Archive of Our Own

Kiin had never been good at balancing his life. As an independent and a freelance designer, his world revolved around deadlines, client messages, and the quiet glow of his computer screen that stayed on until dawn. His apartment reflected his habits: half-finished projects scattered across the table, a coffee mug permanently stationed beside his laptop, and a potted plant that had long given up on survival. For Kiin, work was not only an occupation but also an excuse to avoid the complications of human interaction.

Siwoo, a long-time acquaintance and one of Seoul’s most successful matchmakers, had grown tired of Kiin’s self-imposed solitude. He often joked that Kiin’s longest relationship was with his keyboard. When Siwoo finally managed to convince him to join his matchmaking program, Kiin only agreed under one condition: no unnecessary drama. Siwoo promised him a calm, compatible partner.

That promise lasted exactly one day.

The man Siwoo chose for him was Jihun, a bachelor whose looks could turn heads in any room and whose personality seemed built to annoy Kiin. Standing at 188 centimeters, Jihun was effortlessly confident, handsome in a way that made people glance twice, and far too aware of it. Kiin disliked him the moment he saw him walk into the café, flashing that easy grin that seemed to say he already knew how the evening would go.

“Hey, you must be Kiin,” Jihun greeted, his tone warm and teasing. “Siwoo told me you’re allergic to social life, so I brought my own energy.”

Kiin crossed his arms. “He also told you I hate tall people?”

Jihun chuckled, leaning slightly forward. “He did. Should I crouch so you’ll feel more comfortable?”

Kiin’s expression didn’t change, but inside, something simmered, well it’s irritation, mostly, but also confusion at how someone could be that self-assured.

What Kiin didn’t know was that Jihun had his own reasons for being there. Only three months earlier, Jihun had ended a four-year relationship that had left him more bored than heartbroken. His ex had accused him of being emotionally distant, too playful to be taken seriously, and too proud of his own charm. Jihun, for his part, decided that love was overrated and that maybe a bit of harmless fun was what he needed to feel alive again.

When Siwoo told him about Kiin - a quiet, overworked man who, by all accounts, lacked both romance and patience, which intrigued Jihun. He didn’t expect to fall in love, but the challenge of breaking through someone so cold sounded amusing. He wanted distraction, and Kiin seemed like the perfect target.

The date, unsurprisingly, went terribly. Kiin spent most of the evening checking his phone, muttering about deadlines, and refusing to laugh at any of Jihun’s jokes. Jihun, on the other hand, found every reaction fascinating from Kiin’s frown to the way he bit the inside of his cheek whenever he was annoyed.

The next morning, Kiin called the matchmaker (it’s actually Siwoo) “I want to end this pairing,” he said flatly. “It’s not going to work. You have to finish in three months so that my customer’s record can be improved.”

Kiin was speechless. Three months with him?

A message arrived soon after.

Jihun: “Hey, little smurf. Dinner tonight? I promise to stay seated so you don’t feel mocked.”
Kiin: “You’re insufferable.”
Jihun: “You text fast when you’re angry. Cute.”

Jihun grinned at his screen, satisfied. He wasn’t looking for love, well, not anymore. But if teasing Kiin could bring some color back into his dull routine, then he was more than ready to play the game.

Kiin, meanwhile, told himself he didn’t have time for this nonsense. Yet, as he looked at the new message notification glowing on his phone, he couldn’t quite bring himself to delete it

For the next few days, Kiin successfully avoided Jihun’s texts. He buried himself in work, convinced that the so-called “match” would fade away if he simply ignored it. After all, his job at Maison Blanc, a mid-sized but rapidly growing furniture company, was demanding enough without the distraction of a flirtatious stranger.

On Monday morning, however, everything changed.

The Seoul Branch buzzed with nervous chatter, the kind that always preceded a visit from the head office. Rumor had it that a new executive was arriving from New York, someone who had been in charge of international design collaborations. Kiin wasn’t particularly interested, at least until the elevator door opened.

And out stepped Jihun.

He looked even taller under the office lighting: dark suit, sleek tie, and that same confident smile. Kiin froze mid-step, clutching his folder as Jihun scanned the room. Their eyes met, and Jihun’s grin widened as if fate itself had just cracked a joke only he found funny.

“Good morning, everyone,” Jihun greeted, his tone smooth and commanding. “I’m Jihun Jeong - your new branch manager.”

Kiin nearly dropped the folder.

After the meeting, he cornered Siwoo -  who was conveniently part of the HR team.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” Kiin hissed.
“I might’ve heard something,” Siwoo replied innocently. “Think of it as destiny.”
“Destiny?” Kiin repeated, incredulous. “You trapped me in a romantic experiment with my boss!”

If Jihun noticed Kiin’s silent panic during their introductions, he didn’t show it. Instead, he seemed to enjoy every second of it, making small comments like, “Good to finally see you in proper lighting,” or “I didn’t know you owned shirts that weren’t gray.”

Kiin gritted his teeth and focused on his tasks, determined not to give Jihun the satisfaction of seeing him flustered. But his luck ran out again when the company announced their annual Christmas project, a high-end product showcase in collaboration with a famous department store. The manager and the lead designer were expected to plan the display together.

That meant Jihun and Kiin.

By early December, the two were forced to spend entire afternoons shopping for decorations and reviewing color palettes for the showroom. Jihun, ever the optimist, treated it like a date. Kiin, on the other hand, treated it like a nightmare.

“Red or gold?” Jihun asked, holding up two rolls of ribbon at a department store.
“Whichever is cheaper,” Kiin replied dryly, scrolling through the budget list on his phone.
“You’re no fun,” Jihun sighed, placing both in the cart anyway. “What kind of designer hates Christmas?”
“The kind who hates tall people who waste money,” Kiin shot back without looking up.

Jihun laughed, clearly unbothered. He had long since realized that teasing Kiin was more entertaining than any flirtatious game he’d played before. But fate wasn’t done playing tricks on him either.

As they moved through the crowd, a familiar voice called out.
“Jihun?”

Jihun turned, his smile faltering for the first time that day. Standing a few meters away was Mincheol, his ex - the one he had dated for four years and sworn he was over. Mincheol looked effortlessly polished, his arm looped around a tall man who carried shopping bags that matched his coat.

“Wow, it’s been a while,” Mincheol said smoothly, his eyes flicking between Jihun and Kiin. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Kiin glanced between them, piecing things together instantly. The tension, the forced smile, the way Jihun’s hand twitched like he wanted to hide it in his pocket - it was obvious.

Before he could react, Jihun moved closer, placing a hand gently on Kiin’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” Jihun said lightly, voice steady. “I’m here with my boyfriend.”

Kiin’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

But Jihun squeezed his shoulder slightly - a silent plea.
He looked too composed, too determined not to lose face in front of his ex.

So Kiin, against every rational impulse, forced a small smile and nodded.
“Right. Boyfriend.”

Mincheol’s expression froze for half a second before curving into a polite, shallow smile. “Oh. Congratulations. You always move on fast, don’t you?”

When they finally walked away, Jihun exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about that. I didn’t plan to-”

Kiin cut him off, voice sharp. “You used me as a prop.”
“I panicked,” Jihun admitted with a helpless grin. “You’re very convenient when you glare at people.”

Kiin glared harder. “I’ll send you an invoice for emotional damage.”
“Make sure to add ‘boyfriend service’ to the bill,” Jihun replied, his smile returning - the kind that always got him in trouble.

3.

By the end of the week, Jihun decided that the least he could do was thank Kiin properly. After all, not everyone would willingly play the role of fake boyfriend in front of an ex without advance notice -  especially someone like Kiin, whose patience for nonsense was microscopic.

