Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of wheels scraping against asphalt echoed through the narrow alleyway behind Dongnam Plaza.
One, two—kick, glide.
A streak of black hoodie, chain glinting under the dim flicker of a busted streetlight.

Chung Sanghyeon didn’t just skate. He owned the street.

He stopped with a spin, one shoe dragging against the concrete. A trail of cigarette smoke curled upward as he exhaled, lazy and unbothered, even with the November air biting cold. The city buzzed just beyond the alley—honking taxis, neon signs bleeding pink and blue over puddles. Seoul never slept, and neither did he.

“Boss, the guy from Hongdae hasn’t paid up,” one of his lackeys said, voice trembling slightly. The boy couldn’t have been more than seventeen, still wearing his high school uniform under a bomber jacket that was too big for him. “Said he’d have the cash by last week, but—”

Sanghyeon clicked his tongue. “And you believed him?”

He bent down, picked up his skateboard, and twirled it by one wheel. The black grip tape was scratched, stickers peeling at the edges—SK8 or DIE, NO GODS NO MASTERS—but it was his trademark. His throne. His weapon.

“Tell him I don’t do extensions,” Sanghyeon said, voice low and smooth like static over an old radio. “If he can’t pay, he can work it off.”

The boy nodded quickly, eyes darting away. Everyone knew what work it off meant.

Sanghyeon pushed off again, gliding toward the street’s end. The hum of his board filled the silence between the clatter of metal shutters closing for the night. He skated past the alley’s graffiti—tags that spelled SYH, his mark—past the stray cats, the rusted vending machines, and the broken mirror where his reflection flickered between boy and menace.

He stopped in front of a convenience store. His crew lingered nearby, loitering like shadows. They watched him—not out of fear, but reverence.

“Boss,” another voice called. A taller guy this time, probably one of his runners. “You gonna collect from the university kid next?”

Sanghyeon smirked, leaning his board against the curb. “Yeah. The one who thought he could outsmart me.”

He cracked open a canned coffee, took a slow sip, and stared at the horizon where the city lights blurred into haze.

“People think I skate for fun,” he murmured. “They don’t get it. This board—” he knocked his foot against it, “—it’s balance. You don’t stay balanced, you fall. And when you fall in this city, no one picks you up.”

He tossed the empty can into a trash bin and slid his hoodie’s hood over his head. The night wind caught his hair, dark and streaked with dust and sweat.

Then, with one smooth motion, he kicked off again—
the skaterboy king of debts and asphalt, gliding through the city that both feared and fed him.

And somewhere, a phone buzzed.
Another debtor. Another night. Another chase.

Rain had started to fall by the time they hit the first debtor.
Not the kind of rain that washed things clean — the kind that stuck to your skin, made the streets slick, and turned cigarette ash into dirty streaks on concrete.

Sanghyeon adjusted his hood, water dripping down the edge of his jaw as he leaned against the graffiti-coated wall of the old billiard hall. His crew stood behind him — four boys in black, faces half-hidden, sneakers squeaking against the wet ground.

Inside, someone was shouting.

A second later, a man was dragged out by the collar. Early twenties, hair greasy, lips trembling. His hands shook as he fumbled through his pockets.

“I—I just need more time,” the man stammered. “Please, Boss Chung, I’ll pay next week. I swear.”

Sanghyeon crouched down, cigarette glowing between his fingers.
“Next week?” he repeated, tone almost amused. “You said that last week.”

He blew smoke into the man’s face and tilted his head, eyes cold and sharp.
“You think I skate around this city for fun? You think money falls from the sky?”

When the man didn’t answer, Sanghyeon’s expression didn’t change — but he stood up and dropped the cigarette into a puddle.
“Minho,” he said simply.

One of the boys stepped forward, knuckles already wrapped in tape.
Two hits — one to the gut, one to the jaw — the man crumpled to the ground. The sound echoed through the alley like thunder trapped between walls.

Sanghyeon crouched again, voice low and steady.
“Next time, you pay double. Or you don’t walk away.”

He stood, snapped his fingers once.
They left him there — coughing, clutching his side — as they moved on.

By midnight, they’d hit three more spots — a karaoke bar, a half-shuttered PC café, and a rundown motel. Each one owed Sanghyeon’s crew money for something: protection, loans, favors.

He didn’t enjoy the fights, but he didn’t avoid them either.
Sometimes, the only way to stay alive in the city was to make sure people remembered who they were dealing with.

“Boss,” Minho said later, wiping blood from his knuckles with a towel. They were sitting behind the convenience store again, the night stretching thin and tired. “You ever think about stopping?”

Sanghyeon didn’t answer right away. He sat on the curb, skateboard resting beside him, rain still tapping lightly on the pavement.

“Stopping?” he echoed. “And do what?”

Minho shrugged. “You could open a shop. A skate store or something. You’re good enough.”

Sanghyeon smirked, gaze fixed on the faint reflection of neon lights in the puddle at his feet.
“Maybe,” he said. “But the streets don’t forget. Once you run things down here, you don’t walk away. You roll away, fast — before someone else takes your spot.”

He stood, flicked the towel back at Minho, and kicked his board up into his hand.
“Let’s go,” he said. “There’s one last guy tonight. Says he’s from the university. Borrowed five hundred thousand and vanished.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “University kid? Rich type?”

“Yeah,” Sanghyeon said. “Booksmart. But dumb enough to owe me money.”

He grinned then — a sharp, wolfish grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Let’s teach him what happens when people mistake kindness for mercy.”

The rain poured harder as he rolled down the empty street,
headlights flickering past,
the city breathing beneath his wheels —
and the night just getting started.

The rain stopped by morning, but the air still smelled like metal.
Old rain, iron, smoke — the scent that clung to the streets long after the storm was gone.

Sanghyeon rolled through the alley behind the skate park, shoes soaked, hoodie damp.
Under the overpass, his boys were waiting — sprawled on the ledges, half-awake, bruises already darkening under their skin.

No one talked at first.
Just the sound of wheels spinning, bearings whining.

Someone passed him a cigarette. He took it, lit it, and leaned against the concrete pillar.
The tag on the wall — SYH — had been painted over in black.

He stared at it for a long time.
Then flicked the cigarette to the ground.

“Who did it?”

Silence.
Then a voice from the shadows: “Mapo.”

He nodded once. That was all it took.

They found them that night — a handful of boys trying to look tough, skateboards at their feet, their laughter too loud for the quiet street.

Sanghyeon didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to.
The air shifted when he stepped forward.
People like him didn’t need to shout.

One of them smirked. “You the one with the red tag?”

Sanghyeon’s board hit the ground with a sharp crack.
“Was,” he said.

The rest happened fast.
Hands, feet, rain-slick concrete.
The dull thud of someone’s back hitting a wall.
The sound of breath leaving a body after a gut punch.
The shatter of a glass bottle.

It wasn’t a fight — it was a correction.

When it was done, the only sound left was the rain again.
One of the boys coughed, clutching his ribs.
Sanghyeon crouched beside him.

“Paint over it again,” he said quietly, “and you’ll forget how to stand.”

No anger. No threat in his tone — just fact.

He stood, motioned for his crew, and they left.
The night swallowed them whole.

Back at the park, he sat on the ledge and watched the city lights flicker through the drizzle.
The others laughed softly somewhere behind him, the kind of laughter that came only when the blood was still hot.

Sanghyeon didn’t join.
He just leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

People thought running the streets was about money, or pride, or power.
It wasn’t.

It was about balance.
Keep your crew steady.
Keep your rep steady.
Keep your feet steady — because the moment you lose balance, the streets take it from you.

A skateboard clattered somewhere nearby. Someone fell, swore, then laughed.
Sanghyeon smiled a little.

He flicked open a lighter, let the flame dance for a second before snapping it shut.
The city never stopped moving.
Neither did he.

But even wheels need something to chase.
And lately, the streets had gone quiet — too quiet.
Debts were being paid, faces were behaving, and for a while, he thought maybe the world had finally learned its place.

Then came the ghost.

It had been a month.
Too long.

Most people knew better than to vanish when they owed him money.
They knew that Sanghyeon didn’t forget.
Didn’t forgive.
Didn’t wait.

But this one—
This one was different.

He’d borrowed a heavy sum. No fight, no begging, no attitude — polite, even. Said he’d pay back in a week. Then disappeared like smoke.

Sanghyeon had let it slide for two, maybe three weeks.
Then something in him snapped.

“Bring him in,” he’d told the crew.
No theatrics, no shouting. Just the same calm tone he used when deciding whether to break bones or not.

The warehouse smelled of dust and old oil.
The kind of place where sound didn’t echo — it just sank.

A single bulb swung overhead, throwing shadows like chains across the concrete floor.
The man was on his knees.
Hands tied. Head covered with a black cloth bag.

Sanghyeon stood a few feet away, arms crossed, the low hum of his board wheels stilling under his shoes.

“Been a while,” he said softly. “A month, actually.”

No reply. Just steady breathing — unshaken, deliberate.

He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly.
“You know how this works. You borrow, you pay. You ghost, you disappear for real. That’s how it goes.”

He reached down, grabbed the edge of the bag, and pulled it off.

And for the first time in a long while—
Sanghyeon froze.

The man under the light wasn’t what he expected.
Not some twitchy kid or washed-up gambler.

His face was clean, refined — the kind of pretty that didn’t belong in places like this.
A faint bruise colored his cheek, but it didn’t take away from the quiet sharpness in his eyes.

Dark hair, pale skin, expression unreadable.
And when he finally spoke, the accent gave him away — faintly foreign.

“You’re Chung Sanghyeon?”

Sanghyeon didn’t answer.
He just looked.

He’d seen fear, anger, arrogance — all of it.
But this man looked at him like none of it mattered.
Like being tied up under a single hanging bulb was nothing more than an inconvenience.

He was older, that much was obvious. Not by a lot, but enough to make the composure sting a little.

“Didn’t think you’d actually bother coming yourself,” the man said. His tone was calm. Detached. “Usually, it’s the lackeys who handle this part.”

The corner of Sanghyeon’s mouth twitched.
“So you do know how this works.”

“I do,” the man replied. “And I also know I owe you.”
He shifted slightly, the ropes creaking. “I wasn’t hiding.”

“Sure,” Sanghyeon said, voice dry. “That’s what they all say.”

The man exhaled slowly, eyes steady on him.
“Bike accident. Seoul Station. Hospital for three weeks. They took my phone. You can check.”

Something about the way he said it — flat, unbothered, almost bored — made it hard to call it a lie.

Sanghyeon’s jaw flexed.
He crouched, just enough to meet his gaze.

“You’ve got nerve,” he said quietly. “Talking like that, tied up.”

The man’s lips curved faintly. “You wouldn’t have brought me here if you wanted me dead.”

For a moment, the air thinned between them.
Sanghyeon could hear the faint hum of the bulb, the scrape of rope against skin.
His heartbeat stayed steady — but his thoughts didn’t.

He stood, exhaling through his teeth.
“Untie him.”

The crew hesitated.
“Boss—”

“I said untie him.”

The rope loosened.
The man flexed his wrists, unbothered by the burn.

“What’s your name?” Sanghyeon asked.

“Chuei Liyu.”

A foreign name for a foreign face.
Soft-spoken. Unshaken.

Sanghyeon turned away, gripping his board until the wheels squealed faintly against the floor.
Something in his chest felt heavier than it should.

“Get him home,” he muttered. “And make sure no one touches him again.”

As he stepped out of the warehouse, the rain began — soft, relentless, the kind that blurred out everything except the sound of his own breathing.

He didn’t know why he stopped the moment he saw him.
Didn’t know why those calm eyes stayed in his head long after.

But that night, the street didn’t feel like it used to.
The pavement tilted under his feet,
and for the first time, even the wheels couldn’t keep him balanced.

Outside, the rain hit harder.
The city lights blurred into streaks — red, white, gold — dragging themselves across wet pavement.

Sanghyeon kicked his board forward, wheels hissing through puddles.
The cold bit at his fingers, his collar, his thoughts.

He should’ve been thinking about numbers, payments, territory.
But instead, all he saw was that face — calm, bruised, beautiful in a way that didn’t belong anywhere near his world.

He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head.
“Ridiculous.”

A guy like him — a street boss, a debt shark, the kind of name people whispered about — getting thrown off by some foreign uni kid?

Pathetic.

He popped the tail of his board, letting it spin once before catching it.
The move didn’t shake the feeling off.
It never did.

He told himself it was just curiosity.
Maybe irritation.
Yeah. That’s all it was.

Because there’s no way in hell someone like him—
could fall for someone like that.

Right?

The rain didn’t answer.
It just kept falling, steady and merciless, washing the city clean —
or pretending to.

It hadn’t even been two weeks since the warehouse.
Two weeks since Sanghyeon had told himself to forget.
To stop thinking about that name, that face.

And yet, when one of his guys slid a folder across the counter at the bar, he already knew what it was.

“Same guy,” the crewman said. “Didn’t pay. Didn’t even try.”

Sanghyeon didn’t open the file.
He didn’t need to.
He just stared at the condensation bleeding down his glass.

“…Bring him in,” he said finally.
The same words.
Different tone.

The second time, it wasn’t a warehouse.
Too obvious.
Too familiar.

This time, they took him to one of Sanghyeon’s safe rooms — a half-lit space above an auto shop, stripped bare except for a chair, a table, and the faint smell of gasoline.

Liyu sat there — same calm posture, wrists bound again, but the air around him felt different this time.
Tired, maybe. Sharper.

When Sanghyeon walked in, their eyes met instantly.
No surprise. No fear.
Just quiet recognition.

“I told you to pay,” Sanghyeon said, his voice a low drawl. “Didn’t think I’d have to repeat myself.”

“I told you I would,” Liyu answered. His tone was still even, still maddeningly composed. “Things don’t move as fast when you’re a student.”

“That so?” Sanghyeon leaned against the table, arms folded. “You seem to move just fine when it comes to disappearing.”

Liyu’s mouth quirked slightly. “You sound disappointed.”

That got a laugh out of him — short, dry. “Disappointed? I’m not your professor, hyung.”
The word slipped out like a tease, but it made something flicker in Sanghyeon’s chest.

He exhaled, the amusement fading. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “This city doesn’t wait for excuses. You pay, or you serve.”

“Serve?”

“Live with me,” Sanghyeon said simply. “Work off the debt. Every hour, every errand, until I say it’s clear.”

Liyu blinked once, then twice — like he wasn’t sure he heard right.
“Live with you?”

Sanghyeon’s gaze didn’t waver. “You wanted time. I’m giving you time. In my world, that’s mercy.”

There was a silence between them — sharp, taut, filled with rain outside and engine hum below.

Liyu finally laughed — quiet, disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” Sanghyeon tilted his head. “But you’re broke.”

That shut him up.
The kind of silence that wasn’t surrender — just calculation.

Sanghyeon pushed a small folded envelope across the table. Inside was money — cash, clean, too much for just bait.

“Advance,” he said. “For staying alive. You’ll get more when I say.”

Liyu stared at the envelope, then at him.
“Why?”

“Because I don’t like being ignored twice,” Sanghyeon replied. “And maybe I just like keeping trouble where I can see it.”

Liyu let out a slow breath, eyes dropping to the table.
Then, finally—
“Fine.”

Sanghyeon smiled faintly. “Good choice.”

But when he left the room, the words didn’t taste like victory.
They tasted like something dangerous, something he couldn’t quite name.

And in the reflection of the window, he caught his own expression —
too soft, too human.

“Serve me,” he’d said.
But maybe, he thought grimly,
he was the one already serving something else.

The rain followed them home.

It clung to Liyu’s jacket, the hem of Sanghyeon’s hoodie, the air itself.
By the time they reached the apartment — a high-rise near the river, lights dim and windows fogged — the world felt quieter.
Not peaceful. Just muted.

Sanghyeon unlocked the door with a flick of his wrist.
The place wasn’t fancy — just expensive in the kind of way that screamed don’t ask where the money came from.
A clean couch. Dark wood floors. Empty bottles on the counter.

“Shoes off,” Sanghyeon said, dropping his board by the door.
Liyu didn’t move for a second. Then he slipped them off wordlessly, setting them beside the board.

He didn’t look afraid.
Didn’t look impressed either.
Just… detached, like he was walking through someone else’s dream.

“Kitchen’s there,” Sanghyeon said, nodding to the left. “You can eat whatever you want. Don’t touch the top shelf in the fridge.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

That earned a faint snort from Liyu.
“I didn’t know you were this domestic.”

Sanghyeon ignored that.
He walked past him, tossed his lighter onto the table, and collapsed onto the couch.

Liyu lingered near the doorway, gaze scanning the room — the skateboards leaned against the wall, the scattered cash envelopes, the faint smell of smoke and rain.

“This isn’t really a boss’s place,” he said eventually.

Sanghyeon cracked an eye open. “You were expecting a mansion?”

“Something like that.”

“Yeah,” Sanghyeon muttered, half to himself. “So was I.”

For a while, neither of them said anything.
The rain against the windows filled the silence, steady and rhythmic.

Then Liyu moved — quiet, unhurried — toward the window.
The city lights painted faint gold lines across his face.

Sanghyeon watched him.
Not because he meant to, but because he couldn’t seem to stop.

There was something unreal about him — too clean for the streets, too composed for someone who’d just been tied to a chair hours ago.

“You should sleep,” Sanghyeon said eventually.
He gestured vaguely down the hall. “Second room’s empty. Bathroom’s across it.”

Liyu turned slightly, eyebrow lifting. “And if I decide to leave?”

Sanghyeon smiled — slow, sharp, tired. “Then I’ll find you again.”

Liyu studied him for a long moment, then shrugged lightly. “Guess I’ll stay, then.”

He disappeared down the hall.

For a while, Sanghyeon stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling.
The sound of running water came from the bathroom — brief, then gone.
Footsteps. The faint creak of the spare bed.

He told himself it didn’t matter.
That this was just business.
Just another debtor under his roof.

But when he closed his eyes, the image came back —
the calm in Liyu’s gaze, the bruise on his cheek, the faint tilt of his mouth when he said you’re insane.

Sanghyeon rolled onto his side, pressing a hand to his face.

“Get a grip,” he muttered. “He’s a guy. A client. A headache.”

But the words didn’t settle.
They just floated there, heavy and hollow, until sleep finally dragged him under —
and the city outside kept raining,
as if it knew better than to believe him.

The sound of a lighter flicked again. A familiar click–hiss, then the soft crackle of flame.

From the couch, Liyu groaned.
“Do you have to?”

Sanghyeon didn’t look up. The cigarette hung from his lips, half-lit, smoke curling into the stale air of the apartment.
“It’s my place,” he muttered, tone flat.

“I don’t care. It smells disgusting.”

That made him pause. Not because of the words — people had said worse — but because of the way Liyu said it. Quiet, nose wrinkled, voice tired from lack of sleep. The guy had been here three days and already complained like he owned the place.

Sanghyeon took a drag anyway.
“Then go outside.”

“Can’t.” Liyu glanced at the door, where one of Sanghyeon’s men stood watch. “Your dogs won’t let me."

A short laugh slipped from him. “That’s because you keep trying to run.”

Liyu shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
“Maybe I wouldn’t if you stopped treating me like a prisoner.”

Sanghyeon leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. The way Liyu’s face twisted at that — like every inhale was a punishment — made something uneasy stir inside him.

He stubbed out the cigarette.
Not because Liyu asked.
At least, that’s what he told himself.

The night went quiet after that.
No smoke, no music — just the low hum of the fridge and the city breathing outside their window.

Sanghyeon sat there for a long time, lighter cold in his hand, watching Liyu move around the kitchen like he’d always belonged there.

It shouldn’t have felt peaceful.
But it did.

And that scared him more than anything.

Because peace never lasted long in his world.
And he could already feel the next storm coming.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open just past midnight.

Sanghyeon stepped in first — bruised knuckles, split lip, and the faint scent of smoke clinging to his hoodie. The air outside was cold, sharp enough to sting his lungs. Inside, it smelled like soap and something faintly herbal.

He blinked once. The lights were still on.

The apartment wasn’t fancy — bare walls, one couch, half a kitchen — but it wasn’t supposed to be lived in either. Until now.
Liyu was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting receipts into neat stacks like he actually owned the place.

“You’re bleeding again,” he said without looking up. His tone was flat. Too calm.

Sanghyeon dropped his board by the door, toeing off his shoes. “Part of the job.”

“Part of the job,” Liyu echoed quietly. He got up, went to the sink, and came back with a damp towel. “You’ll end up in a hospital at this rate.”

Sanghyeon smirked. “Then I’ll be where you were.”

That earned him a glance — sharp, unimpressed, but not angry. Liyu pressed the towel to his cheek anyway, gentle but firm.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge and the tap of the clock on the wall.

Sanghyeon hated how quiet it got when he came home now.
He used to like silence — the kind that came after a good fight, after the city stopped buzzing. But now it just felt like Liyu was filling the space in a way he didn’t understand.

When Liyu finally pulled his hand back, Sanghyeon caught his wrist before he could walk away.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice low.

Liyu blinked. “You told me to serve you.”

“I didn’t mean like that.”

A small smile tugged at Liyu’s mouth — soft, mocking. “Then you should be clearer with your orders, boss.”

He slipped his hand free and turned toward the kitchen, barefoot, quiet, too calm for someone who’d been kidnapped twice and still chose to stay.
Sanghyeon watched him pour hot water into a cup, steam rising against the faint bruises still healing on his neck.

The faint scent hit him again — tea, mint maybe — chasing the cigarette smoke off his skin.

And for a moment, Sanghyeon wondered if this was what domesticity looked like for someone like him.
Bruised, tired, and strangely... grounded.

He sat on the couch, running a thumb over his knuckles.
The apartment was too quiet, too warm, and too small for whatever was starting to happen between them.

But when Liyu set the cup of tea on the table beside him and said, “Drink,” Sanghyeon didn’t argue.

He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the tone — not soft, not harsh — just steady, the kind people used when they’d already decided something for you.
He picked up the cup anyway, letting the warmth settle into his bruised knuckles.

The room smelled faintly of rain and smoke, the windows still fogged from the storm outside. His hoodie clung to his shoulders, streaked with dried blood from a split lip that wasn’t his.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered.

“I know,” Liyu replied. “You just looked like you wouldn’t do it yourself.”

That earned a short, dry laugh. “You always have to sound like my babysitter?”

Liyu didn’t look up from the couch where he sat, legs crossed neatly, sleeves rolled up just enough to show faint scars at his wrist. “You smoke like a chimney, don’t eat properly, and come home with cuts every other night. Someone has to.”

Sanghyeon leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “You talk too much for someone under my roof.”

“Then kick me out.”

He looked over, and for a second, neither of them moved. The air between them was taut — stretched thin by the quiet challenge in Liyu’s gaze.

Sanghyeon didn’t. Couldn’t. He took another sip instead, the tea bitter but grounding.

“You really hate the smell that much?” he asked finally.

Liyu’s eyes flicked toward the half-open pack of cigarettes on the counter. “I hate what it turns you into.”

That one sank deeper than Sanghyeon expected.

“What, a criminal?”

“No.” Liyu’s voice was calm, but it carried a sharpness that almost hurt. “Someone who keeps pretending he doesn’t feel anything.”

Silence. The kind that pressed against his chest.

Sanghyeon looked away, thumb tracing the rim of his cup. “You don’t know me.”

“I live here now,” Liyu said simply. “I know enough.”

That made something in him bristle — not out of anger, but defense. He set the cup down too hard, tea sloshing over the rim. “You don’t get to lecture me, hyung.”

The honorific slipped out before he could stop it.
And Liyu froze, just for a second. The faintest twitch of surprise, then a low, almost amused sigh.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Good,” Sanghyeon muttered, standing up. “Don’t.”

He reached for the lighter in his pocket. The motion was automatic — comfort, habit, defiance — he didn’t even think about it until Liyu’s hand caught his wrist.

“Outside,” Liyu said quietly.

Sanghyeon’s pulse jumped at the touch, the contrast of cold fingers against his skin. “You really gonna keep bossing me around in my own place?”

“You can do whatever you want,” Liyu said. “Just don’t poison the air we share.”

Something in the way he said it — we share — snagged at him.

He could’ve shoved him off. Should’ve. But he didn’t. He just stared for a moment too long, then tossed the lighter back onto the table. It landed with a dull clink beside the untouched pack.

Liyu’s hand slipped away, slow. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Sanghyeon ran a hand through his hair, suddenly restless. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

That almost made him laugh. Almost.

He didn’t reply. Just grabbed his board and headed for the door, hoodie half-zipped, eyes half-hidden under the hood.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“It’s raining.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the faint scent of smoke and tea tangled in the room.

Liyu sighed, staring at the cigarette pack. Then, quietly, he slid it into the drawer — out of sight, but not far enough away.

Outside, the city glistened under streetlights. Wheels met wet pavement, hissing softly as Sanghyeon skated through the night.
He didn’t know if he was running from something or just circling it.

All he knew was that the ghost of Liyu’s touch still burned against his wrist —
and he hated how that steadied him more than the smoke ever did.

It was past two in the morning when Sanghyeon finally dragged himself home.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly as he unlocked the door, the smell of rain and concrete clinging to him like guilt.

He tried to be quiet, but the floorboards betrayed him anyway.

Liyu was awake.

Sitting on the couch, arms crossed, still in that same oversized shirt from earlier — collar stretched, sleeves half-rolled. His hair was messy, his expression worse.
A single lamp lit the room, casting long shadows across his face.

“You’re late,” he said.

Sanghyeon kicked his shoes off, shrugging out of his hoodie. “Didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

“You said you’d be out for an hour.”

“It turned into three.”

“Five,” Liyu corrected sharply. “You were gone for five.”

That tone — calm but edged — made Sanghyeon pause.
He threw his hoodie over the arm of the couch and reached for the cigarette pack again. The lighter clicked once.

“Don’t.”

The word came out firm. Not shouted — but it landed heavier than any punch.

Sanghyeon froze mid-motion, meeting Liyu’s eyes. “You really like giving me orders, huh?”

Liyu stood up. He didn’t raise his voice, but the quiet fury in it made the air feel colder.
“You come home bleeding. Reeking of smoke. You think this is something worth killing yourself over?”

“Who said I’m dying?”

“You’re already halfway there,” Liyu snapped.

Sanghyeon blinked, startled — not by the words, but by the flash of emotion behind them. Liyu’s hands were trembling slightly, his jaw tight.

Something in Sanghyeon’s chest twisted — part guilt, part something else he didn’t want to name.

“Why do you care?” he said, quieter now. “You’re here because you owe me. Not because you want to.”

Liyu’s gaze hardened. “You think I’d still be here if I didn’t?”

That silenced him. Completely.

Rain tapped against the windows. Somewhere in the distance, a car splashed through the street.

Sanghyeon swallowed, throat dry. “You’re wasting your breath.”

Liyu took a slow step forward. “And you’re wasting your life.”

For a second, they stood too close — the kind of distance that made every breath feel like a challenge. Sanghyeon could smell the faint trace of tea on Liyu’s skin, warm and bitter, like restraint.

Then Liyu sighed, stepping back first.
“Go shower. You smell like smoke and rain.”

The command was gentler this time, almost tired.

Sanghyeon stared at him for a long moment, then finally dropped the cigarette into the trash.
“…Fine.”

He turned away, muttering as he disappeared into the hallway, “You really hate smoke that much.”

“I hate watching someone burn and calling it peace,” Liyu murmured.

The words followed him down the hall, clinging to the sound of water hitting tile.

When Sanghyeon came back out, the living room light was off. Only the faint glow from the streetlight slipped through the curtains — and Liyu, still on the couch, asleep this time.

A blanket had slipped down to his knees.

Sanghyeon hesitated, standing there for a long while before walking over, lifting the blanket, and covering him properly.

His fingers brushed against Liyu’s hair — soft, damp, too real.

“Boss of a gang,” he whispered under his breath. “Falling for a guy who can’t even stand the smell of him.”

He let out a quiet, helpless laugh. Then, softly—

“What the hell’s wrong with me.”

The morning came slow.
Light spilled into the apartment in uneven stripes, brushing over the mess they hadn’t cleaned up—jackets thrown over chairs, empty glasses, the faint smell of smoke still hanging in the air.

Liyu moved quietly, the way he always did now. The kettle clicked on, the sound steady, grounding. He wasn’t sure when he started doing this—making tea for a man who barely slept, who came home bleeding and called it just another night.

