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The sound hit him first — the overlapping noise of New York in winter, loud and alive and unapologetically itself. Car horns bleated in irritated rhythm; street vendors shouted over each other as if volume alone could guarantee survival; tourists wove in loose, chaotic patterns across the sidewalks, their laughter rising like warm breath into the glow of streetlights. Snow drifted down through it all, softening the edges of a city that rarely allowed itself softness. It clung to Jeonghan’s windshield like a thin veil, melting almost immediately under the persistent hum of the defroster.
Jeonghan tightened one hand on the steering wheel and adjusted his scarf with the other, tugging the wool higher against the biting cold. He had been driving up and down this same stretch of Midtown for nearly half an hour now, circling blocks that blurred together in neon and holiday lights. The sky was the color of steel; the hour had just struck six, and New York looked like it was bracing itself for the electric chaos of New Year’s Eve.
And Jeonghan was exactly where sixteen-year-old him had always fantasized he would be one day — here, in this city that pulsed with possibility, on the last night of the year, chasing the version of a dream he had carried for more than half his life.
He had flown in just yesterday, dropping his bags into a small but modern Airbnb he’d booked months in advance — a unit perched only a minute’s walk from Times Square. Perfect placement for the countdown he had wanted to witness not from the freezing crush of the streets but from the balcony, elevated above the chaos yet close enough to feel it vibrate through his bones. It was one of his bucket-list desires, the kind that felt both whimsical and strangely sacred.
This trip wasn’t just a getaway.
It was the beginning of something bigger.
His plan for the year — maybe the next few years — was a long, sprawling road trip across America, state by state, until he’d collected all fifty like stamps in a passport. New York was merely his first stop, the gateway into a long-held dream of freedom he’d never quite been brave enough to reach for until now.
But right now, stuck in holiday traffic on December 31st, bravery felt like patience. An annoyingly finite, dwindling patience.
He exhaled sharply when yet another car slipped into the spot he had been eyeing. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered to himself, forehead knocking lightly against the steering wheel. His rental car — a slightly overachieving sedan he’d chosen for the promise of long drives — beeped a warning as it edged too close to the car in front.
Finally, after another loop around the block, fate relented. A narrow but legal space opened up two buildings away from his Airbnb. Jeonghan pulled in with a relief so profound it felt like a small victory, then cut the engine and let silence settle for a moment.
He stepped out into the crisp air and stretched his back, watching the snow swirl under the streetlights. Across the street, a large convenience store glowed like a beacon — bright, bustling, promising warmth and the ingredients he needed for the quiet celebration he planned.
A mini charcuterie, he thought as he crossed the street. Maybe some cheese, crackers, grapes if he could find any. And a bottle of wine — something sweet, something easy, something that would pair well with counting down the final seconds of the year alone on a balcony overlooking Times Square.
The automatic doors parted, releasing a swirl of warm air tinged with the scent of instant noodles and newly mopped floors. The store was packed — people grabbing last-minute party snacks, plastic cups, forgotten ingredients, batteries, confetti poppers. The chaotic energy was almost comforting in a way that reminded him of busy Seoul convenience stores at fifteen minutes to midnight during exam weeks.
He gave the security guard a polite nod and pulled a basket from the stack before weaving into the aisles. His breath eased a little. This — the small, mundane task of choosing food — grounded him.
Scanning the cold cuts section, he debated between two types of prosciutto. His fingers hovered over the plastic packaging when something — a sound — cut cleanly through the crowded noise of the store.
A laugh.
It wasn't loud. It wasn’t even close to him. But it threaded through the noise with a tone so familiar it tugged something deep inside his chest taut.
He blinked, shoulders tensing.
That’s not possible.
He shook his head. Laughs could sound similar. Memory played tricks. Ten years was a long time; he wasn’t the same person anymore, so why would his memories be?
But then it came again — a second laugh, closer this time, warmer, deepened by age but unmistakable in its cadence, in the way it dipped at the end.
And Jeonghan’s heart lurched.
No.
No, it couldn’t be—
His pulse tripled, a frantic, uneven beat that made his fingers go numb. The cold cuts forgotten, he lifted his gaze slowly, terrified and hopeful in equal measure, breath caught somewhere between his ribs.
He turned.
And there he was.
Choi Seungcheol.
The man whose name had been carved into him like something permanent.
His first love.
His first home.
His first heartbreak.
Ten years older now, ten years changed — but unmistakably him.
And just like that, the world around Jeonghan fell away, leaving only the sound of snow melting outside and the hollow echo of a decade folding in on itself.
Jeonghan’s hand flew to his chest before he even realized he was doing it.
For a split second, his pulse felt as if it had been knocked loose from its rhythm — stuttering, stumbling, trying to outrun the moment unfolding in front of him.
Because it couldn’t be real.
It couldn’t be him.
Seungcheol — in New York?
In the same convenience store, at the same hour, on the same night?
Jeonghan’s brain rejected it outright, but his body recognized the truth before reason caught up. His fingers curled around the fabric over his heart, gripping tight, as if he could physically hold himself together.
He almost convinced himself it was just shock, just coincidence, just auditory resemblance. But then he heard it again — that voice, warm and rounded at the vowels, English colored by a soft Korean-American lilt he had adored at sixteen and kissed into familiarity at twenty.
And suddenly, memories flooded him without mercy.
Late-night phone calls under blankets.
Bus rides where they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing earbuds.
Seungcheol waiting outside his classroom with hot chocolate in winter.
Their cramped first apartment overflowing with mismatched furniture and too much love.
The last New Year’s Eve they spent together — the one that ended everything.
Jeonghan squeezed his eyes shut as if pressure alone could stop the reel from playing.
Ten years had passed since the breakup.
They had been sixteen when they met, twenty when they moved in together, twenty-four when everything fell apart. A decade between then and now — ten years without a single run-in, without a single message beyond an obligatory birthday greeting in their shared friend group. Ten years of distance stretching so wide it had started to feel permanent.
But none of it mattered in this moment, not when that laugh — that exact laugh — drifted through the aisle again.
Jeonghan gulped, throat suddenly dry.
No. No, he needed to leave. If he walked away now, he could pretend this never happened. He could protect whatever fragile balance he’d built over the years.
He turned, ready to slip toward another aisle, ready to disappear—
“H— Jeonghan?”
His name.
Soft. Disbelieving. Familiar in a way that made his knees feel unsteady.
Jeonghan stopped.
Closed his eyes.
Exhaled a sigh that trembled at the edges — resignation, nostalgia, fear, all tangled together.
