Archive of Our Own ^beta

The silence in the apartment wasn't just heavy — it was loud. It was the kind of ringing, hollow quiet that made every creak of the floorboards sound like a judgment. Usually, Jiahao spent his days at the magazine dodging deadlines and drowning in a sea of vibrant fabrics and loud opinions, but here, without the five-year-old whirlwind that was Anxin, the flat felt disturbingly vast. It felt like a stage after the final curtain call — dark, echoing, and a little bit lonely.

Jiahao let out a long, shaky sigh that seemed to dissipate into the stagnant air. He reached into the pocket of his oversized, slightly pilled cardigan — the one Anxin called his "hug sweater" — and his fingers brushed against something hard and jagged.

He pulled it out. A plastic Triceratops with a tragically missing tail.

He stared at it, a soft, tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His pockets were essentially a graveyard for lost treasures: smooth pebbles from the park that were "actually dragon eggs," half-eaten crayons, and those tiny, crumpled drawings Anxin deemed top secret. To anyone else, it was just clutter, the debris of a disorganized life. To Jiahao, these were his anchors. Without them, he feared he might just float away.

"Right," he muttered, the sound of his own voice scratchy and unfamiliar in the stillness. "Productive Dad mode. Operation: Make the house look like an adult lives here."

Cleaning was his only defense against the 'shared custody blues.' If he kept his hands moving, he wouldn't spend the afternoon scrolling through photos of Anxin eating ice cream. He moved to the sofa, determined to conquer the mountain of mismatched cushions. He expected to find the usual suspects: a stray Cheerio, a rogue puzzle piece, maybe a missing sock that had been missing since the autumn.

He didn't expect the envelope.

It was wedged deep into the crevice between the base and the armrest, wrinkled and suspiciously sticky, as if it had survived a close encounter with a juice box. On the front, in Yeji’s neat, effortless handwriting — the kind of handwriting that made Jiahao feel like his own life was written in messy scribbles — were the words: TO SANTA (FROM ANXIN).

Jiahao’s heart didn't just drop — it performed a clumsy, panicked somersault against his ribs. A cold sweat prickled at the base of his neck. He remembered the conversation from three weeks ago — Anxin’s wide, hopeful eyes, the way he’d handed over a piece of paper, and Jiahao’s own distracted, "I've got it, buddy. I'll take care of it."

He hadn't taken care of it. He had lost it in the sofa.

With trembling fingers, he smoothed out the paper. It was a chaotic masterpiece. Yeji’s elegant script was surrounded by Anxin’s dictated demands and aggressive red crayon hearts that looked more like tiny, angry clouds.

“Dear Santa,

Mommy is helping me write this because I still don't write well and you are very old and might not have your glasses on. I don’t want you to get a headache.

I have been a very good boy. I only pulled the cat's tail once, but it was a mistake because I thought he was a handle. I also didn't give any broccoli to the vacuum cleaner this month. I remembered that last time I did it, the machine made a very scary noise and then it died. I saw Daddy crying on the floor next to it, so I promise no more greens for the machines.

For Christmas, I really, really, really want the Iron Spider. The one with the shiny gold legs that can move. Mommy says it’s 'Limited Edition' and very hard to find, but you are magic, so it’s okay.

Also, please bring Daddy a new brain. He loses his keys in the fridge and he forgets where he puts his shoes every morning. I love his brain because it tells good stories, but maybe a new one would help him not look so worried all the time.

Love, Anxin.”

Jiahao let out a sound that was caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. The vacuum cleaner incident. God, he remembered the smell of burnt broccoli haunting his dreams for a week. He had cried — mostly because a new vacuum wasn't in the budget that month and he’d felt like he was failing at the most basic level of domesticity.

But the "new brain" comment... that was the one that twisted the knife. Even at five, Anxin could see the cracks. He could see the frantic, disorganized mess Jiahao tried so hard to mask with "fun dad" energy and spontaneous pancake dinners. His son didn't want a toy for his dad — he wanted his dad to stop looking like the world was about to collapse.

He checked his phone. December 23rd. The numbers seemed to mock him, blinking like a countdown.

"Iron Spider. Limited Edition," he whispered, his hands starting to fly through the air, fingers twitching as if he were trying to pluck a solution out of the dusty sunlight. "Right. Okay. No big deal. Just the most sought-after piece of plastic in the city, forty-eight hours before the big day, and I’m a man who once forgot his own birthday until his mother called to ask why I hadn't thanked her for the gift."

He caught his reflection on the darkened TV screen. He looked exactly like what he was: a man on the precipice of a holiday-themed nervous breakdown. His hair was a bird's nest of stress, and his sweater was covered in dinosaur lint.

He couldn't let Anxin down. Not about this. If he couldn't be the kind of father who knew where his keys were, if he couldn't provide a life that ran like a well-oiled machine, he would at least provide those shiny gold spider legs. He would buy back his son's faith in "magic," even if it killed him.

He grabbed his coat, his fingers instinctively checking the pockets. He found a stray marble, a gum wrapper, and a tiny plastic star. He squeezed the star tight, letting the points dig into his palm to ground himself.

"Let's go find a miracle," he told the empty, silent room, his voice gaining a desperate kind of resolve.

—

Standing in front of Yeji’s door, Jiahao felt like a walking "Before" photo in a high-end furniture catalog. He shifted the weight of Anxin’s backpack, which was currently stuffed with a confusing mix of clean laundry, a headless action figure that looked like it had seen a war, and the crushing weight of his own parental guilt.

He took a deep breath, attempting to smooth down his hair, but his fingers only succeeded in making the strands stand up at a more defiant, panicked angle. He looked down at his shoes — mismatched socks, of course — and knocked.

When Yeji opened the door, the contrast was almost funny. It hit him like a cool breeze after a day in a humid basement. Her apartment didn't smell like burnt broccoli or the vague scent of "forgotten gym bag" that haunted his place — it smelled like citrus and unshakeable calm. She was wearing a cream-colored sweater that looked soft enough to cure insomnia, her hair pulled back in a neat, effortless bun that didn't have a single stray hair out of place.

She looked like someone who had never once lost her keys in a refrigerator.

"Jiahao," she said, her voice a warm, steady melody that always made him feel like he was slightly out of tune. "You're ten minutes early. Did the magazine finally fire you for being too charming, or did you just miss our son's chaos already?"

"Not yet," Jiahao managed, forcing a weak grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He handed over the backpack like it was a peace offering. "They’re still keeping me around for comic relief and my ability to drink lukewarm coffee. I just wanted to make sure Anxin had his favorite pajamas. The ones with the capes. He says they help him dream faster."

Yeji didn't take the bag immediately. Instead, she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in that way that made Jiahao feel like he was a book written in very large, very messy print. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to instinctively brush a piece of lint off his shoulder. It was a small, lingering gesture — a leftover habit from a life they used to share, a ghost of a touch that reminded him how much of his mess she used to clean up.

"You're vibrating, Jiahao," she noted softly, her brow furrowing. "Your hands are doing that thing where they look like they’re trying to catch invisible flies in the air. What’s actually going on?"

"Nothing! Just... the January issue," he lied, the words tasting like dry toast in his mouth. He felt the letter in his pocket — a hidden piece of evidence of his failure. It felt like it was burning a hole through his pants. "We’re doing a feature on 'Effortless Winter Chic,' which, as you can see, I am currently the anti-model for. My brain is basically just a series of unclosed tabs and coffee stains right now."

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to pull out that wrinkled, sticky paper and say, I found the letter under the sofa and I think I’ve ruined the only thing that matters. But looking at her perfectly organized hallway, at the way she held herself with such quiet, fortress-like confidence, the words died in his throat. He didn't want to be the "messy" one again. Not today. Not when she seemed to have figured out the secret to being a functional adult while he was still struggling with the instructions.

"Jiahao," Yeji said, her voice dropping to a gentler register. She placed a hand on his arm, the warmth of her palm grounding his frantic energy for a fleeting second. "It’s almost Christmas. The world isn't going to stop spinning if a layout is a few hours late. You look like you haven't slept since the last decade. Take a breath. Anxin doesn't need a perfect editor, he just needs his dad."

"I know," he whispered, his heart stinging. But his dad is a walking disaster zone, he thought. He thought of the letter's request for a "new brain" and felt a fresh wave of inadequacy wash over him.

"Mommy! Mommy, come see!" Anxin’s voice erupted from the living room, bright and sharp, full of a joy that Jiahao felt he hadn't quite earned today. "I drew a picture of a dinosaur eating a car! It’s a very fast dinosaur, so the car didn't even see him!"

Yeji smiled, a genuine, soft expression that made her look years younger. "Coming, sweetie! Let me see those teeth!" She turned back to Jiahao, giving his arm a final, supportive squeeze. "Go home. Go. Drink some tea. Do something that doesn't involve your phone or a fashion layout. Promise me?"

"I promise," Jiahao lied again, his voice barely a murmur.

As she stepped back and the door began to swing shut, Jiahao caught a glimpse of the warm light inside — the way the Christmas tree was decorated with mathematical precision, every ornament spaced perfectly, glowing with a soft, golden light. It was a world of order, safety, and things that worked the way they were supposed to.

The click of the lock sounded so final, like a period at the end of a sentence he was still struggling to finish. He stood in the quiet, sterile hallway for a moment, the silence of the building pressing in on his chest. He felt small. He felt disorganized. He felt like the one broken toy in a shop full of collectibles.

He turned away, his fingers curling around the wrinkled letter in his pocket, feeling the jagged edges of the paper. He didn't have a "new brain," and he certainly didn't have a plan. But as he walked toward the elevator, his jaw set in a hard line.

He might be a mess, and his life might be held together by scotch tape, prayer, and sheer luck, but he had forty-eight hours to find a miracle. And if he had to knock on every closed door in the city to find that Iron Spider, he would.

Because Yeji was right about one thing: Anxin needed his dad. And Jiahao was going to make sure that, for one day, that dad was a hero who didn't lose the magic.

—

The snow wasn't the magical, twinkling kind you see in perfume commercials, where couples laugh and catch flakes on their tongues. For Jiahao, it was just aggressive, cold water trying its best to blur his vision and ruin his leather boots. He was running — well, it was more of a desperate, slipping shuffle — toward the flickering neon sign of the first hobby shop on the corner.