Sanghyeon sat at the table, half-awake, cigarette tucked behind his ear, hair still damp from a rushed shower. His hands rested on the table—one bruised, one bandaged—and Liyu had to stop himself from staring.

He hated how used to it he’d become.

“You’re dripping on the floor,” Liyu said, voice mild.

“Can’t help it,” came the lazy reply.

He poured the tea, set the cup down beside him, and said, “Drink.”

And for once, Sanghyeon didn’t argue. He just picked it up, sipped, and watched Liyu from over the rim of the cup—eyes unreadable, lips curved like he was holding back a smirk.

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” Liyu asked, leaning against the counter.

“Don’t need to,” Sanghyeon said. “Bad dreams, anyway.”

Liyu hummed softly, neither agreeing nor asking further. The silence stretched—comfortable, in a way he didn’t want to admit.

When Sanghyeon finally set the cup down, Liyu noticed the blood seeping faintly through the bandage on his hand. He sighed, pulled out a roll of gauze from the drawer, and knelt to redo it.

“You don’t have to—”

“Hold still,” Liyu cut in, wrapping the gauze tighter than necessary.

Sanghyeon chuckled under his breath. “You always this bossy?”

“Only when the person I’m talking to bleeds on my floor.”

That earned a grin. The kind that made Liyu’s stomach twist in a way he didn’t want to think about.

He tied off the bandage neatly and stood, brushing his hands off. “There.”

“Thanks, nurse.”

Liyu rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Sanghyeon leaned back, grabbed the cigarette from behind his ear, and flicked open his lighter. The sharp click of the flame made Liyu freeze.

“Don’t you dare,” he said.

“What?”

“Not inside.”

Sanghyeon smirked. “You say that every time.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.” Liyu crossed his arms. “You reek enough already.”

He lit it anyway, just to be difficult. The smell filled the air immediately, bitter and smoky. Liyu’s nose wrinkled.

“God, you’re impossible.”

“You’re the one still here,” Sanghyeon said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke toward the window.

Liyu slammed a mug on the counter. “Because I owe you, not because I want to breathe in your lung cancer.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The smoke curled lazily between them, heavy and sharp. Then, without a word, Sanghyeon stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of the ashtray and pushed it away.

“Happy now?”

“No,” Liyu muttered. “But I’ll live.”

Sanghyeon’s laugh was low, quiet. “That makes one of us.”

He stood, grabbed his jacket from the chair, and slung it over his shoulder. The morning light caught the edge of his jaw, the bruise near his mouth, the exhaustion that didn’t fit someone his age.

“You going out again?” Liyu asked.

“Yeah. Collection run.”

“Come back in one piece.”

“That’s the plan.”

But plans didn’t always mean much in their world. The door shut behind him with a dull thud, leaving Liyu alone with the silence and the faint trace of smoke that never really left.

He sighed, turned off the kettle, and sat where Sanghyeon had been. The cup was still half-full, faint lip marks on the rim.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.
He told himself that every morning.

And every night, when he heard the door open again, he felt that same quiet relief he refused to name.

The first thing Liyu learned about living with Sanghyeon was that the man’s fridge was a crime scene.

Half a bottle of water, a few cans of cheap beer, and something unidentifiable in a plastic container that looked like it might’ve been food a month ago.

He stood there for a full minute, staring at the mess, then sighed and grabbed a shopping bag.

If he was going to be stuck here, at least he could make it livable.

The market wasn’t far — a few blocks down, tucked between a repair shop and a fried chicken place that always smelled like heaven and oil.
Morning sun washed over the cracked pavement, and for once, the city felt… normal.

Liyu didn’t blend in easily.
Foreign face, accented Korean, the kind of quiet that made people glance twice.
But he didn’t mind. He liked being unnoticed, liked the simplicity of baskets and aisles and background chatter instead of debt and threats.

He lingered by the produce, picking through green onions, eggs, instant noodles — the essentials.
Then he found himself staring at a shelf of coffee and cigarettes.

Sanghyeon’s brand sat right there.
The white box with the bold logo he’d come to hate.

Liyu hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the pack before pulling back.
He didn’t buy them.
He grabbed a box of tea instead.

At the counter, the cashier smiled politely, scanning each item with a soft beep.
“Cooking for someone?” she asked casually.

Liyu blinked, then managed a faint smile. “Something like that.”

He left with two bags and a thought he didn’t want to name.

By the time he got back, the apartment was empty.
Sanghyeon was still out — collecting, fighting, doing whatever it was he called work.
The place felt colder without his presence, which was annoying to realize.

Liyu unpacked quietly.
Eggs in the fridge. Rice in the cupboard. A small potted herb on the windowsill — something green to make the space less dead.

When he found the ashtray on the table, still full from last night, he emptied it.
Wiped it clean.
Set it down beside the tea instead.

He told himself it wasn’t care. It was order.

Still, when he sat at the table afterward, sunlight spilling through the blinds, he caught himself glancing at the door every few minutes.

Waiting.

Not for the boss who owned his debt.
Not for the man who smoked too much and bled too easily.

Just… waiting.

By late afternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of soy sauce and ginger.
Liyu stood in front of the counter, chopping scallions, when he realized he was missing one thing.

Tofu.

He sighed, glancing at the clock. It wasn’t late yet — the sun was still hanging low, turning the city gold. He could make it back before Sanghyeon returned.

He grabbed his wallet and slipped out, hood up, the wind sharp with the coming evening.

The same market again.
The same street.
But this time, the air felt heavier.

He’d just stepped out of the store, plastic bag in hand, when he heard it — the dull sound of a fist meeting flesh.
Once.
Twice.
A low voice followed, calm and steady in a way that made the hair on his neck stand up.

Liyu froze near the corner.
He shouldn’t look.
He should walk away.

But curiosity — or something worse — pulled him in.

Down the alley, under the faint orange glow of a streetlight, three figures stood.
Two men were holding someone against the wall.
The third — the one with his sleeves rolled, cigarette in hand — didn’t need introduction.

Sanghyeon.

Even from a distance, Liyu could tell the difference between the Sanghyeon he saw at home and the one standing there now.
This version didn’t laugh.
Didn’t soften.
He moved with precision — deliberate, dangerous, every word a quiet blade.

The man being held stammered something about paying soon.
Sanghyeon’s response was a slow exhale, a flick of ash, and then —
Another hit.

Liyu flinched.
It wasn’t brutal, not yet. But it was enough to make the man slump, gasping.

He’d known what Sanghyeon was.
But knowing it and seeing it — the coldness, the control, the way people looked at him like he was untouchable — those were two different things.

Liyu’s fingers tightened around the grocery bag.
The plastic rustled.

Sanghyeon’s head turned — sharp, instinctive — and their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped.
The alley. The air. The distance between them.

Liyu didn’t run.
He just stood there, pulse hammering, tofu box dripping onto the pavement.

Sanghyeon’s expression didn’t change. But something in his gaze flickered — recognition, surprise, maybe even shame.
Then he looked away, muttering something to his men.

The next thing Liyu knew, the alley was empty.

By the time Sanghyeon came home that night, the lights were still on.
Dinner half-cooked.
Liyu sitting by the table, silent.

Neither spoke.
The air between them was thick — not angry, not tense, just... different.

He wanted to ask why.
Why it had to be like that. Why the same hands that bruised strangers were the ones that steadied him when he tripped.

But he didn’t.
He just stood up, said, “Your food’s getting cold,” and turned away before his voice could break.

The clatter of chopsticks broke the silence first.
Sanghyeon ate without looking up.
Liyu didn’t touch his food.

Steam curled from the bowls between them, untouched long enough to cool.
Finally, Liyu spoke, voice too calm to be neutral.
“I saw you.”

Sanghyeon’s hand froze midair.
He didn’t ask where or when. He didn’t need to.

Liyu kept his gaze fixed on the table. “I was out getting tofu. And there you were—” his tone wavered between disbelief and quiet anger, “—beating the hell out of someone.”

Sanghyeon leaned back, chewing slowly, like buying time. “He owed money.”

“That’s it? Just—‘he owed money’?” Liyu’s laugh was dry, small. “That’s what you do all day, then? Break ribs for rent?”

Sanghyeon’s jaw tightened. “You think it’s fun?”

“I think it’s stupid.” Liyu’s words were sharp now, unfiltered. “You’re still a kid. You could be in college, doing something that doesn’t end with you in prison or in a ditch.”

“I make more than any college kid,” Sanghyeon snapped back.

“Yeah,” Liyu said, pushing his chair back, “and you spend it like someone who doesn’t expect to live long enough to use it.”

That landed.
For a second, the air stilled — not with anger, but with the weight of something neither could name.

Sanghyeon looked away first.
He always did when the truth cut too close.

Liyu stood, crossing his arms, watching him. “Fine. You won’t talk? Then I’ll see it for myself.”

Sanghyeon frowned. “What?”

“I’ll come with you tomorrow,” Liyu said simply, voice low but certain. “See what kind of hell you’re living in.”

Sanghyeon’s lips parted — halfway between a scoff and a laugh — but no sound came out.
He just stared at him, this ridiculous, infuriating man who walked straight into his chaos like he wasn’t afraid of burning.

“…You’re insane,” he muttered.

Liyu turned away, heading toward the sink. “Maybe. But someone has to make sure you come back in one piece.”

Sanghyeon hadn’t slept much.
He never did — nights were too long, too loud in his head — but this one had been worse. The air felt heavier somehow, like the silence itself was pressing down on him. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard it again — Liyu’s voice, calm and resolute, saying, “I’ll come with you.”

He’d almost laughed when he heard it. Almost.
But morning came, and there was no backing out.

The smell of coffee hit first. Then the faint scrape of chopsticks against ceramic.
When Sanghyeon wandered out of his room, Liyu was already in the kitchen — sleeves rolled, hair tied back, dressed simply in a plain white shirt and dark jacket. The light from the window caught on his features, softening them, making him look almost domestic. Almost gentle.

It was disorienting. A scene that didn’t belong in his apartment, in his world.

“You’re up early,” Sanghyeon muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“You said you’re leaving at ten.” Liyu didn’t look up as he set a mug down on the table. “I’m coming with you, remember?”

Sanghyeon blinked.
He’d half-hoped Liyu had said it in frustration — an empty threat, something that’d fade overnight. But no. The man looked steady, deliberate.

“You’re serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

No, he didn’t.
And for a second, something in Sanghyeon’s chest faltered — an unsteady beat that he quickly smothered with a scoff.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You can’t just— it’s not a sightseeing trip, Liyu.”

“Good,” came the flat reply. “I hate sightseeing.”

That earned the ghost of a smirk, quickly hidden behind a sip of coffee.
When Sanghyeon grabbed his jacket and board, he caught Liyu slipping on his shoes too — quiet, efficient, as though he’d already made up his mind the night before.

The ride was quiet. Wind in their ears, the city alive but distant.
When they arrived at the empty lot, the crew was already there — half-slouched against bikes, passing a smoke around, bills counting between fingers.

“Yo, boss—” one called, grinning — then stopped mid-word when Liyu stepped out from behind.

Silence.
Then a low whistle.

“Ohhh,” someone said, dragging it out. “Didn’t know we were bringing… company.”

“Boss finally bringing his wife to work, huh?” another joked, and laughter broke through the tension.

Sanghyeon shot them a glare sharp enough to silence a few, though the smirks didn’t fade entirely. “Don’t start,” he warned.

“Didn’t say anything,” one muttered, hiding a grin. “Just— new face, that’s all.”

Liyu ignored them completely. If the teasing got to him, it didn’t show. He walked past like he belonged there, gaze sweeping over the cracked concrete, rusted drums, the faint stink of gasoline.

“So this is it,” he murmured. “Your kingdom.”

Sanghyeon shoved his hands into his pockets. “Stay out of the way.”

“Sure.”
Liyu leaned against a wall, arms crossed. “I’m just here to see.”

And he did.
He stood silently through it all — through the shouting, the negotiations, the noise. Through the way Sanghyeon barked orders, the way people flinched when he stepped closer. He watched with a stillness that unnerved the crew more than any threat could.

They weren’t used to being watched like that — like they were children caught playing with knives.

But Liyu said nothing.
Even when Sanghyeon grabbed a man by the collar for shorting the week’s cut, even when the guy spat blood and apology in the same breath — Liyu just stood there. Unmoving.

The day dragged. Heat and dust and smoke clung to everything.
By the time the last of the debt was collected, Sanghyeon’s knuckles ached faintly — more from restraint than use.

When the crew finally dispersed, he turned — and there Liyu was, still leaning against the wall, expression unreadable.

“Done?” he asked.

“For today,” Sanghyeon replied.

“Good.” Liyu straightened, brushing off his sleeves. “You’re still an idiot.”

Sanghyeon frowned. “What—”

“You act like you’re made of stone,” Liyu cut in, voice even but sharp. “But I saw you. You pulled that punch earlier.”

Sanghyeon blinked. “He was already down.”

“That’s not the point,” Liyu said. “You talk like a monster, but you don’t even know how to finish the act anymore. You’re out here trying to prove something you don’t even believe in.”

He took a step closer — quiet, deliberate — until Sanghyeon could see the faint irritation in his eyes.

“You want to scare people? Then fine. But don’t stand there pretending that’s all you are.” His tone softened slightly. “You’re not.”

The words landed harder than any insult.
Sanghyeon looked away, cigarette half-lit in his hand.

Liyu exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face like he’d said too much. “God, you’re exhausting.”

He started walking away — past the bikes, past the rust and smoke — but paused just before turning the corner.

“And put that cigarette out before I do it for you.”

When he was gone, the silence lingered.
One of the guys elbowed another and murmured, “Boss, you’re whipped.”

Sanghyeon didn’t bother to answer.
He just stared at the lighter in his hand, flame flickering, dying in the wind.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t light the cigarette.

The apartment was quiet that night.
Too quiet.

Sanghyeon dropped his jacket by the couch and slumped down, a low groan escaping him as the springs creaked beneath his weight. His shoulders ached, his head pounded, and his chest still buzzed faintly from everything Liyu had said earlier.

He wasn’t used to being seen like that.
People usually looked at him and saw two things — debt and danger.
Liyu looked and saw something else entirely. He didn’t know what. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The fridge hummed softly in the background. The faint sound of running water stopped, replaced by quiet footsteps.

Liyu came out of the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, towel slung loosely around his neck. “You didn’t eat.”

Sanghyeon grunted. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It is now.”

Liyu crossed his arms. “You should eat something before you collapse and make me drag you to the hospital again.”

Sanghyeon cracked one eye open. “You’d actually carry me?”

“I’d make your men do it.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him — soft, short, unguarded. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re dramatic.”

Sanghyeon’s smirk faded as quickly as it came. “You shouldn’t have come today.”

“I told you,” Liyu said, voice even, “I wanted to see.”

“And?”

Liyu’s eyes flicked toward him — unreadable, steady. “It’s ugly.”

That stung more than it should’ve. But before he could react, Liyu added, almost gently, “You don’t have to make it uglier than it already is.”

Sanghyeon exhaled, leaning his head back against the couch. “You talk like you know everything.”

“No,” Liyu said. “I just know you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile — just heavy, suspended somewhere between defiance and understanding.

Then, Liyu spoke again. “I have class tomorrow.”

“...So?”

“So,” Liyu said, tilting his head, “you’re taking me.”

Sanghyeon blinked. “What?”

“University,” Liyu said plainly, as if asking for a glass of water. “Ten in the morning. I need to be there by nine-thirty.”

Sanghyeon turned to look at him like he’d just sprouted another head. “You want me to take you to university?”

“You have a car, don’t you?”

“I have a bike.”

“Then borrow a car.”

“Why don’t you take the train like a normal person?”

“Because I’m living here now,” Liyu said, tone infuriatingly calm. “You made that arrangement. That makes this your responsibility.”

“Responsibility—?” He laughed, half in disbelief. “You’re the one who owes me, remember?”

“So what?” Liyu said, unbothered. “I still need a ride.”

Sanghyeon stared. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“I have better things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Important business.”

“Breaking someone’s jaw again?”

He paused. “...Possibly.”

Liyu raised a brow. “You can do that after you drop me off.”

Sanghyeon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot,” Liyu said simply, before turning away toward the hallway. “Nine-thirty.”

The next morning, a car he definitely didn’t own was parked outside the building. It wasn’t fancy — just something one of his guys owed him — but it felt ridiculous all the same.

Liyu slipped into the passenger seat like he’d done it a hundred times before. “You drive too fast,” he said as soon as they merged onto the main road.

“Then don’t look.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then don’t talk.”

Liyu hummed softly. “You really don’t know how to say no to me, do you?”

Sanghyeon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Keep talking and I’ll drop you off in the river.”

“Mm. But you won’t.”

He scowled. “You’re awfully confident for someone who still owes me money.”

“You’re awfully defensive for someone pretending not to like me.”

“Who said I—” He caught himself, jaw tightening. “Don’t push it.”

Liyu only smiled faintly, sipping from his coffee cup. “You keep saying that. But you never stop me.”

“Because you’re annoying,” Sanghyeon muttered.

“Because you let me,” Liyu corrected.

Sanghyeon turned his gaze back to the road, pretending the heat in his ears was just the sun.

They hit a red light. Liyu leaned back, looking out the window, the faint morning sunlight catching on his hair. “You should open the window,” he said suddenly. “You reek of smoke.”

“Then stop sitting near me.”

“I’d still smell it.”

“Then hold your breath.”

Liyu huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re bossy.”

“Someone has to keep you alive.”

Sanghyeon tried not to smile — failed, just barely. “You’re lucky I’m driving, or I’d throw something at you right now.”

“I’d duck.”

“Cocky.”

“Honest.”

The light turned green. The car rolled forward again.

For a moment, neither of them spoke — just the hum of the engine, the blur of Seoul through the windows, the faint rhythm of traffic weaving between them.

It wasn’t peace exactly. But it was close.

And Sanghyeon hated how much he didn’t hate it.

The rest of the drive was quiet — not awkward, just... suspended.
Traffic lights changed, pedestrians drifted past, the city was awake and breathing, and somehow that filled the space between them better than any words could.

When they pulled up by the university gate, Liyu reached for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sanghyeon said, pretending to check the mirrors. “Try not to get mugged.”

“Try not to,” Liyu echoed with a small grin, stepping out.

He shut the door and adjusted his bag, walking toward the main entrance. The air was crisp, sunlight filtering through the trees.
Then a familiar voice called out.

“Liyu!”

He turned to see Jang Haneum, waving from the steps, clutching a half-eaten pastry.
As Liyu approached, Haneum’s eyes darted past him — to the idling car.

“...Who’s that?” he asked, an eyebrow raised. “Boyfriend?”

Liyu blinked, deadpan. “The guy I owe money to.”

Haneum nearly choked on his pastry. “Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”

Liyu exhaled, brushing past him. “It works differently.”

Haneum laughed, trailing after him. “Man, whatever kind of arrangement that is, I don’t wanna know.”

“Good,” Liyu said dryly. “Keep it that way.”

Behind them, the car’s engine revved once before pulling away — loud, defiant, and just a little too fast.
Liyu didn’t look back, but the corner of his mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly.

Haneum nudged him as they crossed the campus. “So, mysterious guy drives you now? You’ve really got people working for you, huh.”

“He owes me a favor,” Liyu said simply.

Haneum raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you said you owe him money.”

Liyu gave him a sidelong glance. “It works differently.”

“Right,” Haneum drawled. “Because when I owe someone cash, they definitely pick me up in the morning and drop me off at class like my personal chauffeur.”

Liyu ignored him, tightening his grip on the strap of his bag. “You’re loud.”

“I’m correct,” Haneum shot back, grinning. “You’re playing dangerous games, man. That guy looked like he eats nails for breakfast.”

“He probably does,” Liyu muttered.

Haneum laughed. “And yet, here you are — getting rides from him. You sure this isn’t a weird sugar arrangement?”

Liyu stopped walking and turned his head just enough for Haneum to see the look on his face. Calm, sharp, vaguely threatening. “Finish your pastry before I put it somewhere unhelpful.”

“Oof. The violent type. I like that.”

Liyu sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You’re exhausting.”

They reached the lecture hall. Liyu dropped into his seat, opened his notebook, and tried to ignore the faint trace of smoke still clinging to his sleeves — the scent that had seeped into his clothes after sitting in Sanghyeon’s car too long.

It was ridiculous, really. He wasn’t supposed to notice things like that.

Haneum plopped down beside him, still chewing. “You thinking about him?”

“No.”

“That was fast.”

“Because I’m not.”

“Uh-huh. You said that like someone who’s definitely thinking about him.”

Liyu didn’t look up. “You talk too much.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

Haneum grinned, victorious. “Right. Sure you’re not.”

The professor started lecturing, and Liyu tuned out everything but the scratch of his pen against paper — methodical, focused, controlled. But every time a motorbike engine roared outside the window, his fingers paused for just a second too long.

By the time class ended, Haneum was still smirking. “So. You think he’s gonna pick you up too, or was this a one-time ride?”

Liyu packed up his notes neatly. “He’ll come.”

“Oh?”

“He said he would,” Liyu said simply, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “He keeps his word.”

Haneum gave a low whistle. “You’re either crazy brave or just crazy. But fine, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Outside, the afternoon air buzzed with chatter and traffic — and sure enough, across the street, a familiar car idled by the curb.

Haneum nearly dropped his drink. “No way. He actually came back.”

Liyu didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “Told you.”

“Holy shit,” Haneum muttered, half in awe, half horrified. “You’ve got him trained.”

“It works differently,” Liyu said again, calm as ever — and walked toward the car without another glance back.

The passenger window rolled down before Liyu even reached the curb.

“Hop in,” Sanghyeon called, one arm slung lazily over the steering wheel. “We’re making a stop on the way.”

Liyu raised an eyebrow. “Another debtor?”

“Mm.” A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Guy’s been dodging me for weeks. Said his mom’s sick, but he’s been posting bar selfies every night.”

Liyu opened the door and slipped inside without hesitation. “Sounds like a fun reunion.”

“Not for him.”

“Maybe not for you, either.”

Sanghyeon gave him a look. “You volunteering to lecture him?”

“I’m just saying,” Liyu murmured, buckling his seatbelt. “You attract very interesting company.”

“That makes two of us.”

Liyu’s lips curved faintly. “You think I’m interesting?”

“I think you talk too much for someone who owes me.”

“Mm. But you’re still giving me rides.”

“Temporary insanity,” Sanghyeon muttered, putting the car in gear.

The city slid by in streaks of light and motion — side streets, neon signs, the faint hum of bass from passing cafés. Liyu rested his chin on his hand, watching people rush by. The engine’s low growl filled the quiet between them.

After a few blocks, Sanghyeon spoke again, voice lower now. “You didn’t have to wait for me after class.”

“I didn’t,” Liyu said simply. “You came.”

He could feel Sanghyeon’s glance, quick and unreadable. “You’re a pain, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

The car turned down a narrow street, somewhere older and quieter. Buildings leaned close together, laundry hanging over balconies. Sanghyeon parked in front of a small corner store.

“Stay here,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Won’t take long.”

“Should I time you?”

He gave Liyu a flat look. “You want to walk home?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Don’t.”

Sanghyeon stepped out, door slamming shut behind him. Liyu watched through the windshield as he crossed the street — easy posture, practiced confidence, the kind that came from too many fights and too many debts collected. He disappeared inside.

For a minute, Liyu just sat there, tapping his fingers against his knee. He could’ve left. He could’ve taken the train, or walked, or done anything else with his time.

But he didn’t move.

Five minutes passed before Sanghyeon came back out, a crumpled envelope in hand and a dark look in his eyes. He slid back into the driver’s seat, tossing the envelope into the glove compartment.

“All good?” Liyu asked casually.

“Guy cried,” Sanghyeon said flatly. “I hate when they cry.”

“Did you cry back?”

“Keep talking and I’ll make you the next stop.”

Liyu smiled faintly, eyes on the road ahead. “You’d have to catch me first.”

“Who says I’d run?”

“You always run,” Liyu said softly, almost to himself. “You just don’t notice.”

Sanghyeon shot him a look — sharp, searching — but said nothing.

Traffic picked up as they rejoined the main road. Neon signs flickered to life along the buildings, washing the interior of the car in restless color.

Liyu leaned back in his seat, the faint smell of smoke still clinging to the upholstery. “You should quit,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Smoking.”

Sanghyeon snorted. “What, you gonna start giving me health advice now?”

“Just saying.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“I already did.”

He glanced over again. Liyu’s face was turned toward the window, expression unreadable, voice calm.

And for some reason, Sanghyeon didn’t tell him to shut up this time.

They’d barely merged back into traffic when Liyu spoke, eyes still on the passing storefronts.
“Stop by the market.”

Sanghyeon shot him a side glance. “For what?”

“Dinner,” Liyu said simply.

He groaned. “You cooked last night.”

“And you ate like you hadn’t seen real food in a week.”

“That’s not my fault,” Sanghyeon muttered, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

“It’s exactly your fault.”

He gave a short laugh under his breath. “What do you even need this time?”

“Vegetables. Rice. Something edible that doesn’t come out of a packet.”

Sanghyeon huffed but slowed at the corner anyway. “You really think I have time to play chauffeur while you shop for carrots?”

“You had time to drive me here,” Liyu said evenly. “You’ll live.”

He pulled over with a muttered curse. “Make it quick. I’ve got another stop.”

Liyu unbuckled his seatbelt, calm as ever. “Another debtor?”

“Yeah. Guy two blocks over’s been dodging me for a week.”

“Then I’ll be quick,” Liyu said, already opening the door. “You want anything?”

“Yeah,” Sanghyeon said dryly. “Peace.”

Liyu leaned down just before closing the door, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not on sale today.”

Then he disappeared into the store, leaving Sanghyeon staring after him — half amused, half irritated, entirely in too deep.

When Liyu came back, arms full of bags, Sanghyeon reached across to pop the trunk.
“Get in,” he said. “We’re dropping by that guy’s place before heading back.”

Liyu slid in with a sigh. “You sure you’re not the one who needs collecting?”

He shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Liyu said, resting the bags between them. “But you really do make it easy.”

Sanghyeon revved the engine, shaking his head — but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, pulling into something dangerously close to a smile.

The drive back was quiet.
Or maybe just tired.

Sanghyeon’s knuckles were still faintly red — the kind of bruised that said “someone finally paid up.” Liyu didn’t ask, and Sanghyeon didn’t explain. The silence between them had long since learned how to say enough without words.

The car pulled into the lot under the hum of streetlights. Liyu gathered the groceries, ignoring Sanghyeon’s halfhearted offer to carry them.

“You look like hell,” Liyu said as they reached the elevator.

“You say that like it’s new.”

“It’s consistent.”

“Thanks,” Sanghyeon muttered, stepping aside to let him in first.

Back inside the apartment, the air was still faintly smoky — a mix of nicotine and the faint citrus cleaner Liyu had started using without asking. He dropped the grocery bags on the counter, methodical as ever, sorting through them with quiet efficiency.

Sanghyeon leaned against the doorway, watching. “You don’t have to do that every night.”

“Then who will?”

“I can handle myself.”

“Sure,” Liyu said flatly, pulling out a pan. “You’d live off instant noodles and burnt oil if I let you.”

He cracked an egg with the kind of precision that made Sanghyeon unreasonably annoyed. “You’re too comfortable in my kitchen,” Sanghyeon muttered.

“It’s not your kitchen.”

“Pretty sure my rent says otherwise.”

“Pretty sure your debt says it’s mine,” Liyu said easily.

That earned a short laugh from him — low, involuntary. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“I’m aware.”

By the time the smell of garlic hit the air, Sanghyeon’s shoulders had started to unknot. He hadn’t realized how good it felt — the simple normalcy of clattering pans and simmering broth, of Liyu moving through the space like he’d been there forever.

“Sit,” Liyu said, not even looking at him. “You look like you’ll fall over if you keep standing.”

Sanghyeon didn’t argue this time. He sat.

When Liyu set the bowl in front of him — steaming, rich, and annoyingly good — he muttered, “You’re too good at this.”

“That’s because I actually eat food.”

“Yeah, well,” Sanghyeon said between mouthfuls, “don’t get used to me saying thanks.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

They ate in relative quiet, save for the occasional clink of chopsticks and the hum of the fridge. It was… peaceful. Disarmingly so.

After a while, Liyu leaned back, watching him. “You smoke less when I’m around.”

