Archive of Our Own

The cottage sat in the crook of the woods like it had grown there, stone bones softened by creeping ivy and the weight of years. Its windows glowed faintly against the twilight, warm but muted, like candlelight under thick glass. Inside, everything had its place: books stacked in deliberate towers, dried herbs hanging from dark beams (purely for scent, not spells), a black cat asleep in the sun’s last slant of gold. It smelled faintly of rain-soaked soil, coffee grounds, and the must of paper—a comforting sort of gloom.

This was Kyungsoo’s domain.

He did not mind solitude. He liked the sound of the wind pushing through trees, the creak of wood as the house settled, the whisper of pages turning. His days fell into a quiet rhythm: wake up, feed the cat, make tea, read until the light faded. Occasionally, he’d tend the small garden out back, where nothing bloomed in color—just shades of dark green and deep red, as if the soil understood his preference for restraint.

He wasn’t a witch.

He just happened to look like a stereotypical one.

It wasn’t intentional. The black clothing, the boots, the silver rings—they were simply practical, he told himself. Black didn’t show dirt. Leather lasted longer. The rings kept his hands from fidgeting. The fact that he looked like he was auditioning for a gothic fairy tale was purely circumstantial.

And yet, despite the very plain truth of his unmagical existence, someone knocked on his door again.

He glanced up from his book, already exhaling.

It always started the same way: three uncertain taps, a pause, then a fourth—polite, but hopeful. Kyungsoo’s cat lifted its head from the chair, blinking slowly at him, as if to say, Your fans are here again.

“Yes, yes, I hear it,” Kyungsoo muttered.

He slid a pressed fern between the pages to mark his place, pushed up from the armchair, and trudged to the door. The hinges groaned as he opened it, letting in the sharp green scent of the forest.

Outside stood a young woman clutching a glass jar filled with something that looked suspiciously like pond water and desperation. Her cloak was travel-worn, her boots muddy. The look on her face was one of cautious reverence—the same look every visitor had when they thought they’d finally found him.

“The Witch of the Golden Woods?” she asked breathlessly.

Kyungsoo blinked at her. He let the question hang in the air long enough for the cat to yawn from the doorway.

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not the witch.”

The disappointment was immediate and theatrical. Her shoulders sagged; she looked down at her jar like it had personally betrayed her.

“Oh,” she murmured. “I—I was told this was his house.”

Kyungsoo sighed, the kind of sigh that carried years of repetition. “He lives over there.”

He pointed lazily across the dirt path that divided his shaded corner from the opposite clearing. And there, framed by sunlight and absurdity, was Jongin.

The witch himself—or as Kyungsoo privately referred to him: the human embodiment of a sunbeam that refuses to dim.

Jongin’s cottage looked like a painting that had eaten too many colors. Flowers in impossible hues spilled over the fences, glowing faintly even in daylight. Herbs floated above their pots like balloons, tied to threads of golden magic. Wind chimes sang in languages only bees understood.

And in the middle of it all stood Jongin—tall, warm-skinned, and devastatingly handsome in the kind of way that made even the forest pause for a second. His hair was dark and soft-looking, the ends curling where sunlight kissed them. His skin carried a bronze warmth, like he’d been carved from sunlight that refused to fade. His mouth curved easily, the kind of smile that made people believe in good omens, and when he laughed, dimples deepened in his cheeks like they had a gravity of their own. He wore a gold waistcoat over a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms—casual and radiant all at once, a little too beautiful to be real, like someone had taken all the charm and mischief in the world and decided to house it in one person.

When he noticed them looking, Jongin waved.

Of course he did.

His entire face lit up—eyes crinkling, dimple showing, hair catching the sun like spun honey. He shouted something unintelligible but friendly across the distance, probably an invitation to tea or help with a potion or both.

The traveler gasped. “Oh! That’s him, isn’t it? He’s so—”

“Yes. He’s the witch,” Kyungsoo interrupted before she could say any more.

He turned back inside, adding with a dry edge, “You can’t miss him. His whole house practically glows.”

She stammered a quick thank-you and practically ran down the path, nearly tripping over a root in her haste. Jongin caught sight of her and immediately moved to greet her—taking the jar, inspecting it with fascination, nodding enthusiastically as if pond water were the most exciting thing he’d seen all day.

Kyungsoo watched for exactly two seconds.

Then he closed the door.

The latch clicked with satisfying finality.

Behind him, the cat jumped down and wound itself around his ankles, purring smugly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I don’t make the rules. I just redirect the lost ones.”

The cat meowed—possibly in agreement, possibly in mockery.

Kyungsoo returned to his chair, picked up his book, and tried to find his place again. Outside, he could hear laughter floating faintly through the trees—Jongin’s laughter, bright and unbothered, like sunlight trying to slip through cracks.

He told himself it was irritating. Distracting. A public service hazard.

And yet, when the wind shifted and carried the scent of Jongin’s herbs through his open window—rosemary, mint, and something faintly citrus—Kyungsoo didn’t close it.

He just sat back, let the sound fade, and muttered under his breath, “He glows too much for someone living in a forest.”

The cat purred louder, as if in agreement.

