Chapter Text
A sharp chill permeated the evening, bringing with it the silent forewarning of rain suspended above the urban sprawl.
Under the streetlights, the restaurant's polished front gleamed, the glass brightly mirroring the internal amber light.
Elegant and understated, the letters spelling ‘Eclipse House’ by Wooyoung & San appeared to float against the window glass.
Through the glass, the clinking of silverware mixed with the muffled hum of voices.
The place was warm, intimate and meticulously detailed.
From the flicker of candlelight to the scent of rosemary and citrus, every element conspired to make time itself move a little slower once you stepped inside.
Seonghwa arrived precisely at seven-thirty, the streetlights casting a glow that highlighted the small white cake box he carries.
Holding it with both hands, he was exceptionally careful, suggesting it contained a precious item and not just dessert.
Tied with flawless precision, the silky ribbon sat neatly on top, embodying the grace that was characteristic of his every action.
The box contained a chocolate mousse cake, rich and perfectly layered, mirroring the dessert they had shared at their wedding two years before.
The memory tugged at him.
Hongjoong’s laugh echoing through the small reception hall, their fingers brushing as they cut the first slice.
The cake's sweetness melted on Seonghwa's tongue while his heart swelled with an overwhelming sense of tenderness.
Pausing momentarily at the entrance, he smoothed his shirt cuffs, a small gesture of composure before he stepped in.
The warm hum of the restaurant greeted him at once, offering a familiar blend of chatter, roasted garlic and wine and yet, beneath this appealing surface, the unmistakable sounds of chaos played their usual tune.
Behind the counter, Wooyoung stood with a small bouquet, expressing a captivating mix of exasperation and theatrical flair.
“Aaigo, San~ the lilies go with the silver! Not the gold!”
He punctuated his complaint by brandishing the small bouquet like a sword.
San, who was half-bent over a vase of water, lifted his head with a look of mock offense.
“What difference does silver or gold make when no one even looks at the flowers? They look at the food!”
Despite his playful tone, San's hands moved with focused precision, arranging petals as though he were sculpting them.
In response, Wooyoung let out such a dramatic sigh that it made a nearby waiter turn his head.
He jabbed the bouquet at San once more, grumbling about ‘aesthetic consistency’ and ‘artistic vision’ but San simply grinned and shook his head.
The sight made a small smile tug at Seonghwa’s lips where he stood.
The chaos, familiar and strangely comforting presence was the very rhythm of Eclipse House, where every raised voice and half-laugh contributed to its unique identity.
With a voice that was both smooth and gently teasing, Seonghwa cut through the playful chaos at the counter.
“Still arguing about the centerpieces, I see?”
Both Wooyoung and San instantly spun around.
The strain of their playful dispute melted away, replaced by the genuine warmth that brightened their faces.
Hurrying out from behind the counter, Wooyoung's face broke into a wide grin as he exclaimed,
“Professor Park!”
Brushing his hands quickly against his apron, Wooyoung pulled Seonghwa into a firm, familiar hug.
“Still punctual after two years of marriage~”
He noted warmly.
“Hongjoong hyung's definitely the lucky one, huh?”
Seonghwa's shoulders eased as he melted into Wooyoung's embrace, allowing a laugh to escape, the kind that always softened his voice after a long day.
The air around Wooyoung was a blend of fresh lilies, roasted herbs and the vanilla of pastries cooling nearby.
When they eventually drew apart, Seonghwa's hands, for just a heartbeat rested on Wooyoung’s arms before dropping to his sides.
He tilted his head, allowing a smile to spread.
The fondness crinkled the corners of his eyes as he replied,
“You might say that.. but I think I’m the lucky one..”
He murmured, tone sincere, carrying the warmth of someone who meant every single word.
San leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished counter.
His lips curved into a teasing smile and his eyes glimmered with mischief under the light of the lamps above.
“If you say so~”
He said, voice lilting with amusement.
“I still remember your wedding. Hongjoong hyung was crying like someone had stolen his favorite fabric roll.”
The joke sent Wooyoung into a burst of bright laughter that bounced off the glass display behind him.