His lungs burned with the icy air, each breath feeling like he was inhaling tiny needles. His mind was a loud, chaotic loop of Iron Spider, gold legs, don't be a failure, Iron Spider. He was so busy trying to negotiate with the universe for a parking spot for his brain that he didn't even see the obstacle in front of him.

It felt like hitting a very expensive, very solid brick wall.

"Oof!"

The impact was loud and messy. Jiahao’s feet went one way, his remaining dignity went another, and he slammed into a tall figure wrapped in a dark, perfectly tailored coat. For a second, the world was just a blur of white snow, the sharp, clean scent of cedarwood, and a hint of laundry detergent that definitely didn't belong to him.

They both went down. Jiahao landed hard on his backside, the cold dampness of the sidewalk immediately soaking through his trousers. He felt a sharp sting of embarrassment that was almost as cold as the ice.

"Oh god, oh no, I'm so sorry—" Jiahao scrambled to find his footing, his hands already performing their frantic, invisible fly-catching routine in the air as if he could grab the words and put them back in his mouth. "I wasn't looking, I mean, I was looking, but I was looking at the future and not the sidewalk, which is a terrible way to walk—"

The man he’d tackled was already recovering. He didn't scramble — he rose with a controlled, rhythmic grace that made Jiahao feel like a baby giraffe trying to walk on a frozen pond. The stranger stood up and immediately began brushing the snow off his sleeves with short, precise flicks of his fingers. He looked annoyed — the kind of deep, quiet annoyance that felt way more intimidating than someone actually shouting.

Then, the man paused. He looked down at Jiahao, who was still half-tangled in his own oversized scarf, looking like a discarded pile of laundry. With a sigh that sounded like a weary librarian dealing with a torn book, the stranger extended a hand.

His cuffs were perfectly white against the dark wool. His fingers were long, steady, and didn't tremble at all.

"Are you injured?" the man asked. His voice was deep and smooth, lacking any of the frantic, high-pitched energy currently vibrating through Jiahao’s bones.

"Just my pride," Jiahao squeaked, staring at the offered hand for a second too long before grabbing it. The stranger’s grip was firm and dry, pulling him up with a strength that caught Jiahao off guard. He felt like he was being hoisted back into reality by a very handsome crane. "And maybe my tailbone. I’m a disaster. Truly. It’s a full-time job. I’m so sorry about your coat, I think I got slush on your sleeve... please don't sue me, it's almost Christmas, and I'm already on a budget of 'hopes and dreams' right now."

"It's fine," the man interrupted, his eyes scanning Jiahao with a look of clinical observation, as if he were checking a device for external damage. He adjusted his glasses, which had slid slightly down his nose, with a single, precise movement. "You should watch where you’re going. Velocity and ice are a very poor combination."

"Right. Physics. Yes," Jiahao nodded frantically, already backing away. He could see the hobby shop lights flickering behind the man’s shoulder like a lighthouse. "I have to go. Miracle to find. I'm on a mission from a very small person. Sorry again! Happy holidays! Don't catch a cold or a lawsuit!"

Before the stranger could even respond, Jiahao turned and took off again, nearly slipping a second time as he vanished into the thick, white curtain of the falling snow.

Kim Junseo stood alone on the sidewalk, his brow twitching slightly. He hated being touched by strangers, and he especially hated being tackled by humans who seemed to be made entirely of kinetic energy, wet wool, and apologies. He began to straighten his coat, his fingers seeking the familiar, comforting order of his buttons.

That’s when he saw it.

A small, crumpled piece of paper was lying facedown in the slush where the chaotic man had fallen. Junseo’s first instinct was to ignore it — it was trash, and he wasn't a janitor. But there was something about the way the bright red and gold crayon bled through the damp paper that made him pause.

He leaned down and picked it up, using only the tips of his fingers, as if handling a fragile artifact.

He flipped it over. It wasn't just a scribble. It was a very enthusiastic, very messy drawing of a figure with eight limbs — four of them bright gold and sticking out at impossible angles. It was clearly meant to be the Iron Spider, though it looked more like a very stylish, radioactive crab. In the corner, in shaky but determined letters that leaned to one side, it said: FOR DADDY.

Junseo stared at it. The lines were wild and lacked any sense of perspective or care for the margins, yet there was a raw, unfiltered warmth to the image that felt strangely loud in the quiet, snowy street. He looked up, searching for the man — the "disaster" who was apparently someone's "Daddy" — but the man was long gone.

Junseo looked back at the Iron Spider. He should have dropped it. It was wet, it was messy, and it definitely didn't belong in his world of straight lines, dust-free shelves, and preserved boxes.

Instead, he pulled a clean, ironed handkerchief from his pocket. He carefully patted the moisture off the drawing, treating the cheap, sticky paper as if it were a rare, first-edition manuscript. Once it was dry enough, he folded it with precision and tucked it safely into his inner breast pocket, right over his heart.

"What a mess," he murmured to himself, though his expression softened just a fraction, a ghost of a smile ghosting his lips.

He didn't know why he was keeping it. He just knew that a hero with gold legs shouldn't be left alone to drown in a puddle.

—

After a few hours, the snow was no longer just a nuisance — it had become a personal adversary, a cold, white weight trying to bury Jiahao’s last remaining scrap of hope. As he stumbled through the slush-covered streets, the distant chime of church bells didn't sound festive or holy. To him, they sounded like a countdown clock in a game show where the prize was his son’s happiness and he was currently losing by a landslide.

Every toll of the bell felt like an aggressive shove against his shoulders. Tick. Tick. Tick. His lungs were screaming, a raw, cold burn that made every breath feel like he was swallowing a mouthful of dry wool. He caught his reflection in a dark store window and winced. His hair was a complete disaster — likely looking more like a wet bird's nest that had survived a storm than the "Effortless Winter Chic" he was supposed to be promoting at the magazine. His boots, which had once been his pride and joy, were now just two heavy buckets of ice water attached to his feet, dragging him down toward the pavement with every leaden step.

"Sold out."

"Try the store across town."

"We haven't had that in stock since November, sir. Maybe check the internet?"

He’d heard those phrases in ten different stores now. Each "no" had been a tiny needle popping the balloon of his optimism, leaving him flatter and more deflated than the last. By the time he reached the eleventh shop — a small, unassuming place tucked away in a quiet alley that seemed to hide from the rest of the world — his stubbornness was the only thing holding his skeleton together. He was operating on pure, unadulterated "Dad guilt," a fuel source more potent and far more volatile than any caffeine he’d ever consumed.

Please, he thought, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Just this once. Let my bad luck take a night off.

The shop front looked different from the neon-lit giants he’d just fled. It was a sanctuary of glass and dark wood, looking so still and silent that for a second, Jiahao feared it wasn't a store at all, but a museum for things too perfect to be touched. It smelled of beeswax, old paper, and a very specific kind of expensive stillness that usually meant "if you break it, you can't afford it."

He pushed the door open with way too much force, his numb, frozen fingers losing their grip on the heavy brass handle. He came in like a hurricane, shivering, dripping, and gasping for air in a space that seemed to demand quiet whispers. His foot caught on the edge of a perfectly placed welcome mat — the kind of rug that clearly didn't deserve to be stepped on by his soggy boots — and he performed a spectacular, slow-motion stumble.

In his desperate attempt to regain his balance, his shoulder clipped a rotating display of handmade Christmas cards near the entrance. The rack spun wildly for a second, a blur of festive colors, before tipping over with a final, echoing crash. Dozens of pristine, glitter-dusted envelopes scattered across the polished floor like a deck of cards in a windstorm.

The silence that followed was deafening. It was the kind of silence that made you want to apologize for even breathing.

Jiahao froze, still bent at an awkward, undignified angle, his hands hovering in the air as if he could magically pull the fallen cards back onto the rack with the power of his mortification. His face flushed a deep, burning crimson that rivaled the red of his scarf. He felt a drop of melted snow slide down his neck, and it felt like a cold finger of judgment.

"I am so, so sorry," he wheezed into the quiet, his voice sounding like a discordant leaf blower in a library. He tried to stand up straight, but his knees were still shaking from the cold, making him feel less like a man and more like a folding chair that hadn't been locked into place correctly. "I’m not a giant klutz by profession, I promise. It’s just... the gravity. It's very strong today. It must be the moon."

He didn't look up yet. He couldn't. He was too busy staring at the dark, wet footprints he had already left on the perfect floor, marking the surface with the evidence of his own chaos. He felt like a smudge of charcoal on a clean white canvas — a messy, disorganized blur in a world that clearly valued straight lines and dust-free shelves.

Inside, he felt a familiar, hollow ache. Of course I’d ruin the quietest place in the city, he thought bitterly. Of course I’d be the one to knock over the cards. He felt a desperate urge to just turn around and walk back out into the snow, to vanish before anyone could see the full extent of the disaster he had become. But then, the phantom weight of the letter under the sofa seemed to press against his chest. He remembered Anxin’s drawing — the shaky gold legs of the Spider. That memory was the only thing keeping his feet glued to the floor.

"Hey, deep breaths. You’re not the first person to get bullied by that rug, I promise."

The voice was warm, carrying a hint of dry humor that cut through Jiahao’s spiraling thoughts. He finally forced his gaze upward, blinking through the dampness on his lashes. Behind the counter, a man — Geonwoo, according to the name tag pinned to his sweater — was watching him with an expression that was more amused than annoyed.

"Don't look at them like you just killed someone," Geonwoo added, gesturing vaguely at the scattered cards. "It’s just paper and cardstock, man. It’s not that deep. I’ll get them back in the rack in two seconds once I'm done here. You just focus on staying upright."

"I... thank you," Jiahao managed, his heart slowing down just enough to allow him to breathe. "I'm having a bit of a day. Or a year. It's hard to tell anymore."

Geonwoo gave him a small, reassuring nod, as if he’d seen a thousand 'disaster dads' walk through that door before. "It’s the season for it. Don’t worry about the mess."