The next knock, he suspected, would come in another two or three days. Maybe sooner if far too many adventurers had injured themselves or wanted an enchanted tool or relic. Either way, Kyungsoo knew his line by heart.

“No, I’m not the witch. He lives over there.”

And the world would continue its absurd balance—shadow and sunlight, sighs and waves—two cottages across a narrow path, each too aware of the other’s existence.

The forest, as it turned out, had no respect for Kyungsoo’s peace. Barely two days after the last intrusion, another knock came—polite but insistent—right in the middle of a paragraph he’d been actually enjoying. Kyungsoo closed his eyes, counted to three, and muttered to the cat, “If it’s them again, I’m moving underground.”

He opened the door.

This time, three adventurers stood before him, looking like they’d survived a tavern brawl and then lost to a bramble patch. One of them held up a broken amulet that pulsed faintly green.

“We were told to find the Witch of the Golden Woods,” the tallest one said, voice dripping with drama. “He can repair any magical relic.”

Kyungsoo stared at the cracked trinket, then at their expectant faces. He could feel the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes.

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not the witch.”

When they hesitated, he added the line that now came as naturally as breathing. “He lives over there.”

He pointed across the path, where Jongin was standing knee-deep in sunlight, holding a basket of herbs and waving like an overly friendly saint. His golden waistcoat shimmered in the light, and his smile could’ve melted the frost off pine bark. The adventurers barely managed a mumbled thanks before jogging toward him. Jongin waved harder, bright and delighted, like this was his favorite part of the day.

Kyungsoo shut the door. Firmly.

A few mornings later, two villagers arrived just as he was trimming his ivy. The woman was pale with worry, her husband coughing into a handkerchief beside her.

“Excuse us, Witch of the Golden Woods. We were told,” she said anxiously, “that you could make a potion for illness.”

Kyungsoo set down his shears and gave her the kindest expression he could manage—which, admittedly, wasn’t very kind at all.

“I’m not the witch,” he said, tone as even as the hedge line. “He lives over there.”

They turned, and there he was again: Jongin, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair in soft disarray, sunlight dripping from his skin. He was grinding something with a mortar and pestle, humming under his breath. When he saw them, he lit up instantly.

“Oh, hello! Come in—oh dear, you look very unwell. I’ll make something soothing for the chest. It smells awful, but it works!”

The woman looked ready to cry from relief. Kyungsoo, meanwhile, considered crying from sheer exasperation. He sighed and went back to pruning his ivy.

By the end of the week, he thought he’d seen every kind of lost soul the forest could produce—until someone in silk robes knocked at dusk, perfume clouding the air like fog. The woman curtsied deeply, eyes glittering behind her veil. “I was told the witch could make me radiant. I want my skin to sparkle like moonlight.”

Kyungsoo blinked once. Then twice. He wanted to say, What do you people eat that gives you ideas like this? Instead, he deadpanned, “He lives over there.”

Her face brightened. “Oh! But will it—does he do love spells, too?”

“He doesn’t,” Kyungsoo replied quickly. “Something about consent. But he might make you prettier.” Then, after a beat, “Though it’s really just a confidence spell. You end up glowing because you think you do.”

The woman blinked, as if unsure whether to be offended or inspired.

Across the clearing, Jongin was crouched among his flowers, coaxing a vine to climb a trellis with little flicks of his fingers. Fireflies circled him lazily, drawn to the gold threaded through his waistcoat. When he noticed them watching, he waved, that same bright, open smile splitting across his face.

The woman sighed dreamily. “Oh, he’s beautiful.”

Kyungsoo muttered, already closing the door. “Unfortunately.”

After that, it became a sort of rhythm. Knocks came and went—travelers, villagers, wanderers, each clutching something broken or hopeful. Kyungsoo would answer, eyes half-lidded, voice flat from repetition.

“No. Not me.”
Points.
“He lives over there.”

And across the way, Jongin would wave.

Always.

Sometimes with both hands, sometimes with a spoon mid-stir, sometimes surrounded by levitating teacups or giggling foxes—but always grinning like the sun had decided to live in his mouth.

Kyungsoo insisted it was annoying. The brightness. The laughter. The constant, endless waving. He told himself so every time the cat flicked its tail at him like it didn’t believe a word. But somewhere between all the knocks, Kyungsoo began to notice things. The way the light from Jongin’s cottage stayed warm well into the night. The faint hum of his singing drifted through the trees when the air was still. The scent of herbs and citrus rode the wind whenever Jongin opened a window.

He started keeping count—not on purpose, of course. Just… observation.

By midsummer, he could tell when a knock was due within a day or two. He’d glance up from his book right before it came, a sigh already forming on his lips. But when a full week passed without a single visitor, Kyungsoo realized the quiet didn’t feel like peace anymore. It felt… wrong. By the sixth day, his tea tasted dull. By the seventh, he’d checked the path three separate times, pretending he was just making sure the ivy hadn’t overgrown again.

Then, just as the sun began to set on that seventh evening, there was a knock. Kyungsoo exhaled in relief before he could stop himself. He smoothed his hair, set down his book, and opened the door—fully prepared to deliver his usual line.

But it wasn’t a stranger.

Jongin stood there, golden in the dying light, waistcoat unbuttoned and smile shy for once. He held an empty jar in both hands.

