbing between his palms. “Mm. Said he’s not tolerating cheaters in his life.” His voice is steady, but the way his throat moves when he swallows says otherwise. “That’s being dumped, right?” He glances briefly toward the camera, his lips curling in a fragile smile. “Pretty sure that counts.”

Theo’s voice drops low, alarmed. “Cheater? What the hell is he talking about? Baby, you didn’t—”

Keeho cuts him off, forcing another laugh, light but hollow. “Mm. Damn. Yoon Keeho got called a cheater before GTA 6. Impressive,” He grins faintly, the kind of grin that almost looks genuine if you don’t look too closely. But Theo does — he always does.

Theo stares at him through the screen, jaw tightening. “Stop joking,” he says quietly.

Keeho leans back in his chair, sighing. The smile fades. The tiredness in his face isn’t just from lack of sleep — it’s something heavier, something that’s settled too deep to shake off. He looks straight into the camera, eyes dull but clear. “He’s right, you know,” he says simply.

Theo’s brows furrow. “What do you mean he’s right?”

Keeho shrugs, the motion slow, resigned. “I always make him hurts with my doings. I don’t know boundaries well enough. I touch, I talk, I… stay too long when I should walk away. Maybe that’s what cheating is, right? Not the act — just the way you make someone doubt your loyalty.” His tone is soft, matter-of-fact, like he’s explaining something in class, not his own heartbreak.

“That’s not true,” Theo says, voice rising slightly. “Baby, that’s not—”

Keeho shakes his head once, cutting him off. “No, Theo. It fits. Jiung just said it out loud. Everyone must’ve thought it before — that I’m too much, too friendly, too careless. Maybe even you have thought about it too somewhere during our breaks years ago” He gives a faint, humorless smile. “He’s just the first one brave enough to say it.”

Theo opens his mouth to argue, but Keeho doesn’t let him.

“It’s fine,” he says. “At least I know now.”

There’s no crack in his voice, no tears, no trembling this time. Just stillness. The kind that feels final.

Theo’s expression softens, eyes heavy with worry. “Baby, don’t do this to yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Keeho looks away, brushing his hair back. “I did enough it seems for him to believe I did.” He shrugs. “See you tomorrow.” He stands, grabs his phone from the table, and ends the call before Theo can reply.

The screen goes black, reflecting his own face back at him — tired, pale, empty. He studies it for a long time, then sets the phone face down on the desk.

He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t even sigh.

He just sits there, in the quiet hum of his room, and finally accepts it.

Jiung is right.

Chapter Text

The morning air feels cold against Keeho’s face as he closes the door behind him, slinging his bag across his shoulder. The hallway is quiet — too quiet for a Friday morning — and the faint hum of the campus waking up doesn’t quite reach this corner of the dorms. He’s exhausted. Not from lack of sleep — though he barely got any — but from the weight pressing behind his ribs, dull and heavy. He adjusts his mask, ready to head to class, when a hand suddenly appears in front of him.

“Here.”

The voice is quiet, tentative, but familiar enough to make his chest tighten instantly.

Keeho blinks, lowering his eyes to the plastic bag being pushed toward him. He takes it automatically, confused, and when he looks up — he freezes.

Jiung stands there. Hoodie pulled over his head, eyes downcast, hands shoved in his pockets now that the bag’s no longer in them. He doesn’t look at Keeho — not even a glance — just stares at the floor like it might swallow him if he moves too much.

Keeho looks down at the bag in his hands. Steam fogs up the plastic slightly, and the faint smell of fishcake broth seeps through the thin layer. Warm. Fresh. Homemade. He swallows hard. “What is this?” he asks, barely above a whisper. His voice feels too fragile to come out properly, like even sound might shatter what little peace exists between them.

Jiung shifts on his feet, still not meeting Keeho’s eyes. “Your comfort food,” he says, playing with his sleeves. “I’m sorry,” he continues quietly.

Keeho blinks once, unsure he heard right. “Hmm?”

“I’m sorry,” Jiung repeats, this time louder — but his voice cracks halfway through, and he rubs his face with one hand, frustrated. When he drops it again, Keeho notices it — the redness around his eyes, the puffiness, the way the skin under them looks worn and tired. He’s been crying. For hours, maybe the whole night like Keeho too. The realization hits him like a slow ache that starts somewhere deep and cruel.

Jiung takes a small, shaky breath. “I’m sorry… for calling you that yesterday,” he says, his words tumbling out unevenly. “I’m… ugh—” he cuts himself off, biting his lip. “I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. I was angry. Jealous. Frustrated. I said something I didn’t mean, and I—” he stops again, exhaling through his nose as if he’s trying not to fall apart right there. “Still not an excuse, I know. I shouldn’t have accused you of cheating.”

Keeho stays still, the fishcake bag held loosely in his hands. The heat seeps through the plastic, into his palms. Warm, almost comforting, and somehow that makes it worse.

Jiung’s voice drops lower. “Especially when I’m clearly the main issue here,” he adds softly. “When I’m the one who keeps… ruining things.” His eyes are glassy again, and he blinks rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling.

Keeho looks at him for a long moment. Then he steps closer, slowly, like the air between them might crack if he moves too fast. He reaches up and gently rubs the edge of Jiung’s eye with his thumb, wiping away the small tear that managed to escape. “I’m hurt, you know,” Keeho whispers. “Been thinking about it all night.” He lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Damn, you’d think I’d be used to it by now. Your distant self, your accusations, your… huh,” he exhales slowly through his nose. 

He’s tired. Really. From all of this.

Jiung flinches, his breath catching. “Keeho—”

Before he can finish, he pulls Keeho into a hug. Tight. Desperate. The kind of hug that says please don’t give up on me yet. Keeho’s face presses against Jiung’s chest, and he feels the other’s heartbeat — fast, uneven, trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Jiung says again, his voice shaking against Keeho’s hair. “I shouldn’t have said that. I promised you I’d try. I said I’d change, that I’d do better, but—” his words falter, breaking apart in the quiet hallway. “I hurt you again. I always hurt you.”

Keeho closes his eyes, just listening. Jiung’s hand finds the back of his head, gently cradling it, and he presses a small kiss there — soft, trembling.

When Keeho finally pulls back, his voice comes out small. “Are we finally done?”

Jiung’s eyes widen instantly. “What?”

“Are we done?” Keeho repeats, a little firmer now. His tone isn’t angry — just tired. Bone-deep tired. “I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore, Jiung. It’s… tiring. To repeat this again and again.”

Jiung shakes his head before Keeho can say anything else. “No,” he blurts out. “No. We’re not done. We’re not—” his voice cracks, and he grips Keeho’s arms like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. “No, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Keeho watches him for a long moment, eyes heavy, unreadable. Then he smiles — a soft, broken thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. He leans forward, resting his head against Jiung’s shoulder, his hands curling gently around Jiung’s waist. “It’s getting toxic, don’t you think? We’re both hurting, Jiung,” he whispers.

Jiung freezes. His arms tighten around Keeho. “No,” he says quickly, almost too quickly. “No. We’ll be okay. We’ll be fine. I’ll fix this. I’ll change, I swear. Just—” his voice breaks into a plea, desperate and raw — “just please, don’t let me go, okay?”

Keeho closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of Jiung’s hoodie — detergent and that faint warmth that used to mean comfort. His grip around Jiung’s waist tightens just a little.

Jiung presses another kiss to the top of his head, whispering again and again, “Please don’t let me go.”

And for a moment — just a moment — Keeho wants to believe him.

But somewhere deep down, beneath the smell of fishcake and fabric softener, beneath the apologies and the trembling hands, something inside him whispers the truth neither of them wants to say out loud,

it’s already breaking.

And this time, he’s not even sure how many amount of “sorry”s will stop it from falling apart.

The morning light spills across the campus walkways, golden and soft, painting the pavement with long, lazy shadows. Students pass them by in quiet clusters — laughter, the sound of zippers and sneakers, the usual morning murmur. But between Keeho and Jiung, there’s only silence. Heavy and taut, like a thread pulled too tight. Their steps fall in sync, but their eyes never meet. Keeho holds the strap of his bag a little tighter, his other hand tucked into his pocket, while Jiung walks beside him with his gaze fixed somewhere ahead. The air between them feels fragile, like even a breath too loud might break it.

For a while, it’s just the sound of their shoes against the ground. Then Jiung exhales, long and quiet, and finally speaks. “That Soul guy…” he starts, his voice unsure, careful — like he’s stepping into a room where he’s not sure if he’s welcome. He glances at Keeho briefly, searching his face. “He’s from where?”

Keeho turns his head slightly, eyes still half on the path. “Japan,” he answers simply. “He used to be my neighbour back in Busan. Back at Halmonie’s house.” There’s a faint smile tugging on his lips, the kind that comes when old memories resurface uninvited. “But then they moved back to Japan when he was like… five? Around that age.” His smile softens, eyes distant now. “I still remember, he cried all day when they left. Wouldn’t stop calling me ‘Stephen’ through the car window.” He chuckles quietly at the memory. “Cute, huh?”

Jiung nods slowly, eyes flicking toward Keeho. “And you guys are that close?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but there’s a small waver in his voice — something fragile, uncertain.

Keeho side-eyes him, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Depends,” he says, tone light but the words edged with something tired. “Will you say I’m a cheater again if I agree?”

Jiung flinches like he’s been struck. “No—” he blurts out, too quickly. “No, Keeho, I’m sorry, okay? I told you I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, I swear.” His voice trembles just enough to give him away — the guilt, the fear still clinging to him like a second skin.

Keeho lets out a soft laugh, the kind that’s almost genuine but fades too fast. “Sure,” he says, brushing it off, though Jiung can tell it still stings. “Oh, and yes,” he adds after a moment, “Soullie’s an only child. And his parents are quite…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Hustling. With the whole immigration thing. They were always moving around, so they kind of… entrusted Soullie to us a lot. Maybe that’s why he’s like that.”

Jiung glances at him. “Like what?”

Keeho shrugs lightly. “Touchy. Clingy. He’s always been like that with me. I’m his only friend from when he was little.”

Jiung frowns slightly, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. “Noona and Yechan?”

Keeho laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Little Soullie didn’t like them,” he says with a grin. “He always say, ‘They’re not fun, Stephen.’” He mimics the old childish tone with surprising accuracy, and for a fleeting moment, the heaviness lifts — just a little.

Jiung can’t help but chuckle too. The sound is small, hesitant, but real. “You still remember that?”

“Of course I do,” Keeho says softly, eyes warm but distant again. “That’s why I said he’s harmless, you know? He’s like a brother to me. Always has been. Cute little Soullie, who’s so attached to his big brother figure since forever.” He smiles faintly, tucking his hands into his pockets as they keep walking. “He’s a good kid.”

They walk in silence for a bit again. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of grass and the faint tang of coffee from the campus café nearby. Keeho’s hair moves slightly with the breeze, brushing against his cheek, and Jiung’s fingers twitch like he wants to reach out — but doesn’t.

Then, softly, Jiung whispers, “And I ruined it.”

Keeho glances at him, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Hmm?”

Jiung doesn’t look at him. His voice comes out small. “That friendship. That easy thing you had. I ruined it, didn’t I?”

Keeho hums quietly, tilting his head as if considering it. “Yeah,” he says finally, with a tiny shrug. “Good luck trying to please Soullie now.” His tone is playful, teasing almost, but his eyes don’t match the smile that follows. “He said he’s mad you’re the reason he can’t kiss me no more.”

Jiung stops in his tracks, eyes snapping toward Keeho, panic flashing across his face. “He— what?”

Keeho grins, mischievous, but there’s no real spark behind it. “I’m joking,” he says easily, walking ahead again. “Relax, Jiungie.”

Jiung catches up, his steps quicker now, though he doesn’t laugh. His hand twitches by his side again, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to grab Keeho’s wrist — to pull him close, to hold him, to anchor him back — but he doesn’t. He just walks beside him in silence again.

The kind of silence that says too much —

apologies swallowed, fears unspoken,

and love that’s starting to hurt more than it heals.

The hallway hums with the faint echo of the after-class rush — the dull murmur of footsteps fading down the corridor, the rustle of books, the low thud of doors closing. Then, it’s quiet. Only Keeho and Jiung’s footsteps remain, sharp and rhythmic against the polished tile. They don’t speak again after that, letting the silence fill their walk. Their shadows stretch side by side along the wall, flickering with every step beneath the fluorescent lights.

Then, suddenly— a sound cuts through.

A dull, wet crack.

