Chapter Text
The flight dropped them into Berlin just after sunrise, the plane taxiing through a wash of gray light that looked more like evening than morning. Dew clung to the windows of the airport, turning everything outside into a blur of silver. The glass walls of the terminal gleamed the same cold color, as if the city only existed in grayscale at this hour.
The moment the cabin doors opened, a draft of thin, sharp air rushed in. Dohyeon inhaled once and felt it all the way down his spine. Good for waking up, bad for the omega beside him who was practically sleepwalking.
Hyunjoon hunched into his jacket the second his feet hit the jet bridge. “The weather in Korea wasn’t this bad,” he mumbled, his voice was hoarse and his eyes were puffy from ten hours of pretending the plane seat was comfortable enough to sleep in.
Dohyeon’s laugh came out low, warm, a soft rumble in his own chest. “It’s not that bad.”
Hyunjoon shot him a flat look. “Of course you would think so.”
They walked with the slow procession of passengers, shoes clacking on the hollow metal walkway. Their teammates were up ahead; Wangho stretching his arms with a groan, Hwanjoong rubbing his eyes dramatically, Geonwoo already pulling out his phone like he hadn’t been disconnected from the internet for less than sixty seconds.
Dohyeon watched Hyunjoon adjust the strap of his backpack for the third time. The bag was stuffed to the point the zipper barely closed.
Without thinking, Dohyeon reached out and tugged the strap. “Give it here.”
Hyunjoon blinked, thrown off. “What? No, I can carry it.”
“It looks heavy.”
“It’s not.” He clutched the bag tighter on instinct, even though it definitely was heavy. “You’ll make it obvious.”
“Make what obvious?” Dohyeon tilted his head, amused. “That I’m helping you carry something?”
“That you—” Hyunjoon stopped abruptly. His ears went pink and the rest of the sentence hovered in the air between them.
Dohyeon’s smile softened. “Fine,” he said, slipping both hands back into his pockets. “Have it your way.”
They stepped into the terminal, greeted by a wave of bright lights and polished floors. Berlin’s airport was all glass and steel, modern and echoing, footsteps bouncing off the walls. The arrivals area smelled faintly of coffee, airplane fuel, and the distinct cold of European mornings.
They noticed a few HLE fans by the barriers. Some were still wrapped in coats, holding signs with their names in marker. When they spotted the players, a ripple went through the crowd—voices rising, cameras lifting, flashes breaking across the dim morning.
Dohyeon didn’t mind the noise. Worlds always felt like this. Big, loud, surreal. Something inside him straightened at the sight.
Instinct. Memory.
But then he saw Hyunjoon blink at the lights, a tiny wince he tried to hide, and Dohyeon’s focus softened around the edges.
“Bus is this way,” the Riot staffer called, waving their clipboard.
Dohyeon fell into step behind Hyunjoon, watching him trudge toward the exit. Halfway there, the scent of fresh bread drifted from a kiosk tucked into the corner of the hall. He veered off without thinking, just quickly enough that he wasn’t left behind.
When he returned, he carried two pretzels so warm they fogged the edges of the paper bag.
The alpha held one out. “Here you go.”
Hyunjoon took a huge bite immediately, crumbs all over his clothes. “You’re being awfully sweet this early in the morning,” he said through a mouthful of bread, cheeks full and round.
Dohyeon couldn’t stop himself from laughing. Even exhausted, the omega was unfairly cute. “What do you mean? I’m always sweet to you, Joonie.”
“Whatever you say, Dohyeon-ah.”
They boarded the bus shortly after that. The seats were stiff, the windows slightly fogged from the temperature difference. Outside, Berlin stretched in muted colors.
Hyunjoon pressed his forehead against the cold window, eyes half-lidded. “Feels weird,” he murmured. “Like it’s morning, but not.”
“It’s just jet lag,” Dohyeon said. “Hope it won’t be too bad for us.”
But internally, his pulse quickened. Not from nerves—this wasn’t fear, not yet at least. Just the beginning hum of competition settling into his bones.
Worlds…
The hotel came into view sooner than expected. The moment the bus doors hissed open, cold air rushed in, sharper than the chill at the airport. Dohyeon exhaled and watched his breath bloom white.
Hyunjoon shivered beside him, his hoodie pulled tight. If Dohyeon weren’t holding his own luggage, he would’ve tugged Hyunjoon closer to keep him warm. His omega got cold easily after all.
Inside, the lobby buzzed with that familiar Worlds chaos disguised as order. Their team manager strode straight to the front desk, rattling off passport numbers and room assignments. Coaches clustered around him, voices low and clipped, already discussing their upcoming scrim schedules.
The players, though, were a different story.
Geonwoo stumbled off the bus, still half-asleep, and immediately wandered toward a restroom sign. Hwanjoong made a dramatic noise and flung himself onto a couch, arms spread. Wangho stayed glued to their head coach, peppering him with questions about scrim blocks and call times as if they weren’t all sleep-deprived.
And Hyunjoon…
The omega sat heavily on his suitcase, shoulders slumped, hood falling back just enough to show his disheveled hair and the faint crease still marking his cheek. He looked soft. Small even. Exhausted in a way that tugged at something instinctive in Dohyeon’s chest.
Dohyeon drifted toward him without thinking, keeping close enough to shield him from the draft of the automatic doors. Hyunjoon didn’t seem to notice—he was blinking too slowly, staring down at his shoes like he might doze off right there.
The staff kept talking; keys sliding across the counter, papers shuffling, radios crackling with updates about their schedules. He heard phrases like “changed again” and “delay in setup,” followed by a collective groan from the coaching staff.
Dohyeon only half-listened.
The other half of him was tuned entirely to the person next to him.
Then he felt a brief shift of fabric. A hesitant brush at his hand.
Hyunjoon was reaching out.
The omega was looking at the floor. Still pretending he wasn’t doing it. His fingers nudged at Dohyeon’s once, lightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask for comfort here, with teammates and staff around.
But Dohyeon didn’t hesitate. He turned his palm up and caught those searching fingers, sliding their hands together in a quiet, practiced motion that fit them so well.
A subtle claiming, even with scent suppressors washing the air clean around them in the hotel.
He didn’t let go until their manager called out, “Boys! Grab your keys!”
Hwanjoong groaned. “We’re split across floors again?”
The manager chuckled, “You’ll survive.”
Geonwoo reappeared, looking reborn. “The bathroom here is nice.”
“Focus, Geonwoo-ah,” Wangho muttered, smacking his arm lightly.
Dohyeon would’ve laughed if Hyunjoon wasn’t already pushing to his feet, unsteady from exhaustion. He steadied him with a hand at his back, unnoticed by everyone except Hyunjoon himself, who leaned into the touch for a heartbeat before straightening.
They reached the elevators with the rest of the team, a sluggish mess of dragging suitcases and half-awake complaints. Staff ushered the first group in, leaving Dohyeon and Hyunjoon behind when the doors shut.
“Go on the next one,” the manager called. “You two are on another floor anyway.”
The hallway went quiet the moment everyone else disappeared.