“Hi,” he said. “Sorry to bother you. I ran out of sugar.”

For a moment, Kyungsoo just stared at him. The words No, I’m not the witch hovered on his tongue and then quietly died.

He handed over the jar without a word.

And when Jongin’s grin bloomed like sunlight through glass, Kyungsoo didn’t shut the door right away.

Across the path, the witch worked in gold.

Kyungsoo saw it sometimes through the window—threads of light twisting in the air like molten ribbon, curling gently between Jongin’s hands as if the sunlight itself obeyed him. His cottage always glowed: not harshly, but in a soft, honeyed way, the kind of warmth that clung to your skin instead of your eyes. Even his herbs seemed happier for it; they leaned toward him as he moved, petals unfolding like they knew who had coaxed them to bloom.

Jongin’s magic wasn’t the sort of thing one feared. It didn’t crackle or hiss or turn the wind wild. It shimmered. It laughed. It glowed.

Kyungsoo had once caught sight of him through the open shutters, stirring something golden in a pot that refused to stay still, the liquid rippling as if it were alive. A villager sat across from him at the table—a girl with uneven bangs and tearful eyes, fingers twisting nervously in her lap.

Jongin leaned forward, voice calm and kind.

“It’s called a confidence charm,” he explained, tipping the pot gently so the brew caught the light. “People call it a beauty spell, but that’s not really what it does. It won’t change your face or your body.”

The girl looked crestfallen. Jongin smiled, soft and sure.

“It just helps people see the beauty that’s already there,” he said. “You included.”

Kyungsoo could hear her laugh faintly even from his side of the clearing—small, shaky, but real. The sound made something in his chest tighten, though he would never admit it aloud.

The villagers who knew the witch adored him, of course.

They came bearing baskets of fruit and fresh bread, thank-you notes written in uneven handwriting, and flowers that wilted too quickly but were always replaced. Jongin never turned them away. He’d accept every gift like it was sacred, offering tea in return, smiling like their gratitude humbled him.

Kyungsoo, meanwhile, watched from his window with the expression of a man observing a natural disaster.

“That’s the tenth person this week,” he muttered into his tea. “At this point, he should open a clinic.”

The cat, as usual, ignored him.

“Dangerously optimistic idiot,” Kyungsoo grumbled, though the words lacked bite.

Because the thing was—Jongin was dangerously optimistic. He gave away his magic like it cost nothing. A little light for courage. A charm for self-assurance. A glowing trinket for children afraid of the dark. It was all harmless, Kyungsoo supposed. Harmless and heartbreakingly sincere. But sincerity made him uneasy. People like Jongin—bright, guileless—burned too easily in a world that didn’t always deserve them. So Kyungsoo told himself he didn’t care. That it wasn’t his business. That his life was perfectly fine without being occasionally blinded by someone else’s sunlight.

And yet, he found himself listening.

Whenever Jongin laughed—that deep, warm sound that carried easily through the trees—Kyungsoo’s quill would still, his eyes lifting instinctively toward the sound. The laugh always came in bursts, like a small fire crackling to life.

He’d mutter, “Dangerously optimistic idiot,” every single time.

Sometimes twice.

Once, on a rare day when the sky stayed gray and even Jongin’s flowers drooped a little, Kyungsoo stepped outside for fresh air. The path between their cottages was quiet except for the rustle of leaves and the faint chime of magic.

He paused, noticing the door to Jongin’s cottage open—and through it, the witch himself, humming softly as he coaxed his cauldron to cool. The golden brew shimmered faintly, its light dimmed but not gone.

“You should rest,” Kyungsoo called out before he could stop himself. His voice came out rougher than intended.

Jongin looked up, surprised. Then he smiled—that same bright, unguarded smile that seemed impossible to dim. “Oh! Kyungsoo! Hi!”

“Don’t ‘hi’ me,” Kyungsoo muttered. “You’ve been up all day with those potions.”

“They’re charms,” Jongin corrected, as if that made it better. “And they’re gentle! Just a little gold dust and intent. Besides, people are happy. That’s what matters, right?”

Kyungsoo frowned. “You can’t keep doing that forever. Magic takes energy. You’ll burn yourself out.”

Jongin tilted his head, considering that. “Maybe,” he said softly. “But it also gives energy back, sometimes. When people smile? When they feel better about themselves? It’s like—” He paused, searching for the word. “Like breathing sunshine. Makes it easier to exist.”

Kyungsoo blinked at him. “…You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably,” Jongin said with a grin. “But it works for me.”

He waved—of course he did—before disappearing back inside, leaving the door ajar and the scent of mint and honey drifting on the air. Kyungsoo stood there longer than necessary, pretending to study the ivy creeping along his fence. Then he turned and muttered, mostly to the cat now weaving around his ankles, “He’s going to set himself on fire with that attitude one day.”

The cat meowed, unconvinced.

That night, the forest felt unusually still. No knocks. No laughter. Just the faint pulse of gold from across the path, flickering softly through the window like a heartbeat.

Kyungsoo found himself reading the same line three times before realizing he hadn’t absorbed a word. He looked out his window and saw Jongin sitting by the open door, legs folded, lanterns bobbing lazily around him. He was alone—no visitors, no villagers—just him and the warm hum of his magic.