Jiung’s head jerks violently to the side, the impact snapping through the still air like a whip. His body stumbles backward, feet scuffing against the floor, eyes wide with pure shock. The burn hits a second later — hot, sharp, blooming across his jaw and down his neck. The taste of copper floods his mouth, the taste of disbelief. For a split second, everything goes white — sound, thought, balance — gone. Then it crashes back all at once. The pain. The confusion. And the sound of Keeho shouting another man’s name.

“Theo!” Keeho’s voice cracks, high and panicked, echoing down the corridor. His bag slips from his shoulder as he rushes forward, hands flying up to steady Jiung before he falls. “Yah! What are you doing?!” His voice trembles, shock tangled with something close to fear.

A few feet away, Theo stands rigid, his chest rising and falling fast. His right fist is still clenched tight, knuckles reddened, trembling from the force of the punch. His breathing is ragged, eyes blazing with something dangerous — fury, protectiveness, heartbreak, maybe all at once. “Something,” he spits out, his voice trembling with restrained rage, “something I should’ve done ages ago.”

Jiung blinks, breath stuttering as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. There’s a smear of red against his knuckles. His expression hardens, eyes narrowing. “What the hell—”

Theo cuts him off, voice rising, shaking now from how much he’s holding back. “What the hell do you mean by calling him a cheater, you fucking sick head?” His voice echoes, rough and raw, the words laced with disbelief.

Keeho’s eyes widen as he steps between them, heart pounding so hard it hurts. “Theo, stop—please—” He grips Theo’s arm tightly, his fingers digging in. “Don’t!” His voice trembles when Theo’s ready to swing another, but Theo doesn’t even glance at him. He’s locked on Jiung, seething.

Jiung straightens slowly, still rubbing his jaw, his breath coming uneven. Then he laughs. Not the warm kind — this one’s sharp, bitter, empty. It scrapes out of his chest like something broken. “Oh, look,” he mutters, the corner of his lip curling upward. “The infamous ex.”

Keeho freezes. His hands drop from Theo’s arm. “Jiung,” he says quickly, panic rising in his voice. “Don’t—”

“You told him again, didn’t you?” Jiung cuts him off, his tone slicing through the air. His voice is low, quiet, more dangerous than shouting. His eyes are burning holes into Keeho’s face. “You couldn’t help yourself, huh? Complain all my bad side to your fucking ex. Who’s still call you baby, by the way.”

“No,” Keeho stammers, his head shaking slightly, guilt flickering across his features. “No—Jiung, I—”

Jiung lets out another bitter laugh, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Always him,” he snaps, voice rising now, anger unraveling. “It’s always him, isn’t it? You know? I tried my best to understand that Soul guy, I really did, but this—” he jabs a trembling finger toward Theo, his voice dripping venom, “—this piece of shit is everywhere! What the hell is your fucking problem?!”

Theo takes a step forward, his jaw tightening, the veins in his neck visible. “Say that again,” he growls, low, dangerous.

Jiung doesn’t back down. He takes a step forward too, meeting Theo’s glare head-on. “What’s he to you, huh?” he says, voice cold, shaking with fury. “A fucking ex who’s hard to move on from?”

Theo moves before Keeho can react. He lunges, fast — his fist swinging again, missing Jiung’s jaw by inches this time as Keeho throws himself between them. The shove sends Keeho stumbling, and the hallway erupts into chaos. Shoes scuff hard against the floor, the sound of fabric tearing against impact, a half-choked curse spilling from someone’s lips.

“Stop it!” Keeho yells, his voice breaking mid-word. He’s caught between them, his arms pushing at Theo’s chest, then at Jiung’s shoulder, desperate to separate them. “Stop, both of you! Please!”

Jiung’s voice rises above the noise, ragged and furious. “What?! It’s not like I’m wrong. You still have feelings for him. You want him back, don’t you?!” His words come out like accusations fired from a loaded gun.

Theo’s fist connects again — not clean, not straight, but hard enough to make Jiung grunt and stumble. “Fucking shut the hell up, you fuck! Don’t fucking turn this into me,” he snaps, his voice cracking.

“Then why the fuck are you here?!” Jiung roars back, catching Theo’s collar in one hand, shoving him backward hard enough that Theo hits the wall. His chest heaves with every breath, anger flashing wild behind his eyes. “Why are you always where he is?! Why can’t you have some decency to make your way out from his life?!”

“Because,” Theo growls, grabbing Jiung’s wrist to shove him off, “unlike you, I actually care about him!”

Keeho’s chest feels like it’s collapsing. “Stop it! Please, stop!” he shouts again, voice hoarse, shaking. His hands latch onto Jiung’s sleeve, pulling with everything he has. “Please, stop—”

“Jiungie?”

A voice calls out.

Everything stills.

The sound of it — gentle, certain, intimate — slices through the noise like glass. Every movement stops. Jiung freezes mid-breath, Theo’s grip loosens, Keeho’s hand stills in the air.

All three turn toward the voice.

A girl stands at the far end of the hallway. The dim lights cast a faint glow around her — the white cap pulled low, the matching mask covering most of her face, only her eyes visible. A few strands of dark hair fall loose, brushing her cheeks. Her voice was confident when she said it, not hesitant even, the name she used echoes down the corridor with brutal clarity.

Jiungie.

Keeho’s blood runs cold. The sound of that nickname feels like a punch to the gut.

That name — the one Jiung forbade him from using. The one he got snapped at once in their fight. The one that had made Keeho doubtful to even say out loud in public.

And now this stranger — this girl — says it so naturally, so casually, like it belonged to her all along.

Jiung’s eyes widen. His face flickers — shock, guilt, recognition — all in an instant. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

Theo turns slowly, disbelief written all over his face. “Jiungie?” he repeats, his voice low, thick with incredulity, “now who’s this?”

Keeho doesn’t speak. He can’t. His pulse is deafening in his ears, his throat closing up as something inside him splinters. His gaze shifts between Jiung and the girl — searching, pleading, breaking.

Jiung’s expression falters. He opens his mouth, but whatever he means to say dies in his throat.

And in that silence — that unbearable, suffocating silence —

Something finally cracks for good.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of Soul’s PC fills his dimly lit room, the familiar neon glow from his monitor painting his face blue and pink. It’s already past midnight, the kind of hour when the rest of the world is asleep, and only the gamers, the restless, and the haunted are awake. His headset sits snugly over his ears, mic angled near his lips. The faint buzz of chatter filters through the speakers — Intak’s easy laugh, Jongseob’s childish whines, the crackle of their microphones, the rhythmic click of keys and mouse.

They’re halfway through another Valorant match, something they’ve done together a hundred times before. The air between them is casual, light — the kind of camaraderie built through too many late-night games and half-shared secrets. Soul leans back in his chair, one hand lazily resting on his mouse as he scans the map.

“Intak hyung,” he calls out suddenly, his voice slipping through the mic between the sound of gunfire.

“Hmm?” Intak hums distractedly, the click-click of his keyboard constant.

“That neighbour you’ve been talking about…” Soul starts, voice trailing off as his character ducks behind cover. His finger taps the push-to-talk button almost absently.

“Yeah?” Intak says, half distracted. “Yah! Shota, what are you doing? Don’t go in yet— ah, shit! Okay, nice save, nice save.” The older boy exhales through his mic, then chuckles breathlessly. “What did you say just now, Shota?”

“That neighbour you’ve been talking about… the one that dated his current boyfriend because he kinda looks like his ex…” Soul continues, careful, slow — each word heavy with meaning. “The one who still can’t move on, even after his ex flew to Belgium for her studies?”

Intak doesn’t catch it at first. He’s too busy clicking, his voice upbeat as he yells into the mic, “Yeah, yeah, that one— wait, Yah Jongseob-ah! SAVE ME!”

“Why are you dead already, hyung?” Jongseob groans dramatically on the other line, his voice full of complaint and youth. “You’re supposed to cover me!”

“Shut up,” Intak snaps half-heartedly, laughing. “Ughhh, this team is useless. Okay— oh yeah, Shota, what about my neighbour?”

There’s a pause on Soul’s end. He doesn’t answer immediately. His character is still, idle in the corner of the screen. The only movement comes from the flicker of light on his face, his eyes distant. His heartbeat ticks up, quick and uneven.

“Is his name, perhaps…” he begins softly, hesitating like the word itself might bite. His hand tightens slightly on the mouse. “Jiung?”

For a moment, everything goes silent.

The background noise of the game fades into static — the pop of virtual gunfire, the ticking countdown, the droning voice that finally announces Defeat. The screen flashes red: LOSE. But none of them speak.

Intak’s mic crackles faintly, a sound too human to come from the game. He’s breathing. You can hear it — shallow, confused.

“…How do you know Jiung hyung’s name?” he asks finally, his voice lower now, slower. There’s no trace of his usual cheer.

Soul doesn’t answer right away. His chest feels tight, the air suddenly heavier in his room. He can even hear Jongseob’s shocked gasp through the mic — a short, startled sound that cuts through the silence like glass.

Soul exhales shakily. “Fuck,” he whispers, the word almost inaudible under his breath. His screen flickers with the post-match stats, meaningless now. “I knew it. Oh my god, Stephen,” he mutters, his voice breaking at the edge — quiet, resigned, as though he’s just pieced together something he’s been trying not to see.

The room feels colder suddenly. His cursor hovers motionless over the replay button, his reflection faint in the screen. He doesn’t press anything.

The silence lingers — thick, echoing through three headsets across three houses.

And somewhere in that quiet, Soul realizes

Stephen’s gonna be hurt again.

“That new boyfriend of Stephen,” Soul starts slowly, voice calm but edged with something heavier, “he’s… a bit familiar, don’t you think?”

Jongseob blinks, turning to look at him. “Familiar? How so?”

Soul leans back, arms crossing over his chest, eyes still fixed on the path Keeho and Jiung had just walked down together minutes ago. There’s something about the way he’s staring — not just watching, but searching. His expression doesn’t match the lazy, teasing tone he usually carries; it’s more careful, more deliberate. “Just a feeling,” he says softly, almost to himself. His lips pull into a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. Not even close.

Jongseob tilts his head, frowning slightly. “You’re being weird, Shota. What feeling?”

Soul hums under his breath, something between a sigh and a hum of thought, before finally glancing at Jongseob. “He’s Intak hyung’s neighbour, Stephen said earlier?” he asks, tone casual — too casual, the kind that hides something underneath.

“Yeah?” Jongseob answers, confused. “Why do you ask?”

Soul’s gaze drifts again, his mind already somewhere else. “Intak hyung’s neighbour…” he repeats, quieter this time, almost like he’s testing the words on his tongue. His brow furrows slightly, the pieces of something clicking into place. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “Is that man… he’s been talking in our game session, right?”

For a second, Jongseob just stares at him, not understanding.

Then it hits. His eyes widen — really widen — and his breath catches. “Wait—” he starts, sitting up straight, his mouth falling open.

The realization sinks in like a cold knife.

The voice over the gaming mic.

The story Intak told about his neighbour.

The one who dated his current boyfriend because he looked like his ex.

The one who couldn’t move on, even when his ex was halfway across the world.

It all snaps together, too cleanly, too cruelly.

Jongseob gasps, loud and sharp through the air. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “You don’t mean—”

Soul doesn’t answer.

He just exhales, slow and heavy, the corner of his mouth tightening as his eyes darken with the weight of confirmation.

And in that silence between them — the kind that feels like thunder before a storm — they both know.

They’ve known Jiung before.

They just didn’t realize it until now.

“You’re still with him.”

The room is dim, the only light coming from the streetlamp bleeding faintly through the blinds. Two silhouettes stand by the window — Jiung’s leaning against the frame, Intak’s pacing, tension thick between them. The air feels heavy, like something fragile about to break.

“Just shut up.”

The silence that follows hums low, dangerous — the kind that makes the walls feel too close, the quiet too loud.

“You promised to just try, hyung. A try doesn’t last this long.”

Silence again.

“Just… shut your mouth. He doesn’t need to know.”

The words drop heavy between them — like stones sinking to the bottom of something deep. The air stiffens, stretching into something unbearable.

Then, the silence shatters.

“He needs to know, hyung!” Intak’s voice cracks through the air, his patience finally breaking. “I encouraged you to just try — to just talk to him! Make your longing for that ex of yours a bit better. But what did you do? You’ve gone your way to date him when you’re not even in love with him! For almost three years now, hyung. Are you crazy?!”

“I tried, you fucker!” Jiung’s head snaps up, eyes burning, voice trembling with exhaustion more than anger. “I tried to back off! Countless times!” he shouts back. “That’s why I’m that distant toward him! Why I keep pushing him away! Why I don’t dare to initiate skin ship with him! Why I really can’t stop my anger when he calls me ‘Jiungie’. But whenever he finally explodes, whenever he suggests we end it, I just— I can’t! I can’t let him go!” His voice cracks on the last word, shattering into something raw. “He’s the only way I can look at her again, Intak.”