He turned around.
And there he was, framed between shelves of snacks and overpriced holiday candy:
Choi Seungcheol, standing still, eyes slightly widened, surprise spilling across his features like he’d seen a ghost he never thought he’d meet again.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then Jeonghan managed a small, cautious smile — the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes — and raised a hand in a stiff little wave.
“…Seungcheol.”
He hadn’t taken a single step toward him. Couldn’t. His feet felt rooted to the floor.
But Seungcheol moved first.
With absolutely no hesitation — none — he broke into the kind of smile Jeonghan hadn’t seen in a decade, bright and sincere and boyish enough to punch the air right out of Jeonghan’s lungs. And then, before Jeonghan could brace himself—
Seungcheol wrapped him in a hug.
A full-bodied, arms-around-his-back, warm-and-real embrace that smelled like winter air and the faintest hint of cologne Jeonghan used to steal when they were younger.
“Jeonghan! What in the world—? Long time no see!”
Jeonghan’s entire body froze. Completely.
His arms hovered uselessly, his breath trapped somewhere in his throat, his heart slamming hard enough to bruise.
And Seungcheol must have felt it — the stillness, the shock — because he released him instantly, stepping back with a small, apologetic smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Sorry,” he said softly.
“No, no—” Jeonghan blinked rapidly, hands lifting as if to wave off the awkwardness. “It’s not— you don’t have to worry. I’m just… shocked. Really shocked.”
A breathless truth.
Relief flickered through Seungcheol’s expression, and his dimples appeared — those dimples that had once been Jeonghan’s weakness, the ones he used to poke when Seungcheol pouted.
“I can’t believe we’re seeing each other here,” Seungcheol said lightly, glancing around the bustling store as if to emphasize the absurdity. “New York, of all places.”
Jeonghan nodded, smiling because it was expected, even though the moment felt too surreal to process. His mind kept looping back — this is really him. This is really happening. After ten years.
Words tangled on his tongue, refusing to form, until Seungcheol nudged him gently with an elbow.
“Hey,” he murmured. “Hannie. No need to be nervous or awkward around me. I’m just Seungcheol.”
Jeonghan let out an awkward, startled laugh.
Just Seungcheol.
Just the person who shattered him and shaped him.
Just the first love who never fully left his chest even when the relationship did.
Just Seungcheol, his first and last ex — standing three feet away in a convenience store in New York.
He swallowed hard, forcing a smile.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I… don’t know what to say.”
Seungcheol chuckled — a soft, rosy sound — before looking at him more closely, more intently, eyes scanning his face like reacquainting himself with something he used to know by heart.
“Do you…” he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, “want to get dinner? I mean, only if you want to. I don’t want to force—”
“Let’s cook,” Jeonghan cut in gently, surprising even himself. “Restaurants are going to be packed tonight anyway.”
For a brief moment, Seungcheol’s expression lit up like the flash of a firework — bright, warm, quietly hopeful.
“Okay,” he said, smile stretching wider.
Then, with old instinct slipping through like a crack in time, he reached forward and grabbed Jeonghan’s shopping basket.
Just took it right out of his hands, smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Jeonghan stood there, stunned yet again, wondering —
Did Seungcheol only take the basket?
Or did he take Jeonghan’s heart all over again in the same breath?
It was awkward at first — unbearably so.
What else could it be when you were planning dinner with someone you hadn’t seen, hadn’t spoken to, hadn’t even allowed yourself to think about for ten years?
The silence between them wasn’t empty, though. It was heavy, like something folded carefully and stored away long ago, now being pulled open in the middle of a convenience store.
Jeonghan forced himself to breathe, to move, to not bolt out of the building like a startled deer. He watched Seungcheol walk ahead toward the drinks section with the basket swinging casually from his hand — a motion so familiar it tugged at the edges of memories Jeonghan had carefully buried.
“Let’s stack up on red wine,” Seungcheol said over his shoulder, tone light and practical. “We can drink it… and also use it for the steak.”
Jeonghan nodded, humming in agreement as he followed, trying to stop overthinking every step he took.
When they reached the wine aisle, both reached for the same bottle at the exact same time — fingers brushing the same label, the same deep crimson glass. They both paused. Looked at each other.
And then, for the first time that night, laughed genuinely.
“The same one,” Seungcheol said, almost in disbelief.
“Yeah…” Jeonghan’s voice faltered, softening. “We used to always get this one.”
A small, wistful smile tugged at Seungcheol’s mouth before he added the bottle to the basket. Then another. And another.
“We’ll need more cheese,” Jeonghan said, clearing his throat. “And cold cuts. Grapes too — for the charcuterie.”
“And,” Seungcheol added, glancing at him with the ease of someone slipping into an old rhythm, “we can make your favorite feta and rucola salad.”
Jeonghan froze for half a heartbeat.
He remembers?
Of course he remembers.
Just as Jeonghan remembered every small thing about him.
The store lights flickered overhead. The noise of shuffling carts and chatter faded into something distant. For a moment, it felt as if time folded, decades collapsing into an aisle of red wine and nostalgia.
Their grocery trip remained awkward in parts — hesitant smiles, fingers brushing accidentally-but-not-accidentally — yet strangely calm, strangely natural. A familiarity threaded through every action, even when neither acknowledged it.
When they paid and stepped outside into the cold, Seungcheol immediately took all the bags, the handles digging into the crooks of his fingers like muscle memory.
“Where to?” he asked.
“My Airbnb’s just two blocks away,” Jeonghan answered. “Booked it for the countdown.”
“Oh, really?” Seungcheol brightened. “My place is near here too.”
That surprised him. Though, maybe it shouldn’t have. New York had always been on Seungcheol’s list of dream cities as well.
They decided — wordlessly, naturally — to head to Jeonghan’s place to cook.
Jeonghan’s heartbeat thudded too loudly with every step.
Inside the Airbnb, warm air enveloped them. Seungcheol placed the grocery bags on the kitchen island, sleeves pulling back just enough for Jeonghan to catch glimpses of forearms that somehow managed to look the same and different all at once.
He didn’t change, Jeonghan thought. Not where it mattered.
He still moved around a kitchen like he owned it — comfortable, steady, in control.
Ten years gone, and Seungcheol was still the one who instinctively took charge between them.
“Let me take your jacket and backpack,” Jeonghan said, needing something — anything — to do so he didn’t fall apart watching Seungcheol wash his hands at the sink.
Seungcheol smiled at him, soft and genuine, and slipped out of his coat. Jeonghan took it, holding the weight of it like something fragile, something important.