The sight shouldn’t have held Kyungsoo’s attention, but it did. The glow gilded Jongin’s profile, the slope of his cheekbone, the curve of his mouth. He looked peaceful. Gentle. Like a star that had chosen to live small for a while.

Kyungsoo sighed, leaning his chin on his hand.

“Dangerously optimistic idiot,” he whispered again.

But this time, he almost smiled when he said it.

The afternoon started peacefully enough.

Kyungsoo was in his garden, trimming the ivy that insisted on climbing toward the roof. The forest hummed quietly around him, cicadas droning in lazy harmony with the breeze. Today, there were no knocks, no footsteps, no laughter drifting across the path—only the rare, golden silence of uninterrupted calm.

He should have known it wouldn’t last.

Because calm, as he’d learned, never lasted long when Jongin was involved.

The first sign of trouble was a faint pop. Then a hiss. Then something that sounded disturbingly like a cork flying into the ceiling.

Kyungsoo frowned, glancing up from his shears. “...Oh no.”

A heartbeat later, a blast of golden light erupted from Jongin’s cottage.

It wasn’t violent—more like an enthusiastic sneeze of magic—but it sent a wave of glitter and sparkles bursting through the open windows, spilling into the air in a shining storm. The breeze caught it instantly, scattering flecks of light across the path and straight into Kyungsoo’s yard.

He didn’t even have time to move.

Within seconds, his ivy shimmered. His fence shimmered. His cat shimmered, fur glowing faintly under the dusting of gold.

Kyungsoo blinked. Then blinked again.

He looked down. His sleeves sparkled. His boots sparkled. His hair—he reached up, touched it—definitely sparkled.

He exhaled through his nose. Slowly. “Of course.”

Across the way, Jongin’s door slammed open.

“Oh no, no, no, no—!” the witch yelped, stumbling out in a cloud of his own creation. His hair was a storm of light, his hands glittering with the evidence of his crime. “Kyungsoo! Are you okay? I didn’t—oh gods, it spread this far?”

Kyungsoo crossed his arms, the picture of offense. “You turned my yard into a children’s festival.”

“I can fix it!” Jongin promised, voice breathless with panic as he waved his hands frantically in a series of gestures that did not look reassuring.

“You’ll fix it by standing very still and not touching anything,” Kyungsoo said sharply, stepping through the sparkling path that used to be his walkway. “Because if you explode a second time, I am moving to the ocean.”

Jongin’s mouth opened, closed, and then—he laughed. Just a small, helpless sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said between chuckles. “It was supposed to be a glamour charm. Something for self-confidence. The mixture must’ve reacted wrong when I—”

“—forgot basic safety precautions?” Kyungsoo supplied dryly.

“—when I smiled too much at it,” Jongin corrected sheepishly.

Kyungsoo stopped halfway across the path and just looked at him. The man was covered in gold. His eyelashes caught the light like spun sugar; even the freckles on his cheeks shimmered faintly.

It was infuriating.

And, objectively, unfair.

By the time Kyungsoo reached him, his irritation had evolved into something dangerously close to fond disbelief. “You’ve turned the entire forest into a midsummer fair.”

“I know,” Jongin said miserably. “I’m so, so sorry. Let me just—wait, hold still—”

Before Kyungsoo could protest, Jongin stepped closer and brushed his fingers lightly over Kyungsoo’s collar, trying to wipe away a streak of glitter. His touch was gentle, clumsy in its sincerity.

“It’s everywhere,” Jongin murmured. “Even your—uh—”

“My dignity?” Kyungsoo suggested.

Jongin’s mouth curved, that familiar grin breaking through his guilt. “I was going to say, ‘your hair,’ but that too.”

Kyungsoo swatted his hand away, but not hard enough to actually stop him. “Don’t touch me with glitter on your fingers. You’ll just spread it—”

A sudden pop! cut him off.

Another cloud of magic fizzled out between them, smaller this time but close enough that it left Jongin blinking through a haze of gold. When the dust settled, Kyungsoo stared.

Jongin’s hair was shimmering—actually shimmering—like someone had trapped sunlight in every strand.

“Oh, great,” Kyungsoo muttered. “Now you’re glowing.”

Jongin blinked, then smiled. “You noticed.”

Kyungsoo glared at him. Or tried to. It came out softer than he intended. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re sparkling,” Jongin said, laughter slipping into his voice again. “We match.”

The words were absurdly casual, but they did something unhelpful to Kyungsoo’s pulse. He turned away quickly, brushing glitter from his sleeves with far more force than necessary.

“Just clean it up,” he said stiffly. “Before the forest animals start hosting a light show.”

“I am cleaning,” Jongin protested, stepping forward and waving his hands in an attempt at a counterspell. Golden motes rose, swirled—then promptly burst again, showering both of them with more sparkle.

Kyungsoo closed his eyes. “...You’re making it worse.”

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder.”

They stood in the haze of gold, Jongin sputtering apologies and Kyungsoo exhaling long-suffering sighs until eventually, the air settled. The glitter still clung to everything, of course—no amount of magic could undo that—but the chaos had dimmed to a soft, twinkling stillness.