The confession hangs heavy in the air. Jiung’s breathing hard, shoulders shaking, tears already slipping down his cheeks. His voice drops to a whisper — almost ashamed. “He smiles like her. He laughs like her. Sometimes when he talks, it’s like… like she’s still here. I can’t— I can’t lose that again. I can’t.”

Intak stares at him, disbelief turning to hurt. “He’s his own person, hyung!” His voice rises, desperate, as if shouting will make Jiung hear what reason won’t. “He’s not Jieun. He’s not that girl who left you without a word! Without any explanation! Keeho hyung’s a good man, hyung — too good! He doesn’t deserve this, do you even realize that?! You’re using him!”

Jiung flinches like the words hit him physically, chest heaving, eyes glistening. “I know!” he screams back, finally breaking. “You think I don’t know that?! I hate myself for it, okay?! Every time I look at him, I know I’m lying — to him, to myself! But what am I supposed to do?!”

Intak shakes his head, tears in his eyes now too. “Let him go, hyung” he says quietly, voice trembling. “You let him love you when you never loved him back. You let him believe he was enough. You let him suffer your silence when you know he deserves better. What are you, hyung? A monster?”

Jiung looks away, the silence swallowing him whole. His tears fall freely now, hitting the floor one by one. “He was enough,” he whispers, voice barely there. “Just… not for the right reason.”

Intak’s jaw tightens, his hands balling into fists, but he doesn’t speak again. There’s nothing left to say.

The clock ticks in the corner — steady, cruel, marking every second of the truth they can’t take back.

“Jiungie?”

The sound of it — gentle, certain, intimate — slices through the air like glass. Every movement stops. The echo of chaos dies instantly. Jiung freezes mid-breath, Theo’s grip falters, and Keeho’s hand — the one that had been clutching Jiung’s sleeve — stills in the air, trembling faintly.

All three of them turn toward the voice.

A girl stands at the far end of the hallway. The dim fluorescent lights hum above, casting a faint, golden halo around her. She’s dressed in pale colors — a white cap pulled low over her brow, a matching mask covering most of her face. Only her eyes are visible — soft, familiar in a way that feels dangerous. A few strands of dark hair have slipped free, brushing against her cheeks as she steps forward. Her voice is steady when she speaks again, not hesitant, not unsure — it carries, confident and clear, through the still air.

“Jiungie.”

The name hits Keeho like a blade — clean, precise, merciless. His breath catches. His blood runs cold.

That nickname.

That goddamn nickname.

Keeho’s chest tightens. The sound reverberates in his head, sinking deeper, twisting until it’s almost unbearable. The same name that once felt sacred — now a wound ripped wide open.

Jiung’s eyes widen, the color draining from his face. For a brief second, every emotion flashes through him — shock, guilt, recognition — before everything falls into stillness. His lips part slightly, his breath unsteady, but no words come out.

Theo’s eyes narrow, glancing between them. Keeho doesn’t look at him. He can’t. His gaze stays fixed on Jiung — on the way his fingers twitch, the way his throat moves like he’s swallowing something too sharp to name.

The girl tilts her head slightly, as if she doesn’t notice the tension, the wreckage she’s just walked into. “Jiungie, that’s you, right?” she says again — her tone bright, familiar, affectionate.

And Jiung — voice low, shaking, something breaking in the way he exhales — finally whispers back.

“Jieun.”

Chapter Text

The walk to the café is heavy. Not with words — there aren’t any — but with the silence that follows something that can’t be taken back. The morning sun bleeds faintly through the trees, fresh air filling the walk between them. Keeho walks beside Theo, one step behind, his bag slung loosely on his shoulder, eyes fixed somewhere far ahead — but not really seeing anything. Theo keeps glancing at him every few seconds, debating whether to say something, whether to reach out, but the look on Keeho’s face — the blankness, the quiet kind of hurt — stops him every time. So, he doesn’t speak. He just walks beside him. Protecting him in silence.

When they finally reach the café, the usual buzz of conversation feels muted, almost foreign. The scent of roasted beans and vanilla syrup fills the air, the soft clinking of cups and spoons grounding the world in a way Keeho can’t seem to. They choose a table near the window, away from the others. Theo orders automatically — two lattes, extra foam for Keeho, one with milk, one without. He remembers without needing to ask. Always does.

The cups arrive a few minutes later, steam curling lazily between them. Keeho’s hands are resting on the table, fingers interlaced, unmoving — until Theo notices the faint tremor. Tiny, but constant. His breath catches, watching the way Keeho’s thumb twitches against his palm like his body’s reacting to something his mind’s still trying to comprehend.

“Baby?” Theo says softly, cautious, as if even saying the word too loud might make him shatter.

Keeho blinks, slow, his head turning toward Theo. “Hmm?” His voice is light, almost dazed, like he’s still somewhere else — back in that hallway, maybe, with that girl’s voice echoing Jiungie over and over again. Back to the scene where the girl moved to hug Jiung before Theo dragged him here.

Theo studies him for a moment. His eyes — usually warm, sharp, alive — now look washed out. Not red, not wet, just empty. It’s not crying, not rage. It’s worse. It’s detachment. Like someone pulled the plug on his soul and everything drained out.

Theo tries again, quieter this time. “Do you want milk with yours?”

Keeho doesn’t answer immediately. He looks down at his hands instead, still trembling slightly, the steam from his untouched cup fogging the edge of his glasses. For a long time, there’s nothing but the faint sound of someone’s coffee grinder in the distance. Then, at last, he speaks.

“That’s…. That’s his ex, isn’t it?” he whispers, not looking up.

The words are soft, fragile — as if even naming it might make it more real. Theo exhales slowly, rubbing his face with both hands, fingers digging into his temples. “I don’t know, baby,” he admits, voice low, heavy with honesty he wishes he didn’t have to give. “Maybe? You can ask later. When you’re ready.”

Keeho shakes his head after a second, too violently to be normal. The corners of his lips twitch upward, the ghost of a smile — not real, not bitter, just empty. “Told you I’ll not be okay if what I think really happen,” he murmurs, reaching for the cup. His hands still shake, but he brings it to his lips anyway, taking a slow sip. The latte’s still hot, still his favorite. It doesn’t taste like anything.

Theo freezes. His chest tightens because he knows that tone — quiet acceptance that sounds like peace but feels like surrender. He watches as Keeho sets the cup back down, eyes still distant, lashes trembling under the low café light. And then, uninvited, something clicks in Theo’s mind.

A memory.

“Do you think I’ll be okay,” he murmurs, “if someday… what I think really happens?”

Theo’s hand pauses mid-stroke. He looks down, frowning faintly. “What are you thinking about, baby?” he asks, his voice low, careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

Keeho hums softly, eyes still closed. “Something bad,” he says simply.

Theo has joked about it at that time. But now, watching Keeho sit there in the same spot, trembling, hollow-eyed, silent — Theo realizes something that chills him to the bone.

Keeho knew.

All along.

He’d known there was something wrong.

That something was missing in Jiung’s love.

That the warmth he was given was borrowed from someone else.

He’d known — and he stayed anyway.

Theo’s throat burns as he swallows hard, trying to steady his voice. “Baby,” he says again, quietly, almost afraid to break the silence.

Keeho looks up this time. His expression soft, almost peaceful, though his eyes remain distant. “It’s fine,” he says, voice calm, careful. “He didn’t cheat. He just… never really loved me.”

Theo’s breath catches. He wants to argue. To tell him that’s not fine, that it’s not fair, that he doesn’t deserve this kind of pain disguised as love — but the look on Keeho’s face stops him. It’s not anger. It’s exhaustion.

Keeho takes another sip of his latte, sets it down gently, then looks out the window. The campus trees sway slightly under the evening wind, the world moving on like nothing’s happened. His fingers stop trembling.

And when he speaks again, it’s quiet, almost tender.

“I told you I wouldn’t ask him — I knew I wouldn’t be okay,” he says. “See, Theo? I’m not okay.”

Theo watches him carefully — the way Keeho’s fingers trace the rim of his cup, the faint reflection of café lights trembling in his untouched latte. The silence between them feels suffocating, pressing against Theo’s chest until he can barely breathe. Keeho doesn’t look at him again after that, eyes still fixed somewhere beyond the window, far past the swaying trees and the blur of students passing outside. His expression isn’t blank anymore, not really — it’s distant, but aware. Like he’s watching his own life from a window seat.

“You knew?” Theo finally asks, voice soft, like he’s afraid to disturb what little calm Keeho has left. “About this all along?”

Keeho lets out a small chuckle, low and breathless, the kind that sounds too close to a sigh. He leans back in his chair, thumb rubbing idly against the cup’s handle. “Guessed it after a few months of dating,” he says quietly, as though admitting the weather. His lips quirk upward in something that could almost be mistaken for amusement. “Damn. My guessing came true.” He huffs out a laugh — soft, dry, humorless. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Theo’s brows knit together, his heart tightening with each word. “Why didn’t you tell—”

“Tried once,” Keeho interrupts before he can finish, his tone flat, almost too casual. “He got mad.” He shrugs, as if that explains everything. As if that’s all it took for him to give up.

Theo exhales shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. His chest feels too tight, too heavy. “Baby…” he says quietly, the word barely slipping past his throat.

Keeho hums, not looking at him, just idly spinning the cup now. “Hmm?”

“Are you…” Theo hesitates, searching his face for something — sadness, anger, anything. But Keeho’s expression doesn’t shift. “Why didn’t you tell me at least? Why did you keep this to yourself? Three years, baby. It’s… a very long time to just endure it again and again.”

Keeho smiles faintly, eyes still fixed on his hands. “You hated me, remember? At least at that time,” he says, his voice dipping into something softer, almost nostalgic. “We cut connection after we broke up. We only got close again after I started dating him. Half a year in, I think?” He lets out another small chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Would’ve been weird if I suddenly called you to say, ‘Hey, Theo, I think my boyfriend can’t let go of his past.’”

Theo opens his mouth to respond, but Keeho’s tone — light, joking, indifferent — makes the words catch in his throat.

Keeho takes a sip of his latte, wincing slightly when it’s gone cold. “And…” he starts again, voice quiet but steady. “It’s not the right thing to tell you after our whole break-up fiasco, right?” He turns his gaze to Theo now, finally meeting his eyes. The corner of his mouth lifts in a faint, crooked smile. “I mean, we broke up because I got too possessive on you. Toxic, even. So maybe…” he pauses, taking a slow breath, “…maybe this is just my karma after all.”

Theo’s heart sinks. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, trying to catch Keeho’s gaze before he drifts away again. “Don’t say that,” he says softly.

Keeho just smiles — small, polite, detached. “Why not? It makes sense, doesn’t it?” he murmurs. “I used to be like Jiung too, didn’t I? Always wanting to hold on too tight. Even after we did break up. You told me once that love shouldn’t feel like being trapped.” He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Guess I have my own lesson the moment I fell for someone who’d already been trapped by his past.”

Theo wants to say something, anything — to tell him it’s not his fault, that he doesn’t deserve this — but the words die on his tongue. Keeho looks too calm for comfort, too accepting for someone who’s just had his heart quietly broken. There’s no anger left in him, no fire, just resignation — the kind that comes when someone’s been hurting for so long they’ve stopped expecting relief.

He looks down at his cup again, fingers curling loosely around it. “I just… kept hoping he’d love me differently someday, you know?” he admits softly. “Like… maybe if I stayed, if I didn’t complain, if I kept smiling, maybe he’d finally see me. Not… his past.” His voice falters for a second — just barely. “But I think he never did.”

Theo feels something twist inside him — a mix of guilt, empathy, and helplessness. “You don’t deserve this, Keeho,” he says, voice trembling. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Keeho tilts his head, smiling again, but this time it’s almost tender. “That’s the thing, Theo,” he says quietly. “I don’t think love’s about deserving or not. Sometimes you’re just the wrong person in the right time. Just like you and me. Just like Jiung and me.” He finishes the rest of his drink, stands up slowly, and slings his bag over his shoulder.

Theo stares up at him, his chest aching, but Keeho only gives him that same small, tired smile. “Don’t worry,” he says softly. “I’m not breaking again this time. I think I’ve already been broken long enough.”

And with that, he turns toward the door — walking out into the fading light, the bell above the café door ringing softly behind him.

The sunlight falls softly on him as he walks — a quiet, golden warmth against skin that feels too cold to belong to morning. The air smells faintly of dew and coffee, of new beginnings that don’t quite belong to him. Keeho walks without aim, just following the narrow stone path that winds through the campus park, shoes brushing against fallen leaves that stick to the damp grass. The world feels too still for what’s happening inside him. His steps are slow, his posture almost relaxed, but every inch of him trembles in silence — the kind of trembling that comes not from fear or cold, but from something deeper. Something hollow.