Minutes passed with only the sound of chopping and the occasional clink of utensils. The atmosphere settled into something quiet but… warm. Familiar in ways Jeonghan didn’t dare examine too closely.
He sat on the bar stool, watching as Seungcheol sliced vegetables, marinated the steak, moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
Jeonghan swallowed the lump forming in his throat and finally spoke.
“So… how have you been?”
His voice was casual, but his heart wasn’t.
Seungcheol glanced over his shoulder, a small smile forming. “Good. Busy. Surviving life, I guess. What about you?”
“About the same.”
Jeonghan tapped the countertop lightly with his fingers. “Where are you working now? Still at that architectural firm?”
“Oh— no, not anymore.” Seungcheol wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, leaning slightly against the counter. “I’m a senior architect now. With an international firm in Seoul.”
Jeonghan blinked, impressed despite himself. “Senior architect? Already? That’s… that’s amazing, Cheol.”
Seungcheol shrugged sheepishly, dimples showing. “Took a while. But yeah. What about you? Still with that law firm from before?”
“Oh— no.” Jeonghan laughed softly. “I’m… actually a senior lawyer now. For Hanmin & Associates.”
Seungcheol’s head snapped up.
“Wait. That Hanmin?”
Jeonghan nodded.
“That’s literally fifteen minutes from my office,” Seungcheol said, eyes widening. “By foot.”
“…Seriously?”
“The universe really went all out to keep us from crossing paths, huh?”
Jeonghan chuckled — surprised, genuine.
“Seems like it.”
Seungcheol opened the first bottle of red wine, the cork popping with a soft sigh. He poured into two glasses, the deep liquid catching the warm kitchen light.
He lifted one, walked it over to Jeonghan, and held it out with a small, almost shy smile.
“For ten years, Jeonghan,” he said quietly.
The words landed heavy.
Warm.
Full of meaning neither dared name.
Jeonghan’s breath trembled as he clinked his glass against Seungcheol’s.
“For ten years,” he echoed — softly, almost like a prayer.
The glasses touched.
And something inside Jeonghan cracked open, slow and inevitable.
Five hours had slipped by without either of them truly noticing.
Time moved strangely around familiarity; it always had. One moment, Seungcheol was plating the last of the charcuterie; the next, the airbnb kitchen was a mosaic of chaos — wine-stained shirts, empty bottles rolling lazily on the floor, a sink overflowing with dishes they promised to wash “in a minute” few hours ago.
The soft amber lights above the counter made everything look warmer than it should be, softer than the history between them suggested, and Jeonghan couldn’t help thinking that the room felt suspended outside of time. Like the years between fifteen and twenty-five were just… a film reel someone had paused for the night.
Their laughter echoed, loud and unrestrained, bouncing off the narrow walls as they leaned into each other for support.
Seungcheol was already wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, his face red from both the wine and the memories.
“God—” he choked out between laughs, “remember when Mingyu slipped in front of Wonwoo while holding the cupcakes for our anniversary?”
Jeonghan burst out laughing again, doubling over on his stool, clutching his empty wine glass as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
“Oh my god, yes! You were furious,” he managed between wheezes, swiping at his own tear-streaked cheeks. “You didn’t talk to him for, what, three days? Because of those cupcakes? He kept offering you lunch as an apology!”
“They were expensive!” Seungcheol protested, slamming his palm on the island dramatically. “And he destroyed them like— like a giant toddler on roller skates.” He laughed again, softer now, nostalgia smoothing the edges of his voice. “But he still won in the end. Look at them now — Mingyu and Wonwoo… thirteen years and counting.”
Jeonghan nodded, still grinning, but there was a shift — tiny but unmistakable. A quiet somewhere beneath the laughter, like the air was waiting for something. He felt it in the way Seungcheol’s smile lingered a little too long. In the way his own heart beat a little too fast. In the way the wine buzz started giving way to truths that had been buried beneath silence and distance for a decade.
The laughter faded in slow ripples, not abruptly, but like a song winding down.
And then there was just... breath. The faint hum of the fridge. The echo of ten years pressing in on all sides.
Jeonghan inhaled slowly, and it trembled on the way out.
He set his empty glass on the counter with a soft clink.
“Seungcheol…” he said, and the name came out fragile, like it had been waiting inside him for years.
When Seungcheol turned to look at him, Jeonghan felt something in his chest twist — familiarity, longing, regret, all tangled into one knot he wasn’t sure he could ever undo.
His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the dim kitchen light.
“What happened to us, Seungcheol?”
The question fell between them like something sacred — or dangerous.
Something they had both avoided for a decade, something they had laughed around, lived around, worked around… but never faced.
And suddenly the wine bottles, the laughter, the reminiscing, the warm kitchen… none of it could soften the ache that surged up now that the words had finally escaped.
- start of flashback -
14 years ago…
The apartment smelled faintly of fresh paint and possibility.
The real estate agent spoke enthusiastically — something about natural light, convenient transit, and “great potential” — but Jeonghan barely heard her. His fingers were laced tightly with Seungcheol’s, both of them standing in the middle of the empty living room like they were afraid the space might disappear if they let go.
It wasn’t big.
The ceilings weren’t particularly high.
The kitchen was narrow, and the bedroom could barely fit a queen-sized bed.
But it was theirs.
“This would be perfect for your age,” the agent said brightly, gesturing toward the balcony. “First place together.”
Seungcheol squeezed Jeonghan’s hand, eyes shining. “We’ll take it.”
They were twenty — fresh graduates still riding the adrenaline of finishing college, still intoxicated by the promise of adulthood. Seungcheol was about to start as a junior architect, already sketching buildings in the margins of every notebook he owned. Jeonghan had law school waiting for him, intimidating and exciting all at once.
They had been together since they were sixteen — through exams, late-night calls, first kisses, and first heartbreaks that weren’t fatal because they had each other. This apartment was part of the dream they had whispered about for years — the tangible proof that love could grow up with them.
With the help of part-time jobs, scraped savings, and quiet parental support, they signed the lease with shaking hands and wide smiles.
Small space.
Big dreams.
The moving process was chaos.
Boxes stacked too high, labeled sloppily in Sharpie. Seungcheol hauling heavy furniture up narrow stairs, shirt sticking to his back with sweat. Jeonghan following behind, scolding him for not resting while gently wiping his forehead with a towel, laughing when Seungcheol stole a kiss mid-complaint.
They slept on the floor the first night — bodies tangled together on a thin mattress, surrounded by half-open boxes, whispering plans into the dark.