Straightening up, he kept grinning and pointed an accusing finger at San.
“That was his favorite fabric roll.”
He confirmed playfully.
“Remember he used that roll for the ceremony decor? After spending three days hunting for the perfect shade, he practically lost his mind when champagne was spilled nearby.”
Their combined laughter filled the restaurant, creating a comforting atmosphere that seemed to linger in the air.
The sound easily carried across the room, providing a soft counterpoint to the background music.
As a server carefully moved past, the slender glasses on his silver tray shimmered, catching the light like tiny stars.
Meanwhile, outside the wide windows, the city glowed in restless color.
Across the street, neon signs flickered and car light reflections drifted along the glass like water ripples.
Although the night outside pulsed with life, inside Eclipse House, the world seemed held by a more kind of magic.
Turning back to Seonghwa with a playful smile, Wooyoung gestured toward the window table.
“Come on..”
He invited,
“This one's for you.”
His tone was warm as he guided Seonghwa through the lit space, moving past the hum of conversation and the clatter of kitchen plates.
The table for two waited near the glass, a single candle burning between the plates and flickering with the movement of air.
Beyond the glass, the skyline stretched in a wash of gold and blue, a breathtaking view that felt uniquely their own.
Spreading his arms as if presenting a masterpiece, Wooyoung announced with a proud smile,
“The best spot in the house.”
The candlelight reflected in his eyes, showing a small flicker of joy at seeing Seonghwa.
“Reserved for our favorite coupl~”
Wooyoung added with affection.
“You want to order something while you wait? Maybe a drink to start?”
As he spoke, Seonghwa placed the small white cake box on the table with care, fingertips lightly brushing the smooth surface to steady it.
The ribbon caught a glimmer of the candlelight.
Looking up at Wooyoung, Seonghwa offered a smile.
“I'll wait for him.”
He said softly.
“He should be here soon.”
For a moment, Wooyoung simply nodded, expression melting into something truly tender.
Between them, the wavering candle painted the tablecloth and the box with a warm glow.
Wooyoung gave a grin before retreating toward the counter, leaving Seonghwa to the rhythm of his own waiting heart and the restless flicker of the city lights beyond the glass.
🏵️
The candle burned low by eight o'clock, its wavering flame creating dancing shadows across the cloth from the pooling wax.
Seonghwa sat quietly, posture masking a restless mind as his eyes repeatedly darted toward the restaurant's entrance.
The room was noticeably livelier by eight-thirty.
A soft murmur of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of silverware, enveloped him.
Nearby, couples leaned in.
Their whispered words dissolving into the music playing overhead.
Suddenly, Seonghwa’s phone buzzed against the table, a vibration that sharply broke the evening's rhythm.
He checked the screen, only to see a notification that held no message from Hongjoong.
A sigh escaped him, fingers curled around the phone's edge before he resignedly placed it on the table.
He checked the time, then checked it again, hoping the numbers would change if he wished hard enough.
The familiar sight of Hongjoong's name, which brought a mix of comfort and ache made his thumb hover.
He called but the line rang only once before falling silent.
He tried again and then once more, each unsuccessful attempt stretching longer than the last.
Only the restaurant’s hum remained, the candle flickering weaker with every passing minute, while the growing weight of waiting settled over his chest.
Carrying a neatly balanced tray, Wooyoung moved through the dining room's glow as he appeared once more.
Stopping beside Seonghwa's table, he was momentarily illuminated by the candlelight.
“You’re still waiting, hyung?”
He asked, pausing to set the tray down.
His voice, despite the easy smile he wore, held a noticeable undercurrent of concern.
“He might be stuck in traffic. Are you sure you won't eat something while you wait?”
Seonghwa looked up and though his eyes were tired, the corners of his lips lifted just enough to create a small polite smile.
“It’s okay.”
He said.
As he spoke, his fingers rested on the cool surface of the water glass, tightening slightly to betray his inner tension.
“I'm waiting for him. He gave me his word.”
For a moment, the hardness left Wooyoung's face, giving way to a soft expression.
He nodded, then tapped the edge of the table lightly with his fingertips before finally turning away.