He sent a message early that morning:

Jihun: “Dinner tonight. My treat. Promise it’s not a date.”
Kiin: “Then it’s a waste of your money.”
Jihun: “I’ll call it moral compensation.”
Kiin: “Fine. But if this turns weird, I’m leaving.”
Jihun: “You say that you can resist my charm.”

They met that evening at a quiet restaurant overlooking the river. The place was elegant with  white linen tables, soft amber lighting, and faint jazz humming through the speakers. Kiin felt out of place the moment he stepped in. He wasn’t used to luxury, nor to sharing meals that weren’t eaten in front of a laptop screen.

Jihun was already waiting, sleeves rolled up, the top button of his shirt undone, looking effortlessly like the kind of man who belonged anywhere. He stood when Kiin arrived, flashing that infuriatingly confident smile.

“Relax,” Jihun teased as Kiin took a seat, clutching his menu like a shield. “I’m not going to bite.”
“I’m more worried about your personality than your teeth,” Kiin muttered.

Despite the bickering, their dinner went surprisingly well. Jihun didn’t talk about himself much, which was a change, instead, he asked about Kiin’s work, his sketches, his ideas for the Christmas display. Kiin tried to sound indifferent, but the more Jihun listened, the easier it became to talk.

For a man he had labeled annoying, Jihun had an irritating ability to make conversation feel natural.

The evening might have ended peacefully if fate hadn’t decided to mock them again.

“Jihun?”

Both men looked up. Standing a few tables away was Mincheol - look poised, elegant, and clearly surprised to see them together again.

“Twice in one week,” Mincheol said smoothly, his gaze flicking between them. “Guess the city’s smaller than I thought.”

Jihun stiffened, his expression faltering for just a heartbeat before he composed himself. Kiin recognized the shift immediately, pride mixed with unease  and before Jihun could fumble for words, Kiin spoke first.

“Good evening,” he said politely. “We were just celebrating. It’s been a good project so far.”

Mincheol’s brows lifted slightly. “A project, hm?”

Jihun hesitated, but Kiin’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. “Well,” he said calmly, “he’s a demanding bossy boyfriend. Someone has to keep him in check.”

That earned a small, genuine laugh from Jihun and an unmistakable flash of annoyance from Mincheol. After a few moments of polite chatter, Mincheol excused himself, leaving behind an invisible cloud of tension.

When he was gone, Jihun sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You really have a talent for rescuing me.”
Kiin sipped his wine. “You really have a talent for getting into these situations.”
“So we make a good team,” Jihun said lightly.

Kiin rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a hint of amusement.

Dinner ended not long after, and Jihun insisted on driving Kiin home. The December air was cold, the streets lined with early Christmas lights shimmering across shop windows. Inside the car, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable -  just unfamiliar.

When they arrived, Kiin stepped out first, buttoning his coat. “You didn’t have to drive me.”
“Consider it part of my gratitude package,” Jihun replied, leaning against the car with a grin. “Dinner, wine, safe delivery home -  I’m practically a gentleman.”
“You’re practically annoying,” Kiin said, turning toward the building entrance.

But Jihun followed, still teasing, still talking about nothing important, about how Kiin’s apartment neighborhood looked peaceful, about how he probably hadn’t taken a vacation in years.

Even when they reached Kiin’s door, they were still bickering -  small remarks, sarcastic comebacks, and that strange, easy rhythm that had somehow appeared between them.

“You should sleep before midnight for once,” Jihun said as Kiin fumbled for his keys.
“I should also stop agreeing to dinner with lunatics,” Kiin retorted.
“Then I’ll just invite you again,” Jihun said, smiling.

Kiin finally looked up at him, the way the hallway light hit Jihun’s face, sharp features softened by a kind of warmth he hadn’t noticed before. He wanted to be annoyed. He wanted to tell him to stop talking. But for the first time in years, Kiin didn’t want the night to end.

When he finally stepped inside, closing the door behind him, he leaned against it for a moment. The quiet felt heavier than usual. His apartment looked the same - the same mess, the same silence but he felt oddly different.

For the first time in a long while, his chest wasn’t empty.

He had spent years working, surviving, existing  but tonight, between the laughter, the arguments, and the teasing smiles, Kiin had felt alive. Someone had pulled him out of his cage, even if only for a few hours.

And that someone, infuriatingly, was Jihun.

4.

Jihun had never liked silence.He grew up in a house where noise meant comfort, laughter from the kitchen, television humming in the background, his father’s radio playing jazz through the night. So when silence followed him to his New York apartment two Christmases ago, it felt like punishment.

He had gone home early that evening, snow gathering on his coat, gift box in hand. The air outside had smelled of cinnamon and car horns - New York’s version of Christmas cheer. He remembered thinking how good it would feel to finally relax, to spend the holiday with Mincheol after weeks of late meetings and postponed dates.

But when he opened the door, the apartment wasn’t empty. And the laughter that filled it wasn’t his.

Two wine glasses, a half-finished meal, and Mincheol sitting too close to one of their colleagues, the one he’d always said was “just a friend.” Jihun didn’t need explanations. The look on Mincheol’s face when he saw him standing there, frozen in the doorway, told him everything.

That was the night Christmas stopped being his favorite season.

Since then, Jihun had treated love like a joke he already knew the ending to. He dated occasionally, flirted easily, but nothing ever lasted longer than a few dinners. His charm became armor, the more he smiled, the less people asked questions. When Siwoo told him about Kiin, he smelled a new challenge. After hearing it, Jihun laughed. “Sure,” he’d said. “Maybe I’ll find someone to annoy for a while.”

At first, Kiin had been exactly what Jihun expected - someone who is cold, prickly, untouchably self-contained. The kind of person who didn’t fall easily for anyone, especially not for someone like him. That was what made it fun. But over time, something about Kiin’s presence began to unsettle him.

It wasn’t the banter, or the height jokes, or the way Kiin glared every time he called him shortie. It was the small things. It is the way Kiin always carried a sketchbook, how he’d bite the inside of his cheek when he was thinking, how his voice softened when he talked about design. There was something painfully human about him -  unpolished, honest, and unaware of how quietly magnetic he was.

The night Jihun brought him home, he couldn’t stop thinking about that.

He had expected awkward silence, but Kiin had surprised him. He complained about everything, about the cold weather, the ridiculous Christmas decorations in every store, even the way Jihun’s driving, yet his words carried a liveliness Jihun hadn’t seen before. Every sarcastic remark felt like a spark, pulling Jihun further out of the numbness he’d been living in.

When they reached Kiin’s building and kept talking even as he stood by his door, something inside Jihun twisted. He hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been until then, how much he missed simple things like walking someone home, hearing laughter in the winter air, seeing another pair of eyes that didn’t look at him with pity or expectation.

After Kiin went inside, Jihun lingered in his car longer than he meant to. The city outside was cold, but for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the usual emptiness that Christmas brought.

He thought of Mincheol, thought of how easily everything had fallen apart and then of Kiin, frowning at him, cheeks slightly pink from the wind. The contrast almost made him laugh.Maybe it was foolish, but Jihun found himself hoping to see that expression again. Not because he wanted to win but because, somehow, Kiin’s irritation made him feel alive again.

The next morning, as he stood by the office window watching snow start to fall over Seoul, Jihun realized that for the first time since that Christmas night in New York, he didn’t hate the holiday as much.

And that scared him more than anything.

5.

December in Seoul was a blur of lights and deadlines. Every corner of the city seemed to hum with carols, snow, and the faint scent of roasted chestnuts that drifted through the streets. Maison Blanc’s flagship stores were preparing for the biggest sales season of the year, and as the company’s two design directors, Jihun and Kiin were tasked with visiting each branch to oversee the Christmas displays.

It should have been simple. It’s all simple tasks such as check the installations, approve the layouts, give a few notes, move on. But nothing ever felt simple with Jihun and Kiin.