He looks up for a moment — the sky is blue, washed clean after the early rain. It should be beautiful, he thinks. But it doesn’t feel like it. There’s no beauty left in days that keep going on as if nothing has broken. People pass by with laughter in their voices, their bags slung lazily over shoulders, lives unfolding so easily around him. And Keeho wonders, absently, when exactly his own life stopped moving forward and started looping — a film reel stuck between the same few frames of hope, love, and disappointment.

Somewhere deep inside, the words he couldn’t say in that café echo faintly, like ghosts whispering through the morning light. He never loved me the way I loved him. He just love the idea of me reminding him of his past. The thought isn’t cruel — it’s just true. Too true. Keeho had built his world around quiet patience, gentle smiles, and the belief that love could heal if given enough time. But love, he learned, isn’t a medicine; it’s a mirror. And every time Jiung looked at him, he wasn’t seeing Keeho — he was seeing someone else reflected back at him. Someone who left. Someone who still owned the part of Jiung that Keeho could never touch.

He slows down near the old fountain by the library, the one that hasn’t worked for years. The stone is cracked, the water long gone, but he sits there anyway. The sunlight catches on the faint sheen of tears gathering in his eyes, though none fall. He’s too tired to cry — or maybe too used to holding it in. His chest feels like it’s been carved out and filled with fog, heavy and formless.

Of course he knew. The way Jiung hesitated before saying ‘I love you’ back to him, the way he glared every time Keeho called him ‘Jiungie’, the way he wouldn’t initiate touch with him if it’s not necessary. Every sign was there, written so clearly, and yet Keeho still stayed. Still smiled. Still hugged him goodbye in front of his door as if loving harder could rewrite what was already written in someone else’s heart.

It wasn’t stupidity, he tells himself — just love. The kind that doesn’t demand to be chosen. The kind that waits quietly, even when it knows it’s waiting for nothing. That’s the cruelty of being in love, he thinks — you end up forgiving the things that are killing you, because you’d rather hurt yourself than knowing the truth.

The wind picks up, rustling the trees, and for a fleeting second he closes his eyes. The light filters through the leaves, scattering patterns across his face. To anyone passing by, he might look peaceful — a boy resting after a long day. But inside, he’s unraveling slowly, thread by thread, too quiet for anyone to notice.

He thinks of Theo’s eyes in the café — worried, tender, guilt-ridden. Of Jiung’s expression when that girl appeared — startled, unguarded, recognizing. It replays in his mind like a cruel, beautiful loop. That brief flicker of realization in Jiung’s face — the kind that confirms every suspicion Keeho had ever buried deep — will haunt him for a long time. Maybe forever.

He exhales shakily, almost laughing at the bitter irony of it all. “Told you I wouldn’t be okay if I ask, Theo,” he murmurs under his breath — not to anyone, not even to himself really, just to the wind, as if it remembers the conversation better than he does. The morning sun kisses his cheeks, soft and warm, but it doesn’t reach his heart.

And so Keeho sits there a little longer, letting the day move on without him — the campus waking up, laughter floating past, birds calling somewhere above — while he stays still. Just another person under the sunlight, looking fine, looking calm, while the world keeps spinning around a boy who forgot how to feel anything but the ache of being almost loved.

Chapter Text

The soft sound of cotton rubbing against wet hair fills the quiet of Keeho’s dorm. The faint smell of shampoo lingers in the air — clean, minty, fresh — a sharp contrast to the still heaviness that hangs in the room. The dim yellow glow from his bedside lamp casts gentle shadows on the walls, flickering faintly each time the air conditioner hums louder.

Keeho’s movements are slow, almost detached, as he towels his hair dry with lazy, half-hearted motions. Strands of damp black hair fall onto his forehead, sticking to his skin as droplets of water roll down the side of his neck. He stares at his own reflection for a long moment — face blank, eyes dull, shoulders slightly slumped — a quiet portrait of someone who’s running out of strength but hasn’t yet learned how to stop pretending. The night outside hums low, the faint city sounds muffled by the thick dorm walls. Somewhere in the distance, laughter echoes — light, careless — a sound that doesn’t belong in his world tonight.

Then comes the knock.

It’s quiet, tentative — two short taps, a pause, then one more. Not loud enough to startle, but enough to pull Keeho’s attention away from the mirror. The towel stills in his hands, his shoulders tensing for just a second. He doesn’t move immediately. He stands there, staring at the door, as though waiting for the knocking to happen again — maybe to confirm he heard it at all. When it doesn’t, he exhales, a soft, tired sound leaving his lips. He folds the towel absentmindedly and tosses it over his shoulder as he walks toward the door. His steps are unhurried, measured, as he already knows who’s waiting on the other side.

When he opens it, Jiung stands there.

He looks… smaller than usual. His shoulders are drawn in, his head slightly bowed, and the faint puffiness under his eyes betrays tears that hadn’t dried properly. His casual clothes — the same ones from earlier that day — are crumpled, his hair a mess from running his fingers through it too many times. He looks fragile, worn out, like the day had stripped something raw inside him. “Hi, um… am i disturbing you?” His hands fidget with the hem of his sleeve, that nervous habit Keeho knows too well — the one that always means Jiung is trying to find words but can’t.

Keeho blinks at him, his face a mask of calm detachment. “Why didn’t you just use the key?” he asks simply, his tone even — neither sharp nor warm, just plain, hollow politeness. He steps aside slightly, towel still hanging off his shoulder, making room for Jiung to step inside. The movement is automatic, practiced — like he’s done this countless times before, like muscle memory that still works even when the heart doesn’t.

Jiung hesitates at the doorway. His eyes flicker toward Keeho, searching for any trace of emotion on his face — something, anything — but finds none. He steps inside anyway, slipping his shoes off quietly and placing them neatly by the door, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. The air between them feels fragile, stretched thin. Each movement Jiung makes feels hesitant, careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already shattered.

Keeho walks back toward the couch, his movements composed, too composed — the kind of calm that comes only after someone has already spent hours being torn apart in silence. He sits down, crossing one leg over the other, acting like nothing happened that morning. Like Theo didn’t lose his temper and punch Jiung. Like Keeho didn’t stand there, watching everything unfold with a quiet ache that burned through him. Like a girl hadn’t called Jiung Jiungie right in front of him — that too-familiar nickname that didn’t really belong to him but sounded too natural on someone else’s tongue.

“Come,” Keeho says after a moment, his voice soft, steady. He gestures toward the couch beside him without looking up. “It’ll get infected if you don’t clean it.”

Jiung blinks, confused for a second before realizing what Keeho means — the bruises. The dark smudges blooming along his jawline, the faint shadow on his temple, the cuts on the corner of his mouth. He looks away, shame creeping in. He didn’t expect Keeho to notice. Or maybe he did, deep down — he knew Keeho always notices everything about him, even when he pretends not to. Jiung sits down slowly beside him, his posture stiff and awkward, unsure if he even deserves to be there.

Keeho reaches for the small white first aid box sitting neatly on the coffee table. He opens it carefully, hands steady, movements precise. Inside are bandages, ointments, alcohol pads — everything arranged neatly, methodically. He takes out a tube of ointment and unscrews the cap, squeezing a small amount onto his fingertips. His voice stays calm, detached. “Hold still. It might sting a bit.”

Jiung obeys without protest.

Keeho dabs the ointment gently over the bruise, his touch impossibly soft — careful in a way that makes it hurt more. It’s not affection anymore now. It’s habit. It’s kindness that feels like salt on a wound. The silence that fills the room is dense, almost physical. Jiung watches Keeho’s face — the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips press into a line as he concentrates — and guilt claws its way up his throat.

“Keeho…” Jiung says finally, his voice barely audible, like he’s afraid the sound alone might push him away.

“Hmm?” Keeho hums in response, still not looking at him, still tending to the bruise with gentle precision.

“I’m…” Jiung’s words falter. He stares down at Keeho’s hands — warm, steady hands that shouldn’t still care for him this way. His throat tightens. He exhales shakily, fingers twitching before finally reaching out to take Keeho’s free hand.

The contact is tentative, trembling — a quiet plea.

“I’m sorry for this morning,” he says at last, his voice cracking slightly, trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. “Um… she’s—”

Keeho’s eyes flicker up briefly, meeting his gaze for the first time that night. “Yeah?”

“She’s… Jieun.”

Keeho freezes for the briefest moment. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes — something tired, knowing, resigned. He hums softly, the sound small and almost distant. “Jieun?”

Jiung swallows hard, fumbling with his words, the explanation spilling out of him in uneven breaths. “Yeah. My… high school friend,” he manages. “Um. She just got back from Belgium, finishing her studies there, so she comes here to, um… see me again. A reunion, or something.” His tone is uncertain, apologetic, like every word he says might be the wrong one.

He looks at Keeho, searching desperately for some sign of understanding — or forgiveness — but Keeho’s face remains unreadable. Jiung’s thumb starts rubbing circles on the back of Keeho’s hand, a subconscious gesture, a remnant of comfort he no longer has the right to give.

Keeho’s gaze falls to their joined hands for a moment. His fingers don’t move, don’t pull away. Then he exhales slowly and lowers his eyes to the first aid box. Without a word, he closes the cap of the ointment and places it neatly back inside. His motions are deliberate, almost ritualistic — placing each item where it belongs, one after another: the cotton pads, the alcohol wipes, the small roll of gauze.

When everything is in order, he says quietly, “Okay.”

The word is barely more than a whisper. But it lands heavy — not dismissive, not forgiving — just tired. Empty.

No anger.
No accusation.
Just resignation, soft and final.

Keeho presses the lid of the first aid box shut with a gentle click. The sound echoes faintly in the silence that follows, cutting through the air like a period at the end of a long, painful sentence.

Jiung watches him, lips parted, wanting to say something — anything — but the words die in his throat. Guilt coils inside him, heavy and suffocating.

Keeho doesn’t look at him. His eyes are fixed on the closed first aid box, fingers resting lightly on the lid — holding it still, holding himself still. His chest rises and falls quietly, evenly, as though the calm is the only thing keeping him from breaking apart completely.

The air between them feels softer now after Keeho keep the first aid box— deceptively so. The faint hum of the air conditioner fills the silence, brushing lightly against the edges of their breathing. The night outside feels far away, separated by thin walls and the pale glow of a small desk lamp that throws golden shadows across the room. Keeho leans slightly closer, his damp hair brushing against Jiung’s shoulder as he shifts to make himself comfortable. His towel slips from his neck and falls quietly onto the couch. His fingers find Jiung’s hand almost automatically — warm skin against warm skin — and begin to play idly with it, tracing invisible shapes against his palm. The kind of touch that used to mean comfort, now caught somewhere between habit and ache.

“She just got here today?” Keeho asks finally, his tone light, conversational — like he’s asking about the weather, not the girl whose presence cracked something open inside him that morning. His voice sounds tired, but steady, almost too calm for how heavy the question feels.

Jiung’s breath catches. The pause before his answer is long enough for Keeho to notice. “Um…” he starts slowly, his voice small, almost uncertain. “She landed here last night, actually. Then she went to my house early this morning to see me, but I was already out by then. So…” He swallows hard, glancing down at their joined hands. “So she came here instead.”

Keeho hums softly, not looking up. “I see.” The words are quiet, neutral. Too neutral. He leans a little more against Jiung’s shoulder, his head resting there like it always does, but there’s something off about the weight of it — a heaviness that feels more like surrender than closeness. His fingers are still playing with Jiung’s, drawing circles, running along his knuckles, threading through them and pulling away again. “She’s your friend, you said?” he asks after a moment, voice low, calm.

“Yeah…” Jiung replies, his tone faltering somewhere between truth and apology. “From high school. Intak knows her too.” He hesitates, his lips parting, then pressing together again before he adds, “Um… she moved to Belgium before we started at SNU.”

“I see,” Keeho says again, the same calm repetition, the same tone that hides too much behind its gentleness. His thumb brushes along Jiung’s hand once more before he chuckles quietly. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

Jiung blinks, startled by the question. “Huh?”

“Well,” Keeho says, voice airy, faint amusement curling at the edges, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I can just see her eyes, you know — below the mask and all that — but I think she’s really pretty. A bit familiar too, if you look closely.” He lets out a soft laugh, light, almost playful, as if it’s nothing serious, as if the words don’t sting the way they do. His fingers are still twined with Jiung’s, toying gently.

Jiung laughs, too — a small, awkward sound that doesn’t quite fit. “Yeah,” he says finally, after a moment that feels too long. The word comes out thin, uncertain, carrying more guilt than agreement.