Hyunjoon sagged against his suitcase like a puppet with its strings cut aand Dohyeon nudged him into the next elevator when it chimed open.
As soon as the doors closed, the soft hotel music kicked in. Some generic piano melody clearly trying too hard to be calming.
Hyunjoon yawned so hard his eyes watered and stumbled sideways, bumping into Dohyeon’s shoulder.
“Careful,” Dohyeon murmured, catching him with a hand at his back. “If you fall asleep standing, I’m not carrying you to the room.”
Hyunjoon made a pitiful little noise. “You know, I always thought Europe was supposed to be cute and romantic. Not… this.”
Dohyeon snorted. “Look at you. Only a few hours in Europe and my omega is already demanding romance.”
Hyunjoon swatted his chest weakly. “I’m just saying...”
Dohyeon hummed, amused.
The omega mumbled something unintelligible and leaned his whole body into Dohyeon like gravity had made a decision on his behalf. His head landed against Dohyeon’s shoulder, hood brushing his jaw. He smelled like airport air, warm pretzel, and the faint sweetness of his scent curling stubbornly past the suppressors.
Dohyeon’s voice softened without meaning to. “We can be romantic later,” he murmured. “When you’re not about to pass out on me.”
Hyunjoon’s reply was a sleepy grumble. “Later is fine...”
Dohyeon felt something warm bloom under his ribs. He glanced at their reflection in the elevator mirror.
Two boys with their hair mussed from travel, eyes heavy with sleep, leaning into each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Worlds starts now, he thought.
But strangely enough, the weight of that didn’t press down on him. Not yet at least.
It steadied him.
Because Hyunjoon was right here; warm against his side, trusting him without hesitation, letting himself fall into Dohyeon’s orbit like he always did.
This year would be different, Dohyeon told himself. This year, we’re going to win it all.
The next few days unfolded in a blur that hardly felt real. It was as if Berlin itself had pressed fast-forward on their lives, skipping the moments between waking up and collapsing into bed each night.
Mornings began far earlier than any human deserved. Their manager knocking loud enough to shake the doors, someone shouting down the hallway because of something unimportant, and the faint smell of instant coffee drifting from their team room.
Hyunjoon shuffled beside him through all of it, his hair usually a mess and eyelids heavy. He didn’t truly wake until he had a paper cup of coffee warming his hands, coaxing his soft, sleepy expression into something alert enough to survive scrims.
Their hotel practice rooms quickly became their entire world: thick blackout curtains that erased the sun, an air-conditioning vent that ran too cold no matter how many times staff adjusted it, and the endless hum of PCs that sank into their bones until the sound felt like a second heartbeat.
Scrim blocks blurred into each other—match after match, VOD after VOD—while coaches dissected seconds, rewound mistimed engages, broke down macro decisions, and adjusted drafts with the sharp precision of surgeons preparing for an operation.
Dohyeon focused—he always focused—but some part of him kept drifting toward the reflection of Hyunjoon in the dark glass. He would catch Hyunjoon leaning forward, tapping anxiously at his keyboard, lips pressed together in intense concentration.
Every time he saw it, something warm pulsed quietly in his chest, grounding him in a way nothing else could anymore.
And when scrims ended, their day still didn’t.
The team was swept straight into media obligations scattered across Berlin—inside venue hallways, outside against graffiti walls, tucked into makeshift studio corners Riot had built for the tournament. Styling chairs squeaked, makeup hung in the air like fine dust, and photographers barked instructions with a desperation that grew louder the more tired everyone became.
Wangho silently basked in the attention, Geonwoo blinked at every flash like a startled deer, and Hwanjoong posed with stiff seriousness.
And Dohyeon… managed.
Media days had always felt uncomfortable—the hot lamps, the forced poses, the endless retakes—but this year, the nerves didn’t grip him the way they once had. The tension in his shoulders lingered, but softened by something steadier beneath his skin.
Maybe it was because he knew he photographed well.
He would never say it outright, but he wasn’t oblivious. Photographers liked him. Cameras liked him. His visuals always came out clean and sharp enough that fans constantly debated whether he was the “face” of HLE.
But none of that mattered compared to the way Hyunjoon looked at him.
Every time the lights flashed, every time they stood shoulder to shoulder, Dohyeon felt the quiet, lingering weight of Hyunjoon’s gaze; subtle, appreciative, and unmistakably possessive in a way only he ever noticed.
Sometimes Hyunjoon snuck glances during poses where they had to look over their shoulders (once, twice, then a third time) until heat crept beneath Dohyeon’s collar. Other times, like during a shoot with props, Hyunjoon leaned close enough for his breath to brush Dohyeon’s ear and murmured, “You look really good right now.”
It wasn’t teasing or joking. He said it like he was stating a simple truth. The words settled low and warm inside Dohyeon, dangerous in the way they made the next pose come easier, his posture sharper, his confidence steadier.
Because Hyunjoon wasn’t looking at him as a teammate.
But as an omega quietly proud of his alpha.
Between setups, they waited in long fluorescent hallways cluttered with metal cases and the low buzz of equipment warming behind closed doors. Their teammates scrolled through their phones, staff rushed past, and through it all, Hyunjoon drifted toward him. Close enough that their sleeves brushed or their shoulders met, close enough for Dohyeon to feel the warmth radiating from him through the thick material of their jackets. Sometimes Hyunjoon pretended to study a schedule clipped to the wall just to stand half a step closer. Sometimes his fingers brushed against Dohyeon’s knuckles in a way neither of them believed to be accidental.
Then, for one brief moment, the hallway emptied.
Hyunjoon moved toward him again, soft and instinctive, his shoulder brushing Dohyeon’s, his head tilting just slightly in his direction, his expression unguarded.
Dohyeon didn’t think or plan or hesitate. He simply reached out, brushing his fingers against Hyunjoon’s wrist in a silent question. When Hyunjoon leaned in, an answer without words, Dohyeon stepped into his space and leaned forward.
Then he kissed him.
It wasn’t deep or desperate, just a soft, lingering press of lips. But it carried the warmth and hunger of days of restraint.
Hyunjoon made a quiet, barely-there sound that sent a bolt of heat straight through Dohyeon, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as his body melted against him, pliant and instinctively trusting. Dohyeon slid a hand behind his jaw, thumb brushing warm skin, and Hyunjoon whispered against his mouth, “You’re going to get us caught, alpha.”
Dohyeon smiled against his lips. “You came to me.”
Hyunjoon flushed, but he didn’t deny it. He didn’t pull away either. He simply stayed there for one suspended second, breathing him in like this single, stolen moment was something he needed more than he dared admit.
Then a door slammed somewhere down the hall.
They broke apart immediately, masks slipping back into place, but not before Dohyeon caught Hyunjoon’s waist for one last heartbeat; grounding him, anchoring him, reminding him quietly who he belonged to.
Shortly after, the staff returned, the other boys came back and reformed their line, and the photographer called them forward.
But the warmth of that kiss stayed lodged under Dohyeon’s ribs.
It carried him through the rest of the shoot.