They spent the first week driving from one side of the city to the other, their schedules packed from morning until late evening. Kiin carried a clipboard like a shield, scribbling observations with ruthless precision. Jihun followed a few steps behind, pretending to focus on logistics but mostly watching the way Kiin’s brow furrowed when he was deep in thought. Sometimes they argued about lighting angles, sometimes about the size of a Christmas tree, and sometimes about absolutely nothing at all.

“You can’t just add another spotlight there,” Kiin complained one afternoon. “It’ll ruin the whole symmetry.”
Jihun leaned closer, squinting at the display. “It looks fine.”
“Fine isn’t good enough.”
He smirked. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

That earned him a glare, but no real bite. Their rhythm had shifted lately, less hostility, more exasperated familiarity.

Lunchtimes were rushed affairs, squeezed between site visits and traffic jams. They’d eat in the car or stop by small corner cafés, but more often than not, they ended up at the convenience store across the street from whichever branch they were checking.

Kiin would stand in front of the refrigerated section with quiet frustration. “Everything here is spicy. Why is every onigiri in this country trying to kill me?”
Jihun would shrug, already reaching for his usual. “Then eat something mild. Like banana milk.”
Kiin shot him a look. “I’m not five.”
“No, but it might help you grow a little.”
“Keep talking, and I’ll design your next office chair three centimeters shorter.”
“That’s still taller than you.”

And yet, even as they bickered, the quiet moments between them began to stretch and small silences that felt almost comfortable. They would sit side by side on the curb outside the store, their paper-wrapped lunches balanced on their knees, steam rising from their instant noodles. Around them, Seoul moved fast.Cars honking, people rushing, neon lights blinking in the early dusk but for some reason, those stolen minutes felt slow.

Sometimes, Jihun caught Kiin watching the streetlights reflected on the wet pavement, his expression softer than usual. Other times, Kiin would catch Jihun’s gaze lingering too long. Jihun had promised himself not to take anything seriously anymore, not after Mincheol, not after everything that broke in New York. But the more time he spent with Kiin, the harder it became to keep that promise.

There was something grounding about him, the way he worked, the way he complained, even the way he refused to laugh at Jihun’s jokes until five seconds later when he thought no one was looking. Jihun found himself buying extra banana milk without thinking, handing it over wordlessly each time they stopped at a store. Kiin always rolled his eyes but never refused it.

“You’re ridiculous,” Kiin said once, sipping from the small carton after a long day.
“And you’re drinking it,” Jihun replied.
“It’s just because I’m thirsty.”
“Sure it is.”

Kiin looked away, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips.

By the time they finished their last store inspection, the city was wrapped in holiday lights. Snow had started to fall. These soft, quiet flakes landed on the car windshield as they drove back toward the office. Jihun glanced at Kiin, who was staring out the window, lost in thought.

For the first time in years, Jihun didn’t feel that familiar bitterness toward Christmas. He didn’t think about Mincheol. He didn’t think about betrayal. He only thought about the man sitting beside him, frowning at spicy rice balls and measuring light fixtures with terrifying seriousness and how strange it was that someone so ordinary could make him feel so alive again.

He smiled to himself as he parked the car. “Hey, short stuff,” he said quietly.
Kiin turned his head, half-glaring. “What?”
“Next week's company Christmas party.”
“And?”
“Don’t make me go alone.”
Kiin snorted. “That depends. Are you asking me as my boss, or as my fake boyfriend?”

Jihun paused, meeting his gaze. “Maybe both.”

Kiin rolled his eyes, pushing the car door open, but his voice was softer when he replied. 

 “Then you’d better bring enough banana milk to bribe me.

6.

The company’s annual Christmas party was held at one of Seoul’s most elegant rooftop hotels, the kind of place where champagne shimmered under soft chandeliers and laughter rose like the clinking of glass. It was supposed to be a night of celebration, but to Kiin, it felt more like a test of endurance.

He stood at the entrance of the hall, straight-backed and reserved as always, wrapped in the same long black coat he’d worn since his master’s graduation. Beneath it was his signature boring gray suit, something that is wrinkle-free, functional, utterly forgettable. It was the kind of outfit that said, I’m here for work, not attention.

And then Jihun walked in.

The room seemed to shift when he did - a quiet, effortless command that drew every gaze for just a moment too long. His new tailored vest fit like it was made to prove a point, and the Prada tie in deep navy framed his sharp jawline perfectly. He wasn’t just a manager tonight; he looked like he belonged on the cover of a lifestyle magazine. 

When their eyes met across the hall, Kiin’s first thought wasn’t wow, it was trouble.

Jihun grinned as he approached. “Didn’t know the party was black and white themed. Or is it just you?”
Kiin sighed. “I’m not a peacock like you.”
“Maybe not. But you could’ve at least worn a tie that says ‘I’m alive.’”
“Sorry, I left that one in 2018.”

They bickered quietly, like they always did, the easy rhythm of their exchanges oddly comforting in the sea of polite chatter. By the time dessert was served, whispers had already begun weaving through the tables.

“They came together, right?”
“I saw Director Jihun pull out the chair for him.”
“They even share the same plate of canapés.”
“Do you think they’re…?”

Jihun only laughed when someone finally asked directly. “Us? No, no,” he said with that charming smile that could defuse any question. “We’re just friends.” Kiin nodded, his voice curt but steady. “Colleagues. Nothing more.”

But the denial only made people exchange knowing glances, the kind that said sure, just friends.

After the party, they lingered by the glass elevator overlooking Seoul’s skyline. The city glowed beneath them, all gold and silver lights stretching endlessly across the dark. For a moment, Kiin allowed himself to admire it, to feel the quiet between them that wasn’t quite awkward anymore.

Then, as they were about to leave, a woman approached Jihun.

She was elegant with a sharp suit, sleek hair, and confidence that filled the space around her. “Director Jihun, isn’t it? I’m Yoo Hyerin from Hanseong Furniture Supply.” She smiled, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “I’ve heard a lot about your designs in New York. I’d love to discuss a collaboration sometime.”

Jihun smiled back, professional and polite. “Of course. I’d be glad to talk.”

She reached into her clutch, pulling out a cream-colored business card embossed with gold. Then, almost casually, she added, “May I have your number too? It’ll make communication easier.”

Jihun hesitated and in that moment, his gaze flickered toward Kiin. Kiin stood a few steps away, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching his coat. His face was unreadable, his posture calm. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, the kind that said, go ahead, it’s fine.

But inside, he wasn’t fine.

Something twisted in his chest, an odd, sharp thing that didn’t belong there. He told himself it was nothing, just mild irritation, maybe jealousy of attention or habit. But when Jihun smiled and exchanged numbers, Kiin had the sudden, irrational urge to step forward, interrupt the conversation, and tell the woman to find someone else.

He didn’t, of course.

Instead, he stayed where he was, staring out at the night view while Jihun finished talking. He told himself it was none of his business, that whatever they had was pretend, a convenient friendship born out of circumstance.

Yet, as the elevator doors closed and their reflections merged briefly on the glass, Kiin found himself wondering when pretending had started to hurt

That night, after the Christmas party, Kiin lay awake long after the city outside had gone quiet. The laughter, the lights, and even Jihun’s teasing grin kept replaying in his mind, not because of what happened, but because of what it made him feel.

Jealousy.

It was such a small, stupid thing, yet it crawled under his skin like a forgotten splinter. Watching Jihun exchange numbers with that woman, watching her lean closer, the glimmer of interest in her eyes, something deep inside him tightened. And worse, he recognized that feeling. He had felt it before, years ago.

Back when he was still a university student, with a borrowed laptop and a secondhand coat that smelled faintly of dust.