So, instead of running, Jiahao stayed. He stood in his shrinking puddle of melted snow and waited for the temple of order to stop feeling so much like a courtroom. He took a small, shaky step toward the counter, his hands still twitching at his sides as he tried to find his voice.

He was so focused on the task at hand that he didn't even notice the other man at the counter. He didn't see the dark wool coat or the sharp, rigid profile of the person he had tackled into a snowbank only twenty minutes ago. His eyes were locked on the glass shelves, desperately searching for a flash of gold and red — the only things that could turn this nightmare of a day into something worth remembering.

Junseo, however, saw everything. He was leaning over the glass display case, his hands encased in thin white cotton gloves that made him look less like a customer and more like a surgeon performing a delicate heart transplant. He was inspecting a technical mount for his shelves, turning the small metal piece over with a rhythmic, quiet elegance. He had just finished adjusting the stiff cuffs of his shirt, ensuring the fabric sat perfectly under his coat, when the door had practically exploded.

Junseo hadn't looked up immediately. He lived his life in a world of controlled variables, and he hated disruptions that didn't follow a logical sequence. But the sound of frantic, ragged breathing and the heavy slosh-thud of wet boots was impossible to ignore.

He looked over his shoulder. It was him. The human disaster from the sidewalk, now appearing even more frayed and waterlogged.

Jiahao didn't recognize him. He was blind to everything but his own desperation. To him, the man in the gloves was just another obstacle, a part of the scenery. He stumbled toward the counter, his hands flying through the air as if he were trying to weave a net to catch his own runaway thoughts.

Jiahao stepped closer to the counter, his movements still a bit jerky, but Geonwoo’s earlier reassurance acted like a small heater against his frozen nerves. He leaned heavily on the glass case, finally exhaling a breath he felt like he’d been holding since he found the letter under the sofa.

"Look, Geonwoo — can I call you Geonwoo? I saw the name tag," Jiahao began, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, as if they were two soldiers sharing a secret in a hole. He didn't notice Junseo visibly flinch beside him, or the way the stranger’s eyes tracked the wet smudge Jiahao’s palms were currently leaving on the glass.

"I need a miracle," Jiahao gasped, his hands doing a small, desperate dance in the air. "The Iron Spider. Limited Edition. The one with the shiny gold legs. Please tell me there’s one hiding in the back? Maybe under a desk? Tucked behind some boxes? I’ll pay double. I’ll pay triple. I’ll give you my soul, though it’s currently a bit damp and probably not worth much in this economy, but it’s yours if you find that box."

Geonwoo leaned in, his expression shifting from amusement to a genuine, heavy-hearted pity. He looked like he wanted to offer Jiahao a hot tea and a towel to dry off his pride, but instead, he stayed still, his hands resting flat on the counter. He let out a long, slow sigh that made Jiahao’s stomach do a slow, painful drop.

"Look, man… I really wish I could pull a miracle out of the storeroom for you," Geonwoo said softly, his voice lackng its earlier edge. "But there was a massive delay with the delivery at the port. The units we were supposed to get for the holiday won't be here until the first week of January. We're completely dry. Honestly? Every shop in the district is in the same boat."

Jiahao felt the air leave his lungs in a sharp, painful hiss. It wasn't just a "no" — it was the sound of a heavy door slamming shut on the only version of himself he wanted to be. He felt a sharp sting in his chest, and for once, it wasn't the winter air. It was the crushing image of Anxin waking up on Christmas morning, checking under a tree that Jiahao hadn't even finished decorating, and realizing that the "magic" his dad promised was just as disorganized as his shoe rack.

"January?" Jiahao whispered, his voice cracking like thin ice under too much weight. He looked at Geonwoo, hoping for a "just kidding," but the clerk’s sympathetic gaze remained unchanged. "But... it’s for my son. He’s five. He wrote this whole letter... he thinks Santa is magic. He thinks I’m magic."

He let out a short, bitter laugh that was entirely directed at himself, his eyes momentarily catching his own disheveled reflection in the glass.

"I can't even remember to buy milk before it spoils, or where I put my own keys half the time," Jiahao murmured, his shoulders slumping. "But I was really, really hoping I could do this one thing right. Just one."

Beside him, Junseo had stopped his meticulous inspection of the shelf mount. He stood perfectly still, the rare figurine in his gloved hand held with a reverence that felt almost mocking in the face of Jiahao’s raw, messy despair. He listened to the "disaster dad" fumble through his apology, and his mouth thinned into a hard, rigid line.

He felt the weight of the drawing in his breast pocket — the Iron Spider with the golden legs — and the contrast between the paper in his pocket and the man standing next to him felt like a glitch in his perfectly calibrated world.

"It’s a blessing in disguise," Junseo said.

His voice was cold, flat, and remarkably steady. It cut through Jiahao’s panic like a sharp blade. Jiahao blinked, his hands falling still as he finally turned to look at the man beside him. He saw the sharp, expensive glasses and the way the stranger looked at him.

"Excuse me?" Jiahao asked, his voice small.

"Giving a Limited Edition Iron Spider to a five-year-old," Junseo continued. He didn't look at Jiahao — his focus remained on the item in his hands. "It’s irresponsible. A child that age has no concept of preservation. He’ll play with it in a sandbox, he’ll snap those gold legs within an hour, and he’ll lose the accessories under a radiator. It’s practically a crime against the craft of collecting to hand something so rare to someone who will only destroy it."

Jiahao stared at him, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt the familiar sting of being "less than" — the same feeling he’d had at Yeji’s door. But this time, a spark of heat flared up in his chest, defying the cold water in his boots.

"It’s a toy," Jiahao said, his voice rising, thick with a mix of exhaustion and sudden, sharp anger. "It’s meant to be played with. It’s meant to have the paint rubbed off by sticky fingers and be taken on adventures in the playground. It’s meant to be loved until it falls apart."

"It’s an investment," Junseo countered, finally turning his gaze to Jiahao. His eyes were like ice — clear, unyielding, and entirely devoid of the "messy" emotions Jiahao lived in. "It’s a piece of history that deserves to stay behind glass, preserved in its perfect state. Not tossed into a toy box full of half-eaten snacks and broken crayons. If you want to give him something to destroy, buy him a ball. Don't waste something rare on someone who can't appreciate its true value."

Jiahao felt the "new brain" comment from Anxin’s letter echo in his head. He looked at this man — this perfect, gloved, orderly person — and felt an overwhelming sense of grief.

"You're right," Jiahao said, his voice trembling. "He doesn't know about preservation. He doesn't know about investments. He just knows that he loves it. And to me, that makes it a hundred times more valuable than something sitting in a dark, lonely box on your shelf."

Junseo didn't blink. He didn't even flinch. He simply adjusted his glove, turned his head back to the counter, and let his silence act as a wall that Jiahao was too tired to climb.

Jiahao stood there for a heartbeat longer, feeling the silence of the shop press in on him, before he turned and walked back out into the cold, leaving behind nothing but a disappearing smudge on the glass and the sound of his own breaking heart.

Geonwoo watched the exchange from behind the counter, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Usually, he was the first to break a tense silence with a sarcastic comment or a dry joke, but right now, he felt like he was watching a particularly painful play where no one knew their lines. 

He knew Junseo better than anyone. He knew the way Junseo’s mind worked — like a clock where every gear had to be polished and every second accounted for to avoid the terrifying uncertainty of a skipped beat. He also knew something Jiahao didn't: that back at Junseo’s apartment, tucked away in a temperature-controlled cabinet, there weren't just one, but two of those Limited Edition Iron Spiders. One for display, and one for "emergency preservation," kept in a dark, vacuum-sealed box. It was Junseo’s ultimate safety net against the world's chaos.

But Geonwoo stayed silent. He didn't offer the information, mostly because he knew Junseo wouldn't part with his "backups" even if the world were ending. He just watched the collision between Jiahao’s messy, bleeding-heart sentimentalism and Junseo’s icy logic. He saw the way Junseo’s eyes flickered toward the wet smudges on the glass and the way Jiahao looked like he was about to crumble into a heap of damp wool right there on the floor.

Jiahao felt smaller with every second that passed. The heat of his earlier anger was being sucked out of him, replaced by a cold, hollow sense of defeat that felt heavier than his soaked coat. He looked at Junseo — really looked at him — and saw a man who clearly had everything under control. A man who would never lose a letter under a sofa, forget to buy milk, or fail a child’s simple request.

Compared to this statue of a man, Jiahao felt like a walking mistake. He was just a collection of "bad brain" moments that had finally caught up to him, leaving him stranded in a shop that smelled of beeswax and expensive judgment. He thought of the drawing he’d lost — the one with the gold legs — and felt a sudden, sharp urge to apologize to his son for being exactly the kind of father who would lose the only map to a miracle.

"I hope your shelves are very happy together," Jiahao said, his voice thick and wavering. "I hope they're very safe in their boxes where no one can touch them or... or actually love them.”

He didn't wait for a response. He couldn't. If he stayed another second, he was going to say something even more embarrassing, or worse, he was going to let one of those burning tears actually fall. He turned on his heel, his wet boots letting out a pathetic, rhythmic squeak on the perfect wood floor.

He pushed the door open so hard the bell didn't just tinkle — it seemed to shriek in protest. The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy, final thud that vibrated through the glass, leaving the shop plunged back into the stifling, polite hum of low-volume classical music.

The silence that followed was suffocating. It felt thicker than the snow outside.

Junseo didn't move. He kept his eyes fixed on the figurine in his gloved hands, but his grip was perhaps a fraction tighter than it needed to be, the plastic edges digging into the white cotton. He could still feel the weight of the drawing in his inner pocket — the Iron Spider with the messy gold legs — and for the first time, the "order" of the shop felt a little too quiet.

Geonwoo let out a long, slow breath that sounded like a tire losing air. He didn't look back at the display cases or the smudges on the glass. He looked directly at his friend, his expression unusually sharp and devoid of its usual playful bite.

"You know," Geonwoo said, his voice flat. "You think you're protecting the craft. You think you're guarding a piece of history or whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night so you don't have to deal with the fact that life is messy."

Junseo finally looked up, his face a mask of calm, though his jaw was set so tight it looked like stone. "I was stating a fact, Geonwoo. Objects have requirements. They don't survive in the hands of people who treat them like... like junk."