Leaning over the counter, San watched from behind it.
Resting chin in one hand, his eyes glinting with both a teasing and a note of sympathy.
“You're far too patient, hyung.”
San spoke, voice easily reaching Seonghwa across the counter.
“By now, if it were me, I'd have finished two appetizers and be halfway through a dessert.”
Seonghwa looked up at him, an amused laugh escaping and pulling his lips into smiles.
“Noted.”
He spoke, hand brushing the stem of the glass.
He then added the next words, almost murmuring them to himself,
“This is a special night. I want to share it with him, the right way.”
San's grin softened, the teasing light in his eyes giving way to tenderness.
Nodding once, he showed silent comprehension of exactly what Seonghwa meant.
The joyous sound of laughter that had just filled the air now subsided, leaving a settling hush.
🏵️
Each minute passed with an agonizing slowness, adopting the unhurried rhythm of music played just beyond hearing.
The candle on the table was burned down, small flame casting only a pool of light that struggled to reach the edge of the linen.
By nine forty-five, the general buzz of the restaurant was noticeably beginning to fade.
The room was mostly empty.
The remaining tables stood bare with their chairs neatly set.
The previous burst of laughter had faded entirely, leaving behind only the ghost of an echo in the air.
The servers moved quietly between the last few diners, soft footsteps barely registering against the polished floor.
🏵️
By ten-fifteen, the hum of the jazz was all that remained, the notes curling lazily through the still air.
Somewhere near the bar, a few glasses clinked, a clear and lonely sound piercing the silence of the near-empty room.
Seonghwa remained seated by the window.
His hands were folded in his lap, maintaining his composed and seemingly effortless posture.
Next to the candle, the untouched cake box remained, the ribbon's shadow stretching across the table as the light dwindled.
Though his face remained calm, almost serene, his eyes told a story of restlessness that contradicted his outward look.
The gaze concealed a deeper emotion, a tired hope that refused to fade, waiting patiently even as the rest of the world prepared to forget.
🏵️
Across the city, the creative district remained a hub of life, pulsing long after other streets had gone quiet.
Against the night, studio windows shone, pouring light onto the pavement like warm gold spread over the rain-dark concrete.
Inside one of the studios, Hongjoong sat at the center of his vibrant world.
A sprawling space brimming with color and creative clutter.
Draped in half-finished garments, mannequins formed a loose circle around Hongjoong, the folds of fabric beautifully catching the lamplight.
The walls were covered in uneven rows of sketches, corners slightly curled from the heat radiating through the room.
The air was saturated with the scent of fabric dye and brewed coffee, a mix sharpened by the metallic tang of scissors and pins.
His desk was a beautiful mess, a masterpiece of creative chaos.
Like fallen petals, fabric samples covered the desk, threads of silk and linen woven into delicate tangles.
Beneath the desk lamp's glow, a tray of pins glittered, contrasting with the sprawling, open sketchbooks whose pages were filled with the quick strokes of pencil and ink.
At the heart of the studio, Hongjoong sat with a tense posture.
His eyes fixed on the frustrating lines of a design that resisted his efforts.
The clock on the wall ticked above him, each sound a reminder that time was slipping past faster than he wanted to admit.
Despite his restless energy, his hands were sure, making the pencil glide across the page in confident strokes.
Adrenaline, very much alive, hummed through his veins, effortlessly incinerating any lingering trace of fatigue.
For hours, he worked without a break, the speed of his pencil turning the studio into a swift blur of light and motion.
The rhythmic scrape of graphite against paper dominated the quiet, interrupted only by the rustle of fabric shifting beneath his elbow.
His breathing came fast, fueled not by exhaustion but by the rush of exhilaration pulsing through his veins.
The phone lay ignored beside him, having glowed hours ago with a life changing message.
An international stylist had confirmed that several of his designs were chosen for the Met Gala.
Met.
Gala.
This was a designer's ultimate achievement, the secret destination of every sleepless night and the ultimate validation for every discarded sketch.
The Met Gala was far more than a mere event.
It was the ultimate confluence of art, commerce and global prestige.