Through the evening scrims.
Through the rushed hotel dinner.
Through the endless wall of notes the coach handed them.
The grind blurred everything together, but Hyunjoon made the weight feel lighter. And every time exhaustion threatened to drag him under, Hyunjoon was there—in the shuttle, in the hallways, in the shadowed corners of the venue—leaning into him, brushing shoulders, stealing soft, secret kisses that steadied him in a way nothing else could.
Nights in the hotel should have been theirs. Tiny pockets of quiet carved out just for them in a week where everything else belonged to someone else. But even that space felt borrowed.
HLE usually gave players their own rooms during tournaments. Privacy helped with sleep, with nerves, with breathing room between scrims. But somehow, the two had to share a room. Dohyeon wasn’t sure if it was a coincidence or if someone on staff assumed they’d feel more comfortable doubled up. Their teammates knew about them already but the staff didn’t. Not officially at least.
For a moment, he didn’t know what to make of it.
But Hyunjoon didn’t seem to mind and any uncertainty Dohyeon had melted.
By the time they dragged themselves back from their practice room each night, their bodies were heavy with scrims and media and constant review. The hotel corridors were quiet at that hour, carpets swallowing their footsteps, lights dimmed to a sleepy glow. It should have felt peaceful.
But it didn’t.
The moment the door shut behind them, Dohyeon opened his laptop immediately.
Call it what you may. Habit. Instinct. Fear dressed as responsibility.
The VOD window lit the room in a cool blue, and he told himself he needed it; needed to study some more, needed to fix everything, needed to make sure he didn’t become the reason they fell short on the Worlds stage.
Hyunjoon never complained about it either. Not once.
The omega kicked off his shoes, crawled into bed, and curled against Dohyeon’s side like he always did; tired, warm, searching for softness after a day that demanded nothing but sharp edges from them both. The scent suppressors hummed overhead, flattening the air into sterile nothingness, but Dohyeon still felt Hyunjoon’s presence brushing against him. A faint, steady pull he could never quite ignore.
Most nights, Hyunjoon held on for as long as he could. He tugged the blanket over both of them, rested his forehead against Dohyeon’s shoulder, exhaled softly like he was finally letting go for the first time all day. That tiny sigh was always the signal of Hyunjoon drifting toward sleep.
One night, that sound pulled Dohyeon’s attention away from the screen, and he looked down to see Hyunjoon already asleep beside him, face half-buried in the blanket. Dohyeon’s hand—he didn’t even remember moving it—rested on top of his laptop, closing it. He hadn’t meant to stop reviewing, but seeing Hyunjoon like that… of course he had.
Another night, long past midnight, the room lit only by the soft glow of Dohyeon’s laptop, Hyunjoon shifted beside him. He rolled onto his back, eyes barely open, gaze hazy with exhaustion and something quietly aching beneath the surface.
“You’ve been working so hard lately,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Please get some rest.”
The words were gentle, almost fragile, and they landed on Dohyeon with far more force than he expected.
He didn’t answer, not immediately.
His throat tightened, and the lines of text on his screen bled together until they stopped making sense.
He wanted to say something, anything, but nothing in his mind felt right.
He didn’t know how to explain that being near Hyunjoon made everything paradoxical. That Hyunjoon’s presence was the thing that steadied him—that quiet, gravitational pull that made even the hardest days feel survivable—and yet, at the very same time, being close to him made every misstep feel heavier, every mistake sharper. He wanted so desperately to be someone Hyunjoon could lean on without hesitation, someone worthy of the certainty in Hyunjoon’s eyes when things were good. He wanted to be that anchor, that constant, that safe place.
But he couldn’t shape any of that into words.
So he stayed silent.
And instead, he reached out. His fingers drifted across the sheets, tentative at first, brushing lightly until they found Hyunjoon’s hand in the dark. The omega’s fingers curled around his immediately—soft with exhaustion, sure in a way that made something in Dohyeon’s chest pull taut and warm.
It wasn’t enough to solve anything.
But it was the truth he could offer, in the only language he trusted himself not to break.
Their hands stayed connected for longer than either of them intended. Not fully intertwined but just enough to feel each other. Enough to make the room feel less cold, less lonely.
Hyunjoon drifted back to sleep first, his grip loosening as his body relaxed.
Dohyeon didn’t let go completely.
He kept his fingers there, warm against Hyunjoon’s. The screen in front of him dimmed, ignored, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it again. Not when the quiet beside him reminded him what he’d been neglecting.
Eventually sleep pulled him under too, still half-curled toward Hyunjoon, still holding on like he was afraid that if he let go, he’d lose more than just a moment of rest.
The cracks didn’t arrive all at once.
They slipped in quietly, small enough that anyone else would have looked right past them.
But Dohyeon wasn’t anyone else.
He had learned the subtle language of Hyunjoon’s mood, the way his shoulders held tension, the way his silences shifted depending on whether he was frustrated, embarrassed, or simply tired. So even the smallest change felt loud to him.
Scrims were already brutal from the start of that particular day. Not catastrophic, just sharp in the way Worlds scrims always were, every mistake punished instantly by teams who had flown halfway across the world to prove they deserved to be here.
Hyunjoon kept getting clipped at awkward timings. It wasn’t constant, but it was enough for that faint, uneasy ripple to move through Dohyeon’s chest every time the coaches paused the VOD.
“Here,” Coach Inkyu said, pausing on a frame where Hyunjoon’s K’sante was caught mid-dash. “You’re two seconds early. Wait for bot to push first.”
Hyunjoon didn’t argue. He simply nodded, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he stared at the frozen screen. He didn’t defend his thought process or ask for clarification—not like he usually did when he felt confident about a decision.
And he didn’t look up. Not at Coach. Not at the team. Not at Dohyeon, which was the part that stung quietly under Dohyeon’s ribs.
Something was off.
Not disastrously so.
Just… off enough that every instinct in Dohyeon went on alert.
The alpha wanted to say something—something easy, something harmless, something that would loosen the way Hyunjoon’s shoulders had begun to hold tension like a shield—but the words stayed locked behind his teeth. Comforting him now, in front of the team and staff, would only corner him further. Hyunjoon hated being perceived as fragile, even if he was an omega. He hated looking like he needed anything.
So Dohyeon forced himself to stay silent, even though his chest felt too tight.
Review eventually ended. The practice room emptied in waves, chairs scraping, headsets hanging, voices drifting into tired chatter. The manager herded them toward the shuttle with the usual urgency so they could grab dinner outside of the hotel. Hyunjoon went ahead with Geonwoo and Hwanjoong, laughing at something stupid Hwanjoong said as if nothing had happened at all.
To anyone else, it looked normal. It sounded normal.
But Dohyeon felt the shift anyway. Felt the faint strain in the air between them, the subtle slack in a thread that was normally pulled taut and sure.
Honestly, no one else would have noticed, but Dohyeon’s instincts caught it immediately. Hyunjoon’s laugh was a little too light, his stride a fraction too quick, his expression bright in a way that felt like he was trying to outrun whatever had gotten to him during review.