"Objects don't have hearts, Junseo," Geonwoo countered, leaning forward over the counter until he was forced to look Junseo in the eye. "That guy wasn't an investment risk. He was just a dad who would have crawled through the snow for ten more miles if it meant making his kid smile for five minutes. You weren't being a collector just now. You were just being unnecessary and cruel to a man who’s already drowning."

Geonwoo turned away to begin tidying a stack of holiday cards, his movements uncharacteristically jerky. He left the words to hang in the air like smoke. Junseo stood alone in the center of his perfect sanctuary, the classical music suddenly sounding very, very lonely, while the drawing in his pocket felt heavier than any limited edition he’d ever owned.

—

The oak bar was a dark, polished island in a sea of holiday noise, smelling of bourbon, old wood, and the kind of tired resignation that only seems to exist on the night of December 23rd. Jiahao sat on a heavy wooden stool, his damp coat draped over his knees like a heavy, cold blanket that refused to offer any comfort. He stared into his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. He felt like a man who had been running a race for years and had finally realized he was running in the wrong direction.

He felt like a failure in high definition. Every tick of the heavy wall clock was a rhythmic shove, reminding him of the empty space under the tree at his apartment and the organized, calm life he was clearly incapable of providing. He was a man who forgot birthdays, lost letters, and apparently, tackled strangers in the snow.

Then, the door opened, letting in a sharp, unforgiving gust of winter.

Junseo stepped inside, looking entirely out of place. Amidst the scratched wood and the dim yellow lights, he looked like a crisp, white page in a very messy notebook. He didn't look like he belonged in a bar where the coasters were stained and the music was a bit too loud and a bit too sad. He scanned the room until his eyes landed on Jiahao.

Junseo didn't leave. He didn't turn around and run back to his sanctuary of glass cases. Instead, he walked toward the bar with a steady, quiet pace and sat down exactly two stools away — a polite, calculated distance.

Jiahao felt a prickle of heat under his skin — half irritation, half the kind of embarrassment that makes you want to turn into a puddle on the floor. He gripped his glass, his fingers leaving messy, blurred smudges on the cold surface. He didn't look at the man directly — he watched him through the mirror behind the bar, feeling like a trapped animal in a very expensive, very tidy zoo.

"Are you following me?" Jiahao asked, his voice sounding a bit more broken than he wanted it to. "Because I’ve already had a very long day, and if this is some kind of lecture, I’m going to have to talk to that very large man over there by the door."

Junseo didn't flinch. He didn't even order a drink, keeping his gloved hands folded on the edge of the bar as if he were afraid the wood might rub off on him. He simply adjusted the cuffs of his coat and reached into his inner pocket with a slow, careful movement that commanded attention.

"You dropped this," Junseo said.

He placed a small, folded square of paper on the dark wood between them. It was perfectly aligned with the edge of the bar.

Jiahao’s heart skipped a beat, a sudden thud against his ribs. He recognized the bright red and gold crayon edges immediately. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he unfolded it. It was the Iron Spider. The drawing he thought was lost forever to the city’s indifferent sidewalks.

"You... how?" Jiahao whispered, his voice barely a breath. "I thought it was gone. I was already practicing my ‘I'm sorry’ speech."

Junseo stared straight ahead, his profile as sharp and still as a statue. He looked at the rows of bottles as if they held the answers to a very difficult equation. "It was in a puddle. It seemed... logically unsound to leave it there. Even if the hero's legs are coming out of his neck and he'd probably fall over the second he tried to take a step." He paused, his glasses catching the warm, golden light of the bar. "But the gold... the way he drew the webs. It’s very bright. It’s the kind of thing that's hard to ignore, even in a storm."

Jiahao let out a breathy, self-deprecating laugh, rubbing his tired eyes with the palm of his hand. "Yeah. He’s a big fan of more is more. I think I’m failing the minimalist part of parenting. I'm essentially just a walking hurricane, trying not to knock everything over."

"I should apologize," Junseo said suddenly.

The words were quiet. Jiahao finally turned his head to look at Junseo directly. The stranger wasn't looking back, but his hands were gripped tightly together on the bar, his knuckles a bit white under the fabric of his gloves.

"I was... unnecessarily difficult in the shop," Junseo continued, his voice losing that icy, superior edge. "I tend to see things in boxes. In categories. I forget that sometimes, the point of a thing isn't the thing itself, but the person waiting for it at home. I was being a jerk, Mr. Zhang. You were just trying to be a father. I shouldn't have made that harder for you."

Jiahao blinked, stunned. He’d expected another critique of his lifestyle, not a total surrender. "I... thank you. I appreciate that. Truly. And I'm sorry for tackling you. And for what I said about you. I’m basically a one-man wrecking crew on a good day, and today was definitely not a good day."

"It’s fine," Junseo murmured. He finally turned his head, and for the first time, his eyes didn't look like cold glass or a camera lens. They looked human. Observant. Maybe even a little bit lonely. "Apology accepted."

Jiahao felt a small, genuine smile tug at his lips. It was the first real one he’d had all day. "How did you know my name, anyway? Are you a spy? Or just really good at reading upside down?"

"Your press pass," Junseo noted, gesturing vaguely toward the bag slumped at Jiahao’s feet. "And you have a smudge of red crayon on your cheek. Right there."

Jiahao instinctively reached up, his fingers finding a sticky, waxy patch on his skin. "Of course I do. I’m a mess. A total, unorganized disaster. I'm surprised I'm even wearing matching shoes."

"You are," Junseo agreed, and a tiny, almost invisible smile finally touched the corner of his mouth. It was like seeing a rare bird in the wild. "But at least your son knows his colors. The gold was a good choice. It stands out."

Jiahao looked down at the drawing, then back at the man who had saved it. The silence between them had changed — it wasn't a wall anymore. It was just a quiet space in a loud city, and for the first time since he’d found the letter under the sofa, Jiahao didn't feel like he was drowning.

"I'm Jiahao," he said, offering a hand that was still a little bit damp, but steady.

"Junseo," the man replied, and after a moment of hesitation, he reached out and shook it.

Jiahao traced the edge of the Iron Spider drawing with a thumb that was finally starting to regain some feeling. The paper was still a bit stiff from the drying process, but it was safe.

"I wasn't supposed to be this guy," Jiahao said softly. His voice barely carried over the low, rhythmic hum of the bar's refrigerator. He wasn't looking at Junseo, but he was acutely aware of the man’s quiet, steady presence beside him — a stark, organized contrast to his own frayed edges.

"Which guy?" Junseo asked. His voice wasn't a jab this time — it was more like an invitation, a rare opening in his usual wall of logic. "The guy who tackles strangers? Or the guy who loses precious drawings in the snow?"

"Both. All of it," Jiahao let out a dry, jagged laugh that sounded more like a cough. He took a slow sip of his drink, the amber liquid burning just enough to make him feel grounded in his own skin. "Twenty-two. That’s how old I was when Yeji and I found out about Anxin. We were still in college. I was supposed to be worrying about my final thesis and which house party had the cheapest beer. Instead, suddenly, I was staring at a plastic stick."

He looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bottles, but all he saw was a tired man in a damp cardigan who looked like he’d been through a spin cycle.

"We tried so hard," he continued, his voice dropping into a lower, more vulnerable register. "We stayed together because that’s what adults are supposed to do, right? We played house in a tiny apartment that always smelled like baby formula and unwashed laundry. We forced the romance until it felt like we were both holding our breath, just waiting for the other to exhale. It was suffocating. We were just two kids, and eventually, the words just stopped making sense. We weren't lovers anymore — we were just two people exhausted by the same baby."

Junseo didn't interrupt. He sat perfectly still, his gloved hands resting on the dark oak of the bar like two marble bookends. He was a master of observation, a man who collected facts like he collected figurines, and right now, he was witnessing a dam burst in real-time. He felt a strange, unfamiliar tug in his chest.

"Yeji... she figured it out," Jiahao whispered, a note of genuine awe — and a sharp, bitter edge of envy — creeping into his tone. "You haven't seen her place, but I bet you can imagine it. She’s like a lighthouse. Everything in her life has a place, a purpose, and a schedule. She wakes up, and even her hair looks like it’s reached a peaceful agreement with the world. She handles the doctors, the school forms, the nutrition charts... and then there’s me."

He gestured vaguely at his disheveled state, a self-deprecating quirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"I’m essentially three raccoons in a trench coat trying to pass as a functional parent. I do everything for that kid, Junseo. I’d set myself on fire if it meant he’d stay warm for five minutes. But no matter how fast I run, I always feel like I’m ten minutes late to my own life. I'm the dad who forgets the snacks on field trip day. Finding that letter under the sofa today... it wasn't just about a toy. It was proof. Proof that I’m still that disorganized kid who has no idea what he's doing."

He squeezed the drawing, his knuckles turning white as he felt the jagged edges of his own inadequacy.

"I just wanted to win once," he admitted, his eyes bright with a sudden, raw vulnerability that made him look younger than twenty-seven. "I wanted to be the dad who didn't drop the ball. I wanted to see him look at me the way he looks at Yeji — like I have all the answers and the world is safe because I'm in it. But most days, I can't even find the right questions."

Junseo looked down at the bar. He thought of his own home — the silent, dust-free rooms, the glass cases where nothing ever moved, nothing ever broke, and nothing ever changed. He thought of the mathematical precision of his own life and realized that his "perfect" world was entirely empty of the kind of fierce, messy love that Jiahao was currently bleeding all over the oak counter. His life was preserved, yes, but it wasn't lived.

"Proportions," Junseo said quietly. His voice was a low, steady vibration that cut through the gloom of the bar.

Jiahao blinked, shifting his gaze away from his drink, looking confused. "What?"

"In the drawing," Junseo clarified. He finally turned his head to meet Jiahao’s eyes, his glasses reflecting the warm, dim light. "The legs are anatomically wrong, yes. They are messy and uneven. But look at them. They're reaching out. They’re wide and protective."

He paused, his gaze lingering on Jiahao’s damp sweater and the exhaustion etched into his face.