“I want to design buildings people feel safe in,” Seungcheol murmured, voice already half-asleep.
“I want to win cases that matter,” Jeonghan replied, tracing circles into Seungcheol’s arm.
They dreamed loudly back then. Fearlessly.
They hung a massive map on the bedroom wall, pinning it crookedly with thumbtacks. Every place they wanted to go — Paris, New York, Tokyo, Santorini — circled in red marker. They stood in front of it like children planning a future too big for the room, promising each other they would visit every destination together.
Mornings became rituals.
Jeonghan woke early no matter how late he’d studied the night before, packing Seungcheol’s lunch with careful precision. He ironed his shirts, fixed his tie with practiced fingers, always finishing with a kiss pressed softly to Seungcheol’s lips.
“Good luck,” he’d whisper, like a blessing.
And Seungcheol never came home empty-handed — always stopping by Jeonghan’s favorite coffee shop, ordering a cinnamon roll and caramel coffee without needing to think. When law school overwhelmed Jeonghan, Seungcheol stayed up with him, reading cases aloud, massaging his shoulders, reminding him that he was capable even when he doubted himself.
Their apartment slowly transformed into a sanctuary.
It held birthdays with mismatched candles, Christmas mornings wrapped in blankets and laughter, New Year’s Eve countdowns shouted too loudly. It became their bubble — a place where the world felt manageable because they faced it together.
They fought sometimes. Of course they did. About chores, money, exhaustion. But they always found their way back to each other, arms wrapping tight, apologies whispered into skin.
On their third New Year’s Eve, fireworks bloomed across the sky as Seungcheol wrapped his arms around Jeonghan from behind on the balcony. Jeonghan intertwined their fingers, red wine warming their hands.
Seungcheol rested his chin on Jeonghan’s shoulder.
Jeonghan leaned back into him and turned, meeting Seungcheol’s gaze — and Seungcheol was already looking at him like he always did, like nothing else existed.
They smiled.
And then Seungcheol kissed him — deep and hopeful and certain.
A promise sealed in fireworks and wine.
Neither of them knew it would be their last year together.
It didn’t arrive like a storm.
It came like erosion.
At first, it was only small things — a missed call here, a forgotten message there. Seungcheol’s phone lighting up face-down on the table while he stayed late at work, sketching revisions he told himself couldn’t wait. Jeonghan reheating dinner alone, convincing himself Seungcheol would walk through the door any minute now.
Minutes turned into hours.
Hours turned into apologies.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Seungcheol would say, loosening his tie, exhaustion weighing down his shoulders.
Jeonghan would nod. Always nod.
Until one night, nodding started to hurt.
Law school hollowed Jeonghan out slowly. The pressure bled into his temper, sharpened his words, turned concern into criticism. He snapped more easily. Seungcheol withdrew more often. The balance they once held so effortlessly tipped, and neither knew how to steady it.
Their kisses became distracted — lips brushing instead of pressing.
Their cuddles turned into backs turned toward opposite walls.
Some nights, Jeonghan lay awake listening to Seungcheol breathe beside him, wondering how two people could feel so close and so unreachable at the same time.
Their apartment — once sacred — grew tense.
Silence settled where laughter used to live.
They started fighting over nothing.
Then everything.
“You’re never here anymore,” Jeonghan said one night, arms crossed, voice trembling despite his effort to keep it calm.
“I’m doing this for us,” Seungcheol shot back, frustration breaking through. “Do you think I want to be at the office all the time?”
“But you choose it,” Jeonghan whispered. “Over me.”
Seungcheol had no answer that didn’t sound like an excuse.
Somewhere along the way, they stopped reaching for each other.
And by the time they noticed, the distance between them felt too wide to cross.
The city outside their window glittered, indifferent to the quiet devastation unfolding inside their apartment.
Jeonghan sat by the window, knees drawn to his chest, staring into the dark like it might offer answers. The room felt hollow, echoing — a space that once held so much warmth now heavy with unsaid truths.
Seungcheol approached slowly, as if afraid the wrong movement might shatter something already fragile. He poured their favorite red wine into two glasses, the deep crimson catching the light like something living.
They didn’t toast.
They didn’t smile.
They drank in silence.
Jeonghan’s hands shook.
“What’s happening to us?” he asked finally, voice barely above a whisper. “When did we… stop being us?”
The words cracked open something in him. A tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek before he could stop it.
Seungcheol reached out immediately, wiping it away with his thumb like he had a thousand times before.
“I don’t know,” Seungcheol admitted, voice rough. “I don’t know how we got here.”
Jeonghan swallowed, throat burning. His lips trembled into a smile that didn’t belong on his face.
“Do you still love me?” he whispered.
The question hung between them — fragile, dangerous.
“I love you,” Seungcheol said.
But love wasn’t enough anymore.
They both heard the hesitation — that infinitesimal pause before the words, the uncertainty threading through them.
Jeonghan closed his eyes.
That was all the answer he needed.
He opened his arms.
Seungcheol stepped into them without hesitation, clutching him like he was drowning. They held each other so tightly it hurt — bodies memorizing the shape of something they were about to lose.
Jeonghan lifted a hand, cupping Seungcheol’s face. Tears gathered in both their eyes, blurring everything.
He kissed Seungcheol’s forehead — slow, reverent, final.
“Go,” Jeonghan whispered. “Keep chasing your dreams. Make yourself proud.”
Seungcheol nodded, swallowing hard. He pressed one last kiss into Jeonghan’s hair, breathing him in like he could carry the memory forever.
They didn’t say goodbye.
They didn’t need to.
Before New Year’s Eve arrived, the apartment was emptied of love and life.
Cold.
Silent.
A home that once held everything — now holding nothing at all.
The walls stayed.
The memories didn’t.
And when the year ended, so did they.
- end of flashback -
The past loosened its grip slowly.
It bled out of them in tears and broken laughter, in empty wine bottles rolling softly across the floor, in hands that trembled too much to hold onto anything but memory. Jeonghan and Seungcheol sat there — older, bruised by time, drunk on nostalgia and red wine — still clutching their empty glasses like anchors, like proof that this moment was real and not another cruel hallucination.
Jeonghan cried first.
Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
His shoulders shook as if something inside him had finally given up the fight. He dragged a trembling hand across his face, tears slipping between his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracked raw. “I’m so sorry, Cheol.”
Seungcheol looked at him — really looked — like he’d been waiting ten years to hear those words.