More than a stage, it was the critical juncture where art and identity clashed and one successful creation could forever catapult a career to stardom.
That powerful truth settled over Hongjoong, thrumming deep beneath his skin like an intense recognition.
Faster than he could possibly pin them down, ideas began to surge, translating from thought to paper in a frantic rush.
In his mind, sharp and daring metallic silhouettes began to shimmer, taking immediate form.
He saw metallic deconstructed tuxedos, unexpected cuts woven through with delicate chains and edges softened by jeweled embroidery that sparkled like stardust.
Inspiration burned fiercely within him, generating vivid thoughts that raced past, entirely unstoppable.
In that moment, the world spun beautifully, driven by the absolute chaos that grips a mind entirely surrendered to creation and in that vivid, beautiful chaos, he simply forgot.
In the torrent of inspiration, he lost track of the hour completely.
The dinner he was supposed to be at?
He had forgotten it entirely.
He forgot the promise, lost entirely to the beautiful madness of his work.
The sketches piled higher, each new design more audacious than the one preceding it.
The only sounds that broke the quiet were the scratch of the pencil on paper and the ticking of the clock, sounds that had become so familiar he no longer truly heard them.
When the clock finally struck ten forty-five, the ensuing chime abruptly shattered the deep silence.
A groan from the hinges announced the door creaking open, breaking the silence further.
“Boss?”
From the doorway, a voice called gently, instantly slicing through the mental haze that still clung to him.
Hongjoong snapped his head up from the sketchpad, blinking rapidly as though he had just violently surfaced from the crushing depths of water.
The pencil he had been chewing on now hung loosely between his lips, arrested mid-action.
“Mira?”
He said, voice carrying both surprise and confusion.
“What are you doing here?”
The door swung open a little wider, carrying a cool breath of night air and the crisp scent of rain into the studio.
Mira stepped inside, coat hanging loosely from one shoulder, while tiny droplets glistened in her hair where the drizzle had settled.
Taking in the scene, she looked around, observing the scattered sketches and the sheer volume of fabric rolls covering every surface.
“I forgot my charger.”
She said, tone half-apologetic.
“Thought I’d come by and grab it.”
Turning her eyes to him, she let her mouth curve into a grin.
“I didn't think you'd still be here. Be honest, are you attempting to sleep standing up or is this the actual process of fusing with your fabric?”
Hongjoong offered a chuckle, raising his hand to nervously rub the back of his neck.
As he finally looked up and registered the chaos surrounding him, a blush of embarrassment stained his cheeks.
“Something like that.”
He spoke, voice carrying an excitement that was barely contained by its low volume.
“I got pulled in.”
He murmured.
“The inspiration surged so fiercely I couldn't tear myself away from the sketchpad.”
Stepping farther inside, Mira's eyes widened in surprise as she allowed the full chaotic scene of the studio to register.
The floor was carpeted with fabric samples, scattered like petals and the desk was completely buried beneath piles of concept boards and half-finished sketches.
At the edge of the table, a tablet glowed, showcasing a Met Gala mood board filled with gilded gowns, metallic details and avant-garde silhouettes that seemed to shimmer right off the screen.
A look of surprise caused her lips to part before a joyful smile instantly spread across her face.
“Oh, wow! It's true, isn't it? The whispers about your Met Gala designs being selected?”
She said, genuine admiration warming her tone.
“That's incredible, Hongjoong-ssi. Congratulations!”
Hongjoong pulled his eyes up from the sketches and the light from the desk lamp immediately glittered in his gaze.
Disbelief mixed with undeniable pride, creating a bright gleam in his eyes.
“Thanks, Mira.”
He replied, voice dropping to a register that held a distinct note of wonder.
“It is surreal, to be completely honest.”
Though her smile remained for a moment as she watched him, Jihyo’s expression slowly began to shift toward a more serious concern.
She crossed her arms and scrutinized him, one brow lifting as she tilted her head, adopting the knowing posture only years of working together could produce.
“It is, genuinely, an incredible achievement.”
She conceded, emphasis on the word 'achievement' setting a slightly more serious tone.