Swiss stage arrived faster than anyone was prepared for—so fast that it felt as though the tournament itself was dragging them forward before they had time to breathe. And with each passing match, Hyunjoon wound tighter and tighter, tension threading through him like a wire drawn too thin. Dohyeon saw it happen in real time, quietly, in the kinds of tiny shifts no one else on the team was close enough to notice.
Their opener against PSG was clean, almost deceptively so. A straightforward win with good macro, stable lanes, and not a single moment of real danger. Hyunjoon played beautifully; sharp rotation timings, crisp mechanics, the kind of performance any coach would stamp with approval.
But even in that victory, Dohyeon noticed the subtle cues: the way Hyunjoon’s fingers clicked a little too fast on his keyboard whenever the game entered a high-stress moment, or how he exhaled just a bit too heavily after each skirmish ended. Nothing alarming. Just small signs that the pressure was already beginning to settle beneath his skin.
G2 pushed harder. The series still ended in their favor, but the cracks became easier to see when you knew where to look. Hyunjoon misplayed a single trade and stiffened immediately. He fumbled a rotation path and pressed his lips together as if trying to swallow the mistake whole. Even during review, with the coaches calmly walking through the sequence, he stood too still, shoulders raised slightly, eyes fixed on the exact point in the VOD where he knew he’d faltered. He didn’t argue or defend himself but he held the tension like he was afraid someone else might notice it.
Then came GenG.
That was the match that pulled everything taut. GenG punished hesitation sharper than any team they had faced so far, and Hyunjoon, despite playing objectively well, moved like someone trying not to drown. He wasn’t reckless or sloppy. He just simply wasn’t himself. His intuition when it comes to engages, usually fluid and decisive, stuttered a half-second behind the pace of the game. And when it slipped, GenG capitalized mercilessly.
They lost.
And worse than the loss itself was the expression Hyunjoon wore afterward; controlled, polite, even smiling when the others, especially Wangho turned to him, but with a rigidity in his posture that Dohyeon recognized instantly. He looked like someone bracing for impact, holding too much inside and refusing to let even a fraction of it show.
But the real breaking point didn’t come during GenG.
It came during their match against FLY.
FLY’s chaotic, scrappy style forced Hyunjoon into reactive decision-making, and every late call, every moment of hesitation, every shaky second seemed to pull him further inward. His mechanics stayed solid. His laning was fine. But his confidence felt filtered, dulled, caught on something invisible he couldn’t shake loose.
They still won.
They secured 3–1 and advanced out of Swiss.
The coaches’ booth erupted in collective relief. Hwanjoong practically leapt into Geonwoo’s arms. Wangho blinked hard you’d think he might cry. The coaches finally exhaled the breath they’d been holding all day. Even Hyunjoon laughed with them and accepted the congratulations.
But Dohyeon saw what no one else did.
He saw the way Hyunjoon’s fingers trembled as he unplugged his peripherals.
He saw the tiny flinch when the analysts casually mentioned early engages.
He saw the thinness of Hyunjoon’s smile, pulled too tight around the edges, like he was holding it in place out of obligation rather than joy.
And meanwhile—quietly, deliberately—Dohyeon forced himself to do the opposite.
He grounded his shoulders and kept them square.
He monitored every word he spoke, every breath he took.
He reviewed every detail twice, not because he doubted himself but because he refused to give Hyunjoon even one more thing to worry about. The team saw him as their anchor, their calm, their steady head alpha; he couldn’t afford to let that image slip. Not now. Not when Hyunjoon’s entire world already seemed close to tipping over.
When the coach clapped him on the shoulder after the match and said, “Good job staying level-headed today during the risky parts. Real leadership,” the words barely registered. The praise slid over him without sinking in, because all he could think about was Hyunjoon walking ahead with Wangho and Hwanjoong, laughing at something with a smile that never reached his eyes.
Back at the hotel, when they returned to the room they were sharing, Hyunjoon showered first. He always did when his nerves were running too high. Dohyeon sat on the bed with his laptop open, pretending to watch VODs but hearing every quiet sound from the bathroom: the water shutting off, the rustle of a towel, a soft exhale that sounded too close to defeat.
When Hyunjoon finally emerged, steam rolling past him, towel draped around his shoulders, he looked calmer on the surface. Softer. But something in his posture remained guarded.
Dohyeon expected him to come sit beside him as he always did. To lean against his side, to seek warmth, to rest his head on Dohyeon’s shoulder the way he always had after long days.
But instead, Hyunjoon simply climbed into bed, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and whispered, barely audible, “Don’t stay up too late.”
His voice was gentle.
Too gentle.
Fragile in a way that made something in Dohyeon’s chest twist painfully.
“I won’t,” Dohyeon lied softly.
But he knew he would.
Because how could he sleep when Hyunjoon was retreating somewhere he couldn’t reach? How could he rest when the string between them felt stretched and thinning by the hour?
Hyunjoon fell asleep quickly, exhaustion pulling him under with almost alarming speed.
Dohyeon didn’t.
He sat hunched over his laptop long after the room went quiet, the glow from the screen illuminating plays he already knew by heart. He watched match after match, not out of necessity but out of desperation—desperation to be perfect, to be stable, to be enough for both of them when Hyunjoon clearly didn’t have strength left to spare.
Hours passed unnoticed.
And somewhere between the third and fourth VOD, Dohyeon realized with a hollow weight in his stomach that tonight, unlike every night before, Hyunjoon hadn’t reached for him at all. Not unconsciously, not half-asleep, not even by instinct.
Another small crack.
So faint it could’ve been imagined.
But Dohyeon felt it like a bruise blooming beneath his ribs, deep and dull and unmistakable.
Paris greeted them with rain.
Not the romantic kind novels pretended existed here, but the cold, sideways kind that slapped against the bus windows and blurred the world outside into streaks of watercolor gray. Buildings warped into soft shapes, neon signs bled through puddles, headlights stretched into smeared ribbons of white and gold. Even the sky seemed exhausted.
When they stepped off the bus, the wind cut straight through their jackets.
Hyunjoon flinched at the cold, shoulders curling in, and Dohyeon forced himself not to react. He set his jaw, pretending the chill didn’t bother him either, even though it stung all the way to his bones.
The hotel lobby was a different kind of storm. Bright ceiling lights reflected off polished floors, cameras flashed from the entrance, reporters called their names the second they walked through the doors. Their manager kept apologizing while trying to herd them forward.
“Sorry, sorry… unavoidable press density, keep moving…”
The words reached Dohyeon only as a distant ripple beneath the noise of the lobby. Nothing registered with any clarity. His attention had locked onto a single point the moment they stepped inside, and everything else dulled behind it.
Hyunjoon looked pale.
And that was what unsettled Dohyeon because he knew Hyunjoon had been sleeping.
They had shared a bed for nearly 2 weeks in Berlin. He had watched Hyunjoon knock out within minutes of lying down, watched his chest rise and fall in slow, steady rhythms until morning, watched him sleep more consistently than he had all year. By all logic, Hyunjoon should have looked rested.