“I thought it was my fault,” Jeonghan continued, words spilling faster now, desperate. “I thought if I’d been better — less angry, less tired, less… everything — we wouldn’t have fallen apart.”
He laughed weakly, tears still falling.
“I never reached out. Not once. I just… kept living. I told everyone I was fine. I told myself I was fine.” His breath hitched. “I pretended you didn’t exist in my life anymore.”
His voice broke completely.
“Ten years is a long time,” Jeonghan whispered. “It’s… a lot of time to lose someone.”
Something shifted.
Jeonghan felt it before he saw it — the air moving, the weight beside him changing. Seungcheol leaned closer, his own breath uneven. A trembling hand reached up, cupping Jeonghan’s cheek, warm and impossibly familiar.
“You know you’re still the one,” Seungcheol said, voice soaked through with tears. “You know I never really moved on, right?”
Jeonghan leaned into the touch instinctively, like his body remembered before his mind could argue. He swallowed hard, throat burning, heart aching in a way that felt terrifying and inevitable.
The clock ticked.
11:59.
Outside, the roar of Times Square began to swell — thousands of voices counting down together — but inside the Airbnb, the world narrowed to the sound of their breathing, slow and uneven, and the way their eyes searched each other for answers lost to time.
Regret filled the space between them.
Longing.
Every what if of the last ten years pressed close.
Five.
Seungcheol’s lips trembled as he smiled through tears — a fragile, hopeful thing.
Four.
Jeonghan lifted his hand, placing it over Seungcheol’s where it rested against his cheek, grounding them both.
Three.
Seungcheol leaned in, forehead brushing Jeonghan’s. His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for him.
“Maybe this is the universe… paying us back. For all the pain. Making us meet again in a random city — just to celebrate New Year’s together one more time.”
Two.
Jeonghan smiled, small but certain, and nodded. He closed his eyes.
One.
The shouting outside erupted — confetti cannons, laughter, joy bursting into the sky — but it blurred into background noise as Seungcheol kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t desperate.
It was everything they had been, everything they had lost, and everything they might still be.
Fireworks exploded across the night as the new year began — light blooming against darkness — and inside, two people finally let themselves believe in beginnings again.
The chapter turned.
And this time,
they turned with it.
Seungcheol deepened the kiss slowly, deliberately — as if afraid that too much urgency might shatter the fragile miracle of this moment. His lips moved against Jeonghan’s with a familiarity that felt almost unbearable, like muscle memory resurfacing after ten years of absence. Jeonghan trembled beneath the weight of it, fingers curling into the fabric of Seungcheol’s sweater as if anchoring himself to something solid, something real.
They kissed like people who had been holding their breath for a decade.
There was longing in it — raw and aching — but there was also recognition. The way their mouths fit, the way their noses brushed, the way Jeonghan tilted his head just slightly because Seungcheol always kissed him better that way. Time folded inward, collapsing into the space between their lips.
Seungcheol pulled back only an inch, just enough to look at him.
Jeonghan’s face was tear-stained, eyes glassy, lashes clumped together with emotion and exhaustion and relief. Seungcheol’s heart clenched at the sight — at how beautiful he still was, how vulnerable, how achingly familiar.
Without a word, Seungcheol pressed soft kisses to Jeonghan’s eyes, one after the other, reverent and careful. He kissed away the tears like he used to, like it was instinct rather than choice. Jeonghan let out a shaky breath, leaning forward until their foreheads touched again.
Then Seungcheol kissed him once more — deeper this time — and lifted him effortlessly, arms firm around Jeonghan’s body as if he had never stopped knowing how to hold him.
Jeonghan gasped softly, hands tightening at Seungcheol’s shoulders as they moved down the hallway, the world narrowing to warmth and heartbeat and the sound of their shared breath. The bedroom welcomed them in muted light and quiet stillness, the door closing behind them like a promise.
Their lips traced familiar paths along skin they once knew by heart — collarbones, temples, shoulders — each touch a rediscovery, each press of warmth a reminder that this love had never truly left. Their hands intertwined, fingers lacing together tightly, desperately, as if letting go again was no longer an option they could survive.
It felt like worship.
Like returning to something sacred they had once abandoned.
The night stretched gently around them, time losing its sharp edges. Outside, the city settled into early morning hush, the last echoes of celebration dissolving into quiet.
And when dawn finally arrived, pale light spilling through the curtains, their breaths were still warm and uneven, bodies curled together like they belonged nowhere else.
Jeonghan felt Seungcheol press a kiss to his temple — soft, lingering. He heard him murmur something, voice low and tender, words meant only for the space between them.
But sleep claimed Jeonghan before he could answer.
Held.
Safe.
Loved.
And for the first time in ten years, he didn’t wake up alone.
Morning arrived gently.
It came in the form of pale winter sunlight slipping through the curtains, warming the edges of the room, and the distant, familiar chorus of New York waking up — car horns echoing below, voices muffled by glass and snow. The city sounded alive in a way that felt strangely soft, like it was letting them wake up slowly.
Seungcheol stirred.
His eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep, and before the weight of reality could settle in — before memory or doubt or fear — he saw him.
Jeonghan.
Sleeping beside him.
For a moment, Seungcheol didn’t move. He barely breathed. As if the smallest shift might make this disappear — like a dream dissolving the second you realize you’re dreaming.
Jeonghan was curled into him, cheek smushed against Seungcheol’s shoulder, long lashes resting delicately against flushed skin. His hair spilled messily across the pillow, soft and familiar, and one of his hands lay splayed over Seungcheol’s chest — right over his heart, like it had always known where it belonged.
Seungcheol smiled.
Slowly. Softly. The kind of smile that felt like relief more than joy.
God, he’s really here.
He traced the details quietly — the faint rosiness of Jeonghan’s cheeks, the gentle part of his lips as he slept, the way his breathing stayed even and warm. Ten years had passed, and yet the way Jeonghan slept hadn’t changed at all.
Seungcheol leaned down and pressed a careful kiss to Jeonghan’s forehead, exhaling a breath he felt like he’d been holding for years.
He never imagined his life could change so completely in less than twenty-four hours.
One day ago, Jeonghan had been a memory — a chapter sealed shut, painful to revisit. And now, here he was, held securely in Seungcheol’s arms again, like time had folded back in on itself just long enough to be kind.
The last ten years blurred together in his mind.
There had been no space to grieve properly, no luxury of anger or sadness. Work had swallowed him whole. Expectations piled high. Life moved forward whether he was ready or not. And somewhere in all that motion, Seungcheol realized he hadn’t moved on — not really.
He never wanted to.