Keeho hums again, this time lower, softer. He tilts his head slightly, eyes still fixed on Jiung’s hand as he continues playing with it — tracing the lines of his palm, brushing over his knuckles, like memorizing something he already knows he’ll have to let go of soon. “I’m pretty like her too, am I? You call me that often. Pretty,” he says quietly, almost joking, still smiling faintly.

Jiung looks down a bit. “Hmm?”

“Hmm. You always call me pretty, remember? After our date, our kiss, our… escape to Jeju,” Keeho hums, his tone light but his eyes sharp when they finally meet Jiung’s. “That’s why you date me, don’t you? Because I’m pretty like her. Because I look like her.”

The words hang there, quiet but heavy. They sound soft, almost teasing, but there’s a tremor underneath — the kind that comes from holding in too much for too long.

Jiung freezes. His fingers twitch in Keeho’s grasp. His breath catches again, eyes flickering with panic, guilt, confusion — too many things at once. “Keeho…” he says, the name falling from his lips like a plea.

Keeho’s smile falters. It slips, slowly, almost painfully, until it’s gone entirely. What replaces it isn’t anger — it’s exhaustion. The kind of tiredness that runs deep, the kind that no sleep could ever fix. His voice is softer now, but it carries more weight than before, steady and breaking all at once.

“Reminded yourself of her whenever you look at me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on Jiung’s. “That’s why you date me, don’t you?”

His tone isn’t accusing. It’s quiet, almost tender in its sadness — the kind of quiet that hurts because it doesn’t demand answers anymore. Keeho’s hand stills in Jiung’s. The air between them grows thick, still, unmoving.

Keeho just looks at him, that same tiredness etched into every inch of his face — the kind that comes from loving too much, and realizing too late that love wasn’t what kept them together.

The air feels heavier now — thick with words that neither of them can quite say. The small dorm room seems to shrink with every second that passes; even the hum of the air conditioner fades beneath the silence. The faint scent of lavender shampoo and mint ointment lingers, soft but suffocating. Keeho’s still sitting beside Jiung, their knees barely touching, but it feels like miles stretch between them. His eyes are fixed on their hands — still loosely connected, still warm — the last thread holding them together.

“Keeho… I…” Jiung starts, his voice barely above a whisper. It trembles, uncertain, carrying a hundred apologies that don’t know how to take form.

Keeho doesn’t answer at first. He just stares at their hands again — at the small, fragile space between their fingers — before intertwining them slowly, gently, like trying to memorize how it feels one last time. His thumb brushes the back of Jiung’s hand. He exhales, soft, almost a sigh. “Are we finally done for good now?” he whispers, the words barely escaping his lips. He leans his head against Jiung’s shoulder, seeking a warmth that doesn’t reach him anymore. He’s not crying. He’s past that now. All that’s left is exhaustion — quiet, deep, bone-heavy tiredness that seeps into every breath.

Jiung stiffens, his heart dropping like a stone. “No,” he says quickly, shaking his head as if denying it could undo the truth. “Keeho, no. We’re not done, okay? We’re not.” His voice cracks halfway through, panic creeping in. “She’s here, but it means nothing. Jieun and I… we’re done. Years ago. Please, Keeho, believe me. We’ll be okay. I’ll fix this, yeah? I’ll fix us. Please… I’ll change. I’ll be better for you. Please…” His words come out in a rush, desperate and uneven, tears already pooling in his eyes.

Keeho keeps his quiet. His eyes are half-lidded, his expression soft but unreadable. He watches their joined hands, the way Jiung clings to him like holding tighter might stop him from slipping away. But it’s too late. Keeho exhales again, a small, trembling sound that feels more like surrender than relief.

He lifts his gaze slowly, meeting Jiung’s tearful eyes. “But you don’t love me,” he whispers, voice so quiet it almost disappears into the air between them. “You don’t, Jiung. You just love the idea of me, someone who looks like a little bit of your past, someone that I’m not.” He lets out a small, broken laugh — not mocking, not bitter, just tired. “And I’m tired. I’m tired of repeating the same unending routine over and over again. It hurts. I’m hurting, Jiung. God, I’m hurting.” His voice wavers near the end, but no tears come. He’s already cried them all, somewhere in the nights before this one.

Jiung’s breath shudders as he shakes his head violently. “No, please,” he chokes out, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I’ll change, okay? I’ll try again. Please, Keeho.” He reaches out, holding Keeho’s hands tighter, almost painfully so, as if sheer force could make Keeho stay. “Please, just… give me another chance. I can’t lose you. I’m sorry.” His tears spill freely now, trailing down his cheeks, his words tripping over sobs.

Keeho looks at him — really looks — the same way he used to when he first fell for him three years ago. Those eyes he memorized, those lips he used to kiss every fight, the trembling hands that once held him steady. Now, slowly, gently, he slips his hands out of Jiung’s grip. The motion is soft, but final. Jiung’s fingers twitch helplessly as the warmth leaves his palms.

Keeho straightens his back, sitting up, facing Jiung fully. He studies him in silence for a moment, and something flickers across his face — love, grief, resignation — a storm that passes too quickly to name. Then, quietly, he leans forward and pulls Jiung into a hug.

Jiung freezes for a second before collapsing into him, burying his face into Keeho’s shoulder. His sobs come hard and uneven, muffled against Keeho’s shirt. “Please,” he repeats, voice cracking with every syllable. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t say that. I can’t—”

Keeho closes his eyes. His arms tighten around Jiung just a little — not enough to promise, only enough to remember. “Thank you,” he whispers, the words trembling but steady enough to break the silence. “For these three years, Choi Jiung. Having you by my side… it hurts sometimes, not gonna lie, but I was happy most of the time. You make me happy.” His voice softens, a faint smile ghosting over his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t be her for you.”

Jiung shakes his head violently against his chest, tears soaking through the thin fabric. “Don’t say that—”

“And I’m sorry too,” Keeho continues, his tone firm now, though still soft. “That I can’t keep this going anymore. You deserve to have someone you actually want. Not the shadow you see someone else through. Don’t make your heart suffer again.” His voice breaks halfway through, the tremor betraying the calm on his face. “I love you. So much. But loving you like this… it’s killing me. And I don’t know if I have it in me to endure it any longer now.”

Jiung sobs harder, shaking his head violently, his hands clutching Keeho’s shirt, knuckles white. “No. No, please. Don’t say that. I’ll change, I swear. Just please…. don’t go. Don’t leave me.” His words are drowned by the sound of his crying.

Keeho presses a gentle kiss to his cheek — the same cheek that Theo’s fist had bruised earlier, the same cheek he carefully, lovingly tend earlier — soft, trembling, final. “Be happy for me after this, yeah?” he whispers, his voice shaking like glass ready to break. “Even if it’s not with me. Find your actual happiness this time.”

He pulls back slowly, hands still resting on Jiung’s arms for a moment before letting go completely. He takes one last look — at Jiung’s red, tear-soaked face, the eyes that still beg him to stay. The face he’s memorized, a face he’s loved quietly and deeply, even when it hurt. A face he knows he won’t forget.

Then Keeho smiles — that soft, small smile that once meant warmth, now heavy with farewell. He stands up, movements slow but steady, and looks down at him one last time. “You can put the key on the table, okay?” he says gently, voice calm. “Just lock the door behind you after you leave.”

Jiung looks up, eyes full of tears, broken, but words fail him. He just stares — at the man he loves, slipping away in front of him — as Keeho turns toward his room.

Keeho walks away quietly, the soft sound of his footsteps blending with the faint hum of the air conditioner. He doesn’t look back. He can’t.

Jiung sits there on the couch, frozen, his chest heaving with the soundless ache of something ending. Keeho’s scent still clings to him — lavender and mint and something warm — but it’s already fading.

And when the bedroom door closes with a soft click, the sound echoes in the silence like a final heartbeat.

They’re finally done now. For good. For the best.

Chapter Text

“Hyunggg!” a voice drags out from behind the door, loud, whiny, and annoyingly cheerful for such an ungodly hour. “Open up!”

Keeho stirs under the blanket, his mind foggy. For a few moments, he’s not sure if it’s real or part of a dream. His eyelids feel like they’ve been glued shut, and every muscle in his body begs him to just stay still. His brain replays the last thing he remembers—cramming formulas and presentation slides until his vision blurred. He only slept three hours ago. Who in their right mind would—

The knocking gets louder. “Hyuuuuuung! If you don’t open this door, I’ll tell Appa you died!”

Keeho groans, dragging a pillow over his face. “Then let me die…” he mumbles, voice muffled.

The knocking doesn’t stop. Persistent. Rhythmic. It sounds like the beginning of a headache. With a low, guttural sound of defeat, Keeho sits up, hair sticking in every direction. His brain screams at him to lie back down, but his body moves on autopilot. He stumbles toward the door like a zombie, half-blind, muttering under his breath about evil maknaes and loud humans.

He pulls open the door—and immediately regrets it.

Standing there are Yechan and Haeun, both dressed nicely, both grinning way too widely for 8 a.m. Yechan raises a hand in greeting like he’s just caught Keeho mid-party, while Haeun simply tilts her head, scanning Keeho from head to toe with a look that says you look like death, but we expected that behind her smile.

“What?” Keeho croaks. It’s all he can manage.

“Morning, sunshine!” Yechan beams, completely ignoring the death glare Keeho tries to summon but fails.

“Aegi, you look terrible,” Haeun says bluntly, stepping past him into the dorm without waiting for permission. “You’ve been isolating yourself, haven’t you? How long have you stay cooped inside?”

Keeho squints. “I don’t know… maybe a week?” He honestly can’t tell. Final is already just around the corner. And the days for Medicine students like him have blurred together—study, assignments, coffee, three-hour naps, repeat.

Yechan flops onto Keeho’s bed like it’s his own, bouncing a little to test the mattress. “Theo hyung said you haven’t come out since your presentation prep started. And that’s being said, two weeks ago. We’re here to rescue you,” he declares dramatically, throwing his arms wide.

Keeho blinks at the two of them, trying to process. “Rescue me?”

“Yes!” Haeun says, now inspecting his desk, which is covered in open books, scribbled notes, a half-empty mug, and two instant noodle cups stacked like trophies of exhaustion. “This is depressing. Yechan, look at this—he’s been living like a raccoon.”

“An overworked raccoon,” Yechan corrects, flipping Keeho’s pillow over and grinning when he finds another notebook underneath. “Hyung, you were studying in bed too?”

Keeho sighs, leaning against the wall. “You guys… what do you want?”

“Feeding you some nutrients,” Yechan replies simply, patting the bed beside him. “Or more specifically—barbecue. I want meat.”

“Reservation’s in fifteen minutes,” Haeun adds, still looking around like she’s on a mission to uncover every secret of Keeho’s tragic dorm life.

Keeho’s eyes widen slightly. “Reservation? Wait—what reservation?”

“BBQ,” Anna says again, as if that explains everything. “Yechan booked it. He said you’d refuse to come if we asked first, so we didn’t.”

“Go shower!” Yechan calls suddenly, spotting Keeho’s towel hanging on a chair. He grabs it and tosses it at him. “You’ve got, like, ten minutes before I start dragging you out in your pajamas.”

Keeho catches the towel weakly, staring at it like it’s a foreign object. “I don’t even—why? You guys could’ve gone without me.”

Haeun turns to face him finally, arms crossed. “Because you need a break. You’ve been cooped up here like a prisoner, and you look like your soul left your body three nights ago.”

Yechan nods solemnly. “Yeah, hyung, you look like a ghost. Not even a cool ghost—like, one of those tired ones that haunt libraries.”

Keeho lets out a laugh despite himself, rubbing his face. “I hate you both.”

“No, you love us,” Yechan says cheerfully. “Now go shower before I start blasting hip hop music through the speaker.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Yechan’s already reaching for his phone. “Try me.”

Haeun, rolling her eyes, takes a seat at Keeho’s desk. “We’ll wait. You’ve got twelve minutes now, by the way. Hurry up or we’ll eat your share.”

Keeho sighs again, defeated but secretly warmed by their chaos. He trudges toward the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder. “You’re both insane.”

Behind him, Yechan grins, turning to Anna. “Operation ‘Save Keeho Hyung From Himself’—success so far.”

Haeun smirks, flipping open one of Keeho’s notebooks. “Barely. Let’s see if he actually showers in twelve minutes or if we need to break in again.”

From the bathroom, Keeho’s muffled voice yells, “I heard that!”

Yechan bursts out laughing. “He’s alive again,” he says proudly. “Mission accomplished.”