Sanghyeon froze mid-bite. “What?”

“You do,” Liyu said simply. “You didn’t light a single one today.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. “Coincidence.”

“Right.”

“Don’t start analyzing me, Professor.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Liyu said, standing to rinse the dishes. “I’m just saying it’s nice when I can actually breathe indoors.”

Sanghyeon exhaled slowly, looking at his half-empty bowl. “…You’re annoying.”

“I know,” Liyu replied, without turning. “Eat your food.”

He did.

And when Liyu finally turned off the kitchen light, the faint glow of the city leaked through the curtains — washing over both of them, soft and almost domestic.

Sanghyeon stared at the ashtray on the table, untouched, and muttered under his breath,
“…Tch. Coincidence.”

Liyu’s quiet laugh carried from the sink. “Sure.”

After dinner, the apartment settled into a heavy quiet.
Liyu was reading something at the table — papers scattered, pen tapping softly against the page. Sanghyeon lay stretched out on the couch, half-asleep, one arm slung over his eyes.

It was one of those nights that didn’t need conversation. The kind that just… existed — slow, still, like the world outside had stopped paying attention.

When Liyu finally stood, gathering his notes, he glanced toward the ashtray on the table — still clean, untouched. A faint smile tugged at his lips before he said, “Don’t smoke tonight.”

Sanghyeon cracked an eye open. “You’re bossy.”

“And you listen,” Liyu said simply, turning away.

He disappeared down the hall, leaving Sanghyeon staring at the ceiling — pulse steady, breath quiet, and something unfamiliar pressing against his chest.

He didn’t know what it was. Didn’t want to name it.
But it was there.

The faint sound of a door closing. The soft rustle of sheets.
And in the silence that followed, the thought slipped through before he could stop it:

“Feels like home.”

He cursed under his breath and turned over, trying to sleep.

Outside, the city lights flickered like distant fireflies.

Chapter Text

Weeks slipped by before either of them realized it, their routines meshing together with an ease that felt almost fated. They moved around each other like they’d been doing it for years—wordless, instinctive, inevitable. But something in Sanghyeon began to shift. Every morning, when he saw Liyu emerging from his room with messy bed hair and loose pyjamas hanging off his small frame, only six of eight buttons fastened just enough to hide the curve of his torso, Sanghyeon’s heart jolted in his chest. Heat climbed his neck, spreading up to the tips of his ears and threatening to travel lower if he didn’t look away fast enough.

And when Liyu blinked sleepily from the kitchen counter, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist like a tired cat, that warmth bloomed into something dangerously close to a fever. Sanghyeon always coughed, always pretended to be annoyed, always acted like he wasn’t staring—because if he let his thoughts wander even a second longer, his body might betray him in ways he wasn’t ready to face. But Liyu noticed anyway, of course he did, and one morning he said it outright: “Your ears are red again.” Sanghyeon froze, denied it, failed miserably, and ended up fleeing behind a glass of water while Liyu hid a smile that he pretended not to see.

Evenings were worse. They washed dishes shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, their hands brushing like sparks hitting gasoline. They reached for the same cabinet, moved around the same tiny kitchen, and every small touch—accidental or not—made something inside Sanghyeon twist tighter. Sometimes he’d find Liyu curled on the couch, knees drawn in, soft in a way that made his chest ache. The apartment was too small, far too small, and yet their growing closeness made even its smallest corners feel warm.

But Sanghyeon wasn’t the only one slipping. Sometimes he caught Liyu staring at him across the dinner table, chopsticks paused mid-air, expression soft and unreadable—like he was the one trying not to fall. The line between them blurred quietly, in the way Sanghyeon brewed tea for him even after arguments, and in the way Liyu checked his bruised knuckles after every street fight, scolding him while tending to him with maddening tenderness. Their banter softened; their silences grew comfortable; their habits wrapped around each other like a slow, inevitable embrace.

It happened gradually, but when it settled in, it settled deep—enough for Sanghyeon to wonder, quietly and dangerously, if maybe this was what home felt like. And that realization only tightened its grip one evening when he walked in to find Liyu standing on a chair, reaching for the top shelf, pajama sleeve slipping off his shoulder. Sanghyeon’s breath caught instantly, and his warning came out rougher than intended: “Get down. You’ll fall.” Liyu teased him, asked if he was worried; Sanghyeon denied it, then admitted it in the same breath.

The room grew warm—too warm—the air thick with something both of them felt but didn’t dare name. For the first time, the space between them felt like a question they were both afraid to answer, yet both were slowly, inevitably beginning to ask. The distance between denial and maybe had never been smaller, never thinner, never easier to cross. And they both felt it— in every morning glance, in every shared breath, in every almost-touch that lingered too long.

The line separating them wasn’t breaking; it was dissolving. And soon, very soon, there would be no line left at all.

Sanghyeon felt it first that night — a strange heaviness in the air, thick enough to slow his steps as he lingered by the kitchen doorway. Liyu was still on the chair, balancing on the tips of his toes, fingers brushing the edge of the shelf he absolutely couldn’t reach. His pajama shirt slid even lower, exposing a pale stretch of collarbone that made Sanghyeon’s pulse trip over itself.

He should’ve looked away.

He didn’t.

And Liyu noticed that too.

“You’re staring again,” he said, voice too calm for someone wobbling on cheap furniture.

“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Shut up and get down.”

Liyu hummed — amused, knowing, dangerous. “Then catch me.”

Before Sanghyeon could process whether that was a threat, a dare, or something else entirely, the chair wobbled beneath Liyu’s feet. Just slightly. Just enough. And Sanghyeon’s body moved before his mind did.

His hands wrapped around Liyu’s waist, steadying him, pulling him close without thinking. Liyu gasped softly, more out of surprise than fear, but he didn’t push him away. Didn’t even flinch. He just froze in Sanghyeon’s arms, warm and impossibly soft, like he fit there.

Too perfectly.

“Stupid,” Sanghyeon muttered, breath brushing the side of Liyu’s neck. “You could’ve fallen.”

“Thought you said you weren’t worried,” Liyu whispered back.

Sanghyeon didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Not when Liyu’s heartbeat was thudding against his chest.
Not when his own hands refused to let go.
Not when the air between their faces felt dangerously thin.

Their breaths tangled — quiet, trembling, almost something.

He finally stepped back, the distance sudden and sharp, the absence of warmth immediate and agonizing.

Liyu stepped down from the chair without looking at him. “Thanks.”

“…Whatever.”

But the silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It wasn’t tense.
It was charged — humming with something new, fragile, frighteningly close to confession.

Later that night, as Sanghyeon lay on the couch pretending to sleep, he heard soft footsteps approach. Liyu paused by the doorway, thinking he was already unconscious.

He whispered, barely audible:

“Why are you the one I’m scared to fall around?”

Sanghyeon’s eyes snapped open — but he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t let the moment shatter.

Because if he did…
if he answered…
if he admitted even a fraction of what had been building inside him…

The last of the space between them would vanish.

And he wasn’t sure which terrified him more — closing the distance, or realizing how badly he wanted to.

The night came sooner than he expected— or wanted.

It was late— far past the hour that Sanghyeon usually returns even on the rough or busy days. Liyu had left the lamp on in the living room, pretending he wasn't waiting, or that he didn't check the door every time the hallway grew quiet.

But when metal scraped against the lock at nearly 2 AM, Liyu was on his feet before he could stop himself.

It swung open.

Sanghyeon stumbling as he walks inside.

Not bruised.
Nor bleeding.
Not furious or cold or exhausted.

But drunk.
Badly, stupidly, and frighteningly drunk.

His shoulders sagged under the weight of a night that hadn't gone right. His breath smelled of cheap liquor and something sharp, bitter, like he'd been drinking to forget instead of relax. 

He kicked of his shoes with none of his usual precision, swayed, and caught himself on the wall with a low groan.

"Sanghyeon?" Liyu said softly.

Dark eyes lifted — unfocused, glassy, but unmistakably warm at the sight of him.

"..Hyung."

He said it like a secret. Like a relief.

Liyu stepped forward. "You're drunk—"

Sanghyeon's head fell on his shoulders before he could finish speaking. Catching him before the younger boy's body slumped against his. Sanghyeon's arm wrapping loosely around his waist.

"No, I'm not" Sanghyeon muttered. Then immediately contradicted himself by tightening his hold onto Liyu. "Okay. A little~"

"A little?" Liyu snapped, catching him as he slumped further. "You can't even stand straight."

Sanghyeon blinked, slow and heavy. "You're warm."

"Don't start," Liyu muttered, trying to hoist him upright. "Come on, sit."

Instead of sitting, Sanghyeon slumped onto the couch — dragging Liyu down with him. The older boy landed half on his chest, half on his lap, making him let out a startled breath.

"Get off—"

"No," Sanghyeon said, voice low and oddly honest. "Stay."

Liyu froze.

This wasn't teasing.
This wasn't banter.
This wasn't Sanghyeon hiding behind arrogance or annoyance.
 
This was raw.

Unfiltered.

Dangerously soft.

Liyu shifted just enough to glare at him, his hands resting on the younger boy's chest. "What happened?"

Sanghyeon's eyes slid closed. "Day was shit."

Liyu tilted his head. "And drinking fixes that?"

"It shuts things up," he murmured. "Here." His hand weakly tapped his chest. "It gets loud. When I don't—" He swallowed, words tangling. "When I'm not around you."

Liu's breath hitched.

He tried to keep his breath steady. "You're not making sense."

"I am," Sanghyeon muttered, opening his eyes again. They were hazy but painfully sincere. "You make it quiet."

Quiet.

Not safe.
Not good.
Quiet.

Something in Liyu's chest twisted.

He brushed Sanghyeon's hair back, annoyed at how gentle his fingers were. "You're going to hate yourself in the morning."

"Probably." Sanghyeon's gaze drifted to his lips. "But right now... you're the only thing not spinning."

Liyu's heart pounded once, hard enough to make his breath shake.

He pushed away slightly. "Let go, you need to lie down properly—"

But Sanghyeon's fingers curled into the hem of his sleeve — unguarded, but almost desperate.

"Don't leave."

Liyu swallowed.

He could've pulled away. He should have. Every rational thought told him to move, to keep the line intact, to not let this drunk version of Sanghyeon make a mess neither of them could fix.

But he didn't.

Sanghyeon's hand found his nape, gently crawling it to grip him closer. Just until their breaths mixed. Their chests bumped against each other every inhale. 

"Hyung.." Sanghyeon murmured.

Before Liyu could speak, he feels his lips on top of the younger's. It was soft, warm, tasting faintly of alcohol and something heartbreakingly honest.

A tiny, fragile kiss.

Barely more than a breath.
Yet enough to shatter the line they'd been dancing around for weeks. 

Sanghyeon sighed against his mouth — soft, relieved, like something in him had finally found a place to rest.

And then his body went slack, the exhaustion and liquor pulling him under at last.

Sweat dampened his forehead, hair sticking to his skin. He was fast asleep within seconds, lips parted just slightly — as if still reaching for the ghost of the kiss they just shared.

Liyu stared down at him, heart racing, fingers trembling.

"..Idiot," he whispered, though his voice cracked around the edges. "You're going to regret that."

But he touched his own lips anyway.

Softly.
Carefully.

As if memorizing the shape of something he shouldn't have wanted.

He straightened, intending to pull himself up, but the younger's hands pulled him closer.

"Sanghyeon," he whispered, trying to pry himself free gently. "Let go. You're asleep."

But the younger boy didn't let go.

His arm looped around Liyu's waist sluggishly. Not precise, not intentional. Just instinctive.

Instinct.
Instinct to pull him close.
To hold him.

Instinct to not let him leave.

His grip tightened as if afraid Liyu might disappear if he didn't tether him down.

A low murmur slipped from Sanghyeon's lips — slurred, warm, and vulnerable.

"..stay.."

Liyu's breath stopped completely.

His mind screamed at him to move.
To push him away.
To put a wall back where it belonged.

But his body..

His body betrayed him.

His free and hovered over Sanghyeon's cheek, hesitating,
Trembling. Wanting.
And after a long, impossible second — he let his fingers graze the younger boy's jaw.

Sanghyeon leaned into the touch unconsiously.

Liyu swallowed, throat tight, guilt and longing twisting together until he couldn't tell which hurt more.

"You won't remember," he whispered.
"You shouldn't remember."

But he didn't pull away.

Not yet.

Sanghyeon's grip on his waist only tightened, dragging their bodies close enough that Liyu could feel every uneven breath ghosting across his collarbone.

"..warm.." Sanghyeon murmured.

Liyu shut his eyes, jaw clenching with something dangerously close to tenderness.

"You're drunk," he whispered, voice cracking. "That's the only reason I'm letting you do this."

But even that was a lie.

Because he leaned in.

Just enough for his forehead to rest against Sanghyeon's.
Just enough to let himself breathe in the faint trace of smoke and rain that clung to him.
Just enough to admit — silently, miserably — that he didn't want to move either.

For one night.
Just this one night.

He let himself stay.

Chapter Text

Sanghyeon didn’t move for the rest of the night.

His breathing evened out, slow and heavy, his forehead pressed against Liyu’s, their bodies tangled in a way that felt both accidental and terrifyingly natural. Liyu stayed frozen for a long time, torn between staying and fleeing, but Sanghyeon’s arm remained locked around his waist — loose but firm enough to hold him exactly where he was.

Eventually, exhaustion won.
Liyu eased them both into a more comfortable position on the couch, tugged the blanket over them, and let himself settle beside him — not touching, but close enough to share the same warmth.

Sometime before dawn, Sanghyeon’s grip slackened.
Liyu slipped out quietly.

He didn’t sleep after that.

Morning came harsh and unforgiving.

The first sound was retching.

Liyu shot upright and rushed to the bathroom, finding Sanghyeon hunched over the toilet, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping his own hair.

He looked like death.
Paler than usual, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders trembling from the force of dry heaving.

“Shit,” Liyu muttered, kneeling beside him. “Don’t move—take a breath. Slowly.”

Sanghyeon groaned, voice hoarse.
“Kill me.”

“No,” Liyu said flatly, grabbing a towel. “You’re my problem. You don’t get to die yet.”

He held back Sanghyeon’s hair with one hand and rubbed gentle circles between his shoulder blades with the other.
Small, steady motions.
Enough to ground him.

Sanghyeon coughed, grimaced, and leaned his forehead against the cold tiles.

“Everything hurts…”

“That’s what being an idiot feels like,” Liyu replied. “Congratulations.”

Sanghyeon cracked one eye open. “You’re… loud.”

“I haven’t even spoken loudly.”

“You’re loud in my brain.”

“Good. Learn your lesson.”

But Liyu softened despite the scolding — reaching to feel Sanghyeon’s forehead.

He sucked in a breath immediately.

“You’re burning.”

Sanghyeon blinked hazily. “I’m fine—”

“You have a fever,” Liyu snapped, standing abruptly. “Stay there. Don’t move. If you fall asleep on the bathroom floor I will drag you by the ankle.”

He returned with a cold compress, a glass of water, and the bitterest medicine he owned.

Sanghyeon groaned at all three.

“No,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Liyu said, grabbing his chin with one hand and forcing him to drink the water. “Open your mouth. Don’t make me pry it open.”

Sanghyeon glared weakly but obeyed.

The fever made his skin hot under Liyu’s touch, his breaths coming in uneven waves. When his knees buckled, Liyu caught him instantly, guiding his arm around his shoulder.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice gentler now. “Bed. Slowly.”

Sanghyeon leaned more weight on him than usual — heavy, warm, trusting.

Too trusting.

The moment they reached the bed, he collapsed onto it with a low groan, arm thrown dramatically over his eyes.

Liyu clicked his tongue.

“Pathetic.”

“Hyung,” Sanghyeon whispered, voice rough. “My head… hurts.”

Liyu froze for half a second at the way he said it — small, boyish, defenseless.

Then he sat beside him, pressing the cold compress onto his forehead.

“Of course it hurts,” he said quietly. “You drank like you were trying to drown yourself.”

Sanghyeon didn’t respond.
He just melted into the touch, eyes fluttering shut.

His fever-flushed skin made Liyu worry more than he wanted to admit.

He brushed damp hair away from Sanghyeon’s brow, wiping sweat from his neck, adjusting the blanket when he shivered. Every few minutes, Sanghyeon reached blindly for the nearest thing — the pillow, the edge of the blanket, Liyu’s sleeve — as if needing something to anchor him.

Finally, Liyu sighed and sat closer so Sanghyeon didn’t have to reach far.

“Stop moving,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

Sanghyeon’s fingers brushed his wrist — clinging, even half-conscious.

Liyu swallowed hard.

The kiss from last night lingered like a ghost between them, warm and dangerous.
He prayed Sanghyeon wouldn’t bring it up.
He prayed Sanghyeon would bring it up.

He didn’t know which scared him more.

But for now, as Sanghyeon drifted in and out of feverish sleep, Liyu kept the cold compress fresh, guided water to his lips, and whispered things he knew Sanghyeon wouldn’t fully remember:

“You scared me.”

“Please don’t drink like that again.”

“Just… don’t do that to yourself.”

And finally, so quietly it barely existed:

“…stay. If you want to.”

Outside, the morning light warmed the window.

Inside, Liyu sat beside the bed, keeping vigil over the one person who’d slowly, accidentally, become something he shouldn’t have fallen for.

Sanghyeon woke to the dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes — the kind that felt like someone had wedged a heartbeat directly into his skull. His mouth tasted like regret and cheap liquor. His body felt heavy, limbs refusing to move the exact way he wanted them to.

But something was warm against his side.

Something soft.
Someone soft.

He cracked his eyes open.

Liyu lay beside him, turned slightly on his side, the blanket slipping low on his waist. His hair was a messy halo on the pillow, black strands falling over his cheek. His breathing was slow, steady — the kind of peaceful rhythm that made a person want to hold their breath just to not disturb it.

And his hand…

His hand was still reaching for Sanghyeon.

Fingers lightly curled, almost touching the fabric of Sanghyeon’s shirt. As if he’d fallen asleep mid-motion. As if he was still reaching for him even in dreams.

Sanghyeon swallowed, throat painfully dry.

Bits of the previous night flickered in his memory — heat, closeness, laughter, the shape of Liyu’s mouth under his, the taste he couldn’t put words to. Then him dragging Liyu back in out of sheer instinct, like his drunk body moved faster than his denial.

He exhaled slowly.

This was fine.
He could handle this.
He just… needed to pretend there was nothing to handle.

Right.

He carefully pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing as the movement sent another pulse through his head. The mattress dipped, and for a second he froze, worried Liyu would wake up.

But the older boy only shifted slightly, his hand brushing Sanghyeon’s hip before falling gently back against the sheets.

Sanghyeon’s heart thudded once — violently.

It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. You were drunk. He was drunk on tiredness. It was a mistake, not a thing. It doesn’t have to be anything.

He looked at Liyu again.

Even asleep, he was dangerous. Maybe worse than when he was awake. His face was relaxed, soft in ways Sanghyeon had no defenses for. His lips were slightly parted, his lashes too long for any normal person.

Sanghyeon dragged a hand over his face.

“No,” he whispered under his breath, as if saying it aloud could turn it into truth. “No. Absolutely not. Whatever that was — it’s nothing. It has to be nothing.”

But the warmth lingering on his lips, phantom and stubborn, told him otherwise.

He gently slipped out of the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping form beside him. When he stood, he took one last look — one he shouldn’t have, one he’d deny taking if anybody asked.

Liyu’s fingers curled unconsciously, as if searching for him in sleep.

Sanghyeon tore his gaze away.

Denial was easier when he didn’t look directly at the reason it was falling apart.

His feet hit the floor and the room tilted.

Right. Hangover.
Reality.
Punishment for whatever cosmic joke he’d played on himself last night.

Sanghyeon grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself, blinking hard until the spinning slowed to a nauseous sway. His stomach rolled like it was trying to escape his body. His head throbbed in a slow, angry pulse.

“Great,” he muttered to no one. “Perfect. Love this for me.”

Each step toward the kitchen felt like stepping on a landmine. Even the soft thump of his heels on the floor sounded like someone slamming a door in his skull. The morning light bleeding in from the window hit him like a personal attack.

He fumbled for a glass, squinting because the clinking sound of it touching the counter nearly killed him.

Water.
He needed water.
Maybe ten liters. Maybe enough to drown the memory of last night.

When he finally gulped it down, the cold hit his stomach so hard he almost gagged.

He leaned forward on the counter, head hanging, breathing slow.

He could still feel it.
The ghost of a kiss.
Warm, soft, dangerous.

His brain wasn’t helping either — replaying it like it was his favorite scene in a movie he didn’t want to admit he’d been waiting for.

And Liyu’s hand…
Reaching for him in sleep like it was muscle memory.

“Stop,” he whispered to himself, pressing his fingers into his temples. “You’re hungover. You’re delusional. Your brain is misfiring. That’s all.”

He tried to breathe, but the memories were too sharp, too clear, too real.

Last night wasn’t a dream.
He knew that much.

But he could pretend.

He splashed water on his face, hoping the shock would jolt him back into some version of sanity. It didn’t. It just made him cold, wet, and aware of how badly his hands were shaking.

He rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows.

He had kissed Liyu.

He had pulled him close.

And Liyu… didn’t pull away.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, shaking his head even though the movement made his vision pulse. “He won’t remember. He doesn’t have to. I don’t have to.”

Right. Perfect plan. Flawless.

He could just act normal. Pretend nothing happened. Pretend the world didn’t tilt every time he thought about it.

He just needed—

A soft sound came from the bedroom. Sheets shifting. A sleepy exhale.

Sanghyeon froze.

Oh no.

Suddenly he didn’t feel hungover.
He felt doomed.

Sanghyeon barely made it back to the bed.

His head felt too heavy for his neck, his stomach kept threatening mutiny, and every heartbeat echoed like a fist against his skull. He collapsed beside the sheets again, breathing through the nausea as the room swayed lazily around him.

Liyu was still asleep on his side, facing him. One hand stretched across the empty space where Sanghyeon had been, fingers gently curled like they were waiting to hold something. Hold him.

Sanghyeon swallowed hard.

He couldn’t deal with this. Not right now. Not with his brain unraveling and his heart pretending it wasn’t sprinting.

He shut his eyes.
Just for a second.
Just until the pounding behind his eyes went away.

The second bled into minutes.
Minutes bled into hours.
And eventually, exhaustion dragged him under again.

When he woke a second time, the light had shifted.
Warm. Late afternoon.
And the other side of the bed was empty.

The apartment smelled faintly of garlic and soy and something simmering.
Dinner.

A soft sound came from the kitchen — metal on pan, the quiet clink of stirring.

Liyu.

Sanghyeon pushed himself upright, wincing as the movement sent a throb down his spine. His hangover had settled into something dull and slow, like an ache under his skin, but the real problem was—

He remembered everything.
Every hazy second of it.

He dragged his feet toward the kitchen anyway.

And there he was.

Liyu stood by the stove in an apron that was one size too big, sleeves rolled up, hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. Steam curled around him, softening the edges of the scene like something out of a memory Sanghyeon wasn’t supposed to have.

The sight hit him like being shoved underwater.

Something warm and reckless cracked open inside his chest.

He didn’t think.
He didn’t plan.
He just… moved.

Before he even understood what he was doing, his arms slipped around Liyu’s waist from behind.

He pressed his forehead between Liyu’s shoulder blades, shutting his eyes because the smell of him — clean soap, warm skin, and something citrusy — made his head spin in a completely different way.

Liyu froze.

“Sanghyeon?” he said softly, surprise threading through the word. “You’re awake?”

“Mmh.” It was all Sanghyeon could manage. The vibration of his voice against Liyu’s back felt too intimate. Too real.

“You’re… hugging me,” Liyu murmured.

“Hangover,” Sanghyeon mumbled into his spine. It was the only excuse he had. The only one he could say without breaking apart.

Liyu let out a breath — quiet, shaky, and far too telling.

“…If you say so.”

But he didn’t pull away.
He didn’t tell Sanghyeon to stop.
He just kept stirring the pan, cheeks tinted pink, posture softening as if he had been waiting for this without letting himself hope.

And Sanghyeon tightened his arms just a little, because the warmth spreading through his chest had nothing to do with alcohol.

Nothing to do with the hangover.

And everything to do with Liyu being close enough to touch.

Close enough to lose himself in.

Close enough that denial felt like the least believable thing in the world.

Liyu eventually nudged him — gently — with the back of his elbow.

“Sanghyeon, I need both hands to plate this.”

Sanghyeon didn’t move, face still pressed between Liyu’s shoulder blades, voice muffled.

“…Just a second.”

“That’s what you said two minutes ago.”

“Then give me one more.”

Liyu exhaled — a small, barely-there hitch — but he didn’t push him away. Not until he absolutely had to. Finally, Sanghyeon peeled himself off, fingers sliding from Liyu’s waist like he was being forcibly separated from the only source of warmth in the universe.

The second the contact broke, his whole body felt colder. He scowled at the floor.

Liyu pretended not to notice. Terribly.

He turned off the stove and plated the meal — braised pork, vegetables, rice, comfort in physical form. The apartment smelled warm. Good. Like someone lived here.

Like two people lived here.

“Sit,” Liyu ordered.

Sanghyeon slumped into the chair like gravity had betrayed him personally.

Then he looked down at his plate. At the vegetables.

And his entire face twisted.

“…Why is there green stuff.”

“It’s called a vegetable,” Liyu replied flatly.

“I don’t eat that.”

“You do if you want to live past thirty.”

Sanghyeon nudged a carrot with the tip of his chopsticks as if it were a biohazard. “It’s mocking me.”

Liyu didn’t even look up. “It’s a carrot, not a sentient curse.”

“It’s orange,” Sanghyeon argued, offended. “That’s worse.”

Liyu set down his own chopsticks and stared at him like he was deciding between patience and murder.

“You’re hungover. Eat the vegetables.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Sanghyeon.”
“Liyu.”

A beat of silence.

Then, very quietly, very threateningly:

“If you don’t eat it, I will feed it to you myself.”

Sanghyeon froze. Blink. Blink.

He shoved the carrot into his mouth immediately.

“…Good boy,” Liyu muttered under his breath before he could stop himself.

Sanghyeon choked on air.

Liyu quickly reached for the water. “Not like— you know what, never mind. Just— drink.”

Sanghyeon took the glass with a glare that was far too weak to mean anything.

They started eating — quietly, comfortably — despite Sanghyeon's suspicious, periodic stabbing of broccoli. Every time he glanced up, he found Liyu watching him, and every time, they both jerked their gaze away like idiots.

“It’s good,” Sanghyeon admitted grudgingly.

“You always say that.”

“Because it is.”

That earned him a faint pink across Liyu’s ears.
“You’re unusually honest today.”

“You’re unusually annoying today.”

“And balance is restored,” Liyu deadpanned, but he was smiling.

Halfway through dinner, Liyu looked up again, eyes softening without permission.

“You should drink less next time. Or your stomach—”

“Why do you care?”

The question slipped out sharper than he meant.
Liyu’s chopsticks paused midair.

“…Because someone has to,” he said quietly.

The words hit him harder than any punch ever had.

Sanghyeon stared — really stared — until the air felt too warm, too heavy, too full of everything he wouldn’t let himself name.

Liyu looked away first.
“Eat,” he muttered, voice tight. “Your headache will get worse.”

Sanghyeon obeyed before thinking.

Dinner drifted on with small, soft things — brushing fingers when passing side dishes, accidental touches, lingering eye contact, the kind of silence that hummed.

After cleaning up — shoulder to shoulder, arms bumping, warmth brushing warmth — the air settled around them again.

Not awkward.
Not unsure.

Just… changed.

Quietly.
Inevitably.

Dinner wasn’t the end of anything.

It was the visible beginning of everything that neither of them dared to say out loud.

The dishes were washed, dried, and stacked neatly. The table wiped. Counters clean. Everything in the apartment looked normal—felt normal—except for the two of them.

They lingered in the small kitchen anyway, not quite leaving, not quite staying. Just… existing in the space like the air might shatter if they moved too suddenly.

Sanghyeon leaned against the counter, arms crossed, pretending like he wasn’t staring at the floor to avoid accidentally meeting Liyu’s eyes. His head still throbbed dully, but it wasn’t enough to blame the tightness in his chest on.