No matter how far he went, no matter how much time passed, Jeonghan had kept his place inside him — permanent, immovable.
A small sound pulled him back.
Jeonghan shifted, arms tightening around him, hugging him closer in his sleep. His breath ghosted warm against Seungcheol’s neck.
Seungcheol chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
Of course.
Jeonghan had always loved sleeping — clinging to rest like it was sacred.
His eyes flicked toward the bedside clock.
9:02 AM.
His chest tightened.
He wanted to stay here. Wanted to stretch this moment out until it filled the entire world. But reality pressed in softly — his flight was the day after tomorrow. Time, once again, was not on his side.
He reached out and began tracing slow circles along Jeonghan’s back, gentle and patient, coaxing him toward wakefulness.
“Love,” Seungcheol whispered, the word slipping out effortlessly.
It startled him — how natural it felt. How right.
Jeonghan only groaned, face pressing deeper into Seungcheol’s shoulder as his grip tightened.
Seungcheol laughed under his breath.
“Love,” he tried again, shifting slightly so he could hug him properly now, arms wrapping around Jeonghan’s back. “It’s nine already. And I want to spend more time with you… my flight’s on the third.”
Jeonghan made another sleepy noise, voice muffled. “I’m tired.”
Seungcheol smiled, heart melting. “I know. But I wanna see the snow with you.”
That did it.
Jeonghan’s eyes cracked open slowly, unfocused and soft. He pushed his body closer, pouting — lips turned downward in a way that still had far too much power over Seungcheol.
“…Can’t you extend your stay?” Jeonghan asked quietly, eyes searching his face.
Seungcheol shook his head, helpless smile tugging at his lips.
You still know exactly how to undo me.
He leaned down, brushing their noses together, voice barely above a breath.
“Do you want me to be here?”
Jeonghan rolled his eyes dramatically — then answered by peppering Seungcheol’s face with light, sleepy kisses, laughter warm and quiet between them.
And Seungcheol laughed too — full, soft, real — holding Jeonghan close as the city continued to wake below them, knowing one thing with absolute certainty:
Whatever happened next,
this morning was already something he would carry forever.
It took another round of negotiations — soft pleading, lazy kisses, and at least three “just five more minutes” — before Jeonghan finally agreed to leave the warmth of the bed.
Seungcheol watched him sit up, hair mussed and eyes still half-lidded with sleep, and felt something inside him tighten. It was strange — almost frightening — how easily they slipped back into their old rhythm. Like ten years hadn’t passed. Like their bodies remembered what their minds had tried to forget.
Routine, he realized, wasn’t something they had lost.
It had only been waiting.
Jeonghan padded off toward the kitchen, and Seungcheol lingered for a moment longer, staring at the now-rumpled sheets, letting the quiet settle. He felt grateful — absurdly grateful — that his backpack was stuffed with clean clothes, that he didn’t have to leave just to shower, that the morning didn’t have to fracture yet.
When he finally stepped into the bathroom, the water washed over him slowly, grounding him. He rested his palms against the tile and let out a breath, steadying his thoughts. He wasn’t dreaming. This was real. Jeonghan was just on the other side of the wall, humming softly to himself.
When Seungcheol emerged, towel slung around his neck, the smell of coffee greeted him first.
Jeonghan stood at the counter, sunlight catching in his damp hair, wearing one of Seungcheol’s old shirts like it had always belonged there. He looked up and smiled — bright, effortless — and Seungcheol felt his heart give in completely.
He crossed the kitchen in three quiet steps and wrapped his arms around Jeonghan’s waist from behind, pressing close. He began kissing Jeonghan’s cheek, his temple, the corner of his mouth — playful, reverent, unrestrained.
Jeonghan laughed, soft and breathy.
“You’re still clingy.”
Seungcheol smiled against his skin, finally kissing him properly, murmuring between their lips,
“I love you. That’s why.”
Jeonghan flushed immediately, pink blooming across his cheeks. He pinched Seungcheol’s cheek in retaliation.
“Oh my god, you’re still cheesy,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m going to shower before we melt from your cheesiness.”
Seungcheol laughed, watching Jeonghan disappear down the hall, the sound lingering warmly in the air.
The moment the bathroom door closed, Seungcheol reached for his phone.
He called his secretary, voice calm but heart racing. He apologized first — reflexive, polite — then explained that he would be extending his stay in New York until the 7th.
There was a pause on the other end.
She asked for the reason, mentioning HR, logistics, approvals.
Seungcheol smiled to himself, gaze drifting toward the bathroom door.
“Personal reasons,” he said simply.
He ended the call with a soft Happy New Year, feeling lighter than he had in years.
The bathroom door clicked open.
Jeonghan stepped out, hair wet, holding a hairdryer loosely in one hand. Seungcheol stood immediately, walking over, taking the dryer without a word.
Jeonghan smiled — small, fond — and sat on the edge of the bed like this was something they had done yesterday, not a decade ago.
Seungcheol dried his hair carefully, fingers threading gently through soft strands, muscle memory guiding him. It felt intimate in a quiet way — domestic, grounding — like love in its simplest form.
“I called my secretary,” Seungcheol said casually. “Moved my flight. Seat beside yours in business class was still available.”
Jeonghan’s face lit up.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Yay,” Jeonghan grinned, immediately pulling out his phone, turning it toward Seungcheol. He launched into his remaining itinerary — pastel-colored bullet points, neat and precise, every hour accounted for. New York today. Boston tomorrow.
Seungcheol barely heard the details.
He just watched Jeonghan talk — hands moving, eyes bright, voice animated — memorizing the sight like he was afraid it might be taken from him again.
When Seungcheol finished drying his hair, Jeonghan stood automatically — instinctively — leaned in, and kissed him.
Soft. Sweet.
“Thank you,” Jeonghan said.
And Seungcheol realized something quietly, overwhelmingly true:
This wasn’t them starting over.
This was them finding their way back —
step by step, breath by breath —
into something that had never really let them go.
They left the apartment with their fingers still tangled together, as if letting go might undo everything they had just found again.
The cold greeted them immediately — sharp and clean — the kind that bit at the tip of the nose and painted their breath white in the air. Snow lingered along the sidewalks in soft, uneven piles, the city quieter than it had been the night before, as though New York itself was nursing a hangover from celebration.
Seungcheol squeezed Jeonghan’s hand once, grounding himself in the warmth there. Jeonghan squeezed back, wordless, his thumb brushing over Seungcheol’s knuckles like it belonged there.