Her name was Eunseo. She had been in his architecture theory class, someone with a soft voice, bright laughter, always carrying a sketchbook that looked more like a diary. She would sometimes ask to borrow his ruler or share his table at the library, and each time, Kiin’s heart stumbled in that awkward, hopeless way that only young love could manage.

But Kiin had always been too practical to believe in love stories. He knew what he looked like. He was ordinary, quiet, nothing that stood out in a crowd. He didn’t have a nice car or expensive shoes like the guys who sat near the front row. He worked nights at a café just to afford rent.

So when Eunseo mentioned she was seeing someone -  an upperclassman who came from a well-known family, confident and charming. Kiin only smiled and congratulated her.

He remembered helping her carry her project boards the day she showed him the ring. Remembered how she said, “You’ve always been such a good friend, Kiin. I hope you’ll come to the wedding.”

He went. Of course he did. Because that was what a good friend would do.

He still remembered standing at the back of the hall, watching her walk down the aisle in white lace, her hand tucked in another man’s arm. He had never realized how heavy silence could feel until that moment, when the applause rose, and he found himself clapping too, his chest hollow but his expression polite.

After that, he stopped attending weddings altogether. Stopped believing that love was something meant for people like him.

And now, years later, as he sat in his dark apartment, his thoughts returned to that same ache: familiar, quiet, but unmistakably there. Watching Jihun laugh with someone else had awakened a ghost he thought he’d buried.

But Jihun wasn’t Eunseo. And Kiin wasn’t that naive student anymore.

He is an adult now, he has a job with stable income, he is someone who knows better than to mistake comfort for affection. Still, he couldn’t ignore the strange warmth that had crept into his days since Jihun arrived. The banter, the ridiculous banana milk, the way Jihun made him forget about silence for a while.

Maybe that was why it scared him. Because he could already feel the ending before anything even began.

Kiin exhaled, rubbing his temples. Outside, snow had started to fall again, soft and silent against the window. Somewhere in the distance, a faint Christmas melody floated through the air, too sweet, too cruel.

He whispered into the empty room, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

“I’m not falling for him.”

But even as he said it, Kiin wasn’t sure he believed himself.

8.

The snow that morning came down soft and steady, dusting the rooftops and blurring the edges of the city skyline. The Christmas project had officially wrapped up, and for the first time in weeks, the Maison Blanc office felt strangely empty: no calls, no deadlines, no rush. Just the sound of keyboards shutting down and sighs of relief.

Kiin was ready to leave. He’d been counting the hours until he could go back to his parents’ house on the outskirts of Seoul, which was an hour away, tucked behind quiet hills and small markets where time seemed to move slower.

But before he could even pack his sketchbook, a familiar voice broke his peace.

“Hey, Kiin.”

Jihun was leaning against the doorway, looking both too handsome and too miserable for the occasion. His hair was tousled, his scarf carelessly draped around his neck.

“Don’t tell me,” Kiin said, already bracing himself. “You forgot to book your flight.”

Jihun’s guilty smile said it all. “I thought there’d still be a few seats left.”
“During Christmas week? To New York?”
“I underestimated humanity’s desire to flee their families.”
Kiin sighed. “And now the tickets are too expensive.”
“Exactly.”

From his desk, Siwoo looked up from his phone, grinning. “Well, there’s always Seoul’s countryside. Why don’t you tag along with Kiin? Spend Christmas with his family.”

Kiin turned, scandalized. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on,” Siwoo teased. “You two have been glued together for weeks. It’ll be good for him: family time, homemade food, and someone to remind him that people shorter than 180cm do exist.”

Before Kiin could respond, Jihun’s expression shifted into full performance mode: wide eyes, slight pout, a soft, pleading tone that could disarm anyone with a heart.

“Kiin-ah,” he said dramatically, “you wouldn’t really let me spend Christmas alone, would you?”
“You’re an adult, Jihun.”
“I’ll behave.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I’ll help your parents cook.”
“You can’t even cook instant noodles.”
“I’ll buy gifts!”

That made Kiin pause. “Gifts?”
Jihun grinned “Lots of them.”

By noon, they were already on the road. Jihun’s car, or the company’s car to be specific, a sleek black sedan that looked entirely too luxurious for the narrow countryside roads they were heading toward, was filled to the brim with gift boxes. Chocolate hampers, wine bottles, a basket of imported fruit, and something that suspiciously looked like a high-end air purifier.

“Did you buy out an entire department store?” Kiin muttered, buckling his seatbelt.
“I like to make a good impression,” Jihun said, eyes glinting. “And besides, it’s Christmas.”
“You don’t even believe in Christmas.”
“True, but I believe in mothers liking me.”

Kiin shook his head but couldn’t suppress a faint smile.

The drive out of Seoul was peaceful. The city lights fading behind them, replaced by snow-dusted rooftops and quiet stretches of pine trees. The heater hummed softly, and faint carols played through the radio.

Jihun drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping along to the rhythm. “So,” he said, glancing sideways, “what should I know about your parents before we arrive? Do they like wine? Jokes? Tall, charming men?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
He chuckled. “So, no jokes then.”
“Just… be polite. And try not to flirt with anyone over fifty.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jihun said solemnly, then added, “but if your mom offers me extra food, I might propose.”

Kiin groaned. “Unbelievable.”

The conversation drifted after that, from work to small talk, from teasing to comfortable silence. Outside, the snow thickened, but the car was warm, filled with the scent of coffee and faint laughter.

At some point, Jihun turned the heater a little higher and reached over to adjust Kiin’s seatbelt. “You okay?”
Kiin blinked, startled by the closeness. “I’m fine.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want you freezing before we even get there.”

Kiin looked away, pretending to be interested in the passing scenery. His heart, however, had other ideas. It kept thudding quietly against his ribs in a way that felt too alive, too aware.

When they finally pulled into the narrow street that led to his family’s house, Jihun parked neatly and exhaled. “Cute neighborhood,” he said, looking around. “Feels like a snow globe.”
“Yeah,” Kiin murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Welcome to my childhood.”

Jihun grinned, grabbing a handful of the gift boxes. “Then lead the way, partner.”

As they walked through the small gate, Kiin’s breath clouded in the cold, Jihun juggling an armful of presents. The world felt oddly still. Familiar and foreign all at once.

And for the first time in years, Kiin didn’t dread going home. Maybe it was the snow, or maybe it was the ridiculous man beside him humming Christmas songs off-key. Whatever it was, it made the winter feel a little warmer

9.

The road curved through quiet hills until the neighborhood came into view: a cluster of snow-dusted rooftops and narrow streets lined with pine trees. The air smelled faintly of charcoal and winter. For Jihun, who had grown used to city skylines and marble-floored offices, it felt like stepping into another world. Softer, slower, real.

Kiin guided the car into a narrow driveway and turned off the engine. “This is it,” he said flatly. The house wasn’t large, but it was cozy, with a wind chime tinkling above the door and faint light spilling from the kitchen window.

The moment they stepped out, a voice called, “Hyung! You’re finally here!”

A boy came racing down the steps. He has dark hair, a bright grin, maybe sixteen at most. His excitement halted when he saw the stranger beside his brother, tall and sharp in a long wool coat, his arms full of gift boxes.

“Whoa,” he whispered. “Who’s that?”

“This is Jihun,” Kiin said, trying to sound casual. “My boss.”

Jihun smiled and offered a hand. “And you must be Kiin’s little brother. Nice to meet you!”

Kiyoon’s eyes widened, then immediately dropped to the large, gift-wrapped box in Jihun’s arms, the faint logo on the corner unmistakable.

“…Is that a PS5?”

Before Jihun could answer, Kiin sighed, already sensing trouble. “It’s expensive, Kiyoon. Don’t touch that.”

Kiyoon looked ready to explode. “Hyung! Is that for me?”

Jihun chuckled and handed him the box. “Actually, yeah. Merry Christmas.”