So why did his exhaustion seem untouched by rest at all?
His facemask hid most of his expression, but it couldn’t hide the slight tremor in his fingers, or the way his shoulders sagged under a weight that sleep hadn’t managed to ease, or the sluggish drag in his steps as though the floor itself resisted him. He looked thinner than he had a week ago, too. Fine bones standing out a little more sharply beneath the soft lighting, as if stress had carved at him while Dohyeon wasn’t looking.
The realization hit Dohyeon hard enough to stir something deeper, something instinctive. His alpha bristled at the sight, pushing upward like a hand against glass, a raw urge demanding he reach for his omega immediately. He felt it in the tightening of his jaw, the restless twitch in his fingers, the sudden, involuntary swell of protectiveness that made the air taste sharp on his tongue. Every instinct he had was telling him to close the distance, to steady Hyunjoon from behind, to pull him out of the crowd and tuck him somewhere warm and quiet until the tremble left his hands.
Touch him. Fix this.
The instincts pulsed again, louder this time, confused and impatient, because Dohyeon wasn’t moving. His body hesitated even as the urge clawed at him. He knew that if he listened to that instinct now—if he put a hand on Hyunjoon’s back or reached for his wrist or even brushed his sleeve—they would both feel it ripple through them, sharp and unmistakable.
But Hyunjoon didn’t look like someone who wanted to be touched.
Not by him.
Not right now.
Because even though Hyunjoon looked exhausted, he also looked guarded—carefully held together in a way that made Dohyeon’s alpha trip over itself in confusion. Usually, Hyunjoon sought him out when he was worn down, softening instantly the moment Dohyeon reached for him. But here, surrounded by staff and cameras and strangers’ eyes, Hyunjoon’s exhaustion had turned inward. His shoulders curved defensively, his gaze stayed low, and he seemed to be trying not to take up space at all.
So Dohyeon forced himself to pull back. He let his hand fall before it could touch Hyunjoon’s back, curling it into a fist at his side instead. His alpha recoiled at the denial, agitated and unsettled, pacing restlessly at the edges of his control as if trying to understand why they weren’t reaching for their omega when he so clearly needed it.
He told himself it was just the cameras. Just the people around them. Just exhaustion. Just a moment.
But the city around them didn’t feel like the beginning of a moment.
It felt like the beginning of something heavy.
Paris was supposed to be beautiful—romantic, even. He remembered the sleepy comment Hyunjoon had made in Berlin about Europe being the place for dates, soft and secretly hopeful in a way that had made Dohyeon want to give him everything. But looking at him now, surrounded by polished marble floors and cold lights and too many watching eyes, nothing about this felt romantic. It didn’t even feel neutral.
Hyunjoon walked ahead, unaware of the storm inside Dohyeon or the way his alpha strained toward him with restless, frustrated urgency. And Dohyeon followed, helpless to do anything else, feeling the space between them widen with each step until the distance felt larger than the few feet separating them in the lobby.
Scrims began barely two hour after they checked into the hotel, and from the very first game it became obvious that Paris would not grant them mercy. Their opponents were WBG, and the aggression hit before the lanes even stabilized.
Bot lane was isolated almost immediately. Vision vanished the second they placed it. Side lanes were punished the moment they appeared on the map.
They lost the first scrim.
Then the second.
Then the third.
The fourth was a different kind of loss. They were close. Painfully, infuriatingly close. With half a second more patience, Hyunjoon’s engage would have cracked the entire fight open. Instead, he went a moment too early and elite teams did not forgive early.
Coach paused the VOD right at the moment of Hyunjoon’s flash, freezing the frame like a spotlight.
“Timing,” he said simply. “We talked about this.”
Hyunjoon nodded with a strange, contained stillness that made something tighten deep in Dohyeon’s chest. There was no spark of irritation, no crease of frustration, not even the faint twitch of someone bracing themselves against criticism.
He just nodded and kept his eyes fixed on the frozen champion model on the screen, holding perfectly still as if his body understood something he refused to voice.
The pressure in Dohyeon’s ribs started low and slow, then grew, tightening with every second Hyunjoon refused to move. He wanted to step in. To say something. To absorb some of the weight. But he didn’t know how to help when Hyunjoon had folded inward so quietly, so efficiently, that even words felt like they might bruise him.
He tried anyway.
During the break, he walked over and handed Hyunjoon a water bottle. His fingers brushed the small of Hyunjoon’s back, warm and steady, hoping that it would reach him.
“You’re fine,” he murmured, keeping his voice soft. “It’s just WBG. They do this to everyone.”
Hyunjoon nodded, barely looking up. “I know.”
But the way he said it—flat, quiet, devoid of the spark that made him who he was—made a sharp ache settle on the alpha’s chest.
And unlike what he thought, Dohyeon wasn’t the only one who noticed.
Wangho hovered nearby, leaning against the table with a posture that looked relaxed to anyone who didn’t know him. But Dohyeon caught the subtle signs; the way Wangho’s gaze lingered on Hyunjoon’s hands, the slight narrowing of his eyes at Hyunjoon’s too-calm expression, the small sigh he exhaled when Hyunjoon forced a tight smile in response to something Geonwoo said across the room.
Wangho had been with Hyunjoon long enough to read him like an open book. And he recognized this version of him instantly—the quiet, inward collapse Hyunjoon only showed when he was very tired or very scared.
Without saying anything, the older omega moved closer and nudged a packet of honeyed ginger tea onto Hyunjoon’s desk.
“Helps with nerves,” he said lightly. “And your throat gets dry easily because of the AC.”
Hyunjoon blinked, surprised, then offered a small nod. “Thanks, hyung.”
Wangho didn’t push. He didn’t hover or forced a conversation. He simply clapped Hyunjoon’s shoulder once and stepped back to give him space.
But something in Hyunjoon’s posture eased. Barely. Just enough that Dohyeon saw his shoulders drop the slightest bit, like some tiny thread of tension had loosened because someone else had acknowledged the weight he was carrying.
Wangho caught Dohyeon’s eyes for a moment across the room; an unspoken question and confirmation both.
Dohyeon nodded once.
Wangho looked relieved for half a second before he returned to his notes, but the worry never left his face.
And that told Dohyeon that whatever was happening with Hyunjoon wasn’t just in his head.
Something was slipping.
Something was wrong.
And it was getting harder and harder to pretend otherwise.
Their next scrim block that afternoon didn’t offer any relief. If anything, it made everything worse. Their macro fell out of rhythm in ways that felt uncharacteristic. Vision control slipped. Objective setups were a second behind no matter how hard they tried to reset their tempo. Everyone was exhausted, everyone frustrated, and the room carried that exhaustion like a thick, unmoving fog.
Hyunjoon died on a flank he should have executed flawlessly, a sequence he’d landed perfectly hundreds of times. On another day, he would’ve joked it off, or at least exhaled in exasperation. But when he called the reset, his voice wasn’t angry or apologetic. It was thin, stretched to the point of fraying.