Liyu stood by the sink, towel in hand, folding and unfolding it as if it would give him instructions on how to act. His face was calm, but the set of his shoulders gave him away. He was thinking too much. Overthinking, probably. Typical.

Neither of them mentioned last night.
Neither of them mentioned the hug in the kitchen.
Neither of them mentioned the vegetables argument that was definitely them avoiding real feelings.

Silence stretched between them, thick and obvious. Not hostile—never hostile—but weighted. Heavy with all the things they weren’t saying.

“So,” Liyu finally said, voice quiet, eyes still glued to the towel, “are you feeling any better?”

“Head hurts,” Sanghyeon answered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah. I’ll live.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

Another deliberate, messy, deliberate avoidance of the topic.

Liyu cleared his throat softly. “You… should drink water before you sleep tonight.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t earlier.”

“I know.”

More silence. More folding the towel. More pretending.

Sanghyeon opened his mouth—maybe to say something real, maybe to change the subject—but nothing came out. His chest felt too tight.

Liyu finally met his eyes for half a second.

It was enough to make Sanghyeon look away again.

They weren’t ready.
They weren’t saying it.
And they definitely weren’t addressing the elephant sitting right between them.
So instead, Liyu hung the towel neatly.

Sanghyeon straightened his shirt like it mattered.

And they both stayed quiet, pretending the quiet wasn’t screaming at them.

The quiet stretched longer than either of them wanted, thick enough to press against their chests. Every tick of the clock, every scrape of a chair against the floor, sounded like it was punctuating the unspoken between them. Sanghyeon chewed the inside of his cheek, pretending to inspect the counter as if it were fascinating, but really, he was watching Liyu. The older boy moved with that same effortless calm, but Sanghyeon could see the slight tremor in his fingers, the small hitch in his shoulders whenever his gaze flicked toward him.

“I—uh,” Sanghyeon started, then stopped, cursed the dryness in his throat. “…Never mind.”

Liyu raised a brow, letting the towel drop into the sink. “…You were going to say something?”

Sanghyeon shrugged, head ducked. “…Nothing important.”

“Right,” Liyu said, voice calm but edged with knowing. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “…Nothing important, like last night.”

Sanghyeon froze, fingers tightening against the counter edge. “…I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Liyu pressed, a gentle sharpness in his tone that made Sanghyeon’s stomach clench. “…Say it. Admit it. Remember. Anything.”

“…Exactly,” Sanghyeon muttered, leaning harder on the counter than necessary. His voice cracked slightly, betraying him. “…Nothing.”

Liyu exhaled, softer this time. “…Fine. Then nothing it is.”

A beat passed. A long one. Too long. Sanghyeon could feel the air between them thickening, hot and heavy, as if both of them were holding their breath for fear the other would break first.

Then Liyu pushed off the counter, walking toward the table. He sat down, back straight, hands resting lightly on his knees. “…So, do you want to, I don’t know… watch something?”

Sanghyeon blinked. “…Watch something?”

Liyu gave him a small, almost shy shrug. “…TV. Movie. Something mindless. Distraction. You’re still fragile.”

Fragile. Sanghyeon let the word roll around his skull, heavy and accusing. He felt like a child, like an idiot, like someone who’d let a simple hug and a touch of heat unravel him completely. “…Sure,” he muttered finally, dragging a chair closer.

They settled in, side by side, a comfortable distance that wasn’t too close, but close enough that every accidental brush of elbows made Sanghyeon’s stomach jump. The TV flickered to life, colors washing over them, but neither really watched. Both were acutely aware of the other’s presence, each heartbeat and sigh and shift a reminder of what they’d done, what they’d almost admitted, and what they were still pretending didn’t exist.

Sanghyeon picked at the hem of his sleeve, pretending to adjust it, pretending he didn’t notice Liyu’s leg brushing his under the table. Liyu cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the screen but ears tuned entirely to Sanghyeon.

“…You’re not looking at the screen,” he murmured.

“Shut up,” Sanghyeon said, more defensively than he intended. “…I am.”

“You’re not.”

“…I am,” he repeated, though his voice lacked conviction.

And there it was. The unsaid elephant—looming, unavoidable, roaring between them like a storm held back by thin glass. Neither could touch it, not yet, and maybe not for a long time. But it was there. Always there. Pressing. Waiting.

For now, they watched the flickering images in silence. For now, they let themselves exist together without speaking the words that would shatter the delicate balance.

And maybe that was enough.

For now.

Sanghyeon’s fingers froze on the hem of his sleeve. The TV’s flicker, the soft hum of the fridge, the gentle scrape of Liyu’s hand on his knee—it all coalesced into a single, unbearable weight pressing down on him.

He swallowed, head dipping slightly. “…We need to… talk,” he said, voice low, shaky, brittle.

Liyu stiffened. “…About last night?”

“…Yeah,” Sanghyeon admitted, finally meeting his eyes. “…About… everything. The hug. The—” He clenched his jaw. “…The kiss.”

Silence.

Then Liyu’s hand moved, slowly, deliberately, resting over Sanghyeon’s. Warm, solid, grounding. “…I was hoping you’d say something first.”

Sanghyeon blinked. “…You… weren’t going to?”

Liyu shook his head. “…Not until you were ready. Or until it became impossible to ignore.”

Impossible. That was exactly what it felt like. “…It… felt real,” Sanghyeon whispered. “…The hug. The kiss. Everything.”

Liyu’s thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles. “…It was real. At least for me.”

Sanghyeon’s chest tightened. “…I shouldn’t want it. I shouldn’t… want you.”

Liyu’s hand tightened gently. “…And yet you do.”

“…I don’t—”

“You do,” Liyu interrupted, softer now. “…I do too.”

Sanghyeon’s head dropped forward, pressing into Liyu’s shoulder. “…This is… wrong. Complicated. I—”

Liyu tilted his head, lips brushing Sanghyeon’s hair. “…Life’s complicated. Feelings aren’t neat. But pretending it didn’t happen… pretending we don’t feel it… isn’t helping either of us.”

Sanghyeon swallowed the lump in his throat. “…So what do we do?”

“…We figure it out,” Liyu said, firm but gentle, his other hand sliding to rest on Sanghyeon’s back. “…Together. Step by step. No rush. No pressure. Just… honesty.”

Sanghyeon exhaled, letting some of the tension drain. “…Step by step,” he repeated, almost to convince himself.

“Step by step,” Liyu echoed, pressing a careful, grounding kiss to the crown of his head.

For the first time since morning—or maybe since last night—Sanghyeon felt the weight lift, just a little. They weren’t pretending anymore. They weren’t ignoring it.

They were facing it. Together.

And somehow, that made it feel… possible.

Chapter Text

Adjusting was harder than the initial shift.

The setup was already there — two mugs left out on the counter every night, two sets of slippers by the door, two toothbrushes leaning against each other like they were made to share space. Routine had seeped into the walls of the apartment without either of them giving explicit permission, and now they were simply trying to live inside it without collapsing from how natural it felt.

Mornings blurred into small domestic battles:
Sanghyeon groaning dramatically about vegetables sneaking into every meal,
Liyu muttering under his breath about jackets abandoned anywhere except where they belonged,
both of them pretending not to notice every brief touch in the kitchen or the way their shoulders always brushed just a little too close.

Nights were worse.

One of them always lingered in the hallway for “no reason.”
The other always found an excuse to wander nearby.
Neither said anything about the gravitational pull that dragged them closer every time they tried to separate.

They had fallen into a rhythm that looked suspiciously like living together.
And suspiciously like loving, if either of them dared call it that.

They didn’t.
Not yet.

But Sanghyeon had been thinking.

Not the kind of thinking that came when he was drunk and raw, but the quiet, steady kind that crept up in moments that felt too soft to survive: the hush of washing dishes side by side, the sound of laundry folding in practiced silence, the sight of Liyu reading on the couch with sunlight pooled at his feet.

One cold afternoon, he walked into the living room and froze.
Liyu was asleep on the couch — one arm tucked under his head, breath soft and even. His hair fell over one eye. His lips parted barely.

Fragile.
Human.
Something you protect, not drag into darkness.

Something heavy and warm settled into Sanghyeon’s ribs, solid enough to hurt.

He couldn’t be in the streets anymore.
He didn’t want to.

The next night, Sanghyeon called his boys to the old warehouse — home base for too many years.

They gathered in a half-circle, faces a mix of confusion, loyalty, fear.
They weren’t bad kids. Just lost ones. Kids like he used to be.

“I’m ending it,” Sanghyeon said.

Silence dropped like a stone.

“The gang. The fights. The name. It’s done.”

Shock rippled through them — not anger, just the unsteady kind of relief that feels like standing up after a long time kneeling.

“You’re free,” he continued. “You can start over.”

He tossed each an envelope — thick bills inside, enough for rent, food, the first step out.

“Hyung… why?” the youngest asked softly.

Sanghyeon thought of warmth.
Soft hands.
Shared air.
A future.

“Because I want something else,” he said. “I want a real life.”

He didn’t say I want him.
But it lived in every breath.

One by one they bowed deeply — a real bow — and disappeared into the night.

When the door slammed shut behind the last of them, the echo hollowed his chest.
Grief, maybe.
Or release.
Or both.

He got home late.

Not bruised. Not staggering. Quiet.

Liyu stood from the couch the second the door opened, worry flickering through his expression.

“You’re late.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going out.”

“I know.”

A silence. Tight. Fragile.

“…Are you okay?” Liyu asked, voice softer now.

Instead of answering, Sanghyeon stepped closer until their breath overlapped. His hands reached for Liyu’s shoulders — steadying himself more than holding him.

“I’m done,” he whispered. “With the streets. With everything. I let them go.”

Liyu’s breath hitched.

“What do you mean… ended?”

“I want to start something new,” Sanghyeon said — raw, unguarded.
“…I want to start a life.”

Liyu swallowed. His eyes dropped to the hands still resting on him.

“…With me?”

Sanghyeon didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded once.

Liyu let out a shaking breath and lifted a hand to curl gently around Sanghyeon’s wrist.

“Then stay,” he whispered. “Just… stay.”

They walked down the hall together.
Two open doors: Liyu’s room left, Sanghyeon’s right.
Two beds. Two choices.

“Goodnight,” Liyu murmured.

“Goodnight.”

But neither stepped inside.

The quiet grew too loud.

Finally, Sanghyeon exhaled, voice cracking.
“…I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Liyu’s response was immediate and quiet.
“Me neither.”

They didn’t discuss it.
They didn’t justify it.
They simply moved.

They slipped into Sanghyeon’s room — small, messy, real.
Liyu lay down first on the left side, leaving space.
Sanghyeon followed, staring at the ceiling until his breath shook.

He shifted closer.
Their shoulders brushed.
Their hands found each other in the dark — tentative at first, then certain.

Sanghyeon whispered, barely sound:
“Don’t disappear in the morning.”

“I won’t,” Liyu said. “I’m right here.”

Their fingers threaded tighter.
Foreheads touched.
The world softened.

And without trying —
without meaning to —
they fell asleep.

Two rooms.
Two beds.
Two people who were supposed to stay separate.

But gravity always wins.

And this — whatever it was becoming — felt like home.

Step by step.

Sanghyeon woke first.

For a long moment he didn’t move. He just lay there, staring at the soft morning light spilling through the blinds, letting his mind catch up to where he was — and who was next to him. Warmth pressed along his side, slow breaths brushing his shoulder in steady waves.

Liyu was still asleep, one hand resting lightly at Sanghyeon’s waist like it had found its place there without permission.

Sanghyeon watched him quietly, the peace on his face, the faint crease between his brows that never fully relaxed even in sleep. It was the kind of peace Sanghyeon had never earned. And yet, somehow, it was here. Next to him.

He reached out — hesitant — and brushed a stray strand of hair from Liyu’s forehead.

Liyu’s eyes opened immediately, soft with sleep, dark and clear.

“Morning,” he whispered.

“Morning,” Sanghyeon breathed.

Silence stretched, comfortable and terrifying.

“You stayed,” Sanghyeon said softly.

“I said I would.”

“That’s different from doing it.”

“…Yeah.”

Their hands found each other again, fingers sliding together like muscle memory rather than choice.

For a few minutes, they stayed like that — breathing the same air, letting the quiet speak for them.

They eventually got up — awkward, bumping elbows, trying desperately not to stare when they absolutely were. In the kitchen, Liyu started the coffee while Sanghyeon leaned against the counter, watching him over the rim of his mug.

“You’re staring,” Liyu murmured.

“No I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Shut up.”

Liyu laughed — a small, genuine sound that felt undeserved and holy.

They made breakfast together: Sanghyeon burning the first egg, Liyu smacking his hand away from stealing vegetables, the two of them dancing around the tiny kitchen like gravity was pulling them into each other’s orbit.

For a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just this apartment, just this morning, just them.

Like safety.

Like home.

They were washing dishes together when it happened.

A sudden, heavy knock rattled the apartment door — sharp, forceful, nothing like the gentle quiet they’d built around themselves.

Sanghyeon froze.

The air changed instantly — the warmth gone, replaced by something colder and metallic that slid down his spine. His shoulders locked, instincts roaring awake like a beast he thought he’d buried.

Liyu turned toward him, reading everything in his face without needing words.

“Who is it?” he asked, voice quiet but steady.

“I don’t know,” Sanghyeon said, too tense, too fast.

Another knock — harder this time. Something scraped against the door, low and deliberate.

Not friendly.
Not safe.

“Open up!” a voice barked from the other side — rough, unfamiliar, not a friend.

Liyu stepped closer to him, not touching, just there. Present. Solid.

“What do you want to do?” he asked softly.

Sanghyeon swallowed hard. His breath shook.

“I’m not going back,” he whispered — maybe to Liyu, maybe to himself, maybe to the past clawing at the other side of the door.

“Then you won’t,” Liyu said. “Not alone.”

Another hit against the door rattled the frame.

Sanghyeon’s hands were trembling. Liyu reached out, brushing his fingers — barely there, but grounding.

“Beside me?” Sanghyeon asked, voice small, cracked.

Liyu’s answer was immediate.
“Always.”

The pounding grew harder.

They stepped toward the door together.

The pounding on the door didn’t stop.

Sanghyeon’s pulse thudded painfully against his ribs, his hand tightening on the doorknob until his knuckles whitened. Liyu stood beside him — close enough to feel, distant enough not to cage him.

Another hit shook the frame.

“Open the door, Sanghyeon.”
The voice was low, controlled, but shaking at the edges.

Woojin.

The sound of his name in Sanghyeon’s head nearly knocked the air out of him. He inhaled once, steadying himself, and unlocked the door.

He opened it halfway.

Woojin stood there — older, broader in the shoulders than Sanghyeon remembered, exhaustion dragging at his face. Not drunk. Not armed. Not dangerous.

Just disappointed.

He looked Sanghyeon up and down, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“So you’re alive,” Woojin said flatly.

Sanghyeon swallowed. “I am.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

“You ended everything without a word,” Woojin said, voice even but sharp. “You cut ties. You walked out. And you let everyone else walk out too. Except me.”

Sanghyeon’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t come to the meeting.”

“Because my family needed me,” Woojin shot back. “You knew that. But I thought—” He broke off, clenching his teeth. “I thought you’d wait. Or call. Or give me something instead of vanishing like I never mattered.”

The words hit harder than the knocking ever could have.

Woojin had been there when Sanghyeon had nowhere else to go.
Taught him how to survive.
Stood between him and death more times than he could count.

He wasn’t a kid abandoned by a leader.
He was a hyung abandoned by the one he raised.

Liyu stayed still beside him — not intruding, not retreating — just present.

Woojin finally registered him, eyes flicking to Liyu, reading the proximity instantly.
Understanding without an explanation.

“So you left for this?” he asked — not mocking, not cruel, just tired.

“No,” Sanghyeon said quickly. “I didn’t leave for him. I left because I couldn’t do it anymore. Because living like that was killing me.”

Woojin’s stare sharpened.
“And you couldn’t tell me that?”

There was no answer that didn’t hurt.

“No,” Sanghyeon said quietly. “I couldn’t.”

Woojin laughed once — humorless, broken. “Right. That figures.”

He stepped back, pulling something from his pocket — folded paper, creased to hell — and held it out.

“My share,” he said. “You gave everyone money to start over. Everyone except me.”

Sanghyeon’s brow knotted. “I left yours with the others. You were supposed to—”

“I wasn’t there,” Woojin cut in. “And you knew why.”

Silence twisted between them.

“I’ll get you your share,” Sanghyeon said slowly. “Tonight. All of it.”

Woojin studied him — really looked — and something in his expression softened, barely.

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

Woojin nodded once, eyes dropping to the floor then back up.
“You look different,” he said quietly. Not accusing. Just observing.

Sanghyeon’s throat tightened.

“Maybe I am.”

His hand trembled slightly, and without thinking, Liyu’s fingers brushed his — a silent grounding point. Woojin noticed. Didn’t comment. His gaze flickered just once between their hands, then back to Sanghyeon’s face.

“I’m not here to drag you back,” Woojin said. “If you found something better… good. I hope you hold onto it.”

Sanghyeon’s breath shook. “I’m trying.”

Woojin nodded again — slower this time.

“Then don’t screw it up.”

He stepped backward toward the stairwell.

“And don’t forget my share,” he added, voice steadier now. “I earned it.”

“You’ll get it,” Sanghyeon promised.

Woojin turned to go, then paused without looking back.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” he said softly.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The silence that followed was different than before — heavy, but not crushing.

Sanghyeon stood still, hand still resting on the doorframe, breathing like he’d run miles. Liyu stayed beside him, unmoving.

“Are you okay?” Liyu asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Sanghyeon said truthfully.

Liyu nodded once — accepting honesty over performance.

“Do you want to talk,” he asked, “or breathe?”

Sanghyeon’s fingers curled into Liyu’s, grip tight but not desperate.

“Stay,” he whispered.

“I’m here,” Liyu answered.

And together, they stepped away from the door.

The silence after Woojin left didn’t settle right away.

It hung in the apartment like dust shaken from the ceiling, floating in the air long after the echo of the door had faded. Sanghyeon stood absolutely still, fingers still curled loosely around the edge of the doorframe as if letting go might make everything collapse.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak. He just stared at the floor while his breath thinned, chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven.

Liyu watched him carefully, stepping closer without making a sound.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“I’m fine,” Sanghyeon muttered automatically — the reflex answer, the shield he’d lived behind for years.

But his voice cracked.

And that betrayal of sound was enough to break whatever thin thread was holding him together. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

“I shouldn’t feel like this,” he forced out.

“Like what?” Liyu asked gently.

“Like—” His breath stuttered. “Like I just lost something.”

Liyu was quiet for a moment before answering.

“You didn’t lose him,” he said. “You let go of a version of your life that couldn’t hold both of you anymore.”

Sanghyeon’s shoulders shook.

“He was my hyung,” he whispered, voice rough. “He taught me everything. He saved me more times than I can count. He looked out for me when nobody else did. And I just—left. I didn’t even say goodbye.”

Liyu stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until he could rest a hand on Sanghyeon’s back, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You’re allowed to grieve what you outgrew,” he murmured. “That doesn’t make you weak.”

Sanghyeon let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t far from it. His head bowed, forehead nearly touching the door.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to be different.”

“You don’t have to know yet,” Liyu said. “Just learn. Step by step.”

The words hit something deep, grounding.

After a long silence, Sanghyeon finally turned, leaning back against the door, eyes red but dry. He looked up at Liyu — really looked — like seeing him for the first time in a way he could survive.

“I need to bring him the money tonight,” he said quietly. “He deserves it.”

Liyu nodded. “Do you want to go alone?”

A beat.

“No,” Sanghyeon said. “I don’t think I do.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

Sanghyeon blinked like he hadn’t expected the answer to be that simple. “You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“I don’t need to,” Liyu said. “I know who I’m going with.”

Something in Sanghyeon’s face softened — small, weary, grateful.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes,” Sanghyeon said, voice steadier. “I do.”

Later that night

The city air was colder than usual when they stepped outside, darkness settling heavy over the buildings. Streetlights buzzed with tired fluorescence, throwing pale halos across cracked pavement.

They walked side by side, not speaking, not touching, but sharing each step like the space between them was intentional. Sanghyeon carried an envelope in his pocket — Woojin’s share. It felt heavier than it should, as if it contained the weight of every version of himself he was leaving behind.

They found Woojin where he’d texted to meet — outside an old convenience store, leaning against the wall with his hands buried in his coat pockets. He looked calmer now, the storm passed, exhaustion left behind.

When he saw them, his eyebrows lifted slightly — not surprised, but maybe relieved.

“You brought him,” Woojin said, glancing at Liyu.

“I did,” Sanghyeon answered.

Woojin nodded once, accepting. No judgment. No resentment.

Sanghyeon pulled the envelope from his pocket and held it out.

“This is yours,” he said.

Woojin stared at it a moment before taking it slowly, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it. He weighed it in his hand and let out a quiet breath.

“Thank you,” he said — real, not performative. “I… I needed this more than I wanted to admit.”

Silence hung for a moment — not tense, but fragile.

“I should’ve told you,” Sanghyeon said quietly.

Woojin met his eyes, tired and steady. “Yeah. You should’ve. But I get it now.”

He looked between the two of them, a softness settling into his expression.

“Take care of yourself, okay? Both of you.”

Sanghyeon nodded. “You too, hyung.”

It slipped out — the old title, the old warmth.

Woojin’s jaw tightened, but he smiled — small, real.

“Don’t say it unless you mean it.”

“I do,” Sanghyeon said.

Woojin stepped back, lifting a hand in farewell — not dramatic, not final, just enough.

“Then… goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Sanghyeon echoed.

They walked home slower than they’d left, the silence gentler now.

Halfway back, Sanghyeon stopped on the sidewalk, staring up at the night sky like he needed to relearn how to breathe.

Liyu stepped beside him.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Sanghyeon murmured. “But it feels like the kind that means something.”

Liyu nodded.

“That’s how you know you’re changing.”

Sanghyeon looked at him then — open, vulnerable, unguarded in a way he had never allowed himself to be.

“Will you stay?” he asked, voice barely a breath.

Liyu didn’t hesitate.

“Always,” he said.

And for the first time since they met,
Sanghyeon believed him.

The walk home stretched longer than the distance itself. The city blurred around them — neon lights smearing into soft colors, traffic noise fading beneath the steady sound of their footsteps. Sanghyeon didn’t say anything, and neither did Liyu, but silence felt less like a void now and more like a place they could stand without drowning.

When they reached their building, Sanghyeon hesitated at the bottom step, hands buried deep in his pockets. He stared up toward the entrance like the doorway was a border he wasn’t sure he could cross yet — a line between everything he had been and everything he was becoming.

“Hey,” Liyu said softly, nudging his shoulder. “Come on.”

It was a tiny gesture — small enough to dismiss, gentle enough to destroy him.

Sanghyeon nodded, following him inside.

The apartment was dark when they walked in, but not empty. The space felt different now — like something had settled, or shifted, or cracked open in a way that couldn’t be undone. Sanghyeon toed off his shoes mechanically, but as soon as he straightened, the weight of the night hit him all at once.

He pressed a shaky hand to his forehead, breath catching, shoulders bowing like he couldn’t hold himself upright anymore.

Liyu stepped close — not touching, not crowding. Just near.

“You’re allowed to breathe now,” he murmured.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Sanghyeon whispered, voice ragged. “It feels like if I start, I won’t stop.”

“Then don’t stop.”

Sanghyeon laughed, but it broke halfway out. He exhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly. “Every time something feels safe, it feels like it’s going to disappear. Like I’m going to wake up and it’s gone.”

Liyu’s voice softened to something that felt like warmth in winter.

“Look at me.”

Sanghyeon did — slowly, like it took every ounce of strength he had left.

Liyu held his gaze with steady patience, not flinching from any rawness he found there.

“I’m not leaving,” he said. “You don’t have to brace for impact. You don’t have to run. Not with me.”

Something in Sanghyeon trembled — deeper than fear, deeper than grief. His chest tightened painfully.

“That scares me,” he whispered. “You scare me.”

“I know,” Liyu said. “You scare me too.”

That admission cracked something wide open.

Sanghyeon reached up before he could think better of it, his hand brushing Liyu’s cheek — tentative, reverent, terrified. His fingers shook violently, and Liyu’s hand lifted to cover his, grounding the tremor instead of stilling it.

“You don’t have to hold everything alone anymore,” Liyu said, voice barely more than breath. “Let me carry some of it.”

Sanghyeon’s breathing hitched. He stepped closer, forehead resting against Liyu’s, the fragile contact sending warmth ricocheting through his ribs.

“This feels like falling,” he confessed.

“It’s not,” Liyu whispered. “It’s landing.”

For a moment, they stood perfectly still — two heartbeats trying to learn how to beat in the same rhythm without breaking.

Then Sanghyeon leaned in — a slow, careful shift, not hungry or urgent, but deliberate. Their lips brushed, light as breath, barely a kiss at all and yet enough to stop the world in its tracks.

Liyu inhaled sharply, his hand tightening around Sanghyeon’s.

The kiss deepened only by a fraction — soft, unsure, full of every unspoken word they had swallowed for weeks. Not claiming. Not consuming.

Just wanting.

When they parted, their foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths uneven and shared.

“What happens now?” Sanghyeon whispered, voice wrecked.

Liyu let out a trembling breath, a small smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth.

“Now,” he said, “we take the next step. One at a time.”

Sanghyeon closed his eyes, letting the words settle like warmth against cold skin.

“Stay with me tonight?” he asked — not pleading, just honest.

Liyu nodded.

“Always.”

They moved together, quietly, toward the hallway — two open doors waiting, two choices that no longer felt like questions.

When they reached the split, they didn’t hesitate.

They walked into the same room.

Not because they were afraid.

Because they weren’t anymore.

They walked into the room together, the soft click of the door closing behind them sounding louder than it should have. The air shifted—warmer, thicker, something unspoken swelling between them.

The room felt smaller tonight.
Or maybe they were just standing too close to pretend it wasn’t happening.

Neither of them reached for the light.

In the darkness, their breaths sounded loud and uneven, like both were trying not to shake.

Sanghyeon stood there for a moment, hands half-raised like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His chest rose and fell too fast, the adrenaline of the night still buzzing through his bones.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said quietly.

“You’re doing fine,” Liyu whispered.

Silence stretched—fragile, electric.

Sanghyeon took a single step forward, enough that their bodies brushed, enough that warmth ghosted across his skin. He hesitated, breathing in slowly, smelling laundry detergent and something warm that was just Liyu.

“Tell me to stop if—”

“I won’t,” Liyu cut in gently. “Not unless you want me to.”

Sanghyeon exhaled shakily, tension breaking like a thin thread. He reached out, uncertain, and let his hand find Liyu’s. Their fingers laced without thought, fitting too perfectly to be accidental.

In the quiet, Liyu whispered,
“You don’t have to be scared of wanting something.”

Sanghyeon’s voice almost broke.
“I’m not scared of wanting. I’m scared of losing.”

“Then don’t run,” Liyu said. “Stay here. With me. Right now.”

His free hand lifted slowly, fingertips brushing Sanghyeon’s jaw—barely there, feather-light. The touch sent a shiver down Sanghyeon’s spine, grounding and undoing him all at once.

Sanghyeon leaned into it—small, instinctive, helpless.

“Look at me,” Liyu murmured.

In the faint wash of city light through the curtains, Sanghyeon lifted his gaze. Their faces were inches apart, breath warm against each other’s lips.

No rush.
No demand.
Just gravity.

Liyu’s thumb brushed his cheek, and something inside Sanghyeon broke open—quietly, beautifully.

He leaned forward, closing the distance by the smallest fraction, giving space to retreat.
Liyu met him halfway.

Their lips touched—soft, tentative, trembling.

Not hunger.
Not possession.

A question.
An answer.
A promise.

Sanghyeon’s breathing stuttered against Liyu’s mouth. He pulled back only a breath’s distance, eyes searching Liyu’s face like he needed confirmation he wasn’t dreaming.

“Are you sure?” Sanghyeon whispered, voice shaking.

Liyu nodded, so slight it was almost a breath.
“Yes. If it’s slow.”

A laugh escaped Sanghyeon—half-broken, half-relieved.
“Slow is all I’ve got.”

Liyu smiled—small, warm, devastating.

“Good,” he said softly. “Then come here.”

He guided Sanghyeon closer, arms sliding around his waist in a careful, steady hold, like he was afraid of breaking something precious. Sanghyeon let his forehead drop to Liyu’s shoulder, trembling from everything finally uncoiling inside him.