They stopped at a small street cart near the park, steam rising into the morning like a promise. The vendor handed them two cups of hot chocolate — thick, rich, crowned with melting marshmallows — and a paper bag of churros dusted generously with sugar. The smell alone made Jeonghan groan happily.
“Best idea you’ve had all year,” Jeonghan said, laughing softly.
“It’s only the first day,” Seungcheol replied, amused. “I’m starting strong.”
They walked into Central Park slowly, unhurried, boots crunching against frost-dusted paths. The trees stood bare but beautiful, branches reaching toward the pale sky like ink strokes on paper. The city felt far away here, muted and gentle, wrapped in winter quiet.
Jeonghan took a sip of his hot chocolate and hummed in approval.
“God, I missed this,” he said.
Seungcheol glanced at him. “New York?”
Jeonghan shook his head slightly, smiling.
“Walking with someone. Talking about nothing.”
Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. He just watched Jeonghan’s breath fog in the air, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he leaned into Seungcheol without even thinking.
They walked like that for a while, sharing churros, bumping shoulders, letting silence settle comfortably between them.
“So,” Jeonghan said eventually, tilting his head. “Senior architect now, huh?”
Seungcheol chuckled. “Still can’t believe it myself. I complain a lot more. Sleep a lot less.”
Jeonghan laughed. “That checks out.”
“What about you?” Seungcheol asked. “Senior lawyer. Fifteen minutes away from my office and we never once ran into each other.”
Jeonghan snorted. “The universe has a very strange sense of humor.”
“Or really good timing,” Seungcheol said softly.
Jeonghan glanced at him, something tender flickering in his expression before he looked away, cheeks faintly pink from the cold.
They talked about work — long nights, demanding bosses, cases and deadlines and blueprints and meetings that blurred together. They talked about their parents, how they were doing, who still called too often, who worried too much. Seungcheol laughed when Jeonghan admitted his mother still asked if he was eating properly.
Then Jeonghan’s voice turned playful.
“Do you know how awkward the group chat has been?”
Seungcheol groaned immediately. “Don’t tell me.”
“Mingyu sent a ‘Happy New Year’ message at exactly midnight,” Jeonghan said, grinning. “And then immediately deleted it.”
Seungcheol laughed out loud. “Of course he did.”
“And Wonwoo just sent a thumbs-up. Nothing else.”
“That’s worse,” Seungcheol said. “That’s terrifying.”
Jeonghan leaned into him as he laughed, head tipping briefly against Seungcheol’s shoulder.
“They’re going to lose their minds when they find out,” he said between chuckles. “Ten years of pretending not to choose sides and suddenly—boom. Back together.”
Seungcheol smiled, watching the way Jeonghan’s laughter softened into something gentler.
“Well,” he said quietly, lifting their intertwined hands slightly, “let’s enjoy this first.”
Jeonghan looked at him then — really looked — eyes warm, snow catching in his lashes.
“Just us,” Seungcheol added. “Before the world catches up.”
Jeonghan nodded, squeezing his hand.
“Just us.”
They continued walking deeper into the park, sharing warmth and sugar and stories, letting the morning stretch endlessly before them — two people rediscovering the simple, extraordinary act of choosing each other again.
The city slowly grew louder as they drifted back out of the park, hand in hand, warmth lingering in their palms even as the cold sharpened around them. The streets were alive again — tourists wrapped in scarves, couples laughing, the hum of traffic blending into something almost musical.
Jeonghan was the one who spotted it first.
“Oh,” he said, tugging Seungcheol gently toward a narrow storefront wedged between a souvenir shop and a café. “Look.”
The photobooth stood there like a relic from another time — red curtain slightly faded, neon sign flickering softly. Photo Booth, it read, like an invitation meant just for them.
Seungcheol smiled immediately.
“You still love these.”
Jeonghan shrugged, pretending indifference, though his eyes sparkled.
“You loved them too. Don’t lie.”
They stepped inside, the curtain closing behind them, shutting out the world. The booth smelled faintly of plastic and old paper. The bench was narrow, forcing them close — thighs pressed together, shoulders brushing.
Seungcheol fed in the coins while Jeonghan adjusted his scarf, glancing at the camera and then at Seungcheol.
“You ready?” Seungcheol asked.
“For what?”
The flash went off.
Jeonghan startled, laughing loudly. “Hey!”
Second flash — Seungcheol grinning wide, dimples deep, eyes crinkled with joy.
Third — Jeonghan leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Seungcheol’s cheek, lips cold from the air outside.
Fourth — Seungcheol turned just in time, catching Jeonghan’s lips instead.
The curtain fluttered as the machine hummed to life, printing their photos slowly, deliberately. They waited in a quiet bubble, knees touching, breaths steadying.
When the strip slid out, Jeonghan took it carefully, studying it like it might disappear.
“We look happy,” he said softly.
Seungcheol leaned in to see, heart swelling.
“We are.”
Jeonghan smiled at that and tucked the photo strip into his wallet like something precious.
The ice rink was louder — music playing overhead, blades carving sharp lines across frozen white. The air was colder here, biting deeper, but Seungcheol barely noticed.
Jeonghan, however, stopped short.
“I haven’t skated in years,” he admitted, gripping Seungcheol’s arm. “If I fall, you’re legally responsible.”
Seungcheol laughed. “I’ll catch you.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“And did I?”
Jeonghan hesitated, then smiled. “Eventually.”
They laced up their skates side by side, hands brushing constantly, neither of them pulling away. When they stepped onto the ice, Jeonghan immediately wobbled, clinging to Seungcheol with a startled laugh.
“Okay—okay—this was a bad idea.”
Seungcheol steadied him easily, arms firm around his waist.
“Hey,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Jeonghan looked up at him, breath visible, eyes bright.
“I know.”
They moved slowly at first — cautious steps, laughter spilling freely whenever Jeonghan stumbled. Seungcheol guided him gently, murmuring reassurances, occasionally stopping just to press a kiss to Jeonghan’s cold-reddened cheek.
“Cheater,” Jeonghan said, laughing. “You’re distracting me.”
“On purpose,” Seungcheol replied, kissing him again.
At some point, Jeonghan grew bolder — letting go for a moment, gliding a few feet ahead before turning back with a triumphant grin.
“Look!” he said. “I’m doing it!”
Seungcheol watched him like the world had narrowed to this single sight — Jeonghan laughing, arms outstretched, alive and glowing under rink lights.
“You’re beautiful,” Seungcheol said without thinking.
Jeonghan slowed, cheeks flushing — though whether from cold or the words, Seungcheol wasn’t sure.