Jongin looked around at the sparkling grass, then down at Kyungsoo—whose dark clothes now glowed faintly in the late afternoon light. “You actually look…” Jongin hesitated, smile turning almost shy. “Kind of beautiful like that.”

Kyungsoo blinked. Once. Twice. “You’re concussed from inhaling glitter.”

“I’m serious.”

“Stop talking.”

Jongin laughed again, that low, warm sound that managed to make even embarrassment feel like sunshine. “Alright, alright. I’ll, um, come by tomorrow. To help clean up.”

“You’ll stay exactly there until I decide it’s safe to let you near open air again,” Kyungsoo said, retreating toward his door. His cat trotted beside him, still shimmering faintly like it had been dipped in stars.

Before stepping inside, he glanced back. Jongin stood there in the glittering wreck of his own spell, golden and smiling, sheepish and radiant all at once. Kyungsoo huffed—mostly to himself—and muttered, “Idiot witch.”

But even he couldn’t quite suppress the curve of his mouth when Jongin, hearing him, grinned wider and called, “See you tomorrow, neighbor!”

The glitter sparkled in the air between them long after he shut the door.

For three blissful days after the glitter catastrophe, Kyungsoo thought the world might have finally returned to its natural order—quiet, shadowed, mercifully un-sparkling.

Then, on the fourth day, there was a knock.

He opened the door to find Jongin on his porch again, looking far too golden for someone who had committed such crimes against good taste.

“Hi,” Jongin said, holding a small watering can. “Just wanted to make sure your plants aren’t still glowing.”

“They were never glowing,” Kyungsoo replied flatly. “They were cursed with radiance.”

Jongin grinned. “Right. I just thought I’d… check for lingering effects.”

He peered over Kyungsoo’s shoulder, eyes catching on the ivy trailing along the window. It did, admittedly, shimmer faintly when the sun hit it. Kyungsoo cursed under his breath.

Jongin’s expression softened. “It’s kind of pretty.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I could fix it.”

“You’ve fixed enough.”

Jongin laughed, low and sheepish, and for reasons Kyungsoo would never admit aloud, he let him in.

They spent the morning inspecting the plants, which Jongin swore still held traces of residual magic. He crouched beside the ivy, brow furrowed in adorable concentration, while Kyungsoo pretended to tidy his shelves but mostly watched the way sunlight played along Jongin’s hair.

When Jongin accidentally knocked a mug off the table with his elbow, it should’ve shattered. Instead, it split neatly into two pieces, gold light seaming along the cracks before knitting itself back together.

Jongin looked up, guilty. “I didn’t mean to—”

Kyungsoo picked up the mug. The break had sealed perfectly, a delicate golden line tracing its middle like a vein of sunlight.

“…Hm,” Kyungsoo said, inspecting it. “That’s actually… not awful.”

Jongin brightened. “You can call it rustic charm.”

“I’ll call it witch-induced vandalism.”

But he placed it carefully back on the shelf, and when Jongin left, the mug remained—glowing faintly in the dimness.

The next day, it was biscuits.

Or, as Jongin claimed, an excess of biscuits.

“I baked too much,” he said, holding out a basket that smelled like butter and cinnamon. “Again.”

Kyungsoo eyed the pile suspiciously. “How do you accidentally bake too much?”

“My hands get overexcited.”

“Your hands.”

“Yes.” Jongin smiled, unfazed. “Also, I wanted to see if the glitter finally came out of your cat’s fur.”

“It hasn’t.”

“That’s adorable.”

Kyungsoo didn’t dignify that with an answer. But he took the basket, set it on the table, and—after exactly two minutes of pretending he wasn’t going to—made tea.

Jongin sank into the chair across from him, shoulders slumping in a way that made Kyungsoo realize how tired he looked beneath all that radiance. The perpetual glow dimmed a little when he wasn’t smiling.

“You work too much,” Kyungsoo said quietly, pouring the tea into a chipped cup.

“I like helping people,” Jongin said. “But yes, maybe I overdo it sometimes.”

Kyungsoo pushed the cup toward him. “Drink this.”

Jongin’s lips quirked up. “You don’t even like me, and you’re making me tea.”

“I’m making tea because I don’t want you fainting on my floor.”

“That’s very kind of you, neighbor.”

“Drink before I change my mind.”

He did. And when Jongin smiled, eyes half-lidded in contentment, Kyungsoo found himself looking away a little too quickly, muttering something about over-steeped leaves just to fill the silence.

The third time Jongin came, he didn’t bother pretending there was a reason.

Well—he tried.

“My familiar brought your sock back,” he said earnestly, holding up something suspiciously fluffy. “Do you own socks like these?”

Kyungsoo blinked. “…That’s a glove.”

“Oh.” Jongin turned it over. “That makes sense. I thought you had strange feet.”

Kyungsoo exhaled through his nose, fighting a smile. “Why are you really here?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” Jongin asked, stepping inside before Kyungsoo could stop him. He was carrying a small jar of honey and, for some reason, a bundle of daisies. “I thought maybe your house could use a bit of color.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It could.”

Jongin placed the daisies in an empty cup, and somehow, they didn’t look out of place. The pale yellow brightened the room, softening its shadows. For a man who specialized in chaos, Jongin had a way of making things look effortlessly right.