They sank onto the edge of the bed—not pulling, not rushing. Just sinking, side by side, knees touching, fingers still tangled.

Sanghyeon rested his head against Liyu’s temple, their breaths gradually syncing.

“Stay,” Sanghyeon murmured, quieter now, softer.

“I am,” Liyu answered. “I’m right here.”

Sanghyeon closed his eyes, letting himself lean—really lean—against someone for the first time in years.

Liyu shifted slightly, guiding him down beneath the covers. They lay facing each other, inches apart, sharing warmth and quiet.

Sanghyeon reached out, brushing hair from Liyu’s forehead with trembling fingers.
Liyu caught his hand, kissed the center of his palm—gentle, reverent—and rested their hands between them.

No rush.
No fear.
No hiding.

Just choosing.

And slowly, the shaking stopped.

Their breaths evened.
Their hands held.

The room settled around them.

They fell asleep like that—faces close, hands entwined, hearts finally at rest.

Not two people lying in a bed.

But two people learning how to stay.

Step by step.

Chapter Text

The smell of garlic and butter drifted through the apartment long before Sanghyeon woke. Soft clinks of pans and the muted hum of the stove filled the quiet morning air. It was peaceful — the kind of peace that felt borrowed, like it might vanish if he breathed too loud.

Sanghyeon blinked awake slowly, stretching, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The space beside him was empty, warm only at the edges where someone had recently been.

Where Liyu had been.

He sat up, head still heavy from the night before — not with pain, but with something else he couldn’t name. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. It didn’t work.

The scent from the kitchen hit him again — warm, savory, familiar.

And suddenly, he wanted to see him.

He pushed himself out of bed and padded into the hallway, socked feet silent on the floor. The closer he got to the kitchen, the louder everything felt — his pulse, his breath, the sound of the spatula scraping gently against the pan.

Then he saw him.

Liyu stood at the stove, hair tied messily at the back of his neck, sleeves rolled up, apron hanging loosely around his waist. Steam curled around him in soft ribbons. Sunlight from the window pooled over his shoulders, turning the edges of him gold.

He looked unreal.

Safe.
Warm.
Like something meant to be held.

Something inside Sanghyeon stuttered — then surged.

His chest tightened suddenly, painfully. The room tilted, air thickening, heat flushing through him so fast he had to brace a hand against the counter. His breath hitched in his throat.

What was happening to him?

His heartbeat raced — too fast, too loud, pounding in his ears. His hands shook, fingers curling against the counter edge. Every nerve in his body felt lit, overstimulated, burning. And the center of all of it — painfully, blindingly — was Liyu.

“Morning,” Liyu called without looking up, voice soft and warm, like sunrise in sound. “I made congee. And— vegetables. Don’t complain. Sit, it’s almost—”

He turned.

And froze.

Sanghyeon looked wrecked — chest rising too fast, pupils blown wide, jaw tight like he was holding something back by force. His grip on the counter was white-knuckled.

“Sanghyeon?” Liyu asked carefully. “Are you— are you okay?”

No.
Yes.
He didn’t know.

He swallowed hard, voice rougher than he meant.
“I— don’t know.”

Liyu frowned slightly and stepped toward him. “What’s wrong? Is it your head? Did the fever come back? You’re shaking.”

“Don’t—” Sanghyeon choked out, breath shuddering as he took a step back, but it only made Liyu come closer. “Don’t come closer.”

Liyu stopped, confused but steady. “Then tell me what’s going on.”

Sanghyeon’s voice broke open.

“I can’t— think. You’re—”
He dragged a hand through his hair, breath collapsing.
“You’re right there and I—”

The heat spiked again, flooding through him like a wave. His knees nearly buckled. Liyu instinctively reached out to steady him —

And the moment Liyu’s hands touched his arms,
everything snapped.

Sanghyeon surged forward without thinking, without choosing — grabbing Liyu’s waist and pulling him flush against him, mouth crashing against his in a desperate, hungry kiss that felt like fire and relief and oxygen in the same breath.

Liyu gasped, hands flying to Sanghyeon’s shoulders — not to push away, but to hold on. The pan hissed where it sat forgotten on the stove. Liyu holding out his hand back to turn it off.

“Sanghyeon—” he breathed against his mouth, voice already shaking, “wait— what’s—”

“I can’t,” Sanghyeon growled, forehead pressed hard against his. “I can’t— control it. You’re— too much. I need—”

Liyu’s breath hitched, eyes darkening, steady fingers sliding into Sanghyeon’s hair.

“Then don’t control it,” he whispered. “Just— stay with me.”

That was all it took.

The kiss deepened — messy, breathless, urgent. Sanghyeon lifted him in one motion, Liyu instinctively wrapping his legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

Their mouths didn’t separate — not even as Sanghyeon stumbled backward, blindly navigating the hallway, knocking into the wall with a muted thud and laughing breathlessly into Liyu’s mouth when they nearly tripped.

Nothing existed except heat and breath and hands grabbing for something solid.

They reached the bedroom doorway.

The door to Sanghyeon’s room slammed open, their urgency spilling over. Sanghyeon stumbled in, Liyu’s legs locked tight around his waist, arms wound around his neck. They were still kissing, messy and desperate, breaking only for gasps of air before diving back in. Sanghyeon kicked the door shut blindly, pressing Liyu against it for one more searing kiss before carrying him the rest of the way to the bed.

“What’s with the hurry, hmm?” Liyu teased, his lips brushing Sanghyeon’s as he spoke, voice low and taunting. “Couldn’t even wait a few more minutes?”

Sanghyeon’s answer came in the form of another kiss, hot and impatient, his grip tightening around Liyu’s waist. He carried him toward the bed, their lips never parting for long. Liyu laughed breathlessly between kisses, whispering, “Careful—don’t drop me. Or is that part of the fun?”

Sanghyeon set him down only to crawl over him immediately, eyes dark and daring. “Keep teasing me, hyung,” he murmured, his voice rough with want, “and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Liyu only grinned, hooking a finger under Sanghyeon’s chin to pull him back down. “Promise?”

Their lips crashed again, but this time Liyu pulled away first, just enough to make Sanghyeon chase after him. “Mm, desperate already?” he murmured, brushing his thumb over Sanghyeon’s damp lower lip. “I thought you’d last longer.”

Sanghyeon’s jaw clenched, a low growl escaping as he pinned Liyu’s wrists against the sheets. “You talk too much,” he said, voice rough, before claiming his mouth again—tongue sliding in, deeper, firmer, like he was determined to prove a point.

But Liyu didn’t give in so easily. He kissed back hard, then pulled away with a smirk, whispering against his lips, “Is that all you’ve got?” His breath was warm, taunting, and his eyes glittered with challenge.

Sanghyeon leaned down until his lips brushed Liyu’s ear, his words a husky threat. “Keep testing me, hyung… and you’ll find out exactly how much I’ve got.”

Liyu shivered but only tightened his legs around Sanghyeon’s waist, smirking up at him. “Good. I’m waiting.”

Sanghyeon didn’t give him the chance to say another word. His mouth crashed down on Liyu’s, tongue plunging deep, swallowing every breathless laugh and teasing murmur until nothing was left but muffled gasps. His grip on Liyu’s wrists loosened only so he could trail his hands down—sliding over his sides, his waist, pulling at the hem of his shirt with impatient fingers.

Liyu arched under him, breaking the kiss just long enough to smirk through ragged breaths. “So rough already… guess I hit a nerve.”

Sanghyeon bit at his jawline, his voice low and trembling with restraint. “You don’t know what you’ve started.”

“Then show me,” Liyu whispered, tugging Sanghyeon closer by the collar, their lips meeting again—hotter, deeper, their tongues tangling until the kiss turned dizzying.

Sanghyeon’s hands finally yanked Liyu’s shirt up, breaking the kiss only long enough to strip it over his head. He tossed it aside without care, immediately running his palms down the newly exposed skin, fingers tracing over every line like he’d been waiting forever for this. His mouth followed, lips brushing over Liyu’s collarbone before trailing lower, biting lightly just to hear the sharp inhale it drew out.

Liyu’s laugh came out shaky, his hands tugging at Sanghyeon’s own shirt in retaliation. “Not fair,” he murmured, pulling it up with impatient tugs until Sanghyeon let it go, baring his chest. He let his fingers wander, dragging over the hard lines of muscle before pushing him back down into another searing kiss.

Their bare chests pressed together, skin hot and slick, every shift of their bodies making them gasp into each other’s mouths. Sanghyeon’s tongue slid against Liyu’s again, hungrier this time, like he wanted to taste every part of him. Liyu groaned, threading his fingers through Sanghyeon’s hair and tugging hard enough to make him growl.

The kiss broke, a thin line of spit still connecting them as they stared at each other, panting, pupils blown wide. “Hyung,” Sanghyeon rasped, voice heavy with want, “I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t,” Liyu whispered, pulling him back down.

Sanghyeon kissed him again, harder, lips bruising as his hands roamed lower, sliding over Liyu’s waist before slipping beneath the waistband of his pants. His fingers pressed into the skin there, teasing but deliberate, making Liyu shiver under the touch.

Liyu broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, though his voice trembled. “Already reaching for that?”

“Shut up,” Sanghyeon growled, nipping at his throat as his hand slid deeper, palming him through the thin fabric. The sharp gasp that escaped Liyu’s lips made Sanghyeon smirk against his skin. “Not teasing anymore, hyung.”

Liyu arched into the touch, his head tilting back against the pillows, throat bared and glistening where Sanghyeon’s mouth had marked him. “Sanghyeon…” His voice cracked with need, the challenge in his tone now melting into breathless pleas.

The younger pushed his pants lower with impatient hands, lips never leaving his skin, kissing, biting, worshipping every inch. Liyu’s fingers dug into his shoulders, nails scraping as if to ground himself, every kiss and touch pulling him closer to breaking apart.

Sanghyeon lifted his head, eyes dark and blazing, chest heaving. “I told you,” he murmured, voice like a promise, “you started this. Now I’m not stopping until you can’t move.”

Sanghyeon barely had time to catch his breath before Liyu pushed at his shoulders, shifting their positions with surprising force. In the next moment, Liyu straddled his lap, settling against him with a slow grind that stole the air from Sanghyeon’s lungs.

“Hyung—” his voice broke into a groan, hands immediately gripping Liyu’s hips, holding on like he might lose control at any second.

Liyu leaned down, lips brushing his ear as he whispered, “You said you wouldn’t stop, right?” His smirk was audible in his voice, taunting, but the way his body rolled against Sanghyeon’s betrayed just how much he wanted this too.

Sanghyeon’s answer came in the form of a desperate kiss, one hand sliding up Liyu’s bare back, the other pressing him down harder onto his lap. Their tongues tangled again, wet and frantic, the sound of their ragged breaths filling the room.

When they broke apart for air, Liyu’s forehead rested against his, both of them trembling, skin slick with heat. “Then prove it,” he whispered, grinding down again, and Sanghyeon thought he might completely lose himself.

Liyu shifted deliberately, pressing himself down against Sanghyeon’s lap with a slow, rolling grind. The friction tore a groan straight from Sanghyeon’s throat, his head tipping back against the headboard as his grip on Liyu’s hips tightened.

“Shit—hyung…” he gasped, voice breaking, every syllable trembling with restraint.

But Liyu only smirked, leaning down until their lips nearly touched, his breath hot against Sanghyeon’s mouth. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he teased, rocking his hips again, harder this time, until Sanghyeon’s fingers dug bruises into his skin.

Their mouths collided once more, the kiss messy and desperate, all tongue and heat. Liyu swallowed every groan that vibrated against his lips, moving faster, grinding until Sanghyeon was shaking beneath him.

When he finally pulled back, both of them breathless, Liyu dragged his teeth over Sanghyeon’s swollen lower lip and whispered, “And you said you wouldn’t stop…” before rolling his hips again, making Sanghyeon shudder.

Liyu’s rhythm grew bolder, rocking harder against Sanghyeon’s lap until every grind dragged a strangled sound out of the younger’s throat. Their bare chests slid together with sweat, the heat between them unbearable, and Sanghyeon could do nothing but clutch desperately at Liyu’s hips, guiding him faster.

“Hyung—” his voice cracked into a moan, breath hot against Liyu’s lips, “you’re… driving me insane.”

“That’s the point,” Liyu whispered back, teeth grazing along his jaw before kissing him again, messy and consuming. The friction between them built with every roll of Liyu’s body, each movement sharper, hungrier, until the air was thick with the sound of their gasps and the squeak of the mattress beneath them.

Sanghyeon broke the kiss, panting, forehead pressed to Liyu’s shoulder as his hands roamed lower, fingers trembling. “If you keep doing that…”

“Then what?” Liyu taunted, grinding down harder, forcing another groan out of him. “You said you wouldn’t stop.”

Sanghyeon’s answer came in the form of flipping them both over, pinning Liyu to the mattress, eyes dark and wild. His voice dropped to a growl, rough with want. “Then I won’t.”

Liyu’s breath hitched, his back arching against the sheets as Sanghyeon’s lips trailed lower, leaving a hot path over his thigh. Every kiss was deliberate, maddeningly slow, until Sanghyeon’s mouth hovered dangerously close to where Liyu wanted him most.

Sanghyeon glanced up through his lashes, catching the older’s trembling expression, and smirked. “So quiet now, hyung?” he murmured, letting his lips ghost over the thin fabric of Liyu’s boxers. The teasing brush was enough to draw a broken sound from Liyu’s throat, his fingers curling tight in the sheets.

“Don’t… don’t make me beg,” Liyu muttered, though his voice cracked with need.

Sanghyeon chuckled low, pressing a slow kiss right over the fabric, his tongue flicking against it just to hear Liyu gasp. “That’s the idea,” he whispered, his hand squeezing the inside of Liyu’s thigh before his mouth pressed harder, more insistent, against the heat straining beneath the thin layer of cloth.

Liyu’s head tipped back, a strangled moan escaping as he pushed up into the touch, eyes squeezing shut. Sanghyeon’s smirk only deepened as he mouthed along the outline, savoring every shudder that racked through him.

Sanghyeon finally hooked his fingers under the waistband, dragging Liyu’s boxers down with a deliberate slowness that had the older trembling with anticipation. He tossed them aside carelessly, hands immediately sliding back up to grip Liyu’s thighs, holding him open as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“Hyung…” Sanghyeon’s voice came out rough, hungry, almost reverent. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just above where Liyu needed him most, a last cruel tease before finally lowering his mouth.

Liyu’s gasp shattered the silence, his back arching hard against the sheets, fingers tangling in Sanghyeon’s hair as he pulled him closer. Every sound that spilled from his lips was muffled by the kiss that turned into something deeper, wetter, hungrier—Sanghyeon devouring him like he’d promised, refusing to let up.

The rhythm built quickly, the room filling with the mix of Liyu’s broken moans and Sanghyeon’s low groans against his skin, the air thick with heat and the sound of the bed creaking under them.

When Liyu finally shattered, his body trembling under the weight of it, Sanghyeon didn’t stop until he had wrung every last sound and fluid from him, holding him down with steady hands.

And when he finally pulled back, lips swollen, eyes dark and gleaming, his lips smeared with Liyu's liquid, he leaned up over Liyu’s shaking frame and murmured against his ear, “I told you, hyung… I’m not stopping until you can’t move.”

Liyu was still catching his breath, chest heaving, body trembling from the aftershocks when Sanghyeon leaned back over him. He pressed a hungry kiss to his swollen lips, swallowing the older’s whimper as if even now, he couldn’t get enough as Liyu tasted himself in Sanghyeon's mouth.

“W–wait, Sanghyeon—” Liyu tried to protest, but the words dissolved into a gasp as the younger shifted between his thighs again, already hard and aching against him.

Sanghyeon’s lips trailed down his jaw, his throat, nipping and sucking fresh marks into his already bruised skin. “I told you,” he rasped, voice rough and breathless, “I’m not done. Not even close.”

Liyu groaned, his legs instinctively wrapping around Sanghyeon’s waist, pulling him closer. The heat of their bodies pressed together again, bare and slick with sweat, every grind against each other reigniting the fire in Liyu’s belly.

Their mouths met once more, messy and desperate, all teeth and tongue as Sanghyeon rolled his hips down, drawing another strangled moan from the man beneath him. Liyu clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails as he gasped against his lips, “You’re insane—”

“And you love it,” Sanghyeon growled, pushing him deeper into the mattress, his control slipping as he set a rough, punishing rhythm that promised there’d be no rest tonight.

The room filled again with their ragged breaths and broken moans, the bed creaking under the force of their bodies, both of them lost in the fire of a second round neither had the will to resist.

"Sanghyeon—god—fuck me, please," Liyu says, his voice graspy as he holds Sanghyeon by the nape close to his face. "That's the spirit," Sanghyeon teases, sitting up to throw whatever he was wearing left to the side.

He reaches out for the drawer beside them when Liyu suddenly stops him. "Can we not?" Liyu says, looking straight into Sanghyeon with his boba eyes. The younger looked at him, the lamp's light making Liyu's eyes shine. Sanghyeon nodded as he squeezed himself back between Liyu's legs, his cock scraping against the older's skin. "I wanna feel you this time."

Sanghyeon listened, turning his attention back to the bare Liyu in front of him. He lifted his hand, pressing it on Liyu's mouth, two of his fingers entering the older's wet mouth. "Suck it," he said. Liyu obliging, gently sucking it and licking around it before Sanghyeon yanked it out. A soft moan escaping Liyu's mouth.

Using the wet fingers, he roamed around Liyu's hole before pressing a finger in. He crooked it just right, rubbing against that spot inside that made Liyu's whole body jerk. Adding a second finger in, his fingers pumped in and out of Liyu's ass steadily, twisting on each thrust to hit that prostate again, forcing Liyu's hips to stutter.

"Nghh~ just fuck me already.." Liyu mumbled, his insides still clenching around Sanghyeon's fingers. Sanghyeon pulled out, shifting slightly to throw off his pants. The pile ignored to the side. His cock sprang free, hitting Liyu's thighs. 

Sanghyeon positioned himself, the tip rubbing against Liyu's rim. Then, with a grunt, Sanghyeon thrust forward, burying his cock halfway into Liyu's ass in one smooth slide, the hot, tight clench pulling a groan from his own lips. “Fuck, so tight—” He paused, letting Liyu adjust, the wetness easing the way as he rocked his hips minutely.

Liyu's groan escalated into a piercing scream, his body trembling as he clutched the fabric tighter, his knuckles turning pale. “Sanghyeon-” he breathed, his body quivering around the hefty presence, pleasure coursing through him even with the sensation of fullness.

Sanghyeon didn't wait long; he snapped his hips fully, slamming the rest of his cock deep inside until his balls slapped against Liyu's. The rhythm built fast—hard thrusts that pinned Liyu to the bed.

Every thrust pressed against Liyu's walls, the tip of Sanghyeon's member rubbing that prostate with each movement. “Take it, hyung—moan for me,” Sanghyeon snarled in Liyu's ear, teeth grazing the lobe while his other hand moved to stroke Liyu's dripping cock in sync with his thrusts

Liyu's moans filled the room, broken and desperate—”Oh god, fuck—harder, please”—his body jolting with each impact, sweaty skin splashing as Sanghyeon's hips pistoned forward, skin slapping wetly. The steam wrapped them tighter, the air thick with the scent of sex, Sanghyeon's words spurring Liyu's cries higher, their bodies locked in raw, unyielding rhythm.

Sanghyeon's thrusts became increasingly unpredictable, the wet sound of skin resonating against the bedroom walls as he plunged into Liyu's ass, his hand vigorously stroking Liyu's pulsating cock. Liyu's screams echoed through the steam-filled room, his body shaking from the onslaught, walls squeezing harder with every thrust against his prostate.

Liyu moaned sharply, “Nngh—Sanghyeon, yes."

Sanghyeon spoke in a deep, slow tone, each word heavy and intimate, "Wrap those pretty legs around my waist, baby."

Liyu obeyed with a hazy grin, locking his ankles behind Sanghyeon's back, arms looping around his neck as he was pressed back against the mattress. Liyu's cock trapped between their bellies, leaking steadily without a single touch.

“Oh no—” Liyu gasped, his head hitting the pillow as Sanghyeon began thrusting into him, hips driving with unyielding power. Every thrust curved Liyu subtly, pressing him more firmly against the bed, the mattress springs digging into his back like an unyielding lover. Sanghyeon's shaft pulled back gradually before thrusting in hard, his balls hitting Liyu's backside, the lewd noise of sweat and saliva blending with their groans. “So intense—it’s going to shatter me,” Liyu murmured, his moans shifting into cries of bliss, his opening quivering around the intrusive girth

Sanghyeon's pace was merciless, sweat and steam beading on his brow as he rutted up, watching Liyu's face contort—eyes rolling back, mouth slack. 

“That's it, pretty boy—look at you, so fucking gorgeous like this, ass clenching on my cock like a vice. You're mine, all mine, taking it so well.” He leaned in, biting Liyu's lower lip before soothing it with a filthy kiss, tongue fucking into his mouth in time with his hips. “Cum for me, baby—let me feel you squeeze me without even touching that pretty dick.”

The compliments enveloped Liyu like waves, his body tightening, prostate jolted with each push. His cries became urgent, rising in pitch and wailing—”Sanghyeon, oh—so close, please”—legs tightening around Sanghyeon's hips, drawing him in further. Then it struck, bursting through him unexpectedly: his cock throbbed unprovoked against Sanghyeon's abs, streams of cum shooting hot between them, coating their stomachs white. Liyu's body tightened rhythmically, drawing Sanghyeon's cock deeper as waves of pleasure surged through him, his body quivering in Sanghyeon's firm grip.

“Hell yes, that's my beautiful baby—cumming just from my dick in your ass,” Sanghyeon moaned, maintaining his intense rhythm, thrusting through the tremors, seeking his own climax while Liyu endured the aftershocks, whimpering and gripping tightly.

Sanghyeon's hips remained steady, thrusting aggressively into Liyu's sensitive entrance with relentless power, the intense contractions from Liyu's climax gripping his cock in rhythmic waves that almost pushed him over the edge. Liyu’s body slammed against the wall, each push sending new jolts through his exhausted nerves, his penis quivering weakly between them, overly sensitive. “Ah—Sanghyeon, that's excessive, it’s—nngh!” Liyu inhaled sharply, his voice breaking into a whimper, his legs shaking around Sanghyeon's waist, hands clutching at his boyfriend's neck for support.

“Just a little more, baby—you're doing so perfect,” Sanghyeon murmured against Liyu's neck. Sanghyeon's balls tightened, the tension building as he pressed hard, rotating his hips to stimulate that sore spot within Liyu, eliciting another shattered cry. Liyu's walls quivered uncontrollably now, overly stimulated and grasping without restraint, the feeling eliciting a deep groan from Sanghyeon's throat.

“Just like that, pretty—squeeze me hard,” Sanghyeon gasped, rhythm speeding up, his hips thrusting quicker, the wet sound of his balls hitting Liyu's skin resonating more. He sensed it building, the tension breaking as he pressed himself deep one final time, cock throbbing as he released fiercely, filling Liyu's ass with heavy bursts of cum. “Damn—have it all, baby,” he snarled, thrusting through the waves, keeping Liyu restrained as his body trembled with pleasure. Liyu moaned at the heat enveloping him, the excess spilling out around Sanghyeon's member, blending with the sweat.

As the tremors subsided, Sanghyeon slowed his movements to a gentle rhythm before coming to a stop, both of them breathing heavily in the mist. Liyu collapsed onto the bed, limbs losing all strength, head flopping against the pillow like a lifeless doll, entirely exhausted and weakened. “Mmm... ruined,” Sanghyeoon laughed quietly, placing a kiss on Liyu's hair. "Are you alright, darling?" "Check you out, completely worn out and adorable."

The room was still bright with morning light, soft gold spilling through the curtains and pooling across their tangled bodies. The faint smell of garlic and butter still lingered from the kitchen — now joined by the scent of warm skin and quiet exhaustion.

Liyu lay completely still, chest rising in shallow breaths, eyes closed as if his body had shut down the moment the tension broke. His limbs were limp, draped over the sheets like he didn’t have the strength to lift a finger. Sweat stuck his hair to his forehead, and his throat worked with silent, uneven breaths.

Sanghyeon stayed above him for a moment longer, breathing hard, the tremors in his arms finally settling. He let himself collapse gently beside Liyu, careful not to jostle him. He brushed his lips against Liyu’s hair — soft, reverent.

“Hey,” Sanghyeon whispered, voice hoarse, a breath of a laugh hiding in it. “Are you alive?”

A small sound escaped Liyu — somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
“I can’t move,” he murmured, voice wrecked and sleepy. “Everything hurts. I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

Sanghyeon chuckled quietly, brushing his fingers down Liyu’s arm in slow soothing lines.
“Sorry. I got carried away.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”
Liyu’s voice was weak, barely a whisper — but there was a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I think my soul left my body for a minute.”

“Come here,” Sanghyeon said gently, shifting closer to pull him into his chest, wrapping an arm around his back and tucking the blanket around them both. He pressed a warm kiss against Liyu’s temple. “Let me hold you.”

Liyu melted into him instantly — no tension, no hesitation. Just trust. His fingers slipped weakly into Sanghyeon’s shirt, gripping like he needed the anchor.

“You okay?” Sanghyeon asked softly, voice warm with concern now that the adrenaline was gone. “Too much?”

Liyu shook his head faintly, eyes still closed, cheek pressed to Sanghyeon’s collarbone.
“No. Just… tired. Really tired.”
A shaky breath slipped out. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m not,” Sanghyeon murmured, tightening his hold around him. “I’m right here.”

He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and lifted it carefully to Liyu’s lips, supporting the back of his head.

“Slow,” he whispered.
Liyu obeyed, taking small sips, then sagged into him again with a sigh that sounded half exhausted, half content.

“You’re burning up,” Sanghyeon murmured, pressing his hand to the back of Liyu’s neck.
“I’ll get a warm towel.”

“Don’t move,” Liyu whispered immediately, fingers clinging tighter. “Stay… just for a second.”

Sanghyeon stilled, rubbing small circles over his shoulder.
“Okay. I’m staying.”

They lay there in silence, breaths slowly syncing, the morning light warming their skin. The kitchen timer beeped softly in the distance — whatever was on the stove had long since been forgotten.

“We ruined breakfast,” Liyu mumbled into his chest.

“We can make more,” Sanghyeon said, smiling into his hair. “Or order something. Anything you want.”

Liyu’s voice softened, trembling a little.
“I just want you to stay.”

Sanghyeon pressed a kiss to his forehead, slow and tender, fingers threading through his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.
“Rest. I’ll take care of everything.”

Liyu’s breathing deepened, his body going limp again as he sank further into the warmth of Sanghyeon’s arms. The world outside stayed quiet — no noise, no rush, just the steady heartbeat under his ear and the soft hum of morning light around them.

For the first time,
it didn’t feel like something borrowed.

It felt like the beginning of something real.

Chapter Text

Liyu woke feeling… wrong.

Not sick, exactly. Just off. His stomach twisted sharply the moment he sat up, a wave of nausea rolling through him so suddenly he had to grab the edge of the nightstand to steady himself. The room didn’t spin, but his body felt heavy, uncoordinated, like someone had swapped his bones with wet sand.

He swallowed hard, trying to breathe through it.

Maybe he hadn’t eaten enough yesterday.
Maybe he’d pushed himself too hard.
Maybe—

The smell hit him.

Garlic. Butter. Rice.

Breakfast.

His stomach lurched violently.

He clapped a hand over his mouth and stumbled off the bed, nearly tripping over the blanket pooled at his feet. He barely made it to the bathroom before he fell to his knees in front of the sink, gagging as his body forced nothing but air and stomach acid up his throat.

The retching echoed harshly off the tiled walls, loud enough that he barely heard footsteps rushing down the hall.

“Liyu?” Sanghyeon’s voice cracked sharply with alarm. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?”

The door swung open, and warm hands slid into his hair, pulling it gently out of his face. Sanghyeon knelt beside him, one hand on his back, rubbing slow circles as another wave hit.

Liyu coughed, shaking, eyes watering uncontrollably.

“I—I’m fine,” he rasped when he caught his breath, though the word sounded weak and unconvincing even to himself.