The teenager froze. “Wait— you’re serious?”

“Completely.”

Kiyoon let out a yell so loud it startled the neighbor’s dog. “You’re the best! Oh my God… thank you!”

Kiin groaned, rubbing his forehead. “You didn’t have to buy that. Why did you buy that, Jihun? You’re going to spoil him.”

Jihun only grinned. “Forgive me, I’m a younger brother too. My own brother never let me touch his PS5. Why blame a poor man who’s just trying to be Santa Claus?”

“Santa Claus doesn’t usually come carrying luxury receipts,” Kiin muttered. “And what about that box?”

“Oh, that’s for your parents,” Jihun said, setting down another neatly wrapped package. “An air purifier. You can’t go wrong with clean air.”

Kiin stared at him, half-amused, half-horrified. “With all these gifts, I believe it costs as much as a flight ticket to New York.”

Jihun smirked. “Nah. You’ve never been to NYC, so you don’t know how expensive those tickets really are.”

Just then, a warm voice floated from the doorway. “Kiyoon, who are you yelling at out there?”

Mrs. Kim appeared, wiping her hands on an apron, her smile bright and curious. Behind her came Mr. Kim, adjusting his glasses and peering toward the gate.

“Mom, Dad,” Kiin said in defeat, “this is Jihun. My colleague.”

Jihun bowed deeply. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Kim. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Kim chuckled. “Hopefully only good things.”

Jihun’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Yes, all the nice things”

That earned him a sharp elbow from Kiin, which only made Mrs. Kim laughed harder. In no time, Jihun was ushered inside, shoes off, hands full of gifts, Kiyoon buzzing beside him like a happy puppy.

By dinner, the living room was filled with warmth: bowls of bubbling stew, soft laughter, the sound of Kiyoon setting up his new console in the background. Mr. Kim asked polite questions about the company; Mrs. Kim kept sneaking extra pieces of beef into Jihun’s bowl, saying he looked “too thin for a city man.”

Kiin tried to act indifferent, but every time Jihun laughed, loud and unrestrained, something in his chest softened. He hadn’t seen his family so lively in years. Maybe, he thought quietly, maybe Christmas wasn’t so unbearable after all.

10.

The house quieted after dinner, wrapped in the kind of warmth only winter nights could bring. From the living room came the faint hum of the heater, the muffled sound of Kiyoon setting up his new PS5, until even that faded into sleepy silence.

Mrs. Kim lingered in the kitchen, chatting softly with Jihun as she cleaned up. “You should see this,” she said suddenly, pulling out an old, worn photo album from the cabinet. “Since you’re staying here, I think you deserve to know what our Kiin was like as a child.”

Jihun smiled, taking the album. “That sounds dangerous.”

The first picture made him laugh quietly. A round-faced little boy, hair sticking out in all directions, holding up a crayon drawing with the confidence of a prodigy.

“He was cheerful when he was younger,” Jihun said, eyes still on the picture. “Now he looks like an evil, grumpy dokkaebi.”

Mrs. Kim burst out laughing. “You noticed too! The older he got, the less he smiled. Korean education was harsh. I’ve seen it all as a teacher myself. Still, he used to be such a bright child.”

Jihun flipped through the pages. School photos, class trips, a middle-school science fair. Each picture showed the same smile fading a little more.

“He’s still bright,” Jihun said softly. “Just… in a quieter way.”

Mrs. Kim smiled at him warmly. “You see that already?”

“Hard not to.”

They chatted a bit longer, and then she asked, “Your Korean is very fluent, Jihun. For someone who grew up in the U.S., it’s quite impressive.”

Jihun chuckled. “Actually, I only moved there when I was thirteen. Before that, I lived here - in Incheon.”

“Ah, I see. So when do you plan to go back to the States?”

The question slipped out casually, but it stayed in the air like a slow-burning ember. Jihun hesitated.

When did he plan to go back?

He thought of the office waiting for him, of his friends, of the familiar skyline across the Hudson River and yet, none of it felt as vivid as this moment: the warmth of the Kim household, the sound of laughter after dinner, the faint scent of soap from Kiin’s room down the hall.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said finally, smiling faintly.

Mrs. Kim nodded with understanding and excused herself for the night.

Later, Jihun found himself standing in the doorway of Kiin’s bedroom. The space was neat and minimalist: dark furniture, a narrow bed, a bookshelf overflowing with design magazines and sketchpads. It was exactly what he expected from Kiin: practical, quiet, lonely.

“I told you we don’t have a guest room,” Kiin said, handing him a folded blanket. “You can take the floor. Don’t complain.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Jihun said with a grin, setting up his makeshift bed beside Kiin’s desk. “Besides, it’s cozy. I’ve slept in airports that were worse.”

Kiin rolled his eyes and climbed into bed, turning off the lamp. For a while, the only sound was the wind brushing against the windowpane.

Then Jihun’s voice came softly through the dark. “Can’t sleep.”

Kiin groaned. “You said you were used to it.”

“I am,” Jihun replied, chuckling. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

“Whether I should go back to the U.S.”

The words hung in the air. Kiin turned on his side, staring into the darkness. “Oh. Right. The U.S.”

“Yeah,” Jihun murmured. “My family’s there. Friends, too. And I guess I’m supposed to be there.”

“You guess?”

He exhaled a soft laugh. “I don’t know. Lately, I’m starting to feel like… maybe I’m supposed to be here.”

Something in Kiin’s chest twisted -  a strange mix of relief and ache.

Part of him wanted to say you should go. It was safer that way. Easier to move on before things got messy, before he started expecting something impossible. But another part, something quiet, stubborn, wanted to tell him to stay. Because for the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone.

He settled for neither. “You’ll figure it out,” he said instead, his tone even.

“Spoken like a real adult,” Jihun teased gently.

“I am an adult.”

“An adult who complains about spicy onigiri.”

Kiin let out a small, tired laugh. “Go to sleep, Jihun.”

“Good Night, Kiin.”

“Good Night.”

A long pause.

Then, quietly, Jihun said, as if to himself: “You know… if I stay, it might be because of you.”

Kiin’s breath hitched, but before he could reply, Jihun shifted, his breathing evening out. Whether he’d already fallen asleep or was pretending to, Kiin couldn’t tell. He turned back to face the ceiling, eyes open in the dark, feeling the faint warmth of Jihun’s presence on the floor beside him. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, he wished the night would never end.

11.

When Kiin woke up, the first thing he noticed was the empty space on the floor beside his desk. The blanket Jihun had used was neatly folded, the pillow stacked on top:  no trace of a guest, except for the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and listened. From somewhere down the hallway came the sound of clattering dishes and a faint hum, something off-key, cheerful, and unmistakably Jihun.

Kiin pushed open the kitchen door to find him standing by the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a small pot.

“There you are, sleepyhead,” Jihun said without turning around.

Kiin squinted. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” Jihun replied, as if it were obvious. “Well, reheating. Your mom’s leftover spicy beef soup. I am hungry and your parents has already left”

Kiin leaned against the doorway, suppressing a yawn. “My mom’s gonna kill you if you mess with her kitchen.”

“Then I’ll die well-fed.”

Jihun grinned and ladled the soup into two bowls, steam curling through the chilly air. “Oh, by the way, your parents said they had to visit a relative’s house. But before they left, they gave me lucky money.”

Kiin blinked. “They what?”

“Yeah.” Jihun reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small red envelope, shaking it like a prize. “Parents in Korea are so generous. My folks only gave me two dollars for luck every New Year.”

Kiin sighed, rubbing his temple. “They must’ve thought you’re still a kid.”

“Well,” Jihun said with mock pride, “I did eat all my vegetables last night.”