Even Hwanjoong—normally the loudest voice in the room—went quiet between games, eyes down, hands fidgeting with his mouse cable. Wangho drank water like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. Geonwoo had his head tilted back, barely blinking, like even thinking was too much effort.
The whole room felt tired, but for Dohyeon the tiredness sat differently. It was sharper, heavier. It pressed into his ribs like something he could physically feel, and by the time the third game of the block ended, he finally understood what it was:
Fear.
Not fear of losing.
Not fear of their performance.
Fear of losing Hyunjoon to something Dohyeon couldn’t name.
Hyunjoon wasn’t bouncing back from mistakes the way he usually did. The spark he carried—the one that made him sharp and clever and quietly playful even under pressure—flickered every time he lowered his head to review notes. He didn’t tease Dohyeon once at all. Didn’t nudge him with a shoulder on the way to their room. Didn’t catch his eye across the table the way he always had back home, sharing silent jokes in the middle of stress.
Instead, he sat still with both hands rubbed together like he couldn’t get warm, his eyes fixed on draft notes with a kind of desperate intensity. Every time coach asked a question, he answered with clipped, empty yeses or okays. Nothing that sounded like him at all.
And every time Dohyeon looked over, he realized with a slow, sinking ache that Hyunjoon wasn’t already looking back.
When the final scrim ended and coach dismissed them for a short break, the team trickled out of the room like they were carrying stones in their pockets. Dohyeon lingered near the door, waiting for Hyunjoon to fall into step beside him the way he always did.
But Hyunjoon didn’t move.
He stayed seated at his desk, fingers hovering over his mouse, gaze lowered toward the client screen in front of him.
“Joonie?” Dohyeon asked gently, keeping his voice low enough not to startle him. “We’re on break.”
Hyunjoon blinked slowly, as if the words were delayed in reaching him. He swallowed once, then shook his head just slightly.
“I’m… I’m going to do some solo queue,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Just for a bit. I need to fix something.”
Dohyeon felt the knot in his chest tighten. “You should rest. We have one more block tonighy.”
“I will,” Hyunjoon said, but the answer came too quickly, too automatically, the way people reply when they don’t want to refuse outright. His mouse clicked, summoning the login screen with practiced efficiency. “I just… I need to clear my head.”
Wangho, standing behind them with a bottle of water still in hand, looked between the two of them. His expression softened for a moment—something sad, something knowing—and he placed the bottle gently on Hyunjoon’s desk.
“Don’t push too hard,” the older omega said quietly, in a brotherly tone only he ever used with Hyunjoon.
Hyunjoon acknowledged him with a faint nod, but his eyes were already drawn back to the screen, to the one place where he still felt he had control.
Dohyeon watched the way Hyunjoon’s shoulders curled inward, the way stress seemed to coil around him like a second skin. He watched him lock in a champion with a speed that didn’t look like confidence but desperation. He watched him isolate himself—not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t know what else to do.
And Dohyeon stood there, helpless, feeling the distance widen further.
He wanted to reach out.
Wanted to tell him to stop.
Wanted to pull him close until everything just stopped.
But all he managed was a quiet, strained, “I’ll be back soon.”
Hyunjoon didn’t look up as he replied, “Okay.”
And somehow, that one word hurt more than any scrim loss that day.
The morning of their BLG match felt strangely quiet. Not peaceful. But quiet in the way hospital corridors were quiet, humming with nerves beneath too-bright lights. Even with coaches reviewing last-minute notes and analysts flipping through drafts, the room felt muted around the edges, like everyone was bracing for impact.
Dohyeon should have been listening. He should have been going through the prep checklist, warming his hands, syncing comms. But his focus kept pulling toward Hyunjoon, who sat hunched slightly forward in his chair, staring at the draft sheet as though the words were slipping out of focus every time he blinked.
His hands were clasped loosely between his knees. His leg bounced once, twice, then stopped abruptly when he exhaled like he was trying to steady himself.
Dohyeon moved toward him without thinking, stopping just behind his chair.
“Joonie,” he murmured, soft enough that only Hyunjoon could hear. “Look at me.”
Hyunjoon blinked up, obedient but tired, and Dohyeon felt something twist painfully under his ribs. There was a dullness in Hyunjoon’s eyes that had no right to be there. Not in someone who usually carried fire even on his worst days.
“Hey,” Dohyeon said gently, lowering himself a little so they were eye level. “Nervous?”
“Kinda.”
“Breathe. You’re alright.”
Hyunjoon swallowed, nodding once. “I’m trying.”
“I know you are.” Dohyeon let his voice soften in a way he reserved only for him. “And you don’t have to pretend you’re doing fine. Not with me.”
Hyunjoon’s fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure he should. It was the smallest gesture, but Dohyeon caught it immediately.
And something in him finally snapped.
Not in anger, but in resolve.
For days he had held back, respecting distance, pretending he didn’t notice Hyunjoon slipping inch by inch into himself. He told himself to stay professional. To avoid touching too much. To give Hyunjoon space.
But standing there, watching his omega fold in on himself on the morning of the biggest match of their year…
Enough was enough.
Dohyeon reached first.
Slow, deliberate, certain, he slid his hand under Hyunjoon’s, their palms meeting in a quiet press of warmth. Not hidden, but not obvious either. Just close enough for Hyunjoon to feel him. Just close enough that anyone in the room could see if they looked.
He didn’t care.
Hyunjoon let out a breath that trembled at the edges. “I don’t want to mess up today.”
“You won’t.” Dohyeon spoke with a certainty he didn’t have to force. “And even if something goes wrong, we’ll be okay.”
Hyunjoon looked down at their hands, then up again, and this time his smile—small, shaky as it was—looked real. “You always say the right thing.”
“That’s because I know you,” Dohyeon murmured, brushing his thumb once across Hyunjoon’s knuckles. “Better than anyone.”
Hyunjoon breathed in slowly, then nodded. “Okay.”
For the first time all week, some color returned to his face.
Before Dohyeon could say more, staff called out for headsets.
The moment snapped.
Hyunjoon squeezed his hand once—quick, intentional, grateful—before pulling away.
Dohyeon let him go, even though every instinct in him wanted to hold on just a second longer.
They stood, chairs scraping against the floor, voices rising, the match rushing toward them.
But Hyunjoon walked to the stage with his shoulders a little straighter.
And for Dohyeon, that was enough to make the weight in his chest lift—just slightly, just for now—like they were still holding hands in a way no one else could see.
The games themselves blurred into colors and noise.
Not even memories. Just… impressions. Pings exploding across the map. Casters’ voices rising. Crowd reactions swelling and collapsing like waves behind glass.
None of it felt real to Dohyeon.
BLG pressed them from every angle; fast, disciplined, suffocating. It wasn’t that HLE played poorly; it was that BLG played like a team who had already lived inside this matchup a hundred times and knew exactly where to cut.
Every small win they earned slipped like water through their fingers. Every attempt at tempo felt one breath too slow, as if they were always arriving just after the door had closed.
Hyunjoon tried so hard. Dohyeon could hear it in the strain of his breathing, in the tightness of his calls, in the way he kept pushing forward even when hesitation had begun to carve itself into his play. He tried, and tried, and tried…
But Worlds doesn’t reward effort.