“Fine?” Sanghyeon’s voice softened, full of worry. “You’re shaking.”
His palm rested against Liyu’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Liyu whispered, suddenly feeling unbearably small. His throat tightened again — but this time with something emotional rather than physical. “I just— I woke up and everything hurt and the smell—” His voice cracked, something fragile breaking open. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

Then, without warning, tears spilled down his cheeks.

Not dramatic, not loud — just silent and unstoppable, like his body had chosen for him.

Sanghyeon froze, eyes wide, panic flickering before he pulled Liyu into his chest, holding him carefully like he might break.

“Hey, hey—don’t cry,” he murmured against Liyu’s hair, voice shaking with how gentle he was trying to be. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe, baby. Just breathe.”

That only made the tears come harder.

“I’m sorry,” Liyu choked out. “I don’t know why I’m crying, I just— I can’t stop, and I feel like everything is too much and I’m starving but food makes me want to die and—”

“Shh,” Sanghyeon whispered, tightening his arms around him. “You don’t need to explain. I’m here. You’re okay.”

Liyu pressed his face into Sanghyeon’s shoulder, gripping his shirt with shaking hands.

He didn’t know why his heart felt too big for his chest.
Why every emotion hit like a tidal wave.
Why his body felt like it was reacting to something he hadn’t caught up to yet.

All he knew was:
Something was changing.

And he was scared.

Sanghyeon’s voice dropped to a quiet whisper, barely audible over Liyu’s uneven breaths.

“Let me take care of you today. No arguments.”

For once, Liyu didn’t have the strength to protest.
He just nodded into Sanghyeon’s shoulder.

Softly, hesitantly, Sanghyeon asked:
“Did you… maybe… eat something bad yesterday?”

Liyu shook his head weakly.

No.
This wasn’t food poisoning.

It felt deeper.
Different.
Too intense to brush off as something simple.

And neither of them was ready yet for the truth hovering quietly at the edges.

By the time Liyu stepped out of the apartment, the world felt too bright.

The sun pressed against his eyes like a weight, sound felt sharper than usual, and every step made a faint pulse echo behind his ribs. His backpack felt heavier than it should — or maybe it was just him, dragging something he couldn’t name.

He hadn’t told Sanghyeon he was still going to class.
He couldn’t deal with the worry in his eyes again.
Not when he already felt like he might break.

The bus ride was a blur — the motion made his stomach roll, and he spent half of it breathing slowly through his nose, trying not to gag at the scent of someone’s breakfast sandwich three seats away.

By the time he reached campus, his hands were cold with sweat.

Just get through the day, he told himself.
It’s nothing. It will pass. It has to.

He pushed through the door of the design studio and went straight to his usual seat, dropping into the chair like his bones had melted. The screen of his tablet swam slightly, refusing to stay still, and he blinked hard until the shapes settled.

He didn’t notice someone approaching until a bottle of water slid silently onto the desk beside him.

“…You look like death,” Haneum’s voice said flatly.

Liyu exhaled, long and tired. “Morning to you too.”

Haneum sat on the edge of the desk, studying him with the kind of observation that felt like x-ray vision. He didn’t pry — not immediately — but his silence was heavy and pointed.

“You’re pale,” he said finally. “And your eyes look swollen. Did you sleep?”

“A little,” Liyu murmured, rubbing at his temples. “Rough morning.”

“That’s not ‘rough morning’ pale,” Haneum corrected. “That’s ‘I’m two minutes from passing out’ pale.”

Liyu tried to laugh, but it came out weak and shaky.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”

Haneum didn’t look convinced. He leaned forward, lowering his voice so only Liyu could hear.

“Are you sick? Like… actually sick?”

Liyu opened his mouth to say no — but his stomach lurched violently, the room tipping for a second. He slapped a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as nausea clawed up his throat.

Haneum moved instantly, steadying his shoulder before he could fall.

“Whoa—hey—sit down, don’t move.”
His voice softened, rare and careful. “Breathe through it.”

Liyu gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles went white, breathing in sharp, trembling pulls. When it passed, his eyes stung — from effort, from embarrassment, from everything.

To his horror, tears gathered again.

He turned away quickly, scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve. “Why am I—” His voice broke. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Haneum froze.

The last time he’d seen Liyu cry was… never. Not once.
Liyu was calm, steady, composed — always.

So whatever this was?
It wasn’t small.

Haneum’s voice dropped, low and uncharacteristically gentle.

“Is it something with Sanghyeon?”

Liyu shook his head quickly — too quickly — the motion triggering another sharp wave of dizziness. “No. It’s not that. Things are— fine. I think.”

Haneum watched him quietly, connecting dots in silence.

The physical exhaustion.
The nausea.
The mood swings.
The flickers of pain when he shifted in his chair.
The way he’d been holding his stomach without noticing.

“…Liyu,” Haneum said slowly, eyes narrowing, “when was the last time you—”

Before he could finish, the sharp scent of someone’s perfume hit the air, floral and overwhelming. Liyu gagged violently, pushing out of his seat so fast the chair screeched across the floor. He stumbled toward the hallway, one hand covering his mouth, vision blurring.

Haneum followed immediately, steadying him again as he leaned weakly against the wall.

“Okay,” Haneum said, voice firm now, no longer giving him room to dodge. “You need to go home. Now. Whatever this is, it’s serious.”

Liyu shook his head weakly. “I have class—”

“You can barely stand.”

For a moment, silence stretched — thick, fragile, and full of things neither wanted to say aloud.

Haneum’s voice softened to a whisper.

“…Does Sanghyeon know?”

Liyu looked down, blinking through tears he couldn’t stop.

“No.”
His voice cracked open, raw and terrified.
“I don’t even know what to tell him.”

And for the first time since he entered the campus, Liyu felt the weight inside him break.

Haneum placed a steady hand between his shoulder blades.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he said simply. “But not here.”

Liyu nodded slowly, swallowing hard, clinging to the wall for balance.

Something was happening inside him.
Something he couldn’t ignore anymore.

And sooner or later,
he would have to tell Sanghyeon.

The hallway felt like it was shifting beneath his feet — every step unsteady, like his body was one breath away from collapsing. Liyu leaned heavily against the cool wall, trying to steady his shaking hands.

Haneum stood in front of him, arms crossed, expression sharp with concern.

“That’s it,” he said, tone final. “We’re going to the clinic.”

Liyu blinked up at him, panic flickering through his eyes.
“No— I’m fine. It’s probably just stress. Or… low blood sugar.”

Haneum stared at him, unimpressed.
“You nearly threw up on the floor and you’re shaking like you ran a marathon. This is not low blood sugar.”

“It’s nothing,” Liyu tried again, voice small.
He didn’t know why he was defending it.
Maybe because admitting it meant facing it.

Haneum sighed, grabbing Liyu’s backpack and slinging it over his own shoulder.

“Get up. I’m not arguing.”

Liyu hesitated — then another wave of dizziness hit, forcing him to grip Haneum’s arm for balance. His knees buckled slightly, breath stuttering.

Haneum’s hand tightened around his elbow, steady and grounding.

“See?” he said quietly. “You’re scaring me. Let’s go.”

Liyu swallowed, unable to hold the resistance anymore.
“…Okay.”

They moved slowly through campus, Haneum matching his pace carefully. Students stared — some curious, some whispering — but Haneum shot a glare at every pair of lingering eyes, daring them to say something.

When they stepped outside, the cold air hit Liyu like a slap. He shivered violently, hugging his arms around himself. Haneum stopped immediately.

“Sit. I’ll call a taxi.”

“No— I can walk—”

“You’re going to pass out if you walk another ten steps. Sit.”

The firmness in his voice left no room for negotiation. Liyu lowered himself onto the bench, breath shallow, trying not to cry again.

Not here.
Not in public.

Haneum stood in front of him, phone against his ear, watching him with a protective intensity that made something inside Liyu’s chest loosen, just a little.

When he hung up, he knelt down so he was eye-level.

“Look at me,” he said gently.

Liyu raised his head slowly.

Haneum’s voice softened — not pitying, but steady, like he was offering something solid to hold.

“We’re gonna figure this out. But you need to stop trying to pretend you’re okay. Whatever’s happening in your body — it’s not normal. And ignoring it won’t make it disappear.”

Liyu’s vision blurred again, tears spilling before he could stop them. He pressed his hands over his face, shame burning hot.

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Haneum placed a hand on his shoulder, cautious but present.

“Being scared doesn’t make you weak,” he said quietly. “It means something matters.”

A taxi pulled up to the curb, braking softly.

Haneum stood and opened the door, waiting.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Just breathe. We’ll get answers.”

Liyu nodded weakly, wiping his cheeks with trembling fingers. He climbed into the backseat slowly, feeling every muscle protest. Haneum slid in beside him, closing the door.

As the car pulled away from campus, Liyu leaned his head against the window, watching the buildings blur past through watery vision.

His palm drifted to his stomach without thinking — an instinct more than a decision — and a sharp, strange fear pulsed through him.

He didn’t know what was happening.
But his body did.

And soon, he would no longer be able to hide it.

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and too-white walls — sterile, bright, and painfully quiet. Chuei Liyu sat stiffly in the waiting room chair, fingers twisted in the sleeves of his hoodie, trying to breathe through the nausea hammering at his ribs. His skin felt too hot, too sensitive, his heartbeat fluttering like wings trapped in his throat.

Haneum paced in front of him, restless energy snapping off him like static.

“You sure you don’t want me to text Sanghyeon?” he asked again, voice low.

Liyu shook his head immediately.
“No. Not yet.”

Not until he was sure.
Not until he could say the words without choking.

A nurse stepped out from a hallway, clipboard in hand.

“Chuei Liyu?”

He exhaled shakily and stood, knees unsteady. Haneum reached out instinctively, steadying his elbow.

“You want me to come with you?” he asked softly.

Liyu hesitated — too long, too obviously.

Then he shook his head again, voice barely there.
“I need to do this alone.”

Haneum swallowed hard, then nodded.
“I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Liyu gave a weak smile and followed the nurse down the hallway.

Inside the small exam room, the door closed behind him with a soft click.

“What brings you in today?” the nurse asked gently.

Liyu stared at his hands.
“I’ve been feeling… off. Really off. Nausea, dizziness, cravings, mood swings. And I’m… always tired.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks. Maybe a little more.”

The nurse nodded, writing notes.

“Are you experiencing any hormonal shifts recently?”

His breath caught.
His cheeks burned.

“…Maybe,” he whispered.

She hesitated, then continued carefully.
“I’m going to ask something routine. Are you sexually active?”

Liyu’s face turned red. He nodded once, tiny, humiliated.

“And protection? Consistently?”

Silence answered for him.

The nurse’s expression softened.

“All right. We’re going to run a standard panel and — given your symptoms — we’ll also conduct a hormonal indicator screening. It will help us rule out certain possibilities.”

Liyu’s stomach dropped straight to the floor.

“A test?” he whispered.

“Yes. Just to be safe.”

She offered a gentle smile before stepping toward the door.
“I’ll give you a minute. When you’re ready, open the door and we’ll continue.”

The door clicked shut.

The room felt too bright.
Too loud.
He pressed his hands to his eyes, breath trembling violently.

If the test confirmed what he feared…
Everything would change.
And Sanghyeon still didn’t know.

Outside, Haneum stood the second he saw the nurse return.

“Is he okay?”

“He will be,” she said softly. “He just needs a moment.”

“Is it serious?”

“We’ll know more after the results.”

Haneum sank back into the chair, rubbing his hands over his face.

He stared at the closed door, voice cracking in a whisper no one was meant to hear:

“Liyu… what happened to you?”

The room felt too small.

As soon as the nurse stepped out, Chuei Liyu sank onto the exam table, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. His breaths came sharp and uneven, the bright fluorescent lights burning behind his closed eyelids.

He wasn’t ready for this.
He wasn’t ready for any of this.

A soft knock sounded before the door opened again — this time a doctor, gentle-eyed, clipboard tucked to her chest.

“Good morning, Liyu. I’m Dr. Han. The nurse briefed me — thank you for being honest with us.” Her voice was warm, patient, not pitying. “I know symptoms like these can be overwhelming. But you’re safe here.”

Liyu swallowed hard, nodding without lifting his eyes.

She pulled up a stool and sat in front of him, not too close, giving him space.

“Before we begin, I’d like to ask a few more questions. Nothing judgmental — just information so we can help you properly. Is that okay?”

Liyu hesitated, then nodded.

“Have your symptoms been increasing steadily?”

“…Yes.” His voice cracked. “Every day they feel worse.”

“How severe is the nausea?”

“Bad in the mornings. Sometimes at night too.”

“Any sensitivity to smell?”

Liyu let out a weak laugh — humorless, tired.
“Garlic almost knocked me out this morning.”

The doctor smiled softly, noting something down.
“And emotionally? Any sudden mood shifts?”

Liyu’s throat tightened. He stared at the floor.

“I… cried because the kettle beeped too loud yesterday.”

The doctor’s expression softened further — understanding, not amused.

“Thank you for being open. Sudden hormone fluctuations can cause all of those things.”

The word hormone hit him like a blow. His fingers twisted tighter in his sleeves.

“Liyu,” she said gently, meeting his eyes at last, “based on your symptoms and timeline, we’d like to run a complete panel. That includes bloodwork to check hormone levels, and a rapid screening test that can detect very early shifts in reproductive markers.”

His stomach knotted so hard he thought he might be sick.

“So this will tell me if…”
He couldn’t say it.

“If there is a change happening inside your body,” she finished for him, voice soft. “Whatever the result is, you won’t be alone. And we’ll talk through every option and step together.”

His breath shook.

“…Okay.”

“Would you like your friend to come in while we draw your blood?”

Liyu’s first instinct was yes, but something inside him clenched — fear, shame, confusion.

“No,” he whispered. “I need to do this alone.”

The doctor nodded, no judgment.
“I’ll send the nurse in. It’ll only take a few minutes, and results should return today.”

Liyu bowed his head.
“Thank you.”

The doctor stood and slipped out quietly.

A minute later, the nurse returned with a tray and a calm smile.

“Ready, Chuei?”

He nodded, rolling up his sleeve with trembling hands.

“Just take a deep breath,” she murmured, tying the elastic band around his arm. “You’re doing great.”

The needle slid in — a sharp sting, then warmth. He stared at the ceiling, forcing himself not to shake.

A tear slipped down his cheek anyway.

He wiped it quickly, embarrassed, but the nurse only squeezed his hand gently.

“It’s okay to be scared.”

When the vials were filled, she removed the needle and pressed gauze to his skin.

“We’ll run this immediately. The rapid test needs a urine sample too — the bathroom is just across the hall.”

Liyu nodded, moving like he wasn’t connected to his own body. He slowly slid off the table, legs unsteady beneath him.

The nurse kept a supportive hand near his elbow, not touching unless needed.

“You can step out whenever you’re ready.”

The door closed behind her.

Liyu stood alone in the silent room, hands braced on the counter, breath shaking hard enough to hurt.

He stared at himself in the mirror above the sink —
pale, exhausted, terrified.

And whispered to no one,

“Please…please let me be okay.”

Then he stepped toward the bathroom to finish the test.

The wait felt like hours.

Liyu sat in the small consultation room, hands twisted in the hem of his sweater, knuckles white. The clock ticked too loudly on the wall, each second scraping along his nerves. His leg bounced uncontrollably, breath shallow and uneven.

The door opened softly, and Haneum slipped inside, closing it quietly behind him.

“I told them I’m family,” he murmured, settling into the chair beside him. He didn’t ask permission before reaching across to squeeze Liyu’s shaking hands. “I’m not leaving you alone with this.”

Liyu swallowed hard, eyes stinging.
“I’m scared.”

“I know,” Haneum whispered. “But whatever this is, you’re not doing it alone. I promise.”

They sat in silence, broken only by trembling breaths and the hum of fluorescent lights.

Then the door opened again.

Dr. Han stepped back inside, a slim folder in her hands, her expression soft but unreadable. She sat across from them, laying the results carefully on her lap.

“Thank you both for waiting,” she said gently. “We ran a full panel — hormone levels, blood analysis, and the rapid reproductive marker test.”

Liyu’s pulse roared in his ears.

“We received the results,” she continued, voice steady. “Before I say anything, I want to remind you that whatever the outcome, we’ll take everything step by step.”

Haneum’s grip tightened around his hand.

Dr. Han opened the folder.

“Your hCG levels are extremely elevated,” she said quietly. “And your hormone panel strongly indicates an early-stage reproductive response cycle.”

The world tilted.

Liyu’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Dr. Han looked into his eyes, gentle but unflinching.

“Liyu… you’re pregnant.”

Silence shattered around them.

Liyu blinked once.
Twice.
His breath caught in his throat, a sharp, painful sound ripping free.

“What—” His voice cracked, thin and broken. “That’s— that’s not possible. I— it’s not—”

“I understand it’s shocking,” Dr. Han said softly. “But the tests are conclusive. Your body is already adapting. The symptoms you described match early gestation perfectly.”

Liyu shook his head slowly, hands trembling so violently the folder on the desk blurred through tears.

Haneum’s voice came out strained, barely steady.
“How far…?”

“Based on hormone concentration, somewhere between four to six weeks,” Dr. Han replied gently. “We’ll confirm with imaging soon. But right now, what you need most is support, rest, and time to process.”

Liyu let out a broken breath — halfway a laugh, halfway a sob.

“I—I don’t know what to do.”

Haneum wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as the tears finally spilled over, silent and unstoppable.

“You don’t have to know yet,” he whispered into Liyu’s hair, trying to keep his own voice from shaking. “You don’t have to decide anything today. You just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Dr. Han folded her hands, voice soft.

“Do you want a moment alone?”

Liyu nodded weakly, unable to speak.

“Of course,” she said gently. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be just outside.”

She stood, quietly stepping out and closing the door with a soft click.

The moment it shut, Liyu broke.

His hands flew to his face and he sobbed, shoulders shaking violently, breath collapsing into sharp gasps he couldn’t control.

Haneum pulled him into his chest, holding him tightly, anchoring him through the storm.

“Hey— breathe with me,” he whispered, his own eyes glassy. “In… and out… slowly. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Liyu clutched his shirt in both fists, crying so hard it hurt.

“I’m so scared,” he choked. “I don’t know what to do— I don’t— I can’t—”

“You don’t have to have answers,” Haneum murmured, pressing a hand to the back of his head, steady and warm. “Right now, you just let me hold you.”

Their breaths synced slowly, the storm softening into trembling breaths and quiet tears.

After a long stretch of silence, Liyu whispered — broken, small:

“How do I tell him…?”

Haneum froze, jaw clenching, eyes heavy with something he didn’t dare name.

“We’ll figure that out,” he said quietly. “But not today. Today is just about you.”

Liyu leaned into him, exhausted and shaking, tears dampening Haneum’s shoulder.

For the first time, the fear wasn’t the only thing there.

There was something else.

Something terrifying and fragile and real.

The beginning of a truth that could change everything.

Haneum held the clinic door open, watching carefully as Liyu stepped out into the bright afternoon. The light hit too sharp, the air too cold, everything feeling like it was tilting around him. His legs felt unsteady, like his body wasn’t fully his anymore.

“Taxi’s already waiting,” Haneum murmured quietly.

They walked slowly toward the cab parked along the curb. Haneum stayed close—not touching, but hovering like he was ready to catch Liyu if he faltered. The doors clicked open, and the two slid into the back seat.

The taxi began moving, and silence immediately filled the space—thick, suffocating.

Liyu stared out the window, watching buildings blur past, trying not to feel the weight crushing down on his chest. His fingers trembled against his knees, and he curled them into fists to hide the shake.

Halfway through the ride, Haneum’s voice finally broke the quiet—soft, careful.

“You’re really pale,” he said. “Do you feel sick?”

Liyu swallowed hard. His voice came out strained.
“I don’t know what I feel.”

Haneum hesitated before asking,
“Are you going to tell him?”

Liyu kept his eyes on the window, vision swimming.
“I can’t. Not yet.”

“You can’t hide this forever,” Haneum said gently but firmly.

“I’m not hiding,” Liyu whispered, voice shaking. “I just… need time to breathe before everything changes.”

Haneum nodded slowly, jaw tight.
“I’ll cover for you. For now. But you need to be ready.”

Liyu closed his eyes.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted, barely audible.

“I know,” Haneum said. “Anyone would be.”

The taxi slowed to a stop outside the apartment building.

Haneum paid the driver quickly, then stepped out and moved to help Liyu, who looked like he might collapse. Liyu’s legs wobbled as he got out, and Haneum instinctively steadied him with a hand at his elbow.

“Just lean on me,” he murmured. “No one’s watching.”

They walked into the apartment building quietly, footsteps echoing up the stairwell. When they reached the front door, Liyu froze—hand hovering over the handle, breath unsteady.

Haneum leaned in slightly.
“If he asks, I’ll say we stopped at the bookstore and you felt dizzy.”

Liyu nodded weakly.
“Thank you.”

Haneum squeezed his shoulder gently.
“Whatever happens… I’m here.”

The apartment door clicked open, and Haneum guided Liyu inside with a steady hand on his back. Liyu looked pale — not just tired, but hollow, like someone had drained all the color out of him. His steps were unsteady, and when he swayed, Sanghyeon moved instantly, catching his arm.

“Careful,” Sanghyeon murmured, voice soft but thick with worry. “Come on — let’s get you sitting down.”

Liyu shook his head weakly.
“I just— need a minute. Bathroom.”

“I’ll take him,” Sanghyeon said before Haneum could object.

He slipped an arm around Liyu’s waist, supporting him gently as he guided him down the hallway. Liyu leaned into him without resisting, eyes unfocused, breathing shallow.

Inside the bathroom, Sanghyeon helped him sit on the closed toilet lid, crouching in front of him.

“Hey,” he said quietly, thumb brushing Liyu’s knee. “Look at me.”

Liyu lifted his gaze slowly, eyes glassy and lost.

“What’s going on?” Sanghyeon whispered. “You’re scaring me.”

Liyu swallowed hard, but no words came. His lips trembled, then he shook his head, blinking fast — the kind of blinking that held back tears with nothing but stubborn will.

“I can’t—” he breathed. “I don’t want to talk right now.”

“Okay,” Sanghyeon said immediately. “Okay. You don’t have to. I’m right here.”

He stood, gently brushing damp hair from Liyu’s forehead before stepping out to give him space. He closed the door softly behind him, exhaling shakily.

Haneum waited in the hallway, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw set. The moment he saw Sanghyeon’s face, he sighed — tired and heavy.

“Talk,” Sanghyeon said quietly, but there was a sharp edge under it, barely controlled. “Please.”

Haneum hesitated — visibly struggling — then motioned for Sanghyeon to step further down the hallway, out of earshot.

When he spoke, his voice was low, urgent.

“Sanghyeon, something happened at the clinic.”
His eyes flicked toward the closed bathroom door.
“He’s pregnant.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Sanghyeon’s breath stopped, his heart slamming against his ribs so hard it hurt. The world narrowed, sound fading to a distant buzz.

Pregnant.

Liyu.

Their child.

His lips parted but nothing came out — just a broken exhale.

“He found out today,” Haneum continued, voice gentler now. “Two tests. Confirmed. He’s in shock. He doesn’t know how to process it yet.”

Sanghyeon dragged a hand over his mouth, eyes burning, chest tightening painfully. It felt unreal — overwhelming — terrifying and miraculous all at once.

“He thinks you’ll hate him,” Haneum said quietly. “He thinks he’s ruined your future. He’s terrified that if he tells you, you’ll leave.”

“What—?” Sanghyeon’s voice cracked. “How could he think that? I— I would never—”

“I know,” Haneum interrupted, gripping his shoulder. “But he doesn’t. Not yet. And if he thinks you know before he’s ready to say it out loud… he’ll break. So promise me something.”

Sanghyeon swallowed hard, breath shaking.
“What?”

“You cannot tell him that I told you. Act like you don’t know. Let him come to you on his own. Give him time, Sanghyeon.”
Haneum’s eyes softened, pleading.
“Promise me.”

Sanghyeon closed his eyes, forcing back the wave of emotion threatening to break him open. When he spoke, his voice was raw.

“I promise,” he whispered. “But I won’t let him go through this alone. Not for a second.”

Haneum exhaled — relief loosening his shoulders.
“If anyone can handle this, it’s you.” He grabbed his bag. “I should go. He needs calm right now, not more pressure.”

Sanghyeon nodded, wiping quickly at his eyes before Haneum could notice.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Haneum paused at the door, giving a small, tired smile.
“Be gentle with him.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence filled the apartment — thick, fragile, trembling.

Sanghyeon leaned his forehead against the bathroom door, voice barely a breath.

“I’m right here,” he whispered through the wood.
“You don’t have to be afraid.”

Inside, Liyu sat with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking silently — believing nobody knew.

Outside, Sanghyeon stood completely still, holding himself together with shaking hands.

Between them,
a truth waiting to break open.

The bathroom was silent except for the faint sound of running water from the tap — just enough noise for someone trying not to cry. Sanghyeon let one more slow breath steady him before he lifted his hand and knocked gently.

“Liyu?”
His voice was soft — careful, like he was afraid the wrong kind of sound might cause something fragile to shatter.
“Can I come in?”

There was a pause.
A small sniff.
Then, barely audible:

“…yeah.”

Sanghyeon opened the door slowly.

Liyu sat where he’d left him — on the closed toilet seat, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. His shoulders were trembling, but when he heard the door open, he straightened quickly, wiping hurriedly at his eyes like he was trying to erase the evidence.

“Sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just— tired. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Sanghyeon’s chest tightened, but he kept his expression steady — just quiet, open, willing.

“You don’t have to be fine right now,” he murmured, kneeling in front of him again. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

Liyu’s breath shook, eyes searching his like he was afraid of what he’d see reflected there.

“You’ll think I’m weak,” he whispered.

“Never.”

Sanghyeon said it without hesitation, without a tremor. He reached forward slowly, giving space to pull away, but Liyu didn’t. His hands found Liyu’s, warm palms covering shaking fingers.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and steady. “Look at me.”

Liyu lifted his eyes. They were red-rimmed, glassy, exhausted beyond exhaustion.

“You are not weak,” Sanghyeon said. “You’re human. And you don’t have to pretend with me.”

That was the final thread.
Liyu’s face crumpled, tears spilling before he could stop them. A choked sound escaped him, hands flying up again — but Sanghyeon caught them gently, pulling him forward into a careful embrace.

Liyu collapsed instantly, forehead pressing into Sanghyeon’s shoulder, fingers clutching weakly at the fabric of his shirt like he was drowning and Sanghyeon was the only solid thing left.

“I’m scared,” he whispered into his neck, voice cracking on the word. “I don’t know what to do. Everything feels wrong and too much and I can’t think and—”

“It’s okay,” Sanghyeon murmured, rubbing slow circles on his back. “You don’t have to explain anything right now. You don’t have to decide anything right now. Just breathe.”

He felt Liyu’s breath stutter, his whole body shaking. Sanghyeon held him tighter — protective, steady, grounding.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered into his hair. “Whatever’s happening, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone.”

Liyu squeezed his eyes shut, tears soaking through Sanghyeon’s shirt.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered, small and breaking. “Please.”

Sanghyeon pulled back just enough to cup Liyu’s face, thumbs gently wiping tears from his cheeks.

“I won’t,” he said softly, meeting his eyes so he could feel the truth in it.
“I’m right here. I’m staying.”

Liyu trembled, breath catching once more before he nodded, leaning into the touch like he needed it to stay upright.

“Can we just— sit for a minute?” he asked quietly. “I… don’t want to be alone.”

Sanghyeon smiled softly — full of warmth and ache.

“As long as you need.”

He guided Liyu out of the bathroom and onto the bed, settling behind him, arms wrapping around his waist from behind. Liyu sank back into him, curling small and tired, breathing slowly evening out as Sanghyeon rested his cheek on his shoulder.

The world narrowed to silence and steady heartbeats.

Sanghyeon closed his eyes, unsure how he was going to carry the weight of what he knew, but absolutely certain of one thing:

He would carry it.

For him.
With him.
Until Liyu was ready to speak the truth himself.

Outside the window, morning sun kept rising — soft and warm and undeniable.

Inside, they breathed in sync,
holding each other through the quiet.

The apartment was still dim when Sanghyeon slipped out of bed.

Liyu was asleep, finally — curled into a small shape beneath the blankets, face pressed into the pillow, breaths slow and heavy like his body had finally surrendered after battling itself all night. He looked younger like that, fragile in a way that made something in Sanghyeon’s chest ache.