"Yeji might be the lighthouse. But a lighthouse is just a building. It’s fixed in one spot, watching from a distance. It doesn't move. You’re the one in the storm with him, getting wet and hitting the rocks so he doesn't have to. That has to count for more than a tidy shoe rack."

Jiahao stared at him, the words sinking in like warmth after a long, deep freeze. He didn't know how to respond to a man who saw the world in rigid categories but somehow managed to find a slot for effort and sacrifice in his logic. For the first time all night, the hollow ache in his chest felt a little less empty.

"Thanks, Junseo," Jiahao whispered, his voice thick. "I think... I think I really needed to hear that."

Junseo just nodded once, a sharp, precise movement, and adjusted his cuffs. He looked back at his own reflection, but for once, the symmetry didn't feel quite as satisfying as it used to.

The silence that followed Jiahao’s confession wasn't the uncomfortable kind from the hobby shop. It was thick and heavy, like a wool blanket that had seen too many winters. Junseo stared into the rows of amber bottles behind the bar, but he wasn't seeing the alcohol. He was seeing a ghost of a house that had been too quiet for too long.

Jiahao’s words about "playing house" and the pressure to be an adult hit a chord in Junseo that he usually kept locked away in a temperature-controlled vault.

"My parents stayed together," Junseo said quietly. His voice was so low it almost got lost in the hum of the room. "On paper, we were a complete set. A perfect collection. But the house… it was silent. They lived separate lives under the same roof, like two figurines placed on opposite ends of a shelf."

He adjusted his glasses, a habitual movement that felt more like a shield in this moment.

"Every Christmas, there was a competition," he continued, a faint, bitter edge to his words. "Not to see who loved me more, but to see who could buy the most expensive silence. I had all the limited editions. Every pristine box. I spent my childhood guarding those toys because they were the only things in that house that didn't feel like they were breaking. I kept them perfect because I thought if I let them stay messy, my world would finally collapse."

He looked down at his gloved hands, then at the wrinkled drawing of the Iron Spider lying on the bar. He thought of his own apartment, with its dust-free surfaces and its two identical, sealed boxes of the very toy Jiahao was willing to drown for.

He realized then that he was still that lonely kid, sitting in a silent room, guarding a "miracle" that no one was ever allowed to touch. He was keeping the Iron Spider in an acrylic prison, and for what? To maintain a value that didn't mean anything if it didn't make someone's heart beat faster.

Beside him, Jiahao was looking at his drink, his shoulders slumped in a way that made him look like a man who had finally run out of steam. He looked disorganized, exhausted, and desperately human.

"I have it," Junseo said.

Jiahao blinked, turning his head slowly. "What?"

"The Iron Spider. Limited Edition. Gold legs," Junseo repeated, finally turning to meet Jiahao’s eyes. His expression was still rigid, his posture still perfect, but his eyes were different. There was a crack in the ice. "I have two of them at home. Both sealed. Both perfect."

Jiahao’s jaw dropped. He stared at Junseo as if the man had just admitted to being a superhero himself. "You… you’re joking. This is a very cruel joke, right?"

"I don't joke about inventory," Junseo replied, his voice regaining a hint of its usual formality. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his movements precise. "I’ve spent my life believing that the value of an object is in its condition. In its rarity. But looking at that drawing…" He gestured to the messy gold legs. "I think I was wrong. A toy that isn't loved is just a piece of plastic taking up space."

He looked at Jiahao, whose eyes were starting to fill with a dizzying, frantic kind of hope.

"I'll give it to you," Junseo said, the words feeling like a weight lifting off his own chest. "On one condition."

Jiahao grabbed Junseo’s arm, his damp fingers leaving a mark on the expensive wool, but Junseo didn't flinch this time. "Anything. I’ll give you my kidney. I’ll edit your autobiography and make you sound like a saint. I'll name my next houseplant after you," 

"Don't be dramatic," Junseo murmured, though a tiny, genuine twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. "The condition is that you let him play with it. Let him snap the legs. Let him take it into the dirt. If it ends up under a radiator, then that’s where it belongs."

Jiahao let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, his hands performing a frantic, joyous dance in the air. "I promise. I’ll make sure it has the messiest, most adventurous life a toy has ever had. Junseo, I… I don't know what to say. You’re not a jerk. You’re a miracle in a very nice coat."

"I was definitely a jerk to you earlier," Junseo corrected, though he didn't pull his arm away from Jiahao’s touch. "But... thank you."

—

"You're coming to dinner," Jiahao said, not as a question, but as a decree. He leaned across the bar, his hands performing a series of enthusiastic, sweeping gestures that nearly took out a bowl of peanuts. "Tomorrow night. Christmas Eve. It’s my year with Anxin, Yeji and I have this whole rotating schedule and she’s coming over with her fiancé. It’s going to be a full house. A weird, blended, slightly burnt-smelling house. And you need to be there."

Junseo blinked, his fingers hovering over the silk lining of his coat. "I don’t do full houses, Jiahao. And I certainly don’t do weird things. My Christmas plans usually involve a very quiet book and a very specific type of tea."

"Exactly! That sounds depressing and weird," Jiahao countered, his eyes wide and earnest. "Look, you’re giving my son a miracle. You can’t just drop a miracle in a bar and walk away. You have to see the aftermath. Besides, I’m a fashion editor — I spend my days convincing people to wear things they hate. I’m very good at being persistent until people give in just to make me stop talking."

Junseo looked at the smudge on Jiahao’s cheek, then at the desperate, hopeful light in his eyes. He should have said no. A logical "no" was right there on the tip of his tongue. But for some reason, the thought of his own silent, perfectly white apartment felt suddenly, sharply cold.

"I’ll consider it," Junseo murmured, which Jiahao clearly took as a "yes" based on the way he nearly fell off his stool.

—

As they stepped out of the bar, the icy wind hit Jiahao. He fumbled for his keys, his fingers still slightly numb and clumsy, but before he could even find the keychain, a gloved hand appeared in his line of sight, palm open.

"Give them to me," Junseo said. It wasn't a suggestion — it was a quiet, firm command that brooked no argument.

Jiahao blinked, squinting through the falling flakes. "Oh. Right. The drink. I only had one, but my brain is already about eighty percent fluff on a good day." He dropped the keys into Junseo’s hand, the metal cold against the other man’s glove.

Junseo gripped the keys, but he didn't move toward the driver's side immediately. He looked at the heavy brass ring, then back at Jiahao with a look of genuine, clinical disbelief.

"You’re remarkably comfortable giving your vehicle and your safety to a man you literally tackled into a snowbank a few hours ago," Junseo noted, his voice dry. "For all you know, I could be an expert car thief with a very expensive coat. You're trusting a complete stranger with your life, Jiahao."

Jiahao let out a soft, breathy laugh, leaning back against the cold brick of the bar's exterior. He looked at Junseo, noticing the way the streetlamp caught the edge of his glasses and the way he held the keys as if they were a fragile artifact.

"I tend to expect the best from people," Jiahao said, his voice losing its playful edge and becoming something much softer, much more sincere. "It’s a character flaw, I know. It’s probably why I lose my wallet so often. But you're not a stranger anymore, Junseo. Strangers don't go back into the slush to save a five-year-old’s messy drawing. They don't track someone down in a bar just to apologize for being a jerk. And they definitely don't offer up a piece of their most prized collection to a guy who smells like desperation."

He paused, watching a snowflake land on Junseo’s shoulder and stay there, undisturbed.

"You're someone who is very careful," Jiahao continued, his eyes warm. "And underneath all those layers of perfection and order, you have a lot of feelings you're trying very hard to protect. I think my car is in the safest hands it's ever been in."

Junseo felt a strange, uncomfortable heat rise to his chest and cheeks. He wasn't used to being seen like that, especially not by someone who seemed to navigate life by pure instinct and heart. He looked away, focusing on the lock of the car.

"Your logic is emotionally driven and dangerous," Junseo murmured, though his grip on the keys softened. "Get in the car before you freeze."

As soon as he sat in the driver's seat, he felt his entire spine turn to steel. The car didn't smell like cedarwood, it smelled like apple juice. There were colorful gift ribbons tangled around the gear shift like festive weeds, and the layer of biscuit crumbs in the backseat cracks looked like a geological map of a toddler’s very busy afternoon.

From the speakers, a high-pitched, incredibly repetitive song about a bus was playing at a low, haunting volume.

"I am so sorry," Jiahao scrambled from the passenger side, frantically shoving a pile of Anxin’s drawings into the back seat. "I swear I cleaned this last month. Please don't look at the floor mats. Just... look at the road. Pretend you're in a simulator. A very messy, juice-scented simulator."

Junseo sat perfectly still. He looked like a man who had accidentally stepped into a blender. He stared at the steering wheel for a long second, his mind trying to find a starting point in the disorder.

But then, Jiahao let out a short, genuine laugh. 

“I promise the dinner will be better than the car." Jiahao said, watching Junseo carefully navigate the car out of the parking spot.

Junseo watched the way the streetlights danced across the dashboard, highlighting the crumbs and the ribbons. He wasn't used to this — to the noise, the smells, the evidence of a life being lived so loudly. But as he steered through the falling snow, he realized he didn't hate it. The disaster felt... alive. It felt warm in a way his silent apartment never did.

"The car is... expressive," Junseo managed to say, his voice losing its sharp, judgmental edge. "It clearly has... character."

Jiahao beamed, a bright, radiator-warm smile that seemed to fill the cramped space. "That’s the nicest way anyone has ever told me I’m a slob. I’m definitely putting that on my dating profile."

Junseo didn't respond, but as he drove through the quiet, white city, he found himself humming along to the song about the bus, his thumb tapping a perfect, rhythmic beat against the steering wheel.

—

Walking into Junseo’s house was like stepping into a vacuum. It was the opposite of Jiahao’s world. Everything was white, gray, or black. Every book on the shelf was aligned by height and color. There were no crumbs. The air was still and smelled of nothing at all.

Jiahao stood in the entryway, suddenly very aware of his damp boots and his frizzy hair. He felt like he was a giant, colorful smudge in a world that only allowed straight lines.

"Don't move," Junseo instructed softly. 

Junseo walked toward a large, glass-fronted cabinet that took up an entire wall. He moved with a quiet, practiced grace, his gloved hands reaching for a specific section. He pulled out a box.