He leaned against the table, watching Kyungsoo with a curious, quiet sort of gaze. “You don’t use magic, huh?”

Kyungsoo didn’t look up from the book he was pretending to read. “I don’t need it.”

“You could, though,” Jongin said softly. “You’d be good at it.”

Kyungsoo turned a page. “I prefer when things stay as they are.”

There was a pause—light, thoughtful. When Jongin spoke again, his voice had gentled to something almost tender.

“You’d still be the prettiest thing in the room, even if they didn’t.”

Kyungsoo froze, heart stuttering traitorously.

He looked up, ready to retort—but Jongin was already fussing with the flowers again, pretending not to notice the flush creeping up Kyungsoo’s neck.

“…You’re insufferable,” Kyungsoo muttered at last.

Jongin’s grin was slow, golden. “You let me in every time, though.”

“That’s because you’d probably set the forest on fire if left unsupervised.”

“Still counts,” Jongin said brightly.

And somehow, it did.

After that, Jongin’s visits became part of the rhythm of Kyungsoo’s days. A knock here, a laugh there, the scent of something freshly baked drifting through the door. The cottage that had once been all shadow and solitude began to feel... lighter.

Jongin filled the air with warmth and color, with the sound of his easy laughter and the faint shimmer of lingering gold that no amount of cleaning could ever quite erase.

And though Kyungsoo would never say it out loud, there were mornings he found himself glancing toward the path—waiting for the sound of another knock.

The morning arrived like any other—soft mist coiling through the trees, the air cool enough to taste like rain.

But something was wrong.

For the first time in weeks, there was no glitter caught in the sunlight, no faint hum of floating herbs, no warm laughter tumbling through the open forest path.

Kyungsoo noticed it before his tea even finished steeping. He tried to ignore it at first, sipping quietly in the shadowed calm of his cottage. No golden blur passed by the window. No voice calling, “Good morning!” from across the way.

He told himself it was a blessing.

Finally, silence.

Finally, peace.

He even said it out loud, just to make it sound true. “Quiet. Lovely. Exactly how it should be.”

His cat, still faintly iridescent from the incident weeks before, stared at him from the windowsill with a look that could only be described as accusatory.

Kyungsoo frowned. “Don’t look at me like that.”

The cat blinked, tail flicking once.

“I don’t miss him,” Kyungsoo said. “He’s probably busy. That’s all.”

The cat blinked again.

By noon, he had read the same page of his book six times. By afternoon, he found himself glancing at the clock and thinking how Jongin would’ve shown up by now with some absurd excuse—a misplaced herb, a runaway teacup, too many muffins. The silence settled heavier with every hour, until the sound of it pressed against his ribs.

By sunset, Kyungsoo gave up the pretense entirely.

He muttered something vague about “checking for fire hazards” and crossed the path.

Jongin’s cottage looked… wrong.

The flowers still bloomed, but their colors seemed muted, as though the light had forgotten how to reach them. The little floating herbs hung low to the ground, sluggish and dim. Even the ever-present hum of warmth that usually spilled from Jongin’s home had quieted to a faint flicker.

Kyungsoo hesitated on the porch before knocking once.

No answer.

He knocked again. Louder.

Still nothing.

With a frown, he pushed the door open.

The interior was a mess—not in Jongin’s usual whirlwind way, but in a weary, forgotten sense. Spell jars half-closed. Books left open. The air smelled faintly of smoke and honey, but beneath it was something duller, like exhaustion.

And there, slumped on the couch, was Jongin.

His gold waistcoat was rumpled, sleeves rolled up haphazardly, a blanket half-slipped from his lap. His complexion—usually warm and sunlit—was pale, the glow dimmed to a muted candle flicker.

For a heartbeat, Kyungsoo just stood there, something cold curling under his ribs.

Then Jongin stirred, blinking awake. “Kyungsoo?” His voice came soft, surprised—and tired enough to make Kyungsoo’s chest ache. “Hi. Sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You didn’t,” Kyungsoo lied immediately.

“You never come here.”

“I was making sure you hadn’t turned yourself into a frog or something.”

Jongin smiled faintly. “That would be new.” He tried to sit up straighter and failed, his head falling back against the cushion.

Kyungsoo crossed the room and placed a hand against his forehead before he could think better of it. Warm—too warm.

“You’re sick,” Kyungsoo muttered.

“Not sick,” Jongin corrected weakly. “Just… drained. Too many charms in one week. Everyone wanted help before the harvest festival.”

“You shouldn’t use so much magic,” Kyungsoo scolded. “You’re going to burn yourself out.”

Jongin smiled again, eyes half-lidded. “Can’t help it. They needed me.”

“Let someone else help for once.”

“There isn’t anyone else.”

Kyungsoo pressed his lips together. “Then maybe they can wait.”

Jongin didn’t answer, his breathing slowing as fatigue tugged at him again. The flicker of golden light from the room dimmed further, settling into a sleepy hush. Kyungsoo sighed—loudly, as if to make sure the universe knew how inconvenient this was—and rolled up his sleeves.

“Move over,” he ordered.

Jongin blinked. “What?”