Careful not to wake him, Sanghyeon slid out from under his weight, tucking the blanket back around his shoulders. He hesitated for a second, his hand hovering above Liyu’s hair before he gently brushed a strand away from his forehead.

“You’ve been so strong,” he whispered, more to himself than anything.

Then he turned, stepping quietly out of the room.

The kitchen was cold, quiet, and untouched — exactly the way they’d left it when everything changed yesterday morning. The pan was still sitting on the stove, congee half-prepared and forgotten, garlic scent lingering faintly in the air like a ghost.

Sanghyeon stared at it for a long second, then inhaled deeply and reached for a clean pot.

If he couldn’t fix what hurt,
he could at least make breakfast.

His hands moved carefully, almost reverently — rinsing rice, slicing ginger thinly, cracking two eggs into a bowl. His chest felt tight the entire time, every slow movement echoing the same thought:

He’s scared. I can’t let him face this alone.

The congee simmered slowly, warm steam curling upward. He plated soft side dishes, cut fruit, set water and tea on a small tray. His hands shook once — too sharply — and he had to stop, bracing both palms on the counter as he exhaled.

Pregnant.
The word hit him again, heavy and unreal.
A future he had never let himself imagine now sitting trembling in the next room.

But he swallowed hard and straightened.

Later.
Later he could break.
Right now, Liyu needed safety.

He carried the tray carefully down the hall, nudging the door open with his shoulder.

Liyu stirred at the soft sound, eyes blinking open slowly, unfocused with sleep. He looked disoriented for a moment, then found Sanghyeon standing at the bedside with the tray in his hands.

“Sanghyeon…?” his voice was rasped with exhaustion, brow furrowing in confusion. “What— what are you doing?”

“Breakfast,” Sanghyeon said gently, setting the tray on the bedside table and helping him sit up slowly against the pillows. “You didn’t eat yesterday. I thought you should try something warm.”

Liyu’s throat bobbed, eyes going glassy again for reasons he likely didn’t understand.
“You didn’t have to,” he whispered, voice breaking small like he was afraid to exist too loudly.

“I wanted to,” Sanghyeon replied softly. He arranged the tray over Liyu’s lap, lifting the spoon to stir the porridge to cool it. “One step at a time, remember?”

Liyu’s eyes lifted to meet his — wide, tired, shining.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” he whispered, voice cracking.

Sanghyeon froze for a second — not from doubt, but from the force of wanting to wrap him up and protect him from everything in the world.

Instead, he reached out and brushed his thumb across Liyu’s cheek, slow and gentle.

“Because you deserve someone who stays,” he said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Liyu swallowed hard, a tear slipping down despite himself. Sanghyeon wiped it away immediately, his touch light, reassuring.

“Eat a little,” he murmured, guiding the spoon toward him. “You’ll feel better.”

Liyu leaned forward, lips closing around the spoon obediently, eyes fluttering shut at the warm taste.

“…thank you,” he whispered.

“No,” Sanghyeon murmured with a small smile, brushing hair from his face, “thank you for letting me take care of you.”

Liyu’s breath caught, chest trembling again — but not from panic this time.
For the first time in days, he smiled, small and real.

Sanghyeon bit the inside of his cheek to steady himself, heart tightening around the truth he couldn’t yet speak.

We’re not just two people anymore.

But for now, all he said was:

“Just rest. I’ve got you.”

They stayed quiet for a while, the only sound the faint clink of the spoon against the bowl as Sanghyeon fed him slowly. Liyu’s breathing steadied, but his fingers were still trembling where they rested against the blanket.

Halfway through the bowl, Liyu stopped chewing.
His eyes darkened, lashes trembling, breath catching like something inside him had just snapped loose.

“…Sanghyeon,” he whispered.

The sound of his name was different this time — fragile and frightened. Sanghyeon set the spoon down carefully and shifted closer, turning his body toward Liyu fully.

“I’m here,” he said softly. “What is it?”

Liyu stared down at his hands, gripping the blanket tightly, knuckles whitening. His lips trembled, a small broken breath escaping before he could hold it back.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he said, voice barely audible. “And I don’t know how to say it.”

Sanghyeon’s chest tightened — not from surprise, but from the pain of watching him struggle alone. He kept his voice steady, quiet, gentle.

“Take your time.”

Liyu swallowed, hard — like the words physically hurt to push out. His eyes lifted, shining with fear and uncertainty.

“I… haven’t been feeling well for a while,” he started, voice already shaking. “The fatigue, the nausea, the mood swings… at first I thought it was stress. Or maybe just being tired.”

He paused, breath wavering.

“But it wasn’t that.”

Silence stretched between them — warm, heavy, alive.

Liyu closed his eyes as if bracing for impact, then finally forced the words out in a whisper that trembled down to his bones:

“I’m pregnant.”

The room went completely still.

His hands clenched in the blanket, shoulders curling inward like he expected everything to fall apart around him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I know this is too much. I know I should have told you sooner, but I was scared and I didn’t know what to do and—”

“Liyu.”
Soft, steady, grounding.

Sanghyeon reached out and gently cupped his face, guiding his eyes upward.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said firmly, voice warm but trembling slightly despite himself.

Liyu stared at him, wide and tear-filled, searching for disappointment that didn’t come.

“I was so scared you’d leave,” he whispered brokenly. “Or be angry. Or… regret everything.”

Sanghyeon shook his head immediately, thumbs wiping tears from his cheeks before they could fall.

“Never,” he said. “Not once.”

Liyu’s breath shattered, tears spilling freely now — not from fear, but release. He collapsed forward into Sanghyeon’s chest, hands fisting in his shirt like he was holding on for life.

“I don’t know what to do,” he cried softly. “I don’t know how to handle this.”

Sanghyeon wrapped both arms around him, pulling him close, pressing a long steady kiss into his hair.

“You’re not doing it alone,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’m staying. Whatever happens — we figure it out together.”

Liyu trembled against him, sobbing quietly into his shoulder — not in fear, but relief.

Sanghyeon rested his cheek against Liyu’s hair and closed his eyes, holding him like the world depended on it.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re safe. I promise.”

Liyu clung tighter, voice muffled and shaking:

“Thank you… for staying.”

Sanghyeon’s arms tightened around him.

“There’s nowhere else I’d ever go.”

Chapter Text

Three weeks later, Sanghyeon was convinced pregnancy was a supernatural curse disguised as a miracle.

Because there was no other explanation for what he was currently witnessing.

Chuei Liyu sat cross-legged on the couch, face blank, laser-focused, aggressively dipping a strawberry into soy sauce mixed with crushed ramen seasoning like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Then he ate it.
Chewed.
And let out a blissful hum like he had just rediscovered the meaning of life.

Sanghyeon stared, horrified.

“…Are you okay?”

Liyu paused mid-dip, glaring like he’d been personally insulted.
“This is amazing. You just don’t understand greatness.”

“That’s—” Sanghyeon gestured helplessly, choking on disbelief.
“That’s a war crime.”

Liyu gasped dramatically, clutching his chest.
“You don’t support my needs! I am literally creating life, Sanghyeon. A little respect would be nice.”

“That was also what you said when you wanted kimchi and green tea together last night,” Sanghyeon reminded, traumatized.

“And it was DELICIOUS!” Liyu snapped.

The argument stopped abruptly when tears started flooding Liyu’s eyes— sudden, shiny, and emotionally devastating.

Oh no.
The hormonal landmine.

“Hey—hey, don’t cry—baby, I’m sorry,” Sanghyeon panicked, waving his hands like he was handling a wild animal. “It’s beautiful. I love it. Soy-sauce strawberries are my new religion.”

“…Really?” Liyu sniffed pitifully.

“Yes,” Sanghyeon lied violently. “Absolutely incredible. Michelin 5-star.”

Liyu sniffled again and instantly brightened, mood flipping in half a second.
“Good. Then can you go to the store and buy more strawberries? And soy sauce. And pickle juice. And chocolate milk. And spicy chips with the red dragon. And a cucumber.”

“That combination cannot be medically safe,” Sanghyeon whispered.

“I NEED it,” Liyu declared like a catastrophic emergency. “Right now. The baby is starving.”

“You just ate ten strawberries covered in ramen flavor.”

“That was an appetizer!”

Sanghyeon grabbed his jacket and shuffled toward the door in defeat.

“And get a watermelon!” Liyu yelled. “A big one! I want to bite it like a bear!”

The door closed, and Sanghyeon leaned his forehead against the hallway wall.

“I miss normal food,” he whispered.

Twenty-six minutes later, Sanghyeon returned, trembling under the weight of grocery bags and a full watermelon balanced against his hip.

“I got everything,” he announced, exhausted. “Even the bear-sized watermelon.”

Silence.

“Liyu?”

He stepped into the living room—only to freeze.

Liyu sat on the floor, staring at the watermelon with the haunted expression of someone discovering betrayal. Tears streamed down his cheeks in silent devastation.

“It has bad energy,” he whispered.

Sanghyeon blinked. “What?”

“It’s LOOKING at me wrong,” Liyu sobbed harder. “Take it away or I’ll scream.”

“It doesn’t even have eyes—”

“TAKE. IT. AWAY.”

Sanghyeon immediately grabbed the watermelon like a bomb and carried it back to the hallway.

“Okay, okay, it’s gone,” he said soothingly.

Liyu sniffled dramatically. “Thank you.”

Two seconds later—

“Can I have pineapple with cheese and hot sauce?”

Sanghyeon stared at him like he’d been shot. “That’s— That’s not food.”

“I WANT IT.” Tears formed instantly, again.

“Okay, okay— I’ll make it.”

Five minutes later, Sanghyeon set down the cursed snack.

“If I die, avenge me,” he muttered.

“Just eat it,” Liyu said, smiling with unhinged enthusiasm.

Sanghyeon took a bite.
Chewed.
Regretted existing.

His eyes widened, face contorting, voice strangled.

“It— tastes like— regret and suffering.”

“IT’S AMAZING!” Liyu beamed.

“You need therapy,” Sanghyeon coughed.

Liyu pouted immediately.
“You hate everything I like…”

“No! No, I love it. I love you. I love pineapple cheese hot-sauce nightmares,” he corrected desperately as tears welled again.

Liyu sniffled, voice wobbly.
“…Really?”

“Yes,” Sanghyeon said, placing his hands gently on his cheeks. “I would eat a cactus for you.”

Liyu blinked at him.
Then climbed straight into his lap and hugged him tight, face buried in his neck.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered suddenly, voice trembling. “…Even when I’m like this.”

Sanghyeon froze—then wrapped his arms around him securely.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “Ever.”

Liyu trembled, clinging harder.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice small. “Everything’s changing.”

“I know,” Sanghyeon murmured. “And I’m right here. Step by step, remember?”

At 3:17 AM, Sanghyeon woke to a whisper inches from his face:

“Sanghyeon.”

He jolted. “What—what’s wrong?”

“I need spaghetti.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“With whipped cream.”

“What the fu—”

“And gummy bears. But the blue ones only.”

Sanghyeon stared at the ceiling, accepting his fate.

“…Do I need shoes?”

“Yes. It’s urgent.”

Five minutes later, they were in the car that Sanghyeon bought because he thought he needed it when Liyu is gonna give birth. But here they are, Sanghyeon driving like a war veteran, Liyu wrapped in a blanket holding a pickle jar like a support animal.

“If I don’t get spaghetti, I’ll die,” he said sincerely.

“I believe you.”

“I might also want ice cream.”

“Of course you do.”

By the time they got home at 3:42 AM, Sanghyeon felt like his soul had left his body and was hovering somewhere near the ceiling.
The kitchen lights hummed overhead as he boiled water at an ungodly hour, watching Liyu sit at the table with his blanket wrapped around him like a depressed burrito.

Liyu stared intensely at the pot like it personally owed him money.

“How long does pasta take?” he demanded.

“Seven minutes,” Sanghyeon replied.

“Seven minutes??” Liyu looked betrayed. “I’ll be DEAD by then.”

“It’s literally boiling already—”

“I can’t do SEVEN MINUTES, SANGHYEON,” he cried dramatically, voice cracking.

“You waited nine months for me to confess my feelings and seven minutes is your breaking point?”

“That was different!” Liyu yelled. “I wasn’t starving to death back then!”

He slammed his head onto the counter, blanket dropping halfway off his shoulders like a fallen cape. A second later he groaned loudly, clutching his lower back.

“Ow— why does everything HURT? My spine feels like it’s made of LEGOs.”

Sanghyeon turned the heat down and immediately rushed to him.

“Where? Your back?”

“Everywhere,” Liyu mumbled into the countertop, voice muffled. “My bones are plotting against me. I want a refund.”

“Baby,” Sanghyeon sighed, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. “You should sit properly.”

“I AM sitting properly,” he argued— while folded over like cooked shrimp.

“Okay, shrimp posture, understood.”

Liyu let out a wounded noise.

“My skin hurts. And my nipples feel weird. Why do they feel weird?? Is that normal? I hate this. I hate hormones. I hate spaghetti. I hate EXISTENCE.”

“You literally begged for spaghetti twenty minutes ago.”

“Well now I hate it!” He suddenly sat up, glaring at the pot like it had betrayed his ancestors.
“And I’m HOT. Why is it so hot in here?”

“It’s 18 degrees,” Sanghyeon deadpanned.

“So why am I sweating like a pig at a barbecue?!”

He ripped off the blanket dramatically—then immediately shivered and pulled it back on.

“I’m hot and cold at the same time— SIT IN SYMPATHY WITH ME AND SUFFER TOO.”

Sanghyeon bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
He sat beside him in misery and held his hand.

Liyu glared at the pot again.
Then at him.
Then back at the pot.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” he announced suddenly, jumping up and running to the bathroom.

The retching echoed aggressively.

Sanghyeon followed quickly, kneeling beside him just in time to gather his hair back and rub slow circles across his spine.

“Easy… breathe…”

When the nausea finally subsided, Liyu slumped forward against him, exhausted and shaking.

“I hate this,” he whispered weakly. “My body keeps doing things without asking me and I can’t stop crying and everything smells like death.”

Sanghyeon’s chest clenched painfully.
He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Liyu’s head.

“I know. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

“I’m not even hungry anymore,” Liyu muttered, voice small. “Why did I make you drive around the city for food I don’t even want now? I’m awful.”

“Hey,” Sanghyeon lifted his chin gently. “You’re not awful.”

“Yes I am.”

“No. You’re just pregnant.”

Liyu blinked at him with watery, betrayed eyes.
“Why did you say it like I’m possessed?”

“You kind of are.”

Liyu’s lip wobbled dangerously.

“I hate you,” he said, voice cracking.

And then he launched himself forward and hugged him tightly around the neck like a terrified koala.

“…Don’t leave,” he whispered again, breath shaking. “Please don’t leave me.”

Sanghyeon felt his throat burn.
He hugged him back with both arms, steady, solid, warm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “Even if you make me buy spaghetti at 4 AM for no reason. Even if you want watermelon with salt and sugar at the same time. Even if you cry because the air is too loud.”

“That happened ONE TIME,” Liyu snapped weakly.

“And I stayed then too.”

Silence settled — warm, heavy, full.

Liyu’s anger melted instantly, collapsing back into small, trembling vulnerability.

“…Will you hold me until I fall asleep?” he whispered.

“Always,” Sanghyeon said, brushing tears from his cheeks gently.

He carried him to the bed, tucking the blanket around his shoulders. Liyu curled into him instinctively, burying his face in his chest like he was trying to hide from the world.

Within minutes, his breathing evened into soft, tired little hiccups.

Sanghyeon pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered into the quiet dark.
“You’re stronger than you think.”

He stayed awake long after Liyu slept,
holding him through every twitch, every soft pain-sound, every restless shift of discomfort.

Pregnancy was hell.
But loving him wasn’t.

It was the easiest thing Sanghyeon had ever done.

The room settled into quiet, broken only by the slow tick of the clock and the soft rhythm of Liyu’s breathing against his chest. Sanghyeon lay awake, staring at the ceiling, one hand gently tracing circles over the small of Liyu’s back, feeling the tiny tremors that still lingered through his exhausted body.

He shifted just enough to press another kiss into Liyu’s hair.
“You’re safe,” he murmured, so quietly he wasn’t sure if he meant it for Liyu or himself. “I’ve got you.”

Liyu made a small sound—half sigh, half whimper—as he burrowed closer, fingers curling instinctively into Sanghyeon’s shirt, like letting go wasn’t an option his body could comprehend.

His voice came out barely audible, slurred with sleep and uneven breath:
“…I’m scared of waking up alone.”

Sanghyeon’s heart twisted painfully.
He cupped the side of Liyu’s face gently, thumb brushing over the faint dried tear tracks.

“You won’t,” he whispered, steady and sure. “If I need to breathe, I’ll tell you first. I’m not leaving.”

A shaky exhale escaped Liyu—relief, surrender, trust—before he finally slipped fully into sleep.

Sanghyeon watched him, memorizing every soft line, every tiny movement, the faint crease between his brows already easing under the warmth of steady arms around him.

He whispered it again, because he wanted the truth of it to settle into the air between them:

“We’re in this together. Step by step.”

He tightened his arms around him, drawing him closer until they fit seamlessly, until there was no space left for fear.

Outside, the sky began to lighten — the first quiet blue of dawn slipping through the curtains.
Morning came, gentle and slow, and for once, the world didn’t feel heavy.

Sanghyeon closed his eyes, breathing in the soft scent of shampoo and warmth and home.

“We’re going to be okay,” he murmured, letting sleep finally pull him under.

Together, they drifted into the calm.

Wrapped in blankets.
Wrapped in each other.
Wrapped in something that felt like the beginning of a family.

Morning arrived brutally.

Not the soft kind with sunbeams warming sleepy skin — no, it crashed into the apartment like thunder. A violent sound tore Sanghyeon from sleep, a choked gagging echoing through the hallway tile and stabbing into his spine.

He sat up instantly, vision spinning, heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

“Liyu?”

No response.
Just more retching — harsh and raw and desperate.

Sanghyeon shoved the blanket aside and bolted from the bed, nearly slipping as he sprinted into the bathroom.

Liyu was on the floor, knees drawn in, body curled forward over the toilet bowl. His shoulders heaved violently with each wave of nausea, sweat beading across his hairline and dripping down the curve of his jaw. His knuckles were bone-white where he clutched the porcelain, trembling so hard the whole toilet shook with him. Tears streamed down his cheeks unchecked, his breath cutting in short, broken gasps between gagging fits.

“Baby—” Sanghyeon dropped to his knees beside him immediately, hand sliding to his back. The heat radiating off him was alarming.

“It won’t—” Liyu tried to speak, but another gag cut him off, his whole body convulsing with the force. “It won’t stop—”

His voice cracked on the last word, thin and terrified.

Sanghyeon’s heart twisted so painfully he thought it might split open.

“It’s okay. Breathe,” he whispered, rubbing slow, steady circles between Liyu’s shaking shoulder blades. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

But the trembling worsened.
Liyu’s fingers slipped on the edge of the bowl, his arm giving out.

“Sang—” His voice dissolved into a broken whimper. “I feel dizzy—”

Sanghyeon reacted without thinking. He caught him before his body folded sideways to the tile.

That was the moment fear turned sharp and metallic in his mouth.

Not panic from inconvenience — real panic, the kind that freezes the bloodstream.

“Okay,” he whispered, swallowing hard, lifting him into his arms. “We’re going to the clinic. Now. Stay with me, okay? Don’t close your eyes.”

“I—can’t—” Liyu gasped weakly, fingers barely clutching at the fabric of Sanghyeon’s shirt.

“You can,” Sanghyeon insisted, holding him tighter. “I promise. I’m right here.”

At the clinic

The lights were too bright. The sterile smell was too sharp, burning the back of his throat. Every sound felt too loud — hurried footsteps, medical carts rattling, heart monitors beeping like warning sirens.

The nurse rushed them through when she saw the state Liyu was in. They laid him on the exam bed, his head lolling, breaths shallow and uneven, sweat dampening his bangs until they clung to his forehead in fragile strands.

Liyu clung to Sanghyeon’s sleeve like a lifeline, fingertips trembling.

His voice came out a hoarse whisper, thin and terrified:

“Is the baby okay?”

The words sliced through Sanghyeon like a blade.
He leaned down immediately, one hand sliding into his hair, guiding their foreheads together.

“You hear me?” he whispered, voice raw. “He’s okay. You’re okay. We’re going to hear it ourselves in a second.”

Liyu nodded faintly, eyes glossing with panic he tried and failed to hide.

The doctor entered — calm, practiced, gentle. He set up the ultrasound machine with deliberate, steady hands. When he spoke, his voice was low and reassuring.

“We’re going to check the heartbeat. What you’re experiencing is likely severe nausea and dehydration. It happens. We just want to confirm that the baby is safe.”

The cold gel hit Liyu’s skin, making him flinch.

The wand glided across his lower stomach.

The room froze.

Silence stretched tight as wire — suffocating, fragile.

Then—

thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump

Rapid. Steady.
Strong.

The heartbeat filled the room, pulsing through the speakers like a wild drum.

Liyu’s eyes flew open. His lips parted, a sob tearing out of him without warning — raw and shaking and full of relief so fierce it hurt to hear. He covered his mouth with both hands, crying silently as his whole body trembled under the weight of it.

“That’s— him?” he whispered, voice splintering.

The doctor smiled softly.
“Yes. That’s your baby. Very strong heartbeat. He’s doing beautifully.”

Sanghyeon closed his eyes, his breath unsteady with relief. His chest collapsed inward like he’d been holding himself upright with sheer will for weeks and finally let go. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Liyu’s temple.

“You hear that?” he whispered, voice thick. “He’s okay. You’re both okay.”

Liyu grabbed onto him fiercely, burying his face in Sanghyeon’s chest, crying harder — but they were relief-sobs now, trembling and overwhelming.

“I was so scared,” he choked out. “I thought— I thought I ruined everything.”

“Hey, look at me,” Sanghyeon murmured, cupping his cheeks. “You didn’t ruin anything. You’re carrying our baby. You’re doing something impossible every single day. And I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

The doctor stepped out, politely giving them privacy.

The second the door clicked shut, something in Liyu snapped open.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, hands shaking. “I’m so difficult, and I cry all the time, and I’m a mess, and you have to take care of everything and you must be so tired and—”

“Stop.” Sanghyeon pulled him in tighter, voice rough with emotion. “You’re not a burden. You’re not difficult. You’re pregnant. And I love you. Let me carry some of this with you.”

Liyu clung to him like a drowning man to a life raft.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve everything,” Sanghyeon whispered into his hair. “And I’m here. No matter what.”

They got home with medication and instructions.

For seven peaceful minutes, the apartment was quiet.

Then Liyu suddenly sat up straight, eyes blazing like he’d been possessed by a furious house spirit.

“This place is DISGUSTING,” he declared. “We need to clean. Right now. Immediately. Everything is ugly.”

“Oh god,” Sanghyeon whispered. “The nesting instinct.”

“WHERE ARE THE TRASH BAGS? WHY DO WE OWN SO MUCH USELESS CRAP?!”

He began dragging furniture with the strength of an angry god, rearranging the entire living room like a general prepping a battlefield.

“Help me or move,” he snapped, hair falling into his face.

“Yes, commander,” Sanghyeon muttered as he lifted the sofa for the third time.

Five minutes later, Liyu stopped and stared blankly at the newly moved couch.

“I hate it like this,” he whispered.
Then burst into tears.

Sanghyeon silently moved it back, praying to every deity.

Then, out of nowhere—

“What if I’m a terrible parent?” Liyu whispered, voice shaking. “What if I mess everything up and he hates me?”

Everything inside Sanghyeon softened instantly.
He crossed the room, cupped his face gently.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Look at how much you already love him. You are going to be an amazing parent. And I’m right beside you. Always.”

Liyu collapsed into his chest, sobbing quietly.

“I’m so tired.”

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I’ve got you. Let me take care of you now.”

Later that night, they lay under dim warm light, the world quiet again.
Liyu curled into Sanghyeon’s chest instinctively, one hand resting over his small but growing belly — like he was protecting something precious.

Sanghyeon gently placed his hand over his, warm and steady.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Can I talk to him?”

Liyu nodded, eyes glassy but soft.

Sanghyeon leaned close to the curve of his stomach, voice barely breath.

“Hi, little one. It’s your dad. You scared us today,” he whispered, smile trembling. “But we heard you. You’re strong. And we’re waiting for you. So keep holding on, okay? We love you already.”

A tear slid down Liyu’s cheek, but he was smiling — small and fragile and beautiful.

“You’re going to be a good father,” he murmured.

“And you already are a good father,” Sanghyeon whispered back.

Silence settled warm around them — not empty, but full.

Three heartbeats,
one steady,
one racing,
one tiny and strong.

The world outside was chaos.
Their future was terrifying.
Their bodies were tired and bruised by change.

But here,
in the quiet,
in the warmth of tangled limbs and soft breaths—

Everything felt possible.

Everything felt right.

And for the first time,
neither of them was afraid.

Chapter Text

Morning arrived slowly this time — pale, washed-out sunlight filtering through sheer curtains, painting the bedroom in soft gold. The world felt muted, suspended in fragile stillness, broken only by the quiet hum of the AC and the soft, uneven breathing of the man curled against Sanghyeon’s chest.

Liyu slept with his face tucked into the fabric of Sanghyeon’s shirt, fingers loosely curled in the material like he was afraid to let go even in his dreams. His eyelashes were still damp from earlier tears, cheeks flushed, breath coming in small shaky exhales. He looked exhausted — bruised by sickness and emotion — but peaceful for the first time in what felt like days.

Sanghyeon watched him for a long moment, brushing his thumb over the gentle slope of his cheek, tracing the faint shadows beneath his eyes. He looked impossibly small like this — fragile, breakable, something precious held carefully between trembling hands.

“I’m here,” Sanghyeon whispered, so softly the sound dissolved into the quiet.

He pressed a kiss to his forehead before shifting carefully, attempting to slip out of the bed.

He didn’t get far.

Even half-asleep, Liyu’s hand shot out blindly, grabbing the hem of his shirt with surprising strength.

“Don’t—” his voice rasped, rough and frightened, eyes still closed. “Don’t leave.”

Sanghyeon’s chest tightened painfully. He returned immediately, sitting down beside him and brushing hair from his face.

“I’m not leaving,” he murmured. “I’m just getting water.”

Liyu’s fingers loosened slightly, his brow softening.

“Promise?” he whispered, the word small like a child afraid of the dark.

“Promise,” Sanghyeon said without hesitation, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “I’ll be right back.”

Hours later, they were at the clinic for another check up after yesterday's episode. The waiting room felt too bright, too white, too quiet — sterile in a way that made every breath feel exposed. Liyu sat curled slightly forward in the chair, hands gripping the sleeves of his hoodie, knuckles pale. His leg bounced with restless anxiety, breath uneven.

Sanghyeon sat close enough that their shoulders brushed, one hand resting gently on Liyu’s back — not pushing, not crowding, just there.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmured.

“I am anyway,” Liyu whispered, voice fraying. “What if something’s wrong? What if yesterday hurt him? What if—”

His breath broke, eyes shining with panic.

Sanghyeon took his freezing hands in both of his, warming them with his palms.

“Then we’ll face it together,” he said softly. “But don’t write disaster before you know the story.”

Before another word could form, a nurse appeared at the door.

“Chuei Liyu? You can come in.”

Liyu swallowed hard, rising shakily to his feet.
He hesitated.

“Come with me?” he whispered, voice barely audible.

“Always,” Sanghyeon said, standing.

The exam room smelled of antiseptic and anxiety. The paper lining the bed crackled under Liyu’s trembling body as he lay back, hoodie pushed up, stomach exposed to cool air. Sanghyeon stood beside him, threading their fingers together.

Dr. Han entered with a soft smile — calm, unhurried, gentle.

“Let’s take a look,” she said. “No need to be scared. The heartbeat was strong yesterday.”

Sanghyeon watched as the gel spread across Liyu’s skin, cold enough to make him flinch. The ultrasound wand pressed lightly against his stomach, gliding slowly.

Silence stretched — a thick, fragile thread ready to snap.

Then—

thump-thump-thump-thump-thump

Rapid. Fierce. Alive.

Liyu’s chest rose sharply, a sob bursting from him before he could stop it. Tears spilled instantly, unstoppable and raw. His free hand flew to cover his mouth.