The smell of his soap soon fills the air, mixing with the morning light that filters through Keeho’s messy curtains. For the first time in a week, there’s laughter in his dorm—and though he’ll never admit it out loud, Keeho feels something warm bloom in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he missed being alive again.

Keeho sits wedged tightly between Haeun and Yechan, the youngest pressed up against his side like an overly clingy puppy while the oldest hovers protectively on his other. In front of him sits a plate piled so high with food it looks like a mini mountain—layers of meat, rice, kimchi, and lettuce all arranged in a chaotic heap that definitely wasn’t his doing. Every time he clears a small patch of space, another pair of chopsticks swoop in to refill it. He barely gets a chance to breathe before more food appears, courtesy of the two self-appointed caretakers flanking him. Haeun’s chopsticks move like a hawk’s talons, fast and precise, ready to fill any visible empty space. Yechan, meanwhile, works with a different kind of confidence—unbothered, casual, and completely reckless as he keeps tossing more kimchi onto Keeho’s plate. “For balance,” he says every time, even though the plate already looks like a miniature buffet.

“Hyung, eat this too,” Yechan insists, placing another glistening roll of pork belly right on top of Keeho’s rice. The smell of sizzling fat and sesame oil lingers thickly in the air, making his stomach grumble in betrayal.

“No, I’m full—” Keeho starts weakly, already feeling defeated.

“Eat,” the younger says firmly, eyebrows raised in challenge.

Keeho sighs—deep, resigned, the kind that comes from a brother who knows he’s already lost this sibling battle—and picks up the food obediently. The moment he takes a bite, Haeun’s entire face lights up. Her smile is so full of pride it could melt steel. “Good boy,” she says in that singsong tone, half teasing, half genuinely pleased. Without hesitation, she leans in and wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin like he’s still in kindergarten.

Keeho groans, mortified. “Noona, I’m not five,” he mumbles, voice muffled by the mouthful of rice he’s still chewing.

Haeun only laughs, eyes softening. “You act like one when you starve yourself for weeks. Look at your eyes, aegi—they’re hollow! You look like you’ve been through a war.”

Keeho points a finger at his temple with a weary sort of drama. “I have been through a war. A war with my textbooks. And I think I lost.”

The seriousness of his delivery lasts exactly two seconds before Yechan snorts so loudly that a piece of lettuce flies right out of his mouth and lands on the table. Anna gasps, immediately thrusting the tissue box toward him like a mother catching her kid misbehaving in church. “Manners, Yechan,” she scolds sharply.

“Sorry,” he mutters, though his grin betrays zero remorse. He wipes his mouth lazily before turning his attention back to Keeho. “Anyway, hyung—you okay with your studies though? You’ve been quiet about it lately.”

Keeho hesitates, twirling his chopsticks between his fingers before sighing. “I’m… okay, I guess. Just struggling with this one subject. Prof Hwang’s really on his villain arc this semester,” he says, his voice edging toward despair. “I swear, that man wakes up every morning and chooses violence. Every. Single. Day.”

Haeun hums like she’s heard this story before—because she has. Keeho has been spamming her chat with nonstop yapping about this. Every time. She picks up a piece of meat, carefully lays it on a lettuce leaf, adds rice, kimchi, and just enough garlic, folding it neatly into a perfect ssam. “Here,” she says, lifting it toward him. “Open your mouth.”

Keeho’s eyes widen. “Noona—”

“Open.”

He opens his mouth, defeated, as she stuffs the ssam in like a mom who refuses to take no for an answer. She pats his back gently when he starts chewing, and it’s impossible not to feel the warmth behind her teasing. “Good boy,” she repeats softly, almost to herself. “So, what subject is it this time? O&G?”

Keeho nods miserably, cheeks puffed out. “Mm-hmm. Why did I even take this course? I should’ve taken business like you, noona. Why didn’t I listen when you told me to?” he whines, the words tumbling out between bites. He lets his head drop onto her shoulder, face scrunching into a pout that might’ve been cute if it weren’t for the grain of rice clinging stubbornly to his cheek.

Yechan lets out a choked laugh so sudden it startles Haeun. “Because you wanted to ‘save the world,’ remember? You actually said that with a straight face once, hyung. It was so cringe I still have secondhand embarrassment thinking about it. And I’m twelve at that time. A twelve year-old-kid cringing. That says something.”

Anna giggles, immediately joining in. She mimics Keeho’s deep, idealistic tone, “i still remember your ‘I wanna save the world, noona. I’ll make you proud’ script every evening. Eomma had to shut you up every time.” Her mock sincerity is too perfect, and Yechan nearly falls over laughing.

Keeho groans dramatically, covering his face with both hands. “Ugh, don’t remind me! I was so naïve. I didn’t know saving the world meant dying over case reports, caffeine overdoses, and seventy-slide presentations.”

“Welcome to adulthood,” Yechan says dryly, raising his glass of soda like he’s toasting the universe. “It’s all pain, suffering, and deadlines. No refunds. Though I’m still in my high school. But yeah, life experiences.”

They all laugh, the kind of laughter that’s so easy and genuine it seems to smooth out the exhaustion lining Keeho’s shoulders. The grill in front of them continues to hiss and sizzle, waves of heat rising from the glowing coals, carrying with it the comforting smell of meat and garlic. The world narrows down to their laughter, the clinking of chopsticks, and the occasional satisfied sigh when someone bites into something perfectly cooked.

For a while, it’s quiet—peaceful in the way only shared meals can be. Then Haeun breaks the silence, her voice softer now. “How are you, aegi? How’s life now?” she asks, eyes still on the grill as she turns over a piece of meat.

Keeho looks at her, confused. “I just told you, I’m dying over school.”

“No.” She glances at him briefly, smiling faintly. “I mean… the whole break-up situation.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, delicate but heavy. Even the sizzling grill seems quieter now. Yechan looks up from his plate, mid-bite, chewing slower, as if afraid to interrupt. Keeho blinks, then exhales a small laugh—soft, almost self-deprecating. “Oh. That.” He pushes his rice around with his chopsticks before answering. “I’m okay, noona. Really. It’s been, what—three months now? I think I’m fine. Time’s doing its thing.”

Haeun studies his expression carefully, the way his mouth smiles but his eyes flicker briefly with something she can’t quite name. “You sure?” she asks, voice low.

Keeho nods, smiling wider this time, trying to make it reach his eyes. “Yeah. It doesn’t sting anymore. I mean, sometimes it feels weird, but… I think I’ve accepted it.” He pauses for a beat, then chuckles lightly. “Though, uh—he hangs boba on my door every morning.”

Yechan freezes mid-chew. “He what?”

Keeho’s laughter grows, that sparkle of amusement finally returning to his eyes. “Yeah. Every morning before class. Brown sugar milk tea with pearls. My favourite. No note, no explanation, just… there.”

Haeun blinks, taken aback. “Every day?”

“Mm-hmm,” Keeho hums. He shrugs like it’s no big deal, though his dimples show when he grins. “Maybe it’s his way of saying sorry? We talked sometimes after… you know, that situation. We’re classmates after all, so it’s not like I can ignore him completely. Maybe it’s his apology arc or something. Anyway—free sugar for me.”

The laughter that follows is lighter this time, genuine. Haeun watches the way his eyes crease when he smiles, the way his voice steadies when he speaks about it now. For the first time in a while, he doesn’t look weighed down talking about this topic. Maybe time really heals him.

Yechan, however, mutters under his breath, “Took him a breakup to be caring, huh?”

“Yechan,” Anna warns immediately, smacking his hand with her chopsticks.

“What?” he says defensively, rubbing his hand. “I’m just saying the truth! He couldn’t be nice before breaking hyung’s heart? Before the whole distancing yourself from your own boyfriend routine?”

Keeho bursts out laughing so hard he nearly spills his drink. “Oh my god, Yechan, relax,” he says between giggles.

“No, I won’t!” Yechan points a chopstick at him dramatically, eyes narrowing. “And hyung, if you ever get back with him, I swear I’ll— I’ll do something bad. Don’t test me.”

Haeun groans, leaning back in her seat. “Timothy Yechan Yoon, for the love of God, put your chopsticks down before you poke someone’s eye out.”

Yechan glares at her, but his defiance only lasts a moment before he breaks into a sheepish grin. Keeho’s laughter echoes through the restaurant, unrestrained and bright, his shoulders shaking. “You two are absolutely insane,” he manages to say, wiping his eyes.

“Family privilege,” Yechan replies proudly, stuffing another piece of meat into his mouth like nothing happened.

Haeun sighs, exasperated but smiling. She turns to Keeho again, really looking this time—the soft curve of his smile, the way he leans back, relaxed. There’s light in his eyes again, the kind she hasn’t seen since before the heartbreak and exams and sleepless nights. And she realizes then that maybe this—this laughter, this noise, this warmth—is what he needed all along. Not advice, not forced comfort, but simple, messy love.

Keeho catches her staring and tilts his head. “What?” he asks softly.

“Nothing,” Haeun says, her smile small but full of fondness. She picks up her chopsticks and places another perfectly grilled slice of meat onto his plate. “Just… eat more, aegi.”

He looks down at the food, then up at her, smiling back, slow and genuine. “Okay, noona.”

And so, they keep eating, talking, and laughing until the day fades into something quieter and softer. The grill cools, the last embers glowing faintly as the table grows cluttered with empty plates and half-finished drinks. And in the middle of it all, Keeho feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time—a quiet fullness that has nothing to do with food.

It’s evening when Keeho’s phone starts to ring—again. The faint vibration hums against the wooden surface of his desk, soft yet insistent, cutting through the peaceful quiet of his dorm room. The sound blends with the distant hum of the city outside and the gentle ticking of his small desk clock. He glances toward it lazily from where he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, still warm from a recent shower, his hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. A towel hangs loosely around his shoulders, and he’s dressed in a loose grey tee that hangs a little too big on him, the fabric soft from years of wear.

The sky outside has already deepened into that dreamy in-between—the kind of dusky purple that makes the clouds glow faintly against the fading light. It’s quiet, almost too quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s pressing on his chest. He squints at the caller ID lighting up the screen of his phone that’s still charging there.

Soul 🩵 calling.

He exhales through a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Persistent little thing,” he mutters to himself. His voice sounds lighter than it has been in months, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s just about to ignore it—thinking maybe he’ll call back later, when his phone’s full—when the phone lights up again, this time with a FaceTime request. The ringtone echoes cheerfully in the room. He stares at the screen for a second, sighs in defeat, then taps accept.

The screen fills with Soul’s face instantly—messy black hair that sticks out in every direction, slightly crumpled T-shirt that reads i attract drama, and the most dramatic pout Keeho’s ever seen. It’s the kind of pout that borders between annoyance and heartbreak, and it almost makes Keeho laugh before Soul even speaks.

“Stephen!” Soul’s voice bursts through the speaker, a mix of frustration and fondness. “Where were you? I’ve been calling since the afternoon!”

Keeho winces a little at the volume, grinning nonetheless. “Calm down, Soullie. My hearing’s still good. No need for shouting,” he says, chuckling as he grabs the towel from his shoulders and starts drying his hair. His voice is playful, fond. “Noona and Yechan kidnapped me today. I didn’t even get a chance to breathe. My phone died somewhere between the park and dinner, so I guess I missed your calls.” He glances back at the camera, the corners of his eyes crinkling when he smiles. “You know how they are—relentless, loud, and way too invested in my wellbeing.”

Soul lets out a deep, theatrical sigh and drops his chin onto his hand, leaning against his pillow. “They’re boring,” he mutters. “Still the same as always. Same jokes, same smiles, same ‘aegi this, hyung that’ routine. How are you not tired of them yet?”

“Hey,” Keeho laughs, shaking his head as he walks over to his desk to prop the phone against a cup. “You’d better hope they don’t hear you saying that, Soullie. Noona would be heartbroken, and Yechan—oh god, Yechan might actually show up at your dorm just to glare at you.”

Soul hums lazily, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “They wouldn’t dare. They love me too much.”

“Sure they do,” Keeho teases, flopping back onto his bed. “Anyway, why do you sound so pouty tonight? My phone’s been lagging with your calls spamming.”

Soul doesn’t answer right away. He glances off-camera, his fingers idly tugging at the edge of his blanket before he sighs again—dramatically, of course. “How do you make an angry person… not mad anymore?” he asks finally, his tone small, almost sheepish.

Keeho pauses, blinking. “That depends,” he says slowly, amusement curling at the edges of his tone. “Who’s angry at you this time?”

Soul purses his lips before finally admitting, “Seobi.”

Keeho raises an eyebrow, already stifling a laugh. “What did you do?”

Soul hesitates, then drags the words out like they physically hurt him. “I… ate his cheesecake.”