“I said, move over. I’m not leaving you here alone. You’ll forget to eat or set something on fire in your sleep.”

“I don’t—”

Kyungsoo gave him a look sharp enough to end arguments for miles. “Do you want me to leave?”

Jongin hesitated. “No.”

“Then stop talking.”

That got him a weak chuckle, the smallest spark of his usual warmth.

Kyungsoo fetched water, forced Jongin to drink, and then busied himself with straightening the cottage. It was strangely grounding, cleaning around someone else’s magic—like tidying a garden where the sunlight had gone shy. The floating teacups perked up a little when he passed, as though relieved someone had taken charge.

When he finally sat beside the couch, Jongin was half-asleep, head tilted toward the window where the fading dusk painted his skin in soft amber.

“Sorry you had to see me like this,” Jongin murmured.

“Don’t apologize,” Kyungsoo said automatically. Then, quieter: “You look fine.”

“Fine?”

Kyungsoo’s jaw twitched. “You look—less golden, that’s all.”

Jongin smiled, too tired to tease. “Guess even the sun needs rest.”

Kyungsoo looked away, unwilling to admit how that line made something tight ease in his chest.

He stayed until the lamps dimmed, sitting in silence beside him, pretending he wasn’t keeping watch. The cat, who had followed him all the way there, leapt onto Jongin’s lap and curled up without hesitation.

Kyungsoo sighed. “Traitor.”

It was late when Jongin finally drifted fully asleep. Kyungsoo tucked the blanket more securely around his shoulders, muttering under his breath as he did.

“Ridiculous man. Helping everyone but himself.”

He lingered there, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Jongin’s chest. The faint shimmer of magic in the air pulsed with his breathing—not as bright as before, but alive.

And when Kyungsoo finally rose to leave, the golden cottage didn’t seem quite so dim anymore.

The cottage was hushed, heavy with the kind of stillness that only comes deep into the night. Outside, the forest had gone quiet, save for the slow rustle of wind through the leaves. Candlelight flickered softly against the walls, painting everything in amber and gold.

Kyungsoo sat in a chair beside the bed, a book open on his lap. He wasn’t really reading anymore. His eyes traced the same paragraph over and over while his mind wandered—to the steady rhythm of Jongin’s breathing, to the faint glow that had begun to return to the air around them.

Jongin shifted beneath the blanket, the sound pulling Kyungsoo’s gaze. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then clearing with recognition.

“Hey,” Jongin murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Didn’t think you’d keep visiting me unless there was glitter on your porch.”

Kyungsoo exhaled through his nose, closing the book with a quiet thump. “You’re unbearable. Go back to sleep.”

Jongin smiled faintly, the curve of his mouth soft and tired but still full of warmth. “Can’t. Too bright in here.”

“There’s one candle.”

“It’s still bright,” Jongin whispered. “You’re sitting in it.”

Kyungsoo froze for half a breath, then looked away, pretending to adjust the wick. “You’re delirious.”

“Probably,” Jongin said, his voice dipping into a lazy hum. “You stayed.”

“I didn’t trust you not to start levitating in your sleep,” Kyungsoo muttered.

“Or maybe you were worried I’d disappear.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“Then tell me I’m wrong.”

Kyungsoo didn’t.

The silence that followed was light but charged, threaded with the soft sounds of the forest and the gentle hiss of the candle. Jongin turned his head slightly on the pillow, watching him with half-lidded eyes that caught the glow just enough to make them gleam.

“You like it when I wave, though,” he said quietly. “You missed it, didn’t you?”

Kyungsoo’s lips parted, the denial ready on his tongue—but it didn’t come. His gaze dropped to the floorboards, to the little pool of candlelight trembling at their feet.

“…Maybe.”

Jongin’s smile widened, small but bright, like the first flicker of dawn through the trees. “Knew it.”

Kyungsoo groaned softly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Mmh. You tell me that a lot.”

“You don’t listen.”

“Not when it’s you talking.”

Kyungsoo’s head snapped up. Jongin was looking at him now—really looking. The tired haze had softened, leaving only that steady, unguarded warmth that had always disarmed him more than any spell could.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air seemed to hold its breath, thick with unspoken things.

Then Jongin spoke again, quieter this time. “You’re already perfect without magic, you know.”

The words landed gently, but they echoed, deep and deliberate.

Kyungsoo blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in them. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, searching for something sharp to say and finding nothing that didn’t sound like surrender.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Jongin said simply. “You always were.”

He said it without hesitation, without teasing. Just truth. It hung there between them like the last note of a song.

Kyungsoo’s throat tightened. The candle flickered, flame bending toward Jongin’s voice as if drawn to it.

“I told you to go back to sleep,” Kyungsoo said finally, his tone quieter, frayed at the edges.

Jongin’s smile gentled. “Can’t. You’re too loud.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Kyungsoo’s breath caught. The room felt smaller suddenly, the space between them charged with something fragile and bright. He stood, intending to blow out the candle, but Jongin reached out, fingers brushing his wrist.

The touch stopped him. Light as a question, warm as a promise.

Kyungsoo looked down, and for a heartbeat, all the world shrank to that single point of contact—skin against skin, gold against shadow.

Jongin’s gaze met his, open and soft and certain.