“But tell me.. you didn't actually cancel or forget something important for this creative fit of yours.”
For a moment, her accusation hung suspended in the air between them.
Hongjoong blinked, confusion immediaely evident as the pencil in his hand froze, suspended mid-air.
“Plans?”
The word sounded alien as he repeated it, highlighting his shock.
“No, I—”
Uncertainty creeping into his tone, voice trailed off as he involuntarily looked up at the clock and in that instant, the memory slammed into him.
A sudden realization crashed over him like a wave, shattering the haze of his focus.
The dinner.
The reservation.
The anniversary.
For a single, taut heartbeat, the entire room held its breath and seemed to completely still.
The steady, sharp ticking of the clock suddenly dominated the quiet, growing loud and intrusive.
“Shit—”
A breath rushed out of him and his voice immediately sliced through the oppressive silence.
He pressed one hand hard against his forehead, an effort to push the thought out as his pulse began to hammer rapidly beneath his touch.
“Oh my god! the restaurant— fuck! Seonghwa—”
Mira instantly froze, becoming rigid in place.
“Wait—”
She interjected, tone hovering between disbelief and clear sympathy.
“You mean to tell me you forgot your own anniversary?”
Hongjoong was moving instantly, reacting before Mira's shocking words had fully left her mouth.
His chair scraped against the concrete floor as he shot to his feet, instantly reaching for everything within arm’s length in a frantic scramble.
Sketches fluttered to the ground as he hastily crammed a stack of them into his portfolio, not pausing even when some pages crumpled in the rush.
His phone, wallet, coat and keys were all snatched up simultaneously, ending in a chaotic jumble in his hands.
A sudden wave of panic drove his actions, making his movements quick, jerky and utterly uncoordinated.
“I didn't forget!”
He blurted out, the word snapping with panic and guilt.
His voice cracked.
“I just lost complete track of time!”
The rushed words were almost a plea, an attempt to soften the reality that he already knew was too late.
As Hongjoong bolted, Mira quickly slipped her charger into her bag, moving with efficient haste to follow him toward the door.
An amused laugh escaped her, a sound that was completely at odds with the chaos swirling around Hongjoong.
“Go! Get out of here.”
She urged, shaking her head with a smile.
“And you might want to bring flowers or at least some kind of offering.”
She advised lightly, a teasing curve in her tone.
“Unless you genuinely want your next collection to be inspired by absolute heartbreak.”
Hongjoong cast her a desperate look, face momentarily freezing with an expression caught between absolute panic and sinking despair.
“You’re not helping, Han Mira!”
The words were strained, forced out as he spoke.
His voice catching and becoming tight under the heavy weight of his guilt.
Lifting her hands in mock surrender, Mira let her smile soften, signaling a shift from teasing to understanding.
“Just saying. Good luck, boss! Run fast!”
Without a second's pause, Hongjoong bolted.
He was gone the moment Mira’s words finished, footsteps already echoing loudly through the stairwell.
He took the steps two at a time, bursting through the front doors where the rush of cold air immediately hit his face.
Softly at first, then with increasing regularity, the rain began to fall, the drops striking the pavement like urgent taps.
The air burned his lungs as he sprinted across the parking lot, shoes splashing through shallow puddles that fractured the streetlights' glow.
He gave the car door a desperate yank, pulling it open before plunging inside.
Strained by panic, his breath came out in quick bursts, clouding the windshield while his hands fumbled to push the key into the ignition.
The engine suddenly roared to life, a powerful sound accompanied by the headlights which instantly sliced through the falling drizzle.
He sat frozen for a moment, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.
His chest heaving rapidly as the sound of the rain drummed loudly against the roof.
His mind was a panicked blur of painful images.
Seonghwa’s disappointed face.
The untouched cake they had ordered together.
The flickering candle he had promised to sit beside.
A quiet ache of regret settled deep beneath his ribs as he whispered to himself,
“Please still be there.”
Then, he slammed his foot onto the accelerator, the tires instantly biting into the wet asphalt as he sped into the torrent of rain, desperately chasing the faint hope that Seonghwa hadn't given up and was still waiting.