The Iron Spider. Limited Edition.

Junseo walked back to Jiahao, holding the box with the tips of his fingers. He handled the plastic as if it were a rare, ancient scroll that might turn to dust if he breathed on it too hard. He looked at the toy, his eyes reflecting the gold of the mechanical legs behind the window.

"Here," Junseo whispered.

He handed the box to Jiahao. For a second, their fingers brushed — Junseo’s gloved, steady hand and Jiahao’s bare, trembling one.

"It’s perfect," Jiahao breathed, staring at the toy. He looked at Junseo, and the gratitude in his face was so loud it seemed to echo in the silent room. "You have no idea what this means. You really don't."

"I think I’m starting to," Junseo replied. He looked around his perfect, silent sanctuary, and for the first time, the lack of crumbs felt less like a victory and more like a symptom of a very long, very quiet loneliness.

"I'll see you tomorrow night, Junseo," Jiahao said, clutching the box to his chest like a shield. "Don't you dare be late. I'll send you a pin. And a warning about the music."

As Jiahao left, Junseo stood in his doorway, watching the "disaster" walk back toward his messy car. He felt the empty space in his breast pocket where the drawing had been, and then he looked at his clean, empty hands.

He wasn't sure what he was doing, but as he closed the door, he found himself thinking about which tie would go best with a "weird, blended Christmas."

—

The next evening, Jiahao’s apartment was the manifestation of a train wreck. It was a riot of color and light that didn't quite follow the rules of physics or aesthetics. The Christmas lights were draped over every available surface, blinking in three different patterns that never once synchronized.

The air was a heavy, conflicting mix of scents: the sharp, fresh smell of a pine tree that was slightly too big for the corner, and the unmistakably bitter, carbonized odor of the "gourmet" cookies Jiahao had attempted to bake.

Jiahao himself was in a state of total short-circuit. He was a blur of motion, his hands performing a desperate dance as he tried to stir a pot of hot chocolate with one hand while using the other to open the oven to check the Christmas turkey.

"Okay, okay," he muttered to himself, his hair standing up like he’d just stuck his finger in a socket. "The cookies are a tragedy, the lights are a seizure risk, but the cocoa is thick enough to hide the pain. We can do this. Just act like an adult. A real, functional adult who doesn't lose his keys."

When the doorbell finally rang, Jiahao jumped so high he nearly sent the wooden spoon flying. He wiped his hands on his apron — which was currently covered in a fine dusting of cocoa powder and flour — and pulled the door open.

Junseo stood in the hallway, looking like he’d been edited into the scene by a hand that was half-logic and half-holiday-spirit. He was wearing a dark coat, but as he moved to step inside, the front was unzipped just enough to reveal a vibrant red sweater underneath. It was decorated with tiny, meticulously arranged reindeer prancing across his chest.

It was the kind of garment that should have been a disaster. Yet, on Junseo, it was… complicated. The bright red fabric made his skin look like porcelain and brought out a warmth in his face that Jiahao hadn't seen before. It highlighted the sharp, handsome line of his jaw and made him look approachable, yet devastatingly attractive in a way that didn't follow any of Jiahao's mental rules.

Jiahao stood there, frozen. He forgot to breathe for a second, his gaze locked on the way the soft wool of the sweater hugged Junseo’s shoulders. He looked like a Christmas miracle that had accidentally wandered into a messy apartment.

The silence stretched a second too long. Jiahao just kept staring, his eyes moving from the tiny reindeer to Junseo’s face and back again, his brain currently experiencing a total blackout.

Junseo’s ears began to turn a soft, dusty pink. He shifted the wine bottle he was holding, his usual composure wavering under Jiahao’s intense gaze. 

"Jiahao," Junseo finally said, breaking the spell with a sharp, dry cough. He adjusted the cuff of his coat, his eyes darting toward the floor. "Is there… something on my face? Or is the sight of a reindeer particularly shocking to you this evening?"

Jiahao blinked, snapping back to reality as if he’d just been splashed with cold water. "Oh! No! I mean — yes. I was just... I’m shocked you’re so early! I mean, you also look…" He gestured vaguely with a hand that was still holding a dusting of flour. "You look great. Really. I just didn't expect the… the wildlife. It suits you. In a 'I'm-secretly-very-handsome-even-in-knits' kind of way."

Junseo’s blush deepened, spreading from his ears to his cheeks, though he tried to hide it by adjusting his glasses. "It was a gift. From Geonwoo. He insisted it was the standard protocol for a domestic gathering."

"Well, tell Geonwoo he’s a genius," Jiahao muttered, finally stepping aside to let him in, though he still couldn't quite take his eyes off the red sweater. "Come in, please. Before I stare a hole through your reindeer."

Junseo moved into the living room with the extreme caution of a cat being introduced to a room full of energetic puppies. He navigated around a stray toy truck and a pile of discarded wrapping paper as if he were walking through a minefield. 

He finally stopped near the dining table, looking at the tray of black, puckered circles that used to be cookies.

"I know, I know," Jiahao sighed, the frantic energy leaving him for a second, replaced by a soft laugh. He slumped his shoulders, looking down at his messy apron. "The cookies are charcoal. I think I accidentally used the cremate setting on the oven. I tried to make it perfect, you know? Like your apartment. But my brain just doesn't work that way."

He looked up at Junseo, his eyes raw and honest. "But the chocolate is actually good. I didn't burn that. So... the cookies don't really matter, right?"

Junseo looked at the burnt cookies, then back at Jiahao. He saw the flour on Jiahao’s nose and the way he was trying so hard to hide his shaking hands in the folds of his apron. The wine bottle in Junseo’s hands lowered. He felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the warmth of the room.

"The cookies are... a total loss" Junseo murmured, a faint, genuine light appearing in his eyes. He carefully set the wine on the table, making sure it was exactly parallel to the edge, before turning back to Jiahao. "However, my grandmother's recipe is very popular, Geonwoo and his boyfriend always rave about it. I can make it if you don't mind.”

A small, surprised smile touched Junseo’s lips — the most human expression Jiahao had seen on him yet. Jiahao felt his heart do a slow, grateful roll in his chest. He looked at the red reindeer, then at the man offering to rescue his night, and he felt a lump form in his throat.

"You'd do that? You'd actually bake? In this kitchen?" Jiahao asked, his voice thick. "It’s a disaster zone, Junseo. There’s flour everywhere. I think I lost a whisk somewhere"

"I have seen worse disasters" Junseo replied, already reaching for the soap to wash his hands. He looked at Jiahao over his shoulder, the tiny reindeer on his chest bobbing as he moved. "Just find me a clean bowl. Once they're in the oven, we'll figure out the decoration."

—

A few hours had passed, and the apartment had undergone a profound transformation. The scent of carbonized sugar had been replaced by the warm, buttery aroma of Junseo’s grandmother’s cookies, which were now cooling on a wire rack.

While Jiahao was still in the kitchen, currently engaged in a frantic but slightly more organized battle with a main course for the dinner, Junseo was fighting a battle of his own in the living room.

It was an itch. A persistent hum at the back of his brain that refused to be silenced by the festive spirit. He looked at the discarded gift ribbons on the floor — a tangled mess of emerald and silver that looked like a crime scene for elves. He looked at the pile of toys in the corner, a chaotic heap where a plastic dinosaur was currently trying to eat a fire truck.

Junseo let out a soft, defeated sigh, the tiny reindeer on his chest bobbing as he exhaled. He set a stack of napkins down — perfectly parallel to the edge of the table — and began to move.

He didn't just "tidy." He restored order to the room. He knelt on the floor and began to group Anxin’s toys by size, material, and combat utility. He gathered the ribbons and smoothed them out with his fingers, rolling them into neat, shimmering coils. Finally, he turned his attention to the Christmas lights. He adjusted the tangled wires until the flickering changed from an "emergency siren" to a soft, rhythmic pulse that finally felt like it belonged in a home.

"There," Junseo murmured, standing up and smoothing out his reindeer sweater. 

Just as he was about to check on the progress in the kitchen, the front door — which Jiahao had left unlocked for the arrival of the guests — burst open.

Anxin didn't walk into the room — he erupted into it. He was a small, high-energy whirlwind, his cheeks flushed a bright, apple-red from the winter air. He was holding a Thor figurine with both hands.

But then, Anxin stopped dead in his tracks, his little boots squeaking on the wood. He blinked, his eyes widening to the size of saucers as he spotted the tall stranger standing in the middle of his living room. He saw a man who looked like he’d been carved out of marble, yet was wearing a sweater covered in tiny reindeer. Anxin looked at Junseo, then down at his Thor, then back at Junseo’s glasses, clearly trying to process this new, impeccably dressed variable in his environment.

From the kitchen, the sound of Jiahao’s frantic whisking paused. "Anxin? Is that you, buddy?"

Anxin didn't answer. He was too busy staring at the man who had turned his messy living room into a sanctuary, wondering if the reindeer on the stranger's chest were real.

"Oh! You're back!" Jiahao’s voice came from the kitchen, followed quickly by the man himself. He was still wearing the flour-dusted apron, a streak of cocoa powder now marking his forehead. He looked at the newly organized room, then at Junseo, and finally at his son. "Anxin, buddy, come here. There’s someone I want you to meet."

Anxin stayed rooted to the spot, his grip on Thor tightening.

"This is Junseo," Jiahao said, kneeling beside his son and giving his shoulder a warm, grounding squeeze. "He’s a new friend. He’s... he’s a Hero Specialist. He helps Santa make sure the most special toys find the right homes."

Anxin’s eyes didn't just widen — they practically glowed. "A specialist?" he whispered, his voice full of a sudden, heavy awe.

Junseo felt his stomach do a strange, nervous flip. He wasn't prepared for this. He looked at the child — so small, so messy, so full of belief — and felt his own rigid defenses start to crumble like a poorly built wall. 

"A specialist in heroes?" Anxin asked, taking a tentative step forward.

"In a manner of speaking," Junseo replied, his voice losing its sharp, formal edge. It became soft, almost careful. "I spend a lot of time making sure they are well-cared for. They have very important jobs, after all."