Despite himself, Kiin chuckled, the sound small but genuine. He sat down, took the spoon Jihun handed him, and together they shared a quiet breakfast, the world outside wrapped in silver frost.

Afterward, they decided to take a walk around town.

It wasn’t much, only a few narrow streets lined with mom-and-pop stores, a convenience shop with a flickering sign, and the smell of roasting chestnuts in the air. But Jihun looked at everything with the wide-eyed curiosity of a tourist.

“So this is your hometown,” he said as they passed an old bakery. 

They walked past his old high school, the red brick building still standing stubbornly against the snow. Kiin pointed at a window on the third floor. “That was my classroom. I once fell asleep during the exam and my teacher threw an eraser at me.”

Jihun laughed. “You deserved it, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

From there, they stopped by a small street stall near the bus stop. The ajumma recognized Kiin instantly and waved. “Kiin! It’s been ages. Still too thin, I see!”

Kiin flushed slightly while Jihun tried not to laugh. They ordered tteokbokki and gimbap, standing side by side as the spicy steam hit their faces.

Jihun blew on his food and nearly burned his tongue. “You didn’t tell me it’s molten lava hot!”

“It’s called tteokbokki, not tongue therapy,” Kiin said dryly, though his eyes glimmered with amusement.

After eating, they wandered into the nearby playground. It was empty except for a dusting of snow on the swings and the creaking of metal under the cold wind.

“Come on,” Jihun said suddenly, heading toward the old wooden seesaw.

Kiin blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“Don’t tell me the great Kim Kiin is afraid of children’s toys.”

Before he could argue, Jihun sat down, waiting expectantly. Kiin sighed, then gave in and sat on the other end. The seesaw creaked up and down, slow at first, then with laughter that neither of them expected.

When Jihun’s side hit the ground, a puff of snow shot up, dusting his coat. Kiin couldn’t help it. He laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound echoing through the empty park.

And then, as if fate demanded more chaos, Jihun scooped up a handful of snow and threw it at him.

Kiin gasped. “You did not…”

He retaliated. Snowballs flew, laughter chased after them, and soon both were breathless and half-covered in white.

They collapsed near the frozen lake at the park’s edge, watching their breaths curl into white smoke under the pale winter sun. The world around them was still, but somehow, everything inside them felt alive.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Jihun said quietly, “You know… if you hadn’t dragged me here, I’d probably still be in my apartment, eating takeout and complaining about flight prices.”

Kiin smirked. “You dragged me, remember?”

“True,” Jihun said, his gaze softening. “But I think it was worth it.”

Kiin didn’t reply. He only looked out at the frozen surface of the lake, his reflection beside Jihun’s, so close that the lines almost blurred.

For once, the silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was peaceful.

12.

They left Kiin’s hometown that evening, wanting to avoid the long line of cars expected after the holiday. The sky was already dimming into violet, and snow had begun to fall again; thin, lazy flakes that melted on the windshield before the wipers swept them away.

Kiin fell asleep not long after they hit the highway. His head lolled gently with the movement of the car, turning left and right like a wind-up doll. Every now and then, he mumbled something under his breath.

Jihun slowed the car a little, glancing at him with a faint smile.

“No… I don’t want to go to school…” Kiin murmured, his voice small, almost childlike.

That made Jihun laugh. It was quiet at first, then uncontrollably. He covered his mouth with his hand, trying not to wake him. “You never change, do you?” he whispered.

Outside, the road stretched endlessly, dark and silent except for the hum of the tires and the rhythm of Kiin’s breathing. Seoul’s city lights eventually appeared at the horizon, faint and scattered like reflections on glass.

By the time they reached home, the streets were half-empty, the usual chaos muted by the cold. Kiin stirred awake when Jihun parked, blinking in confusion. “We’re… already here?”

“Yeah,” Jihun said softly. “You slept through the trip.”

Kiin rubbed his eyes and yawned, too tired to respond. Jihun helped him carry his bag upstairs, then paused at the door before heading back to his car.

For some reason, the goodbye that night felt heavier than usual.

13.

Two months passed. Winter softened into a pale, hesitant spring. Snow melted from the sidewalks, cherry blossoms began to appear timidly along the Han River, and Jihun found himself counting days without meaning to.

One month left  before he had to decide whether to move back to the U.S. or stay.

He had always been decisive, good at problem-solving, always quick to find the right answer. Exams, debates, even life choices, everything used to fit neatly into columns of A or B, yes or no.

But this time, the question wasn’t multiple-choice. It was open-ended.

And every answer he imagined came with its own ache.

He couldn’t be sure his heart wouldn’t break again, not after what happened with Mincheol. That kind of pain had taught him to run before getting attached, to leave before anyone could leave him. Yet when he thought about packing, about boarding a plane and looking out at the shrinking city lights below, something inside him clenched.

Because this time, leaving didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like losing something he hadn’t even dared to name. And deep down, Jihun knew that walking away from Kiin would hurt him just the same

In the end, Jihun decided to be a coward, for once.

He handed in his transfer application to the head office, stating that he would move back to New York. His home. His family. The place he told everyone he missed, even though lately, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

He didn’t tell anyone, not Siwoo, not the staff, not even Kiin.

Life at the office continued as usual. Jihun still dropped by Kiin’s table during lunch, still stole bites of his food, still threw out lazy jokes about how Kiin was going to turn into a hermit if he didn’t stop frowning. Kiin rolled his eyes and scolded him, as always. Neither of them broke character.

Until one afternoon, an email popped up in everyone’s inbox.

Subject: Farewell Party for Director Jihun
From: HR Department

Kiin stared at the screen for a long time before the words truly sank in. His chest tightened, not in shock, but in recognition. So that’s why Siwoo once said the matchmaking contract only lasted three months.

Three months

That’s all it took for Jihun to slip quietly into his life, turn everything upside down, and then leave again.Kiin didn’t feel sad for long. He told himself he was used to this. People leaving, moments ending, hearts breaking quietly in the background. He didn’t blame Jihun. Who was he to do that?

Jihun had a family, a life waiting for him in that colorful, distant New York. Not in this dull, gray Seoul that Kiin had built his walls around. But when he realized painfully that Jihun would never come back to Seoul after this, something inside Kiin refused to stay quiet. For once in his life, he decided to risk something.

He decided to confess.

The last two weeks were painful. Jihun started avoiding him politely, but obviously. Their lunch breaks no longer aligned, and every time Kiin tried to catch him, Jihun would disappear behind a meeting or a phone call.

And of course, Kiin understood. Avoidance was its own kind of answer.

But on Jihun’s final day, Kiin sent him a simple message:

"Dinner? The same restaurant we first met."

Jihun almost ignored it. But in the end, he went. The restaurant was nearly empty, quiet except for the faint sound of jazz from an old speaker. When Jihun arrived, Kiin was already there, sitting in the same seat as that night, his hands folded neatly on the table.

He didn’t smile.

“Thanks for coming,” Kiin said softly. “I’ll make it quick. I know you hate long goodbyes.”

He took a deep breath. “Yes, I like you. But I don’t need you to reply. Don’t pity me, Jihun. I just… I missed my chance when I was young, and I won’t let that happen again. I want to say what I feel, so that I don’t regret it later.”

His voice wavered just once, then steadied.

“Best of luck, giraffe. I wish you a bright future ahead. Don’t come back to Seoul, okay? Let me forget you for good.”

He stood up, and from a small paper bag, he pulled out a scarf - a soft gray wool, carefully wrapped. 

“Oh, and one more thing. My mom made this for you. A handmade scarf. She said it’d keep you warm in New York.”

Kiin handed it to him, his hand brushing Jihun’s only for a second. Then he turned and walked away before Jihun could even think of what to say. The scarf smelled faintly like detergent and winter sunlight. Jihun stayed in that seat long after Kiin left. The city lights outside blurring into streaks, the scarf still resting in his hands.