It rewards precision.
And precision was the one thing Hyunjoon no longer had.
Dohyeon played his heart out too. He clung to skirmishes that should have been lost, dragged fights back from the brink, bought seconds, bought vision, bought any sliver of possibility he could pry open. But every map felt slightly tilted, slightly off-axis, like the universe had decided the win condition did not belong to them today.
When their nexus finally shattered, the sound wasn’t even loud.
It was soft, a quiet finality beneath the roar of a crowd cheering for someone else. BLG stood, smiling, shaking hands. HLE stayed seated for a long moment, headsets heavy in their hands.
Silence.
Thick.
Suffocating.
A silence that felt like it had been waiting for them since Berlin.
Hyunjoon removed his headset slowly, almost gingerly, as though the wrong movement might split him in half. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. His breathing stayed tight and shallow. He didn’t look at anyone.
Not once.
Not even at Dohyeon.
Backstage, the world became muffled. Everything existed far away; fans screaming, staff giving directions, the thud of equipment being packed into cases. None of it reached him properly. Dohyeon walked with the team, but he felt as if he were a step behind his own body, like someone else was guiding his movements while his mind floated somewhere just out of reach.
HLE’s waiting room swallowed them whole.
Wangho sat first; hard, sudden, like his legs couldn’t hold him anymore. He braced his elbows on his knees and covered his face with both hands. His shoulders shook once, only once, before he forced himself still. Not because he wasn’t hurting, but because he didn’t want to add weight to the room.
Hwanjoong paced short, tight circles. His eyes were glassy, his lower lip trembling each time he muttered under his breath, “We were so close. We were so fucking close…” His fist tapped restlessly against his thigh, over and over.
Geonwoo slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, head leaned back, blinking too fast. He wasn’t crying… but he was one breath away from it.
The coaches spoke quietly in the corner, words meant to soothe or stabilize, but they felt weightless in the air. They didn’t land anywhere.
And Hyunjoon…
Hyunjoon hadn’t moved since they came in.
He still stood by his chair, mouse dangling uselessly from his hand, fingers trembling around the shape of it. His posture was stiff, his gaze unfocused. He looked like he was bracing himself for someone to tell him what he already believed: This was his fault.
The sight of him should have jolted Dohyeon into action, should have stirred every protective instinct in him until he crossed the room without thinking. But Dohyeon stood frozen just a few steps away, numbness spreading through him like frost.
He watched Hyunjoon the way one watches a distant ship sink—horrified, helpless, rooted to the spot.
When Hyunjoon finally lifted his head, the expression in his eyes made something inside Dohyeon drop, heavy and sick, to the bottom of his stomach.
Not anger.
Not even sadness.
Defeat.
Deep, hollow defeat.
The kind that came from blaming yourself long before anyone else had the chance to.
Hyunjoon looked at him like he expected disappointment.
Like he was preparing for it.
Like he thought it was deserved.
Dohyeon’s numbness cracked, pain rushing in sharp and immediate, but his body still didn’t move. His hands stayed at his sides. His throat stayed closed. His feet stayed planted on the ground.
He wanted to reach for him.
He wanted to take Hyunjoon’s shaking hand, to pull him into his chest, to tell him none of this was on him, not a single part.
But he didn’t.
And worst of all… Hyunjoon looked like the slightest touch would make him fall apart completely.
Dohyeon did nothing. Said nothing.
And the silence hanging between them grew heavy enough to swallow him whole.
He didn’t feel the loss until that moment. Until the space between him and Hyunjoon became a wound.
And by then, it was already too late to stop the bleeding.
Dohyeon didn’t know what made him ask.
They were back in the hotel after the BLG loss, the hallways too quiet, the air too heavy, their teammates walking ahead of them like ghosts. Coach Inkyu had dismissed them early, saying they’d review again in the morning. Even he looked shaken.
Hyunjoon walked beside Dohyeon with his hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn in tightly, eyes fixed on the carpet like he was afraid to look anywhere else. His face was calm in the way that wasn’t calm at all.
Dohyeon watched him for a moment too long, and something in his chest simply gave way.
“Do you… want to go out?” he asked quietly.
Hyunjoon blinked, startled, finally lifting his eyes. “Out? Now?”
“Yeah.” Dohyeon cleared his throat, feeling strangely unsteady. “Just us. Maybe to get some fresh air?”
There was a pause where he thought Hyunjoon would say no—that he’d be too tired, too upset, too worn down by the day to move at all. But then Hyunjoon exhaled softly and nodded.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
They didn’t tell the team. They didn’t need to. They slipped out of the hotel the moment the hallway cleared, stepping into a Paris night that felt strangely hollow. Cold air brushing past them like the city itself was trying to keep its distance. Their jackets were zipped up to their chins, each breath a small cloud disappearing into the dark.
They walked without speaking, but the silence wasn’t tense or sharp. It was heavy with everything they weren’t saying, everything they were too tired or too afraid to voice.
The Eiffel Tower came into view slowly, first as a glimmer between buildings, then as a towering, shimmering presence that washed the street in gold. The river reflected it in soft broken lines, each ripple catching light like scattered fragments of something beautiful and fragile.
Hyunjoon lifted his head at the sight, just barely, enough for the glow to fall across his face.
And Dohyeon felt the bitterness rise.
Slow, aching, impossible to swallow.
A bitterness born from love and longing and the sharp unfairness of it all.
Because Hyunjoon should have been beautiful here for a different reason.
He should have been glowing from a win, flushed with adrenaline, teasing Dohyeon about dragging him out for a date in Paris when they were supposed to be “serious competitors.”
He should have been smiling under these lights, real and warm, with the little crinkle at the corner of his eyes that always undid Dohyeon.
Instead, Hyunjoon stood under the golden shimmer looking carved out of exhaustion—delicate at the edges, weighed down in a way that dimmed what should have been pure light.
And it struck Dohyeon with a dull, unbearable ache.
He could have carried this moment forever if it belonged to joy.
If Hyunjoon’s smile tonight wasn’t thin and trembling.
If the grief of the loss wasn’t clinging to him like a second skin.
The contrast of it—the breathtaking city, the softening lights, the boy beside him who should have been radiant but was instead quietly unraveling—made something in Dohyeon fold inward.
He wanted to memorize Hyunjoon anyway: the way the glow skimmed his cheekbones, the clean line of his profile against the shimmering tower behind them.
Beautiful.
Too beautiful for a night like this.
Hyunjoon slowed when they reached the bridge and leaned on the railing, the lights pooling around him like a cruel reminder of what the moment could have been.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.
The word was soft, but the crack at the end of it felt like a fracture running straight through both of them.
Dohyeon stepped beside him, close enough for their sleeves to brush, but he didn’t reach out. Not yet.
For a breath, the wind shifted and the tower flared brighter behind Hyunjoon, illuminating him in a way that made Dohyeon’s heart stutter.