Keeho bursts into laughter—bright, uncontrolled, echoing off the walls. He leans forward until his face is just inches from the phone screen, trying to catch his breath. “You what?” he manages between laughs. “Soullie, oh my god. Will you please stop making your five-week-old boyfriend angry? The poor guy probably thinks you’re some kind of punishment since the moment he said yes to your confession.”

“I’m not that bad!” Soul whines, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it off-camera. There’s a dull thud as it hits something. “Seobi’s just—” he pauses, gesturing vaguely “—emo! He acts like I broke his heart or something. It’s just cheesecake!”

Keeho laughs harder, clutching his stomach, tears forming in his eyes. “You’re impossible,” he says between giggles. “No wonder he’s always sighing in the group chat. You’re giving him gray hairs, Soullie.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Stephen!” Soul says, pointing at the screen accusingly.

Keeho raises a hand in mock surrender, still grinning. “I am on your side! That’s why I’m telling you the truth. Just apologize, okay? Buy him another one. Or two. Maybe bribe him with boba. J-Sup’s too soft to stay mad—especially if there’s sugar involved.”

Soul groans, dramatically collapsing backward onto his bed. “You sound just like him,” he mutters. Then, voice muffled against his pillow, he adds, “He said he’ll forgive me if I let him kiss you.”

Keeho blinks, the words taking a second to process. Then he lets out another loud laugh that fills the whole room. “He what?”

Soul rolls over, face half-buried in his blanket. “He said,” he repeats, louder this time, “he’ll forgive me if I let him kiss you.” He props himself up just enough to glare at Keeho through the screen. “I love him, Stephen, I really do—but he’s crazy about you. It’s not fair. My boyfriend literally goes, ‘Keeho hyung’s so pretty’ every single day. I am his boyfriend, but never get the same compliments. I’m dying over here!”

Keeho can barely breathe through his laughter, his shoulders shaking. “Oh, Soullie,” he says, voice muffled by his giggles, “you can’t blame him. People just can’t resist me. You know that.” He flips his damp hair dramatically, smirking at the camera.

Soul groans and rolls his eyes but can’t hide the small smile creeping across his face. “You’re unbearable. You and your stupid hair flip. I can’t stand you.”

Keeho grins, leaning closer until his face fills the screen. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” he teases, winking.

Soul stares at him for a second before letting out a laugh of his own. “I swear,” he says, shaking his head, “that new ex after Theo hyung must be blind. Completely blind. How does anyone look at you and decide, ‘yeah, I’ll let that go’? Blind as fuck.”

Keeho pauses for half a heartbeat. His smile doesn’t falter, but something soft flickers in his eyes—a warmth, a small ache that he’s finally starting to understand, to heal from. “True,” he says quietly, voice low and almost fond, “that’s his loss, isn’t it?”

There’s a silence then—not awkward, just gentle. The kind of silence that feels like comfort. Soul watches him carefully through the screen, his usual teasing replaced with something genuine. “You sound better,” he says finally. “Better than the time I just got here.”

Keeho hums, running his fingers through his damp hair, a small smile forming. “Yeah,” he admits. “Today helped. Noona and Yechan—” he chuckles softly “—they never let me sulk for long. I think they’re on some secret mission to keep me from thinking too much.”

“Good,” Soul says, smiling softly. “I like it when you sound like you again.”

Keeho’s eyes soften. “And I like it when you stop stealing your boyfriend’s desserts.”

Soul sits up, clutching his blanket dramatically. “Okay, rude! That was a one-time thing!”

Keeho laughs. “Sure, Soullie. Tell that to the cheesecake’s obsessive boyfriend you have.”

“I’ll buy him a new one tomorrow,” Soul says, trying not to smile. “Maybe two. Fine. You happy now?”

Keeho leans back into his pillow, looking way too pleased with himself. “Very. Oh, and tell him if he wants to kiss me, he’s gotta get through you first.”

Soul smirks, eyes glinting. “Oh, trust me—he won’t survive that.”

Keeho’s laughter fills the quiet room again, bright and full and real. The kind that makes the air feel lighter, that carries away the heaviness that’s been sitting on his chest for days. The evening breeze drifts through the open window, cool against his skin, carrying the faint sounds of the city.

They keep talking long after that—about nothing and everything. About classes, about Jongseob’s terrible cooking, about Yechan’s weird sleep schedule. Soul teases, Keeho laughs, and somewhere between the laughter and the easy rhythm of conversation, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy anymore.

Eventually, Soul yawns mid-sentence, and Keeho bursts into laughter again. “Go to sleep, Soullie,” he says softly. “Before you pass out on camera.”

Soul mumbles something incoherent, eyes already half-shut. “Fine. But only if you promise to call tomorrow.”

Keeho smiles, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes. “I promise.”

The screen flickers, then fades to black. Keeho sits there for a while, the faint glow of his phone lighting up the nightstand. The laughter still echoes faintly in the air, tangled with the sound of crickets outside.

He exhales, long and soft. He feels lighter—warm, even. Maybe it’s the talk. Maybe it’s Soul’s endless chaos. Or maybe, he thinks as he crawls under his blanket and lets his eyes drift shut, it’s simply knowing that even after everything—after heartbreak, after nights of silence—he still has people who love him loud enough to make him laugh again.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Yoon, can you help me attend this patient with me? Emergency,” a voice calls out from across the corridor—urgent, firm, and cutting through the low hum of the hospital hallway.

Keeho looks up immediately from the nurses’ station, his pen pausing mid-note. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly, casting pale light on the crisp white tiles and the faint smell of antiseptic that clings to everything. He straightens instinctively, the familiar surge of adrenaline replacing the quiet fatigue that’s been settling in his limbs after nearly ten hours of continuous rounds.

“Yes, Dr. Kim,” he replies, already moving before the sentence fully leaves his lips. His steps are brisk but steady, his ID card swinging slightly against his chest as he follows the attending physician down the corridor toward the emergency bay.

It’s been three months since Keeho started his internship at Seoul National University Hospital — the institution that had loomed like a distant dream during his four grueling years of medical school. Four years of anatomy labs that smelled faintly of formalin, of late nights memorizing pharmacology mechanisms, of OSCE exams that made his palms sweat, of clinical postings where he shadowed seniors with eyes wide and notebook always in hand. And now, here he is—Doctor-to-be Yoon Keeho, in the flesh, navigating real emergencies instead of hypothetical case studies.

The automatic doors hiss open as they enter the emergency department. The air changes immediately—cooler, louder, filled with the sharp, urgent rhythm of organized chaos. A patient is being wheeled in on a stretcher, a young man with pallor visible even under the harsh lights. The ECG monitor beeps rapidly, the green line spiking irregularly across the screen.

“Twenty-two-year-old male, motor vehicle collision,” the paramedic reports quickly as they push the stretcher toward the resuscitation area. “Unconscious at the scene, GCS nine on arrival, BP ninety over sixty, pulse one-twenty. There’s a deep laceration to the left temporal area and possible internal bleeding.”

Keeho’s already gloving up, the sterile latex snapping against his wrist. His brain switches into focus mode—everything he’s learned in years of study aligning itself in sequence. Airway, breathing, circulation. The ABCs that had been drilled into him a thousand times now take physical form in the patient lying before him.

“Airway’s clear,” Keeho says after checking, his voice calm but quick. “Breathing’s shallow, oxygen sat’s eighty-nine percent on room air.”

“High-flow O₂, fifteen liters,” Dr. Kim instructs, and Keeho’s already reaching for the mask, securing it over the patient’s nose and mouth with practiced ease. The monitor starts to stabilize slightly, the saturation creeping upward.

Dr. Kim glances at him briefly, eyes sharp but approving. “Good. Let’s establish two large-bore IV lines. We’ll need bloods for FBC, LFT, RFT, coagulation profile, and crossmatch. Prepare for possible transfusion.”

Keeho nods. “Yes, doctor.” He moves to the patient’s right arm, palpates the vein quickly, and inserts the cannula with a steady hand. The years of clinical practice sessions pay off now—the muscle memory precise, the motion fluid. Blood fills the chamber, dark and slow.

The nurse beside him hands him gauze, and he secures the line efficiently before labeling the blood samples. There’s a sharp satisfaction that comes from efficiency—the kind that only comes after years of being the student, the observer, and finally becoming the one trusted to act.

“FAST scan shows free fluid in Morrison’s pouch,” the radiographer calls out after a few minutes, his tone confirming what Keeho and Dr. Kim had already begun to suspect.

“Possible hepatic injury,” Dr. Kim mutters, frowning slightly. “Page surgery. Tell them we’re sending a trauma case.”

Keeho quickly updates the chart, his handwriting neat but rushed, adrenaline sharpening his focus. He can feel his pulse quicken under his gloves. This is no longer the controlled environment of medical school simulations—this is real, alive, and terrifyingly human.

As they wait for the surgical team, Dr. Kim turns to him briefly. “Mr. Yoon, take over monitoring. Keep an eye on his BP. If systolic drops below eighty-five, start a second fluid bolus.”

“Yes, doctor,” Keeho says, his voice clear, though inside he feels that familiar blend of nerves and awe.

Standing at the bedside, eyes darting between the monitor and the patient, Keeho realizes how far he’s come since the first day he stepped into the anatomy lab four years ago—hands trembling, trying to remember where the carotid artery was located. The journey from memorizing cardiac murmurs to recognizing them in real patients; from observing resuscitations in silence to now leading parts of one—it’s surreal.

He adjusts the blood pressure cuff, glances at the ECG tracing again, and notes the narrowing pulse pressure. “BP dropping—eighty-four systolic,” he calls out.

“Second bolus,” Dr. Kim responds instantly.

Keeho nods, reaching for the fluids. His hands move quickly, attaching the IV line, adjusting the roller clamp until the saline flows faster. The monitor’s rhythmic beeping fills the air—a sound that both comforts and terrifies him at the same time.

Within minutes, the surgical team arrives. Orders are exchanged in rapid-fire Korean and English. “Prep for transfer to OR. Probable intra-abdominal bleed.”

Keeho steps back slightly, watching as the patient is wheeled toward the operating theater. The automatic doors close behind them, and for a moment, the noise dies down. Only the faint hum of the fluorescent lights remains.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His pulse is still high, sweat dampens the back of his neck under his scrubs, but there’s a flicker of something else there too—something bright. This is what all those sleepless nights were for.

Four years of lectures, of studying until dawn, of clinical postings at Seoul National University of Medicine—it all led him here, to this corridor, to this adrenaline, to this quiet moment of clarity after chaos. He’s still learning—still making mistakes, still second-guessing—but he’s doing it.

“Good work, Mr. Yoon,” Dr. Kim says suddenly, breaking his thoughts as she removes her gloves. “You handled that well.”

Keeho blinks, startled, then smiles faintly, bowing slightly. “Thank you, doctor.”

As she walks off to update the attending notes, Keeho looks around the emergency department once more—the hum of activity resuming, nurses moving swiftly, monitors beeping steadily. He exhales, chest rising and falling.

It’s only his third month of internship, and already, he knows this place—the corridors, the beeps, the sharp scent of disinfectant—will shape him into the doctor he’s dreamed of becoming. Not just one who knows the science, but one who can stay steady in the storm.

And as he walks back to the station to chart the case, a small, tired smile curves his lips. The night is still young. There will be more patients, more emergencies, more lessons to learn. But for now—Keeho feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He feels like he belongs here. Finally.

Keeho’s in the middle of walking back to his station when his shoe catches slightly on the linoleum, the loosened lace dragging across the polished floor. With a soft sigh, Keeho crouches down, balancing the clipboard against his knee as he reaches for the laces. His fingers move automatically, looping and pulling the fabric through with the precision of habit—quick, neat, practiced. The faint squeak of his sneakers echoes faintly down the near-empty corridor, mixing with the distant beeps of monitors and the soft hum of overhead lights. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee, the familiar scent that clings to the night shift. For the first time in hours, his shoulders drop, his breath slows, and he lets himself relax—just for a second. His mind starts to drift to the chart he still needs to finish, the patient he’s monitoring, the next cup of caffeine he’s already craving. Just another routine night.

And when he stands up again—he freezes.

There he is.

Choi Jiung.

In the flesh. Standing at the far end of the corridor, still as a photograph, looking right at him.

It takes Keeho’s brain a few seconds to catch up—to register what his eyes are seeing, to connect the ghost of a memory with the very real man standing before him. Jiung looks almost exactly the same, yet somehow older, sharper, more grounded. His hair is slightly disheveled beneath his surgical cap, a few loose strands brushing against his forehead in a way that looks infuriatingly natural. His scrubs are navy blue, sleeves slightly rolled, a pen clipped neatly to his pocket. His ID card catches the fluorescent light as he shifts slightly, the small print unmistakable even from this distance.