“That’s him?” he whispered, voice cracking around the edges.

Dr. Han nodded, smiling warmly.

“Yes. Very healthy. Heartbeat is strong and steady. Growth looks excellent.”

Sanghyeon blinked hard, vision blurring. He leaned closer, resting his forehead against Liyu’s temple.

“See?” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “He’s strong. Just like you.”

Liyu’s shoulders shook with relieved sobs, his hand gripping Sanghyeon’s like he would drown without it.

“I was so afraid,” he whispered. “I thought I hurt him. I thought I ruined everything.”

“You could never ruin him,” Sanghyeon said. “You’re keeping him alive.”

The doctor printed the ultrasound photo and handed it gently to Liyu.

“Congratulations,” she said softly. “You’re doing beautifully.”

They sat on the couch, the ultrasound photo resting between them like something sacred.

Liyu traced the outline with trembling fingers, eyes soft and overflowing.

“He’s really there,” he breathed. “That’s… our baby.”

Sanghyeon wrapped an arm around him, pulling him into his chest.

“Yeah,” he whispered, smiling. “He is.”

Silence settled — warm, full, peaceful.

Then, after a long quiet minute, Liyu whispered:

“Do you… have names you like?”

Sanghyeon blinked, startled by the gentle vulnerability in his voice.

“Maybe,” he said softly. “But I want to hear yours first.”

Liyu hesitated, cheeks flushing.

“…Haneul,” he whispered. “It means sky. I want him to grow up big and free.”

Sanghyeon’s heart cracked open.

“That’s perfect,” he murmured. “Sky. Our sky.”

The quiet did not last long.

At 2:53 AM, Liyu shot upright in bed, clutching his lower stomach.

“Sanghyeon.”
His voice trembled — not with pain, but panic.

“What’s wrong?” Sanghyeon bolted awake instantly.

“Something moved,” Liyu whispered, eyes wide. “I think — I think he kicked.”

Sanghyeon stared, frozen.

“Where?” he whispered.

Liyu guided his hand gently to the curve of his stomach, breath shaking with anticipation.

They waited.

Silence.

And then —
a tiny flutter. A soft tap, like the brush of a fingertip from inside.

Sanghyeon gasped, hand flying to cover his mouth, eyes instantly flooding with tears he couldn’t control.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “He’s real.”

Liyu laughed — choked, breathless, radiant.

“He said hello.”

Sanghyeon leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss to the spot where he felt the kick.

“Hi, little sky,” he whispered.

The next afternoon, Liyu insisted he felt well enough to go to class.

Sanghyeon didn’t argue — he could see the fight in Liyu’s eyes, the desperate need to feel functional, capable, normal.

But halfway through the lecture hall doors, the world tilted violently around him.

The lights fractured into shards.
His stomach lurched.
His knees buckled.

The last thing he saw was the floor rushing up to meet him.

Sanghyeon arrived breathless, chest burning, eyes wild, shoving open the clinic door with enough force to startle the receptionist.

“Chuei Liyu,” he gasped. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

Before she could answer, footsteps pounded across the hallway.

Haneum.

His face was tight with worry, hair disheveled like he’d run the whole way.

“I called the ambulance when he fainted,” Haneum said breathlessly. “He was pale and shaking— I didn’t know what to do—”

“Where is he?” Sanghyeon demanded, voice cracking raw.

“This way—” Haneum guided him down the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like warning signs. Everything felt too bright. Too sharp. Too loud. The world was spinning and standing still at the same time.

They reached the exam room door, and Sanghyeon didn’t hesitate — he shoved it open and stumbled inside just as the doctor pulled the monitor cords into place.

“Doc—” his voice split open. “How is he?”

The doctor looked up with a gentle, steady expression.

“He’s stable. Dehydration and low blood pressure — very common in early pregnancy. The baby is perfectly fine.”

Sanghyeon’s knees nearly gave out. He gripped the edge of the bed to keep himself upright, breath leaving him in a tremor.

Haneum exhaled shakily behind him, shoulders collapsing in relief.

“Oh thank god…” he whispered, wiping at his eyes. “I thought— I’m sorry, I should’ve noticed sooner—”

“You did the right thing,” Sanghyeon said hoarsely, not looking away from Liyu. “Thank you.”

He sank into the chair by the bed, eyes burning.
Liyu looked pale, exhausted, but awake — an IV line trailing from his hand, his breaths shallow but steady.

The moment his gaze found Sanghyeon’s, his face crumpled.

“I’m sorry—” he whispered weakly. “I scared you again.”

Sanghyeon took his trembling hand and pressed it to his lips, eyes squeezing shut.

“You don’t ever have to apologize for needing help,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Just don’t leave me like that again. I can’t—”

His voice fractured before he could finish.

Liyu squeezed his fingers weakly.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

From the doorway, Haneum looked away, jaw tight, emotion flickering across his face — worry, guilt, affection, something unspoken. After a long moment, he cleared his throat softly.

“I’ll give you both space,” he murmured. “Call me if you need anything. Anything.”

Sanghyeon nodded, meeting his eyes with quiet sincerity.

“Thank you, Haneum. Really.”

Haneum managed a small, relieved smile — shaky but real — before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

That night, back in bed, Liyu curled into Sanghyeon, exhausted but safe, head resting over his heartbeat.

Sanghyeon wrapped his arms around him, holding him like he was afraid the world might try to steal him away if he loosened his grip.

“We’re going to be okay,” he whispered into his hair.

The shift didn’t happen overnight, but when it did, it was impossible to ignore.

Two weeks after the hospital scare,
the chaos of the first trimester began to loosen its grip.

The morning nausea didn’t vanish completely — but the constant violent waves softened into something gentler, survivable. Liyu stopped waking up in the middle of the night to sprint to the bathroom. The apartment grew quiet again. Calmer.

But nothing about it felt quiet inside him.

His body was changing — dramatically, unmistakably.

The small swell that had barely been noticeable before now curved undeniably beneath his shirt, a soft roundness growing more pronounced each day. When Sanghyeon traced his fingertips lightly over it, the skin was warm and sensitive, stretched with new tenderness.

Sometimes it ached.
Sometimes it felt strange and foreign.
Sometimes he caught his reflection and froze, breath stalling in his throat.

But there were moments — small but precious — where he looked down and felt something else.

Wonder.

The sunlight filtered through the curtains one late morning, soft gold spilling across the sheets. Liyu sat propped against the pillows, one hand resting absentmindedly on the small curve of his stomach, his other holding a mug of tea.

He stared at the bump silently, brows knit.

Sanghyeon entered the room carrying breakfast — eggs shaped like hearts, fruit arranged like a smiley face, and toast cut into neat triangles.

He set the tray down carefully.

“Did I mess up the eggs?” he asked nervously. “They look like deformed stars.”

Liyu blinked up at him, eyes glassy — but this time not from pain or panic.

“I… look pregnant,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Really pregnant.”

Sanghyeon immediately softened.

“You are,” he murmured, sitting beside him and gently touching the curve. “And you’re beautiful.”

Liyu scoffed weakly, cheeks flushing. “I feel like a balloon that’s one breath away from exploding.”

“You look like a miracle,” Sanghyeon corrected, brushing a stray strand of hair from his eyes. “And you’re doing something I still don’t understand how the universe allowed to happen.”

He leaned forward to press a kiss to the bump — slow, reverent — and Liyu’s eyes immediately filled with tears.

“Don’t cry—” Sanghyeon panicked.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Liyu sobbed. “I’m not even sad. I’m just— leaking.”

Sanghyeon pulled him gently into his chest, stroking his back.

“Leak on me,” he whispered softly. “I don’t mind.”

Liyu laughed through tears, sniffing messily.
“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re dramatic,” Sanghyeon smiled. “Perfect match.”

That afternoon, the doorbell rang.

Sanghyeon opened the door— and froze.

Because standing there wasn’t just Haneum, drowning beneath an oversized paper bag full of supplies.

Next to him stood Woojin.

Woojin, wearing a black hoodie, hands in his pockets, expression unreadably unimpressed. Like he’d been dragged here against his will.

For a full three seconds, Sanghyeon just stared, mouth slightly open.

“…What the hell?” he finally managed. “Why are you here?”

Before Woojin could answer, Haneum’s voice cracked painfully under the strain of the mountain of items in his arms.

“I, uh— brought vitamins the doctor recommended. And snacks. And pre-natal tea. And a pregnancy support pillow. And also three books on pregnancy. And— I panicked and bought everything, okay?”

Sanghyeon blinked. “That bag looks like it weighs more than you.”

“It does,” Haneum wheezed.

From the couch, Liyu lifted one limp arm in greeting.
“I appreciate the offerings, kind citizen.”

Woojin snorted. “He looks like a dying sea otter.”

“I feel like one,” Liyu said weakly.

Haneum set the bag on the table with the thud of a small earthquake, immediately collapsing onto a chair.

“You look better,” he said sincerely. “Still pale, but less ghostly.”

“I’ve upgraded from corpse to fragile Victorian poet,” Liyu said proudly.

“Improvement,” Haneum nodded.

Silence stretched for a half-second.

Then Sanghyeon looked between Woojin and Haneum suspiciously.

“…Okay, explanation time. Why is he here? And why do you two look like you arrived together?”

Haneum blinked.
Then pointed at Woojin, utterly casual.

“Duh. He’s my boyfriend.”

Sanghyeon almost died.

“EXCUSE ME?” he sputtered, voice cracking. “Since WHEN?”

“Couple months,” Woojin said, shrugging like announcing a grocery list. “Longer if you count the part where I was chasing him down to collect the debt he owed us back when the gang was still together.”

Liyu clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes sparkling in amusement.
“You fell in love while threatening him for money??”

“It was romantic,” Haneum protested.

Woojin nodded seriously. “He tried to run. Twice. Terrible stamina. Adorable.”

Liyu choked on a laugh.
Sanghyeon stared at them like they had personally rewritten physics.

“So let me get this straight,” he said slowly, pointing at them like he was connecting murder-case evidence.
“You—” he pointed at Woojin,
“chased you—” he pointed at Haneum,
“to collect money you owed US—”
“and now you’re boyfriends?”

Haneum and Woojin looked at each other, then back at him, simultaneously unimpressed.

“Yeah?” they said in unison.

Liyu let out a tired laugh, sinking into the couch cushions.

“That’s the most chaotic love story I’ve ever heard, and I am currently eating ramen-flavored strawberries, so that says a lot.”

Woojin crossed his arms, expression deadpan.
“Be grateful. If I hadn’t been visiting Haneum today, I wouldn’t have been close enough to help when he carried you out after you passed out. And he definitely would’ve dropped you.”

“I almost did,” Haneum admitted. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“I’m pregnant, not a boulder,” Liyu snapped defensively.

“A cute boulder,” Woojin corrected.

“STOP TALKING,” Liyu hissed, covering his face.

Haneum softened, stepping closer to him.

“Seriously though,” he said quietly. “I’m glad you’re okay. Yesterday scared the hell out of all of us.”

Something warm flickered in Liyu’s chest.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For being there.”

Haneum shrugged, cheeks turning red.
“It was nothing. Sanghyeon did the dramatic part. He broke like five traffic laws.”

“Seven,” Woojin corrected.

“Eight,” Liyu muttered.

Sanghyeon pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“Friends,” Liyu whispered.

Then corrected himself, soft eyes falling on Sanghyeon:

“Family.”

And for the first time in a long time,
the apartment felt full.

Alive.

Safe.

That night, after Haneum and Woojin left, the apartment fell into peaceful quiet again.

They lay together in bed, lights dimmed, soft music filling the space like warm candlelight.

Sanghyeon’s hand rested over the bump, thumb tracing small circles.

Suddenly — so faint it almost went unnoticed — something fluttered beneath his palm.

A tiny, delicate ripple.

Both froze.

“…Did you feel that?” Sanghyeon whispered, voice shaking.

Liyu’s breath hitched, eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

“I— I think so.”

Sanghyeon pressed his hand more firmly, terrified to miss it.

Then it came again — a soft push, like a tiny knock from inside.

Liyu gasped, covering his mouth as his eyes overflowed instantly.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, voice trembling. “He moved.”

A tear slid down Sanghyeon’s cheek before he even realized he was crying.

“That’s our baby,” he whispered, voice breaking open. “He’s saying hi.”

Liyu let out a trembling laugh-sob, leaning his forehead against Sanghyeon’s.

“He’s real,” he breathed. “He’s really real.”

Sanghyeon cupped his face gently, kissing every tear.

“And he’s strong,” he whispered. “Just like you.”

The tiny kicks continued — soft, fluttering, like a heartbeat against his palm.

And for the first time since everything began,
the fear didn’t feel bigger than the hope.

They lay tangled together, warmth and breath shared beneath the blankets.

Liyu pressed a hand to his belly and whispered, barely above breath:

“Hey, little one. Be gentle with me, okay? I’m new at this.”

Sanghyeon smiled, brushing lips against his temple.

“You’re doing better than you think.”

“You’re biased,” Liyu murmured sleepily.

“Completely,” Sanghyeon admitted. “And proud.”

Silence settled around them,
not heavy,
not frightened,
but peaceful.

Three heartbeats again —
one steady,
one racing,
one fluttering tiny beneath warm skin.

And for the first time in a long time,
the future didn’t feel like a cliff.

It felt like a beginning.

Chapter Text

The third trimester didn’t ease in gently — it crashed into them like a tidal wave.

One morning, Liyu woke already exhausted, sunlight leaking through the curtains in thin pale lines. He pushed himself upright slowly, arms trembling under the sheer weight of his own body. His belly sat heavy and round in his lap, skin stretched tight enough to ache with every breath. His back burned, his hips throbbed, and his ankles were so swollen he couldn’t recognize them as human. When he finally stood, his movements forced him into a slow, wide-legged waddle — awkward, painful, necessary.

He caught his reflection in the mirror and stared.

“I look like a tragic parade balloon,” he muttered, voice wobbling somewhere between a joke and a breakdown.

Right on cue, Sanghyeon appeared behind him, hands already reaching out.

“Hey,” he murmured, steadying a supportive palm against the small of his back. “Easy.”

“I am being easy,” Liyu snapped, wiping at tears that came without warning. “I just can’t bend, or breathe, or sleep, or do anything without wanting to cry.”

“You’re doing amazing,” Sanghyeon said gently.

Liyu glared at him in the mirror. Sanghyeon leaned in and kissed his temple anyway.

The baby had become a full-time acrobat.

What used to be soft flutters had evolved into full martial arts tournaments beneath his ribs. Some days were gentle nudges, like tapping on glass; others felt like someone rolling a bowling ball under his skin. At least once a night he jolted awake with a gasp, gripping the sheets.

“He’s practicing parkour again,” he mumbled at 3:00 AM, eyes half-open.

Sanghyeon slid down the bed, pressing his cheek to the curve of his stomach like he was preparing to negotiate with a tiny criminal.

“Baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse with sleep, “it’s bedtime. Please.”

The baby kicked directly against his ear.

“…Fantastic,” Sanghyeon sighed. “Understood. Message received.”

Woojin and Haneum got in on the pregnancy crisis as well.

Woojin became the unofficial medic — arriving armed with neatly organized vitamins, color-coded checklists, prenatal snacks, and articles printed and stapled like academic research. At every appointment, he held Liyu’s hand, rubbing his thumb in careful circles whenever anxiety crept up. And when the ultrasound room filled with the fierce rhythm of the baby’s heartbeat, his eyes always shined.

“I’ll never get used to that,” he whispered once, voice barely steadier than a breath. “That’s your miracle.”

Haneum played chaos manager. He showed up with armfuls of blankets, snacks, and plushies, determined to fix every problem. He rearranged the nursery weekly and argued with furniture like it personally offended him.

While building the crib, he hovered behind Sanghyeon with intense authority.

“No, no — rotate that,” he ordered.

“Haneum, it only fits one direction,” Sanghyeon groaned.

“And you picked the wrong direction,” Haneum stated proudly.

Woojin sat cross-legged on the floor, laughing so hard he wheezed.

But the nights alone were the ones that mattered most.

Soft lamplight warmed the room, rain whispered against the windows, and Liyu rested his head on Sanghyeon’s chest. The baby moved gently beneath his palm — slow, steady rolls instead of frantic kicks — and the silence around them became something sacred.

“We’re really doing this,” Liyu whispered, voice trembling.

Sanghyeon kissed the crown of his head, thumb stroking slow little lines across his back.

“We already are,” he murmured. “They’re almost here.”

He placed his hand over the bump — and a tiny push answered, like a knock from inside.

Liyu gasped, laughter and tears mixing all at once.

“He said hi…”

Sanghyeon’s breath shook as he kissed the warm curve reverently.

“Hi, baby,” he whispered. “We’re waiting for you.”

For a moment, the fear loosened its grip. Just enough.

They were still exhausted. Terrified. Overwhelmed. Buried beneath sleepless nights, body aches, swollen feet, emotional chaos and constant uncertainty.

But they weren’t alone.

They had each other.
They had Woojin and Haneum — loud, chaotic, fiercely loyal.
They had a heartbeat that echoed louder than every fear.

They weren’t perfect.
They weren’t fully ready.

But they were close.

Almost there.

Almost.

And somehow, that was enough.

Next morning, Liyu stood in the middle of what used to be the spare room, hands on his swollen belly, staring at the blank walls like they were about to personally insult him. The room smelled faintly of fresh plaster and dust, sunlight pooling across the floorboards in wide, warm patches. It was the third trimester now, and he felt everything everywhere all at once—pressure on his ribs, the constant ache in his lower back, the baby rolling like a restless dolphin under his skin.

Sanghyeon hovered near the doorway, silent for once, watching Liyu’s face like he was afraid a wrong word might make him cry again. Which, to be fair, was absolutely possible. Two days ago, he burst into tears because the eggs were too perfectly round.

Woojin and Haneum stood further back, holding a giant roll of wallpaper and arguing quietly over whether the pattern was too childish or not childish enough.

The room was chaos, but in a soft, hopeful way.

“So,” Liyu finally said, exhaling like he’d just finished running a marathon, “I want it to feel calm. Not too baby-ish. But still baby-ish. And warm. And cute. But not cheesy. And like… safe.”

Sanghyeon blinked slowly. “Okay. So… literally everything?”

Liyu turned his head just enough to glare, but before he could snap, the baby kicked hard and he winced, gripping the edge of a table for balance.

Woojin rushed forward like a heroic soldier diving into battle. “Okay, okay, the baby agrees—calm vibes. Let’s pick colors first before Liyu goes feral.”

Haneum flipped open a binder full of sample swatches. “Warm neutrals,” he announced confidently. “Beige, cream, hazelnut, maybe sage?”

Liyu’s face softened instantly. “Sage is nice,” he murmured, rubbing his belly in slow circles. “Sage feels peaceful.”

Sanghyeon stepped closer, brushing his hand against the curve of Liyu’s back. His voice was low, steady, grounding. “Then sage it is.”

The next hours unfolded in a gentle, chaotic rhythm—Woojin measuring walls with questionable accuracy, Haneum sketching layout plans like he was designing a luxury hotel suite, and Sanghyeon carefully lifting furniture while Liyu supervised from a beanbag chair, legs stretched out and ankles swollen.

Every now and then, when no one was looking, Sanghyeon would crouch beside Liyu, pressing a kiss to his temple and whispering, “We’re really doing this.” And every time, Liyu’s chest tightened with something too big and bright to name.

At one point, Woojin accidentally knocked over a bucket of paint, splattering a wide arc of sage across the tarps covering the floor.

“Oh my god—” Woojin froze like he’d just witnessed a murder.

But Liyu only stared at the splash, blinking slowly, then let out a laugh—an actual laugh, warm and breathy, filling the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“Maybe we can pretend that was artistic,” he said, wiping at his eyes.

The others joined in, relief spilling out in waves.

As the sun dipped into early evening, the pieces began coming together: the small white crib assembled under the window, the rocking chair angled perfectly in the corner, the mobile of tiny stars waiting to be hung.

Liyu reached out to trace the crib’s smooth wooden railing, his fingers trembling.

“This is where… they’ll sleep,” he whispered, voice cracking around the edges.

Sanghyeon slid his arms around him from behind, hands resting gently on his stomach, feeling the soft shifting beneath the skin—the quiet proof of life.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Right here.”

Woojin and Haneum watched from across the room, suddenly quiet, the easy jokes fading into something tender.

For a moment, everything stilled—the dust in the fading light, the soft sound of breathing, the heartbeat Liyu felt everywhere within him.

This tiny room, once a storage space full of boxes and forgotten things, now felt like the beginning of a universe.

No hospital monitors. No fear. No chaos.

Just a family building a place for someone they already loved more than anything.

The eighth month crept in quietly, like a change of season no one noticed until it was already there. Suddenly, everything felt heavier—Liyu’s body, the air in the apartment, the reality of what was coming. The baby kicked stronger now, sometimes enough to make him gasp out loud, gripping the arm of the couch while Sanghyeon nearly had a heart attack thinking something was wrong.

The preparations shifted from painting walls and assembling furniture to double-checking lists, organizing supplies, and making sure every tiny detail was perfect.

The living room turned into a battlefield of unopened packages: diapers stacked like fort walls, baby bottles lined across the table, and blankets folded into clumsy towers. A brand-new stroller sat in the corner like a silent reminder that time was ticking.

“Why are there so many types of bottles?” Liyu muttered one afternoon, staring at the instruction manual like it personally offended him. “Why are they shaped like that? Why does the baby need, like—seven?”

Woojin, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by bottle parts, shrugged. “I don’t know, man. They just do. Babies are complicated.”

Liyu sighed dramatically, lowering himself into the couch with the grace of a wounded animal. His back cracked loudly, and everyone paused.

“Don’t react,” he warned, eyes narrowing. “If any of you gasp, I will cry.”

Haneum raised his hands defensively, trying not to laugh. “We wouldn’t dare.”

Later that evening, they reorganized the hospital bag for the third time. It lay open on the coffee table like a mission pack for an important expedition: tiny socks, receiving blankets, toiletries, documents, snacks Sanghyeon insisted were essential.

“Do we really need three outfits?” Woojin asked, holding up a soft onesie printed with tiny stars.

“Yes,” Sanghyeon answered immediately.

Liyu groaned. “We do not need three outfits. The baby is the size of a watermelon, not a fashion influencer.”

“Well,” Haneum grinned, “they’ll be born into this family. Expectations are high.”

Liyu threw a pillow at him, but weakly—his arms tired easily these days.

And then, midway through the chaos, the baby kicked. Hard. Enough that everyone heard the thump against Liyu’s ribs.

Liyu wheezed, clutching his side. “Okay—ow—someone please tell them to chill—”

But Sanghyeon’s face lit up like the sun rising. He knelt in front of him, placing both hands carefully against the curve of Liyu’s belly.

“Hey,” he whispered, eyes soft. “Easy in there, okay? We’re almost ready.”

The baby responded with another nudge, lighter this time, as if acknowledging him.

Woojin blinked rapidly, pretending not to look emotional. Haneum smiled in that quiet, soft way he did when he didn’t trust himself to talk.

For a moment, the room felt full—of warmth, of breath, of something sacred and close.

That night, after Woojin and Haneum went home and the apartment fell quiet, Liyu stood in the doorway of the nursery again. The moonlight washed the room in silver, reflecting off the mobile of stars above the crib, making them sway gently as if moved by unseen wind.

Sanghyeon slipped behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, hands resting over the stretched curve of his stomach. His voice was hushed, barely above a breath.

“It feels real now, doesn’t it?”

Liyu leaned back against him, tired but steady. “Yeah… it does.”

He felt the baby shift under their joined hands, a slow, rolling movement. The thought hit him all at once—sharp and soft and terrifying in the best way.

“We’re really going to meet them soon.”

Sanghyeon pressed a kiss to his shoulder, holding him closer.

“We’re ready,” he murmured. “And even if we’re not—we will be.”

Liyu nodded, eyes burning, letting the silence hold them.

Surrounded by paint-smudged memories, unfinished plans, and the gentle rhythm of three heartbeats—one inside another—they stood in the quiet room that was no longer just a room, but a promise.

And nothing in the world had ever felt more real.

As the days edged deeper into the eighth month, a quiet nervousness settled over the apartment—like everyone could sense the countdown tightening, even if no one said it out loud.

By the time the last two weeks arrived, Woojin and Haneum made a decision nobody even questioned.

“We’re staying here,” Haneum announced, dropping a duffel bag onto the living room floor with the conviction of someone declaring war.

Woojin followed in right after, arms full of pillows and blankets. “Yeah. No arguments. We already brought our stuff.”

Liyu blinked at them from the couch, one hand rubbing his lower belly in slow circles. “Staying? As in… here here?”

Woojin pointed at him like he had just confessed to doing something illegal. “You could suddenly go into labor at any moment. And Sanghyeon stresses like a mother whose kid is five minutes late from school.”

Sanghyeon, who had indeed aged mentally by at least ten years in the past month, opened his mouth to protest—and then shut it immediately, because they were absolutely right.

Liyu sighed, though he didn’t actually dislike the idea. The truth was, even with Sanghyeon beside him 24/7, he felt safer knowing friends, or as he considers them, family, was close. It was comforting, like wrapping himself in a thick blanket.

“…Fine,” he mumbled. “But no one’s taking my snacks.”

Woojin threw a thumbs-up. “First of all: you can’t even reach half the shelves. Second of all: we bought extra.”

That night, the apartment shifted into a kind of controlled chaos.

Woojin set up an air mattress in the living room, wrestling with the pump like he was battling a wild animal. Haneum neatly organized the bathroom shelves with extra toiletries and a first-aid kit, because “panicking later is not part of my schedule.”

Every so often, Liyu would waddle out of the bedroom to check on them—mostly because lying down too long made his hips stiff and because he found their presence weirdly reassuring.

Woojin glanced up as he passed. “Hey, go rest. You’re swollen like an overfilled water balloon.”

Liyu gave him a deadpan stare. “Say that again and I’ll sit on you.”

Woojin immediately ducked behind the air mattress for cover.

Sometime near midnight, when everything finally settled, the four of them gathered in the living room. The lights were dim, the air warm and soft. The TV played quietly in the background, but no one was really watching.

Liyu sat curled against Sanghyeon, legs tucked to the side, one of Sanghyeon’s hands resting protectively on his belly. His back hurt, his ankles were puffy, and his whole body felt stretched thin—but being surrounded by them made it easier to breathe.

Haneum leaned back against the couch armrest, arms crossed as he eyed the hallway toward the nursery. “We should probably run a practice drill.”

Woojin’s head whipped toward him. “A what?”

“You know—emergency protocols. If Liyu says it’s time, who grabs what? We need a formation.”

“Oh my god,” Liyu groaned, covering his face with both hands. “This is not a fire drill.”

Sanghyeon nodded seriously. “But he has a point.”

Liyu snapped his head toward him. “Not you agreeing with him—”

Woojin jumped up and pointed. “I call the hospital bag!”

“No,” Sanghyeon countered immediately. “You can’t be trusted. You’ll grab the wrong bag—”

“It has a tag!” Woojin protested. “A big one!”

Haneum raised a hand calmly. “I’ll drive.”

Everyone froze.

“Absolutely not,” all three said in unison.

Haneum looked offended. “I’m a safe driver.”

“You drive like you’re trying to outrun your past,” Woojin said.

“I don’t want the baby born in the backseat of a drifting car,” Liyu added.

“You almost parked on a sidewalk last week,” Sanghyeon reminded him.

Haneum huffed dramatically and sank back into his seat.

But even through the teasing, the warmth lingered—thick, comforting, almost tangible. It wrapped around all of them, settling soft and steady over the room.

Later, when everyone finally drifted to sleep—Woojin snoring lightly from the living room floor, Haneum curled under a blanket on the recliner—Liyu lay awake beside Sanghyeon, listening to the quiet breathing echo through the apartment.

“Do you think it’s too much?” he whispered, resting his hand on his belly. “Them staying here, all this… preparation?”

Sanghyeon shook his head gently, brushing a hand over his cheek. “I think it means we’re loved,” he murmured. “That’s all.”

In the dark, Liyu swallowed tightly, chest warming.

He didn’t say anything more—not because he couldn’t, but because the silence felt perfect. Safe. Full.

Surrounded by friends sleeping just a few steps away, their presence pressing against the walls like a soft shield, he closed his eyes.

For the first time in weeks, he drifted off easily.

Not because his body didn’t ache—but because he wasn’t doing any of this alone.