“Stay,” he whispered.

Kyungsoo didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He sat back down, slower this time, and the room seemed to exhale around them. The candlelight swayed, painting Jongin’s skin in the faint glow that had begun to return to him, that soft, honey-colored warmth that always managed to find him no matter how much of the world dimmed.

Jongin’s fingers were still curled around his wrist. Kyungsoo didn’t pull away.

The silence stretched, not heavy now, but full—of things understood but not yet spoken. Jongin’s thumb brushed once, idly, across the inside of Kyungsoo’s wrist, where his pulse beat fast enough to betray him.

Kyungsoo’s eyes lifted, meeting his.

The air held, still and golden.

Jongin’s voice was a murmur. “You’re glowing.”

“So are you,” Kyungsoo breathed back.

Jongin smiled faintly. “Good.”

The candle guttered once, the flame bowing low. The air between them pulsed with quiet tension, warm and golden.

Jongin’s hand, still resting against Kyungsoo’s wrist, moved up slowly—over his sleeve, along the line of his arm, until his fingers brushed the side of his neck. Kyungsoo didn’t move. Couldn’t. His pulse stuttered beneath Jongin’s touch.

Jongin’s gaze flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes. The smallest of smiles curved his lips, soft and unsure and certain all at once.

“Kyungsoo,” he murmured, almost a question.

Before Kyungsoo could answer, Jongin leaned in. The space between them vanished—quietly, inevitably.

His lips met Kyungsoo’s like a breath catching: warm, tentative at first, then firmer, surer when Kyungsoo didn’t pull away. The world seemed to still. The candlelight trembled, gold against their skin.

Jongin’s lips were soft, a little dry from fever and sleep, tasting faintly of herbs and warmth. Kyungsoo’s breath hitched; he hadn’t realized how close he’d been leaning until their noses brushed, until his fingers curled into the blanket just to steady himself.

The kiss deepened—not urgent, not hurried, but slow and lingering, like they were learning the shape of each other’s quiet. Jongin tilted his head slightly, his thumb tracing the edge of Kyungsoo’s jaw, and Kyungsoo felt the world tilt with it.

There was warmth everywhere: where Jongin’s hand rested at his throat, where their lips pressed and parted in small, uncertain movements. It was clumsy in the most human way, all warmth and breath and the faint tremor of restraint breaking.

When Jongin finally drew back, their foreheads stayed pressed together. Both of them were breathing softly, the sound of it filling the stillness. Kyungsoo’s eyes fluttered open. Jongin was smiling—barely, sleepily, the corners of his mouth curved like the start of dawn.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

The light between them didn’t fade.

It lingered—golden, steady, and new.

Weeks later, the forest had settled into the kind of calm that comes only after something has quietly rearranged itself. The ivy around Kyungsoo’s cottage had grown—thicker, fuller—like it, too, had decided it liked the new warmth that lingered there. The air smelled faintly of tea, parchment, and—inevitably—golden magic.

A knock came at the door one bright morning.

Kyungsoo, mid-sip of tea, exhaled through his nose. He didn’t even have to look; the knock had that same nervous, hopeful rhythm he’d come to recognize from half the forest by now. He set the cup down, straightened his collar, and opened the door.

A villager stood there clutching a small satchel, eyes darting up at him with a mixture of awe and apprehension. “Um,” they began, “is this where the witch lives?”

Kyungsoo’s jaw tightened in something between a sigh and a smile. “No, I’m not—”

Before he could finish, a familiar warmth pressed against his back. Jongin leaned in from behind, arms wrapping easily around Kyungsoo’s waist as though they belonged there. His chin rested on Kyungsoo’s shoulder, his voice bright as sunlight through leaves.

“That’s me!” Jongin announced cheerfully. “Yes, right house! We’re cohabitating now.”

The villager blinked, visibly processing the word, their mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Cohabi…what?”

Kyungsoo groaned, head tipping forward. “You’re unbearable,” he muttered, but his hand found Jongin’s where it rested over his stomach, fingers curling loosely over his.

Jongin only laughed, soft and golden, pressing a gentle kiss to Kyungsoo’s cheek before turning his radiant smile back to the bewildered villager. “What can I help you with today? Confidence charm? Herbal salve? Love advice?”

“Ah—no, I—maybe a tea for headaches?”

“Perfect! I’ll make you the good one.”

Jongin moved past Kyungsoo to greet the villager properly, already talking about ingredients and herbs. Kyungsoo lingered by the doorway, watching the way the sunlight caught in Jongin’s hair, the way his laughter warmed the air. He would never admit it out loud, but the sound had become as necessary as breathing.

Outside, the faint shimmer of gold still clung to his porch—an old spill of magic that refused to fade completely. It glittered in the morning light, soft and stubborn, like a quiet echo of the day everything changed.

Kyungsoo glanced at it, then back at Jongin, who had turned mid-sentence to grin at him from across the room.

The corners of Kyungsoo’s mouth lifted despite himself.

The forest hummed with life, the glitter caught the light, and somewhere in the air between them, Jongin’s laughter tangled with the sound of Kyungsoo’s soft, reluctant happiness.

The witch’s magic had overflowed into his front yard once—and it hadn’t stopped since.