He would have been breathtaking tonight—radiant, playful, glowing with the warmth that always made Dohyeon feel dangerously lucky—if the world hadn’t crushed him first.
And the bitterness of that truth settled in Dohyeon’s chest like something sharp and unwelcome.
Hyunjoon deserved a beautiful Paris.
Not this one.
“Joonie,” Dohyeon said softly, stepping a little closer. “About today…”
“It’s fine.” Hyunjoon’s reply was too quick, too sharp around the edges. “It’s just another loss.”
“It wasn’t just another loss,” Dohyeon whispered. “Not for you.”
Hyunjoon swallowed, eyes fixed on the Eiffel Tower as it flickered gold in the distance. The light gilded the outline of his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know what I did wrong.”
“That’s not—”
“I know exactly where it went wrong. If I had just waited—if I didn’t hesitate—” His breath stuttered, the rest of the sentence folding in on itself as he forced everything back down.
Dohyeon had never hated silence until now.
He reached out slowly, letting his palm settle between Hyunjoon’s shoulders.
The moment he touched him, Hyunjoon sagged—barely, but enough for Dohyeon to feel how desperately he’d been holding himself upright.
“I wanted today to be different,” Hyunjoon whispered. His fingers curled against the railing. “I wanted… I don’t know. Something good. Something to prove that I’m not a failure.”
“You’re not a failure.”
Hyunjoon let out a short, humorless breath. “Then why does it feel like I am?”
Dohyeon had no answer. Not one he trusted himself to say out loud. So he stayed there instead—his hand warm on Hyunjoon’s back, the Eiffel Tower shimmering softly like a cruel contrast to the ache settling between them.
Hyunjoon finally turned toward him.
He didn’t cry, but his eyes shone with a kind of quiet heartbreak that Dohyeon had never seen on him before.
“I thought Paris would feel different from Berlin,” Hyunjoon murmured. “Isn’t this supposed to be the city of love?”
“It is,” Dohyeon whispered.
“Then why does everything hurt so much?”
Dohyeon stepped even closer without thinking; close enough that their foreheads nearly touched, close enough that he could feel Hyunjoon’s unsteady breath on his lips, close enough that he could pretend for a moment the distance between them wasn’t widening with every heartbeat.
“Because we’re tired,” he said quietly. “Because Worlds is cruel. Because you’re carrying too much. Because I didn’t help you the way I should have.”
Hyunjoon’s eyes fell shut as his breath trembled. “…That’s not true.”
“It is true,” Dohyeon murmured.
“I’m trying,” Hyunjoon whispered, voice thin and breaking. “I’m trying so hard, Dohyeon-ah.”
“I know,” Dohyeon said, the words cracking on the way out. “I see you.”
Something inside Hyunjoon broke then as he leaned into Dohyeon’s shoulder. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, like surrendering to gravity. Like he needed to rest somewhere before he shattered.
Dohyeon wrapped an arm around him carefully. Gently. As if Hyunjoon might slip right through him if he held too tightly.
Under the golden lights of Paris, they stayed like that. Two silhouettes clinging to each other while the rest of the world moved on without them. A moment that should have been romantic, soft, unforgettable. But instead, it felt like trying to steady something that was already beginning to give way.
And Dohyeon realized, with a terror so sharp it stole his breath, that this night wasn’t going to end well.
When Hyunjoon finally straightened, it was slow, careful, as if even moving too quickly might shake something loose inside him. His hand slid from the railing, fingers trembling faintly.
“Dohyeon,” he whispered.
Just his name. Nothing soft attached to it.
Dohyeon’s stomach dropped. “…Yeah?”
Hyunjoon stared at the tower for a long, painful moment before he spoke again. When the words came, they were quiet but filled with an irreversible weight.
“I don’t think… I can keep going like this.”
Dohyeon inhaled sharply. “Today was hard, but tomorrow—”
“No.” Hyunjoon shook his head quickly, almost frantically. “I don’t mean the games, or Worlds.
He looked straight at him then, and his voice cracked fully.
“I mean us.”
The world kept going—the tower sparkled, cars rolled across the bridge, people laughed somewhere far behind them—but Dohyeon felt everything inside him crash to a standstill.
“Us?” he echoed.
Hyunjoon’s voice broke. “I don’t think we should be together.”
Something tore inside Dohyeon
“Why?” he asked, even though he wasn’t sure he could breathe anymore.
“I’m drowning, Dohyeon,” Hyunjoon whispered. “And I’m pulling you under with me.”
“That’s not—”
“It is.”
Hyunjoon’s eyes glistened painfully. “Do you know what they used to say about me and Jihoon? That I was the reason he couldn’t win. That Chovy would’ve gotten his championship if he wasn’t stuck carrying me. They said I was dead weight. The anchor tied to his ankles.”
Dohyeon felt himself go still.
“And today…” Hyunjoon choked on the words. “When I messed up and I saw your face in review—when I felt you holding back because you didn’t want to hurt me—it felt exactly the same. Like I’m going to be the reason Viper never wins Worlds again.”
Dohyeon flinched, barely, but Hyunjoon saw it.
“And I can’t let that happen,” Hyunjoon whispered. “Not again. Not to you.”
He wiped at his face with the back of his hand even though the tears kept coming. “You deserve a stronger teammate. You deserve an omega who doesn’t crumble, who doesn’t make you carry twice the weight just because you care about him.”
“Hyunjoon—”
“If we keep going like this,” Hyunjoon continued, voice tight with grief, “I’m terrified you’ll start resenting me too. Even if you don’t mean to. Like Jihoon did.”
Dohyeon reached for him instinctively but Hyunjoon stepped back, just far enough that their fingers didn’t meet.
His inner alpha recoiled as if struck, a furious, wounded snarl curling hot beneath his ribs. It wanted to close the space, to refuse the distance Hyunjoon was trying to create, but Dohyeon’s human heart was breaking too loudly for his instincts to speak over.
“Luckily…” Hyunjoon whispered, a single sob slipping free. “Luckily we’re not officially mated yet, right? At least this way, I can leave before I ruin you too.”
It felt like the ground dropped out from under Dohyeon.
“Don’t say that,” he managed, voice trembling.
Hyunjoon looked at him with devastation carved into every soft line of his face. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much. But love isn’t helping us anymore. Love isn’t fixing me. It’s just making me scared of every mistake. Scared of hurting you. Scared of dragging you down with me.” His voice cracked again. “And I can’t do that to you. I won’t.”
“Joonie—please—”
“If you ask me to stay,” Hyunjoon whispered, stepping back, “I will. And then I’ll take you down with me all over again.”
Dohyeon felt his breath falter, collapsing in on itself. “Hyunjoon… don’t go.”
Hyunjoon sobbed, small, tight, heartbreaking. “I have to.”
He turned.
He didn’t look back.
Not even once.
One step.
Then another.
Each one sounding like something inside Dohyeon tearing cleanly apart.
The Eiffel Tower glittered above them, bright and indifferent, the perfect symbol of a love story they weren’t allowed to keep.
Paris was supposed to be the city of love.
But under its lights, Dohyeon realized it had also become the city where he lost his.