The plane took off quietly, lifting Seoul’s winter lights into a blur of gold beneath the wings. Jihun pressed his forehead against the window, watching the city fade into the clouds. For the first time, the city didn’t feel like just another place he was leaving behind. In his hand was the gray scarf. It was neatly folded, soft, and smelling faintly of soap and something familiar. He didn’t wear it. He couldn’t. It felt too much like holding onto something he had no right to keep.

He replayed Kiin’s words over and over in his head.

“Yes, I like you. But I don’t need you to reply. Don’t pity me.”
“Don’t come back to Seoul. Let me forget you for good.”

Jihun had smiled back then. A small, polite curve of his lips to hide the chaos in his chest. But the moment the plane left the ground, that smile vanished completely.

He had made the logical choice.
He had chosen home. Family. Stability.

But why did it feel like he had left the best part of himself behind?

When the plane landed at JFK, the announcement came through the speakers in English, too crisp and familiar. Jihun didn’t move for a moment. He just sat there, watching other passengers unbuckle their seatbelts, collect their belongings, and rush toward the exit.

His phone buzzed weakly. It was a notification from the airline. He switched SIM cards. The network changed instantly, the Korean carrier name disappearing from the corner of his screen. And with it, every contact from Seoul vanished.

He froze. His thumb hovered over the contact list, scrolling again and again through the empty screen, as if Kiin’s name might magically appear.

But of course, it didn’t.

They had only talked through phone numbers, through the internal app that the Seoul branch used. A network that didn’t sync with the New York system. They had never followed each other on social media, never even exchanged personal emails.

All that connection, all those small daily fragments gone in a blink.

The only things left were this scarf, and a blurry photo on his phone: Kiin’s back, taken during the Christmas party. He remembered that moment. Kiin was standing near the decorated tree, his long black coat brushing against the light, his hair tinted gold under the chandelier.

He looked beautiful, even from behind.

Now Jihun stared at that picture for minutes, until the airport crowd thinned. His chest felt hollow, as if he’d left something vital back in Seoul. Not an object, but a piece of his pulse. He was terrified. Terrified that one day, Kiin’s voice would fade from his mind. That he wouldn’t remember the sound of his laugh when Jihun bought him banana milk. That his face would blur, and Kiin would become just another “someone from work.”

The scarf lay folded in his lap, soft under his fingers. Jihun closed his eyes, breathing in the faint scent of detergent and home-cooked meals.

“Don’t come back to Seoul,” Kiin had said.

Jihun let out a shaky laugh, half irony, half sorrow.

“I’m not sure I can keep that promise, my little smurf,” he whispered, voice trembling.

Outside, snow was falling again, the first storm of the year in New York. Jihun wrapped the scarf around his neck for the first time. And even though he was thousands of miles away, for a fleeting second, it felt like Kiin was right there beside him.

16.

New York was colder than he remembered. The wind cut through his coat like needles, but Jihun didn’t mind. He had grown used to the winter chill, which reminded him of Seoul, of Kiin’s small town blanketed in snow, of warm street food stands, of scarf-wrapped laughter under frosted breath. But life in New York moved quickly, like it always did. Meetings. Deadlines. Memos. The Seoul project became a memory others only mentioned in passing.

Until one evening, as he was leaving the office, a familiar voice called out behind him.

“Jihun.”

He turned  and there stood Mincheol.

Same polished suit. Same confident smile. But the light in his eyes looked dimmer now.

“I heard you were back in New York,” Mincheol said. “I… wanted to talk.”

Jihun hesitated but didn’t walk away. “About what?”

Mincheol let out a bitter laugh. “My boyfriend. He cheated on me. With a young intern. Can you believe that?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Jihun didn’t flinch, didn’t pity. He just looked at him, the man who once shattered him.

“I made a mistake, Jihun. I shouldn’t have left you. I’m sorry.”

When Jihun finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but each word landed like steel.

“I knew you would come back one day,” he said. “But you’re too late.”

Mincheol blinked, confused. “You mean that designer? I knew you and Kiin were fake. It was all just an act.”

Jihun’s jaw tightened. He took a step closer, his tone low and unwavering.

“It was never fake. What happened between us was real, you bastard.”
He let out a sharp breath, the anger in his chest finally breaking through.
“And don’t find me again.”

Mincheol stood frozen, his expression stunned, for once, speechless. Jihun walked past him without another glance. The city lights blurred behind him, but his heart felt lighter than it had in months.

That night, he called his mother. It had been weeks since their last proper conversation.She picked up after two rings. “Well, well. Look who remembered his poor mother.”

“Hey, Mom,” he said with a small laugh. “I just wanted to tell you… I’m back in New York. And Seoul… It's changed a lot. The streets are brighter. The food’s still amazing.”

“And?” she asked, her tone playful but knowing.

“That’s it, Mom.”

She chuckled. “Jihun, I literally birthed you. You didn’t call just to tell me all these travel brochure details. What’s on your head, darling? Tell me.”

There was a long pause. Then, quietly, he did.

He told her about Mincheol, about the relationship she had disapproved of years ago but he stubbornly held onto. He told her how it ended, how it broke him, how it made him swear off Christmas and love altogether. Then, for the first time, he spoke about Kiin.

About the grumpy designer who complained about spicy onigiri.
About the banana milk jokes.
About the quiet town blanketed in snow.
About Kiin’s shy smile, his family, and the handmade scarf that still warmed his neck every day.

When he finished, there was a soft silence on the other end of the line. Then his mother spoke, her voice warm and steady.

“Just choose what your heart wants, Jihun.”

He sighed. “What about you and Dad? You’ll be alone if I leave again.”

She laughed softly. “We have your brother here. We’ll be fine. And besides” she paused, a smile audible in her tone, “you can always fly back during holidays and bring that boy with you. Even though I’ve never met him, I like him already.”

Her words made Jihun’s throat tighten.

“Go there,” she said gently. “Go where your heart wants.”

When the call ended, Jihun sat in silence. Snow was falling again outside his apartment window, coating the city in white.

He pulled the scarf closer around his neck.

And for the first time since he left Seoul, Jihun finally smiled, small, quiet, but real.

16.

Winter came again. Snow began to fall over Seoul. The same thin, delicate flakes that used to cling to Jihun’s hair whenever he teased Kiin outside the flagship stores.

Kiin had long stopped checking his phone for messages from overseas.

At first, he kept expecting one, maybe a photo from New York, maybe a simple “how are you.” But none came. Weeks turned to months, and months turned to a year. Eventually, the silence settled into something bearable.

He moved on, at least, that’s what he told himself.

The Christmas project from last year had turned into a company tradition. Every December, the Seoul branch decorated their flagship stores under Kiin’s direction. He was promoted, busier than ever, and the staff often came to him for advice. He became someone reliable -  the calm, composed designer everyone respected.

But sometimes, when he passed by the café where Jihun used to steal his sandwich, or the convenience store where they fought over banana milk, something inside him stirred. The memories were no longer sharp enough to hurt, but soft enough to ache. He didn’t miss Jihun the way he used to. No longer with desperation, but with a quiet nostalgia, like remembering a song from a time he could never return to.

He had stopped blaming fate, too. Because maybe some people weren’t meant to stay. Maybe they just came to remind you what being alive felt like.

And in that sense, Jihun had done exactly that.

He’d pulled Kiin out of his gray, repetitive days.
He’d made him laugh again, bicker again, feel again.

And then he’d left -  like a passing season.

One evening, after finishing work, Kiin stopped by a small bakery near the company. It had snowed all day, and the shop windows were fogged up, glowing warm against the night. He ordered two pieces of strawberry shortcake. The same dessert Jihun once insisted on eating first before dinner. He didn’t know why he ordered two. Maybe a habit. Maybe something deeper.