Anxin nodded. He reached out and offered his Thor to Junseo. The toy was a disaster. There was a faint smudge of chocolate on the god’s left boot, and the paint on the hammer was chipped from what looked like a direct encounter with a radiator. To the Junseo of twenty-four hours ago, this would have been a crime.

To the Junseo looking at Anxin, it was just... history.

"He’s super, super brave," Anxin said, looking up at Junseo with wide, serious eyes. "But his hands gotta be real steady. Like yours. If they wiggle too much, he can't catch the bad dreams."

He stepped a little closer, pointing a small finger at the God of Thunder’s chest. "The bad dreams are big and scary sometimes, so he has to stay awake and hit them with his hammer. Pow! Like that."

Anxin paused, his gaze drifting to the bright red plastic draped over the toy’s shoulders. He reached out to touch the edge of the cape, his voice dropping to a hopeful whisper. "Does the cape make him fly? Is that the magic part that helps him fly all the way up to the clouds?"

Junseo looked at the cape. Scientifically, it was a piece of cheap, aerodynamically useless plastic. But he looked at Anxin’s hopeful face and decided that logic was a very lonely way to live.

"Yes," Junseo whispered, his fingers brushing the chipped hammer with surprising gentleness. "The cape catches the magic in the air. It’s what gives him the power to stay above the clouds."

Anxin’s face broke into a massive, toothy grin. He placed the toy firmly in Junseo’s gloved hand. "Make him fly? Please?"

Junseo hesitated. He looked at the toy, feeling the weight of the plastic, and then he looked up. Jiahao was standing in the kitchen doorway, the wooden spoon forgotten in his hand. His eyes were bright, his mouth slightly open, and there was a look of such raw, overwhelming gratitude on his face that Junseo felt his own heart skip a clumsy beat.

Junseo turned back to the boy. He raised the figurine, and with a slow, deliberate movement — a bit of a woosh and a graceful arc through the air — he made the God of Thunder soar. He even added a small, web-slinging flick of his wrist, a subconscious nod to the Iron Spider waiting in the box.

Anxin erupted into a peal of delighted, melodic laughter, jumping up and down as his hero took flight in the hands of the specialist.

Jiahao stood in the shadow of the kitchen, a sudden, tight knot forming in his throat. He’d spent years trying to be the "fun dad" to compensate for his own mess, but watching this stiff, orderly man melt into a puddle of kindness for his son... it was too much. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in this disorganized, light-flickering apartment.

"He's doing it!" Anxin cheered. "Daddy, look! He's really flying!"

"I see it, buddy," Jiahao whispered, his voice thick with emotions. "He’s a pro."

Junseo didn't pull away immediately. Instead, he let the toy soar through one more graceful arc, his own rigid posture finally softening as he settled onto the edge of the sofa to match the boy’s level. For a heartbeat, the apartment was filled with nothing but the pure, unfiltered sound of a child’s laugh. Jiahao leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching the way the tiny reindeer on Junseo’s chest moved with every "whoosh" of the God of Thunder. It was a pocket of peace, a localized miracle that made the frantic, messy hours of the afternoon feel worth every burnt cookie.

When Yeji and Leo stepped inside, they didn't find the usual sight of Jiahao tripping over a mountain of discarded wrapping paper. Instead, they stopped dead in their tracks, paralyzed by a scene that didn't fit any of their mental maps.

On the sofa — the same one that usually housed a colony of toys and shirts — Junseo was sitting with Anxin. He was holding Thor, helping the small boy navigate a "flight path" over the coffee table, while Anxin made frantic engine noises.

Yeji blinked, her gaze sweeping across the room. She saw the coiled ribbons, the toys marched into perfect rows, and the Christmas lights pulsing with a calm, rhythmic glow. It was a sophisticated, orderly version of Jiahao’s life that she had never witnessed in all their years together.

"Jiahao?" Yeji asked, her voice hushed, as if she were afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the illusion. She looked at her ex-boyfriend, who was emerging from the kitchen with a damp towel in his hands. "Did you... did you finally join a cult? Or did you undergo some kind of domestic evolution while I wasn't looking?"

She walked further into the room, her hand trailing over the dust-free surface of a shelf. "It’s incredible. I was prepared to spend the first twenty minutes of the night helping you find the dinner plates, but this... you’ve actually matured, Jiahao. I’m impressed. The management here is almost professional."

For a split second, Jiahao felt a dangerous surge of pride. The temptation was right there, hanging in the air like a gift — he could just nod. He could let her believe that he had finally conquered his own nature, that he was finally the "put-together" man she had always needed him to be. He could take the credit.

But then he looked at the sofa. He saw Junseo, who had frozen at the sound of Yeji’s voice, his hand still awkwardly hovering in the air with the Thor figurine. Junseo looked like he wanted to vanish into the fabric of his reindeer sweater, yet he didn't move away from Anxin.

Jiahao’s vulnerability won. He let out a short, breathy laugh and shook his head, the pride dissolving into something much more honest.

"I’m still the same guy who loses his phone in the freezer.” Jiahao admitted, his voice soft as he looked toward the sofa. “All of this — the order, the cookies that aren't charcoal, the fact that you can actually see the floor — that’s all merit of our guest. I’m just the guy in the flour-covered apron trying not to break anything."

Junseo stood up then, his movements a bit stiff. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt under his sweater, his expression returning to that guarded, formal mask. He felt the weight of Yeji’s curious gaze and shifted his feet, looking every bit the socially uncomfortable technician.

"Yeji, Leo... this is Junseo," Jiahao said, gesturing frantically to dismount the tension. "He’s a... a friend. He’s been helping me today. Junseo, this is Anxin’s mom, Yeji, and her fiancé, Leo."

Junseo gave a sharp, measured bow, his voice sounding like a crisp page being turned. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I apologize for the intrusion."

Yeji opened her mouth to ask the dozen questions burning in her mind — namely, where Jiahao had found a man who looked like a model but cleaned like a sergeant — but she never got the chance.

Anxin jumped off the sofa, Thor still clutched in his hand. He ran to his mother’s side, tugging on her coat with a frantic, joyful energy.

"Mommy! You gotta be quiet!" Anxin whispered loudly, his eyes wide and glowing. "Junseo isn't just a friend. He’s the Hero Specialist from Santa’s workshop! He knows all the magic codes!"

The declaration hit the room like a burst of warmth, instantly shattering the stiff formality Junseo had tried to hide behind. Yeji’s eyes softened, a genuine smile breaking across her face as she looked from her son to the tall stranger in the reindeer sweater. Even Junseo couldn't maintain his icy defenses against that kind of logic — a small, helpless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the boy.

"A specialist, huh?" Yeji murmured, her gaze flitting to Jiahao with a look that said we’ll talk about this later. "Well, thank you for your service, Junseo. I think we were all in need of a little magic tonight."

—

The group moved toward the dining table, a space that had become a fascinating battlefield of two opposing personalities. The silverware was aligned with surgical precision, the napkins folded into crisp, identical rectangles — all thanks to Junseo’s quiet intervention. But the food itself, served in a variety of mismatched bowls, was pure Jiahao. It was rich, fragrant filling the air with a warmth that seemed to push back the dark, snowy night outside.

Junseo sat between Anxin and Leo, feeling like a high-end component that had been installed in the wrong machine. 

"Okay, nobody look at the bottom of the rolls. It’s a trick of the light," Jiahao announced as he set a basket down, his face flushed from the heat of the oven. "They’re not burnt, they’re just... charcoal-infused for a deeper flavor profile. It’s a fashion thing. You wouldn't understand."

Yeji let out a bright, familiar laugh. "Jiahao, you’ve been using that excuse since college. Just admit the timer is your mortal enemy."

"The timer and I have a mutual non-aggression pact," Jiahao countered, winking at Anxin. "I don’t look at it, and it doesn't tell me when my life is on fire."

Junseo watched this exchange with the keen eyes of a clinical observer. Normally, he would have categorized Jiahao’s behavior as 'disorganized' or 'inefficient.' But as the meal progressed, he began to see the subtext he had missed in the bar. He watched the way Jiahao’s eyes followed Anxin, checking every bite the boy took, and how he intuitively anticipated when Yeji needed the water pitcher.

The "insufficiency" Jiahao had confessed to — the feeling of being a "disaster dad" — wasn't what Junseo saw at all. He saw a man who was the living, beating heart of a complex system. Jiahao didn't need a tidy shoe rack to be a father — he was a master of a much rarer craft: the ability to hold people together through affection.

Junseo watched Jiahao stumble through a story about a work mishap, nearly knocking over his own wine glass in the process. Jiahao laughed at himself, a sound so genuine and warm that Junseo felt a strange, localized warmth in his own chest.

In his silent, perfect apartment, everything stayed where he put it. Nothing broke. Nothing spilled. But as he looked at the messy, laughing group around the table, Junseo realized that his "perfect" life was essentially a museum for a person who wasn't truly living. He had spent years guarding boxes, while Jiahao was here, in the middle of a storm, getting his hands dirty and his heart bruised, but he was warm.

He looked at the smudge of flour still clinging to Jiahao’s temple and felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and brush it away — not because he hated the mess, but because he wanted to touch the warmth.

"Is the turkey okay, Junseo?" Jiahao asked, his voice snapping Junseo out of his thoughts. Jiahao looked at him with a mix of hope and worry, his hands hovering over the table. 

Junseo took a slow, deliberate bite. It was tender, seasoned with a chaotic mix of herbs that shouldn't have worked but somehow did. It tasted like home.

"The seasoning is..." Junseo said, and for the first time, his voice held no trace of coldness. He looked Jiahao directly in the eyes, his own gaze softening behind his glasses. "Excellent. It is the best meal I have had in several years."

Jiahao’s face lit up with a smile so bright it made the flickering Christmas lights seem dim. He let out a long, relieved breath, his shoulders finally dropping from their defensive hunch.

—

The post-dinner energy was electric, a rare, vibrant hum that seemed to vibrate within the very walls of the apartment. Jiahao was in his element, his natural charisma filling the gaps between mismatched plates and spilled crumbs. But the real star was Anxin. The boy was utterly captivated by the "Helper," dragging Junseo into a complex world of superhero alliances and imaginary battles.