When Jeonghan inevitably slipped, Seungcheol caught him easily, their momentum sending them spinning together, laughter tangled with breath. They ended up pressed close, foreheads touching, the world blurring around them.
Seungcheol kissed him then — slow, unhurried, tasting cold air and sugar and joy.
They stayed on the ice longer than planned, hands always finding each other again, laughter echoing into the winter afternoon.
And for Seungcheol, it felt like something extraordinary in its simplicity.
By late afternoon, the sky had softened into a pale winter blue, the sun already dipping low between buildings as if it, too, was growing tired. The streets were busier now — tourists spilling in and out of shops, laughter echoing against glass windows filled with postcards, scarves, snow globes, and souvenirs that promised permanence in small, tangible ways.
Jeonghan drifted from stall to stall with a kind of childlike delight, fingers brushing over keychains and magnets, picking things up only to set them down again with a thoughtful hum. He spoke animatedly with the vendors, his English lilting and warm, rounded by his accent in a way that made his words feel softer.
“Oh, this one is cute,” he said, holding up a small snow globe, shaking it gently so white flakes danced inside. “My mom will love this. She collects them.”
The vendor smiled, nodding along, amused by Jeonghan’s enthusiasm. Jeonghan giggled at something the man said in response, head tipping back slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Seungcheol stepped back without realizing it.
He watched.
Watched the way Jeonghan smiled so freely, the way his hands moved when he talked, the way he leaned forward when he laughed — open, bright, unguarded. The way he existed in the world like he belonged to it, like joy came naturally to him.
Ten years, and still —
still — Jeonghan felt like home.
Jeonghan must have felt the weight of his gaze, because he turned, eyebrow lifting playfully.
“Why are you staring?” he asked, mock-suspicious. “Do I have something on my face?”
Seungcheol shook his head slowly, a soft smile pulling at his lips.
“No,” he said. He hesitated, searching for the right words, knowing they might sound ridiculous even as they felt painfully true. “It sounds crazy, but all I can think about is marrying you.”
Jeonghan froze for half a second.
Then his cheeks bloomed pink, laughter spilling out as he covered his face briefly, embarrassed and delighted all at once.
“You’re unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.
But he closed the distance between them anyway.
Jeonghan wrapped his arms around Seungcheol, hugging him tightly, like he had nowhere else to be. He tilted his head up and kissed him — soft, lingering, full of promise — right there between racks of souvenirs and passing strangers.
Seungcheol held him close, the city humming around them, the future suddenly feeling wide and possible.
And as the day faded into evening, Seungcheol knew — with a quiet certainty — that this wasn’t just a chapter ending.
It was the beginning of everything they had almost lost.
4 Years Later…
Jeonghan adjusted his scarf against the winter wind, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of the small dinosaur-shaped bag slung across his shoulder. It was bright green, faintly ridiculous, and absolutely beloved — stuffed with snacks, mittens, and a spare set of gloves that would inevitably be lost by the end of the day.
Snow crunched beneath his boots, soft and powdery, the city wrapped in a familiar hush that only winter could bring.
Then — laughter.
High and unrestrained, ringing out across the park like music.
Jeonghan lifted his head just in time to see a small figure dart ahead, boots slipping slightly on the icy path.
“Jungwon,” he called instinctively, voice warm but firm. “No running — it’s slippery!”
The warning was already too late.
Ahead of him, Seungcheol was laughing, breath fogging the air as he chased their son through the snow, boots skidding, arms outstretched in exaggerated pursuit. Jungwon’s giggles burst out uncontrollably as Seungcheol finally caught him, scooping him up with practiced ease and lifting him high into the air.
Jungwon squealed, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, laughter bubbling over as Seungcheol spun him once before pulling him close.
Jeonghan sighed — fond, helpless — and picked up his pace.
When he reached them, the first thing he did was crouch down and adjust Jungwon’s dinosaur beanie, tugging it lower over his ears. It had been a gift from Uncle Mingyu and Uncle Wonwoo — oversized and green, with tiny felt spikes down the back. Jungwon babbled happily as Jeonghan fixed it, words tumbling out in excited nonsense about snow and cold and how his boots made funny sounds when he stomped.
Seungcheol hovered close, eyes soft, hands steadying Jungwon’s back.
“Are you excited for your birthday, baby?” he asked for the first time.
Jungwon nodded enthusiastically.
“Are you excited?” Seungcheol repeated, pressing a kiss to Jungwon’s rosy cheek.
Another kiss.
And another.
Jungwon shrieked with laughter, dimples appearing — unmistakably his — the same ones Seungcheol and Jeonghan had both fallen in love with the moment he was born.
Jeonghan’s chest ached, full and warm, watching them.
Four years.
So much had happened in those four years.
After New York, everything had unfolded quickly — naturally, like something that had been waiting its turn. Jeonghan had moved in with Seungcheol the moment they returned to Seoul, boxes barely unpacked before they realized they didn’t want to waste another second apart.
Two months later, they were married.
It had been everything they had ever dreamed of — soft laughter, trembling hands, vows whispered through tears. A promise that felt earned.
A month after that, Jeonghan found out he was pregnant.
The journey hadn’t been easy. Pregnancy had been exhausting, frightening at times. Parenthood even more so. Sleepless nights. Worry. Learning how to love something so small and fragile with everything they had.
But they had made it work.
They always did.
And now, here they were — back in New York — celebrating their son’s third birthday.
“Dada!” Jungwon shouted suddenly, wriggling free with surprising speed, clutching a small pile of snow in his chubby hands. “Daddy is tickling me!”
Seungcheol gasped dramatically.
“Oh no,” he said. “Here comes the tickle monster!”
Jungwon shrieked and ran straight toward Jeonghan, arms outstretched.
Jeonghan caught him easily, lifting him into his arms and peppering his face with kisses — forehead, cheeks, nose — until Jungwon dissolved into laughter once more.
Seungcheol wrapped his arms around them both from behind, pulling them into a warm, unbreakable embrace.
Jeonghan leaned back into him instinctively.
For a moment, the world felt perfectly still.
Seungcheol’s gaze lingered on Jeonghan — the man he had loved at sixteen, lost at twenty-four, and found again when it mattered most. Jeonghan met his eyes, smiling softly, snowflakes catching in his lashes.
Seungcheol mouthed the words quietly.
I love you.
Jeonghan smiled back — knowing, certain, whole.
And in the cold of a New York winter, surrounded by laughter and snow and the life they had built together, it felt like everything had finally come full circle.