When the shop owner placed the box in front of him, Kiin smiled faintly and whispered, “Thank you,” before stepping out into the cold.

The city lights reflected against the snow-covered sidewalks. People rushed past, laughing, holding hands, talking about plans for Christmas Eve.

Kiin tightened his scarf, the one he’d knitted himself this year, and breathed out, watching the faint white smoke swirl into the air. Maybe one day, Jihun would see the same snow in New York and think of him too.

Maybe not.

Either way, Kiin knew he would be fine.

His heart, once cracked, had found a way to heal quietly and patiently, leaving behind a small scar that didn’t hurt anymore, only reminded him that once, someone tall and ridiculous had made his winter feel like spring.

17.

The flagship store in Gangnam was a mess of ribbons, pine garlands, and cardboard snowflakes. Kiin stood in the center of it all, clipboard in hand, directing the staff as they set up the final display.

“No, no… that wreath goes left, not right. Yes, there. And please don’t hang the ornaments too low; children aren’t the only ones visiting.”

The employees laughed quietly behind his back. They’d all grown used to his perfectionism. The way he paced back and forth, muttering measurements under his breath. Outside, snow fell softly against the glass windows, and the faint scent of cinnamon from the seasonal candles filled the air.

Kiin didn’t notice the tall figure standing near the entrance at first.

He didn’t notice the sound of boots stepping over the marble floor or the paper bag rustling against the person’s coat.

Not until a voice; a smooth, teasing, unmistakably familiar voice, drifted behind him.

“Your taste improved so much, little Smurf. Or dare I say… my little Smurf.”

Kiin froze. His pen slipped from his hand, clattering onto the floor.

That voice.

He turned around slowly.

And there he was - Jihun. Taller than ever, wrapped in a dark wool coat dusted with snowflakes, holding a paper bag in one hand and two cups of coffee in the other. The sight was so surreal that Kiin wondered, just for a second, if he had finally gone crazy from overwork.

“…You,” Kiin said flatly. “Why are you here?”

Jihun grinned, unbothered. “Wow, no ‘welcome back’? No hug? Not even a polite smile? Seoul’s gotten colder since I left.”

“Apparently, not cold enough,” Kiin muttered, folding his arms. “I thought you were living your best life in New York.”

“I was,” Jihun said, stepping closer. “But then I realized New York didn’t have banana milk or anyone short enough to bully properly.”

Kiin scowled, but the faint twitch of his lips betrayed him. “You’re still annoying.”

“I’m consistent,” Jihun replied, offering him one of the coffees. “Black, no sugar. You still drink it that way, right?”

Kiin hesitated. “How do you even remember that?”

Jihun smiled softly, eyes warm. “Because I forgot everything else except you.”

The air between them shifted, quiet, fragile. The staff nearby exchanged glances, whispering as they pretended to continue hanging decorations.

Kiin sighed, taking the coffee from his hand. His fingers brushed against Jihun’s. It was so warm, so familiar.

“So,” he said, trying to sound casual. “You’re back in Seoul for business or just to bother me again?”

“Both,” Jihun replied easily. “The company’s expanding its holiday project. And I volunteered to lead the Seoul branch.”

Kiin blinked. “You… volunteered?”

“Yeah.” Jihun grinned. “Guess I missed my troublesome designer too much.”

Kiin turned away quickly, pretending to check the lights on the Christmas tree, but his ears were pink.

His trouble was back in town with bagels, coffee, and that same stupid smile. And despite everything, despite the ache and the time apart, his heart, traitorous as ever, skipped a beat.

18.

They ended up in the same café where they first met. A small, tucked coffee shop between two old bookstores, the same amber lights and quiet music filling the room.

Jihun sat across from Kiin, tearing his bagel into small pieces. The smell of coffee hung between them like nostalgia, bittersweet and warm.

“So,” Kiin began, sipping his drink. “You said you volunteered to come back?”

“Yeah.” Jihun nodded, eyes lowering to his cup. “Relocated permanently, actually. I’m not going back to New York.”

Kiin blinked, caught off guard. “You what?”

Jihun smiled faintly. “I handed in the transfer request a month ago. They approved it last week.”

“Why?” Kiin asked, trying to sound indifferent. “Did New York run out of coffee or tall buildings?”

Jihun laughed softly. “No. I just realized something was missing there. Something that made the city feel... quieter.”

He paused, his tone turning softer. “I missed you, Kiin.”

The words came out steady. Not dramatic, not desperate. Just honest.

“I regret leaving without saying anything. I thought I was doing the right thing, that distance would make things easier. But I was wrong.”
He leaned back, his eyes searching Kiin’s. “You kept showing up everywhere. In songs, in the grey dull walls around my neighborhood, in the damn scarf I couldn’t stop wearing. I missed your complaints, your sarcasm, your stupid long coat. Everything.”

Kiin stared at him for a moment, his fingers tightening around his cup. Then he exhaled quietly. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know,” Jihun said without hesitation. “But I’m your idiot now, if you’ll have me.”

Kiin’s lips twitched. “I planned to switch companies, you know. I wanted to leave Seoul after the Christmas project. But…” He shrugged, glancing away. “This company pays me too much. So, well…I’m still here.”

Jihun chuckled, the sound low and fond. “Always so romantic, Mr. Kim.”

“I’m practical,” Kiin corrected.

“You’re impossible.”

“Still taller than you,” Jihun teased automatically.

“Still annoying,” Kiin shot back, but this time, his voice carried no bite.

For a moment, silence filled the space. Not awkward, but peaceful. The kind of silence that exists between people who have already said everything that mattered.

Jihun reached across the table, brushing his fingers lightly against Kiin’s wrist. “So... Can we start over?”

Kiin looked at him and for the first time since that snowy night a year ago, he allowed himself to smile.

“Maybe,” he said softly. “But you’re buying the next round of coffee.”

Jihun grinned. “Deal.”

Outside, snow began to fall again, slow, quiet and forgiving. And inside, for the first time in a long time, both of them felt like they were finally home.

20.

The heater hummed softly in the background. Outside, Seoul’s winter sky pressed against the frosted windows, dusting the street with flakes of snow. Inside, Jihun and Kiin sat on the couch, an old fleece blanket tossed carelessly over their legs.

Jihun scrolled through the streaming options until his eyes lit up. “Oh! Love, Actually. Classic.”

Kiin groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s, what, twenty years old?”

“Twenty-one,” Jihun corrected proudly. “A masterpiece of modern cinema.”

“It’s outdated.”

“It’s romantic.”

“It’s unrealistic.”

“It’s classic” Jihun countered, grinning as he hit play.

Halfway through the movie, when the cue cards scene appeared, Kiin muttered something about “the most inefficient way to confess ever,” but his voice softened. His head leaned slightly closer to Jihun’s shoulder, and for once, he didn’t pull away.

Jihun noticed the faint weight against his arm, the rhythm of Kiin’s breath, the warmth seeping through the layers of their sweaters. Without thinking, he slid his arm behind Kiin’s back, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

He expected Kiin to freeze or swat him away. But instead, Kiin exhaled quietly, shifted a little and nestled closer. His head fit perfectly against Jihun’s shoulder, like it had always belonged there.

Jihun’s heart stuttered. For once, there was no witty line, no teasing nickname, no wall of irony to hide behind. Just the sound of soft dialogue from the screen and the faint scent of Kiin’s shampoo.

“Still think it’s outdated?” Jihun whispered.

“Completely,” Kiin murmured, his voice almost sleepy. “But… maybe not the worst movie to watch.”

Jihun smiled quietly. He turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against Kiin’s hair as he whispered, almost to himself, “Love, actually.”

Kiin didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His fingers had already found the edge of Jihun’s sleeve, holding it gently like an answer.