Choi Jiung, Medical Intern, Surgery Rotation.

The sight of that title—intern—hits Keeho in a way he doesn’t expect. It means Jiung’s here too. In the same building. Walking the same halls. Breathing the same sterile air.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.

The noise of the hospital—nurses’ chatter, the roll of trolleys, the faint hum of a monitor alarm somewhere far down the hall—fades into something distant and blurry. All that’s left is the steady buzz of the fluorescent lights above and the wild, erratic pounding of Keeho’s pulse in his ears. His throat feels suddenly dry. He thought he’d prepared for this—prepared for the possibility of running into Jiung one day. Seoul National University Hospital was huge, but not infinite. He knew, somewhere deep down, that it might happen. That someday, in the middle of his shift or on his way to grab coffee, he might see him again. He’d told himself he’d be composed, mature, maybe even indifferent. But now, faced with the living reality of Jiung—the familiar tilt of his head, the calm steadiness in his gaze, the faint exhaustion softening his expression—it hits harder than Keeho ever imagined. Every breath feels heavier. Every memory feels closer.

Jiung’s eyes are locked on him, unreadable, but not cold. Just quiet surprise—mutual recognition, maybe even something gentler. His expression is calm, but there’s a flicker behind it, something fragile and real that Keeho recognizes all too well. It’s the same look Jiung used to give him before saying something soft and dangerous. The same look that used to make Keeho’s heartbeat trip over itself.

Keeho swallows hard, gripping his clipboard tighter against his chest as if it’s the only thing keeping him steady. “…Jiung.”

The name escapes him in a whisper—half breath, half memory. It feels strange on his tongue after so many months of silence.

Jiung’s lips twitch faintly, an almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner before he exhales slowly, shoulders easing just a little. “Keeho.”

Just like that. His voice—soft, low, steady—wraps around Keeho’s name the same way it always did. Casual. Familiar. Warm, even when careful. And for a split second, Keeho feels everything he’s tried to bury stir again. The sound of his name in Jiung’s voice feels like both a wound and a comfort all at once. His chest tightens, pulse hammering beneath his skin, but he manages a small, almost nervous laugh.

“You’re here,” Jiung says after a beat, voice quiet but clear, the words carrying across the corridor easily. There’s a small, awkward pause before he adds, “Internship too?”

Keeho nods once, his throat still dry, his mouth curved into a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Emergency department,” he says softly. “Third month.”

Jiung hums, eyes flicking briefly toward the resuscitation bay behind Keeho, where the faint sound of monitors and nurses’ chatter still filters through the air. “Explains the scrubs,” he says, a tiny grin ghosting over his lips. “You always said you liked the fast-paced stuff.”

Keeho lets out a soft huff that’s almost a laugh, shaking his head. “And you? Surgery rotation?”

“Mm.” Jiung nods, his tone lightening a little, as if they’ve slipped back into an old rhythm without meaning to. “Two weeks in. Mostly assisting. Sometimes pretending I know what I’m doing.”

Keeho raises an eyebrow, amusement tugging at his mouth despite himself. “You? Pretending? That’s new.”

Jiung shrugs, smirking just faintly now. “Just don’t tell my attending,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet Keeho’s again.

For a few seconds, silence stretches between them—thick, heavy, but not uncomfortable. It hums with unspoken things instead. All the months they’ve spent apart. All the apologies Jiung tried to make without words. The cups of boba Keeho found hanging on his dorm door every morning, the quiet reminders that Jiung still thought of him. He never confronted him about it—never even confirmed it was him—but both of them knew. And both of them had carried that silence like a truce.

Jiung shifts slightly on his feet, his hand brushing the back of his neck as he exhales. “Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he admits, voice lower now. “SNUH’s big, huh?”

Keeho nods, his grip on the clipboard loosening just a little, his shoulders relaxing as he meets Jiung’s gaze again. “Yeah,” he says, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Guess fate’s smaller than I thought.”

That earns him a quiet laugh from Jiung—a short exhale that almost sounds relieved. “You look tired,” he says after a beat, eyes scanning Keeho’s face with the kind of attentiveness that makes Keeho’s stomach twist.

Keeho laughs softly, shaking his head, brushing a few damp strands of hair away from his forehead. “Occupational hazard,” he says lightly.

“You still smile through it,” Jiung murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Keeho looks at him for a long, suspended moment, his heartbeat stuttering somewhere between old affection and something dangerously close to hope. “And you,” he says finally, voice quiet but teasing, “still wear those same shoes I bought for you.”

Jiung glances down, then lets out a small laugh. “Yeah. Some things don’t change,” he says softly, looking up again.

And for a moment—just a moment—the world feels still. The corridor hums with distant life: the shuffle of nurses, the soft whoosh of air-conditioning, the beep of an elevator somewhere. But between them, everything holds its breath. Two interns. Two sets of scrubs. Two hearts that once beat together and are now, somehow, finding their rhythm again in the same sterile hallway.

Keeho exhales, the sound soft and trembling at the edges. His chest feels lighter and heavier all at once. And in that fragile stillness, he realizes something simple but profound—that no matter how much time has passed, no matter how much he’s convinced himself he’s moved on, seeing Jiung here, under the same lights, wearing the same tired expression of a healer in training, still feels like being thrown right back into the part of his heart he thought he’d finally sutured shut.

“Care to join me for a coffee run?” Jiung asks slowly, his voice low and a little uncertain, as if testing the air between them. The tension that once wrapped around their conversations—tight and suffocating—seems to have dissolved into something quieter now. Not gone, not forgotten, but softened. Like an old bruise fading beneath the skin, still there when pressed, but no longer throbbing.

Keeho looks up from his clipboard, caught slightly off guard by the offer. The corners of his lips lift into a faint, almost shy smile. “Sure,” he says simply, slipping the pen into his pocket before tucking both hands into the loose folds of his scrub pants. His tone is casual, but there’s something else glimmering in his eyes—nostalgia, curiosity, and maybe the quiet relief of realizing that things don’t have to stay broken forever.

They start walking down the corridor together. The hum of the hospital trails behind them—a low, steady symphony of monitors, footsteps, and murmured orders that never seems to stop. The corridor stretches long and sterile, lit by fluorescent lights that buzz gently above their heads. Every few seconds, the elevator dings, a nurse hurries past, or a pair of interns scuttle by with clipboards clutched to their chests. But between Jiung and Keeho, there’s stillness. Calm, steady quiet. The kind of silence that finally feel comfortable between them. The kind that meant understanding, not distance anymore.

By the time they reach the hospital café, the sky beyond the glass walls has deepened into an indigo dusk, streaked faintly with violet and orange—the last traces of the sunset melting into night. The café itself smells faintly of roasted beans and vanilla syrup, its dim light spilling warm shadows across the floor. A few tired interns sit scattered across tables, typing case reports or absentmindedly stirring cups of lukewarm coffee.

Keeho and Jiung fall in line at the counter, shoulders just barely brushing as they step forward together. It’s a small touch, unintentional, but enough to make the air between them feel charged again.

“It’s been a long time, huh?” Jiung says finally, his voice breaking the silence. His tone is soft, unsure.

Keeho blinks, glancing at him with mild curiosity. “Hmm?”

“Since the… you know.” Jiung gestures vaguely, his hand making a helpless wave in the air before falling awkwardly to his side. His gaze flicks toward the menu board like it suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world.

Keeho chuckles quietly, a soft sound that escapes before he can stop it. “Oh. That.” He hums thoughtfully, pretending to count. “Eight months now? Nine? Almost a year, actually.” His smile widens, fond but teasing. “You’re everywhere though. You sure you’re not haunting me?”

Jiung laughs, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar way Keeho knows too well. “Maybe I am. I’m just… trying to make my apology seen, I guess.” His words come out half-sheepish, half-sincere.

Keeho tilts his head, eyes glinting with humor. “By giving me diabetes?” he teases, laughter bubbling out. “You’ve been hanging boba on my door every day. Every. Day. I think I’ve reached my sugar limit for a lifetime. If I ever so much as look at another brown sugar pearl again, I might pass out.”

Jiung laughs too, ducking his head with a grin. “Yeah, not exactly my brightest idea, huh?”

“Not the worst, though,” Keeho says, leaning casually against the counter. “At least you didn’t show up at my door singing or something.”

Jiung feigns a scandalized look. “Oh, I considered it.”

Keeho freezes for a second, then laughs so hard he nearly doubles over. “You didn’t!”

“I did,” Jiung says proudly, though his grin betrays him. “Was thinking maybe a little ballad moment. You know, heartfelt apology via music.”

“God,” Keeho groans between laughs, “thank you for not doing that. I would’ve moved cities. Or countries.”

Their laughter fills the café—light, unrestrained, and so achingly familiar that for a fleeting moment, the walls between them seem to dissolve completely. It’s easy. It’s natural. It’s the kind of sound that used to echo through their shared apartment late at night, when things were still simple and love didn’t hurt.

But when the laughter fades, something gentler settles between them. Jiung’s smile falters slightly as he exhales, his eyes dropping to his hands. “Keeho…” he begins quietly, the word weighted.

Keeho glances up, already knowing what’s coming.

“I’m sorry—”

“Hey.” Keeho cuts in gently, shaking his head. His tone is soft but firm. “Stop with the sorrys, Jiung.”

Jiung blinks, thrown off. “Huh?”

Keeho’s lips curve into a small, understanding smile—the kind that’s both forgiving and final. “You’ve already been forgiven. A long time ago, actually.” His gaze softens, and there’s no bitterness there. “Like, a night after it happened? Maybe even sooner. You cried so much on my sofa that night, remember? You didn’t even lock the door after you left.”

Jiung’s eyes widen a little, surprised. “I didn’t?”

Keeho shrugs. “Hmm. God bless Medicine’s too hard to pass for them to not rob me. Besides, I don’t see the point. I was too tired to hate you.” He grins then, teasing again, trying to lighten the mood. “So yeah, you can stop apologizing now. I’m okay.”

For a moment, Jiung just stares at him. Really looks. And in Keeho’s expression—calm, bright, unguarded—he finds something that makes his chest ache. Relief, admiration, and a hint of guilt all mix together.

“You’re too kind for your own good, you know that?” Jiung murmurs, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly. His voice carries a warmth that wasn’t there before.

Keeho chuckles, accepting his drink from the barista. “Hmm. Your loss then.” He winks, turning toward the exit. “Loser.”

Jiung blinks. “What—”

But before he can react, Keeho’s already sprinting off toward the door, laughter echoing behind him. “Loser has to treat the winner!” he calls over his shoulder, his voice echoing through the hall.

Jiung stands there for half a second, stunned—then laughs, full and loud, the kind that comes from deep in the chest. “Really a loser, am I?” he mutters, shaking his head fondly as he pulls out his wallet to pay for both their drinks.

“Yah! Wait for me!” he shouts, breaking into a jog as Keeho disappears around the corner.

Their sneakers squeak against the polished floor, laughter chasing through the corridor. A nurse passing by glances up, startled but smiling faintly at the sight of two interns—exhausted, overworked, but somehow still finding moments to be young again.

Keeho looks back just in time to see Jiung catching up, his grin wide and breathless. “You’re really bad at this, you know?” he teases.

Jiung laughs, panting. “You started before I even said yes!”

“Still won,” Keeho says, triumphant, taking a sip of his coffee.

Jiung leans forward, resting his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, straightening with a grin that softens at the edges. “You always do.”

Keeho’s laughter quiets, and for a second, he forgets how to breathe. It’s not the words—it’s the way Jiung says them. Gentle. Sincere. Almost like a confession in disguise.

He looks away quickly, pretending to adjust his cup. “You’re still a loser,” he mumbles.

Jiung chuckles, low and easy. “Hmm. And I’m okay with that.”

The corridor is calm again, the chaos of the hospital fading into a soft, rhythmic hum—the kind that feels like the steady beat of something mending. Keeho glances sideways at Jiung, and this time, there’s no ache. Just quiet acceptance.

For the first time in a long while, it doesn’t hurt to stand beside him.

And in that small, unremarkable moment—two interns, two cups of coffee, standing under the flicker of tired fluorescent lights—something inside both of them begins to heal.

The months of silence, the bruised apologies, the ache of what once was—all of it softens, settling into the background. Maybe forgiveness doesn’t always come with grand gestures. Maybe sometimes it’s found here, in small smiles, in shared laughter, in the quiet act of choosing to stay just a little longer.

So there they are—two tired hearts, two uncertain souls, learning to be steady again. Not in the way they once were, but in the way they’re meant to be now.

Two interns. Two cups of coffee. One quiet night at SNUH.

And maybe, just maybe, the start of something healing.