Anxin was back on the rug, his small body vibrating with the kind of post-dinner energy that only five-year-olds and caffeinated squirrels truly understand. He had his "vets" — a battered Triceratops with a missing tail, a fire truck that had lost its ladder and a group of mismatched superheroes who were currently holding a summit on the rug’s pattern.

Junseo and Leo were right there in the thick of it. Junseo was kneeling. He looked like a high-precision instrument being used to build a sandcastle, yet he was trying. He was trying so hard.

"No, Mr. Kim," Anxin said, his voice dripping with the authority of a tiny general. He held up the tail-less dinosaur. "The Triceratops can't drive the truck. He has big toes. He’ll break the steering wheel. He has to be the one who screams when the fire starts. Like this: AHHHH!"

Junseo adjusted his glasses, looking down at the plastic dinosaur. "I see. It makes sense. So, Leo's Thor is the driver?"

Leo, who was sprawled out much more comfortably than Junseo, laughed and made the toy God of Thunder grip the plastic steering wheel. "Thor’s a great driver, buddy. He doesn't even need a license, he has a hammer."

From the dining table, Jiahao watched the scene, his chin resting in his palm and a glass of wine forgotten in his other hand. The constant, buzzing static of his own insecurity — the voice that told him his life was too loud, too messy, too much — had finally gone quiet. He wasn't looking at the toys. He was looking at the way the red wool of Junseo's sweater moved as he reached out to help Anxin "rescue" a fallen superhero. He was looking at the way Junseo listened to Anxin’s nonsense as if it were a high-level briefing.

He felt a serene, heavy kind of contentment. 

"You’re staring, Jiahao."

Yeji’s voice was quiet, pulling him back to the table. She was leaning back in her chair, watching him with an expression that was halfway between a smirk and a soft, maternal kind of pride. She hadn't missed the way his eyes had stayed glued to the man in the reindeer sweater for the last ten minutes.

Jiahao blinked, heat rushing to his cheeks as he took a sudden, hasty sip of his wine. "You're imagining things."

"Right…" Yeji teased, her voice dropping so the men on the floor wouldn't hear. She looked over at Junseo, who was currently being lectured by Anxin on the proper way to make a truck sound like it was braking on ice. "You seem like a new person compared to yesterday, and all it took was meeting this man. I think it's a Christmas miracle, and you shouldn't miss the opportunity."

Jiahao looked back at Junseo. He saw the crack in the formal mask, the way Junseo’s mouth was tilted in a big smile as Anxin climbed onto his lap to show him a "secret" button on a toy.

—

In the kitchen, the atmosphere was quieter. While Jiahao was distracted by a particularly intense "laser-beam" sound effect from the living room, Yeji found herself alone with Junseo by the sink.

She leaned against the counter, watching him for a long moment with the sharp, intuitive gaze of someone who had seen Jiahao at his best and his absolute worst.

"You’re a quick learner," she said softly, catching Junseo’s eye.

Junseo straightened his reindeer sweater, feeling the weight of her observation. "Excuse me?"

Yeji let out a small, knowing smile. "I’ve only known you for three hours, but my intuition is usually a lighthouse in these things. So, I have to tell you: Jiahao... he’s a lot. He gesticulates too much when he’s nervous, he’s a total disaster with a schedule, and he’ll probably lose his keys at least three times a week."

She stepped closer, her expression turning uncharacteristically serious. "He’s impulsive and messy, yes. But he has the steadiest heart I’ve ever known. It’s the one part of him that never breaks. Just... make sure you don't be the one to do it. He’s sturdier than he looks, but he’s worth the care."

Junseo felt a lump form in his throat. He looked toward the living room, where Jiahao was now laughing at something Anxin had done. "I understand," Junseo murmured. "I think I realized that shortly after really getting to know him."

—

The goodbye was a flurry of hugs and cold air as Yeji and Leo finally left, leaving the apartment bathed in a soft, domestic calm. The high-voltage energy had settled into a warm glow.

Jiahao, moved by the quiet rhythm of the night, guided a drooping, heavy-lidded Anxin toward the bedroom. He didn't rush. He handled the transition from "superhero time" to "bedtime" with a focused, patient tenderness. He treated his son with the same delicate care he might use for a rare, priceless manuscript, his hands steady and sure.

Junseo stayed back, lingering in the doorway of the small bedroom. He adjusted his glasses, assuming his habitual role as the silent observer, but the view was different now.

He watched Jiahao tuck the covers around Anxin’s shoulders, moving with a familiar, practiced grace. He saw Jiahao whisper a soft "I love you, buddy," as Anxin's small fingers were curled tightly around the tail-less triceratops, the plastic dinosaur pressed firmly against the chest of his pajamas.

Junseo thought of his own home — the silent shelves, the vacuum-sealed boxes, the toys that would never know the warmth of a child’s hand or the thrill of an imaginary flight. He realized that "perfection" was just another word for "lonely." The real miracle wasn't the toy — it was the man sitting on the edge of the bed, whose heart was big enough to welcome the chaos of a broken world and turn it into a sanctuary.

As Jiahao stood up and turned toward the door, his eyes meeting Junseo’s in the dim light, Junseo finally understood: some things are only truly beautiful once they’ve been a little bit broken.

—

The apartment behind them had finally drifted into a soft, ringing silence. The air inside had become thick — saturated with the smell of pine, the lingering buttery scent of "grandmother’s cookies," and a level of honesty that made the walls feel a few inches too close. Without needing a word, Jiahao nudged the sliding glass door open, and they stepped out onto the small balcony.

The biting, honest cold of the winter night hit them like a reset button.

Jiahao leaned his weight against the railing, his breath hitching in a series of white clouds that dissipated into the dark. He looked out at the city, which was being slowly erased by a fresh, heavy layer of snow. It was a beautiful, muffled world.

"I think my brain was actually starting to bubble in there," Jiahao whispered, letting out a jagged, self-deprecating laugh. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at his damp boots. "Between the cookies and the terror of having my ex-girlfriend see my kitchen looking like a crime scene... I’m honestly surprised my internal organs haven't combusted from the stress."

Junseo stood beside him, his posture still impossibly straight, though he tucked his chin slightly into the collar of his windbreaker to shield himself from the wind. He didn't look at the skyline — his eyes were fixed on the frost beginning to lace across the glass door. The silence between them had transformed. It was no longer the sharp, judging silence of the hobby shop, it was a bridge, heavy with everything they had witnessed — the chaotic laughter, the crumbs on the floor, and the image of a child holding a broken plastic dinosaur.

"You said something at the bar yesterday," Junseo began. His voice was low and steady, a calm anchor against the whistling wind. He turned his head, the distant streetlights catching the edge of his glasses. "You said you were three raccoons in a trench coat trying to pass as a human. You said you were a disaster, and that you were always ten minutes late to your own life."

Jiahao winced, a small, pained smile tugging at his mouth. "Yeah. It was a pretty accurate diagnosis, wasn't it?"

"I don't think so," Junseo corrected him firmly. There was no hesitation in his tone, just that clinical frankness that Jiahao had learned to trust in such a short time. "I spend my entire life looking at systems, Jiahao. I look at how parts fit together, how they function under high-pressure loads, and what happens when a single component fails. And after tonight... I’ve realized that my definition of efficiency was completely flawed."

Jiahao turned fully toward him now, his eyebrows furrowing in the dark. "What do you mean? You’re the king of efficiency. You made my living room look like it belongs in a magazine in half an hour."

"For someone like me, who sees the world in codes and rigid logic, your life looks like chaos," Junseo said, taking a small, brave step closer. The tiny reindeer on his chest were now dusted with stray snowflakes, making him look like part of the scenery. "But the truth is, you are the only system in that home that actually matters. You are the energy that keeps the whole machine from turning into a cold, empty box. Without you there’s no light."

He looked back through the glass at the darkened window of Anxin’s room, his expression softening into something raw.

"My world... my perfect apartment... it’s just static," Junseo admitted, the words coming out like a long-held confession. "It’s a museum of things that never change because they are never touched. It’s a preservation of objects that are essentially dead. But your love is dynamic. It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s completely disorganized, but it’s alive. You create memories, while I just maintain. And tonight, I realized that a scratched toy in a warm, sticky hand is worth infinitely more than a box in a silent room."

Jiahao felt the words hit him. The "insufficiency" he had carried for years — the constant, nagging fear that his mess made him a failure of a father — suddenly felt lighter. It was as if Junseo had reached into his chest and recalibrated his entire sense of self with a few quiet sentences.

"Junseo..." Jiahao’s voice was thick, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Moved by a sudden, overwhelming surge of gratitude, he reached out. His hand landed instinctively on Junseo’s arm.

The contact was a shock to Junseo’s controlled, solitary system. Even through the layers of the coat and the thick red wool, he could feel the heat of Jiahao’s palm — a raw, human warmth that didn't care about personal space or the 'proper protocol' of strangers. In his old life, Junseo would have flinched. He would have adjusted his sleeve and stepped back into the safety of his own perimeter.

But tonight, the box was wide open.

Junseo didn't move. He didn't pull away. He stood there in the freezing air, accepting the weight of Jiahao’s hand, his own heart performing a clumsy, uncoordinated beat that defied every logical rhythm he had ever known. He looked at Jiahao — this beautiful, impulsive mess of a man — and realized that for the first time in his life, he didn't want to observe from behind the glass. He wanted to be part of the noise.

"You're a miracle, Junseo," Jiahao whispered, his fingers tightening slightly on the other man’s arm. "A very stiff, very organized miracle in a reindeer sweater."

"I'm just me," Junseo replied, his voice a low vibration in the winter air, his usual armor completely gone. “I'm glad I could help with your Christmas mission, Jiahao. But I think... I think the mission helped me more than I helped you.”

They stood there for a long time, two polar opposites finally caught in a shared orbit, while the snow continued to fall, covering the world in a blanket of quiet, perfect, beautiful chaos.

Junseo looked down at the hand on his sleeve, then back up at Jiahao. The frost was thick on the glass door behind them, but Junseo’s gaze was clearer than it had ever been. He felt the weight of the evening — the laughter, the mess, the way Anxin had looked at him — and he realized that he didn't want to go back to his silent, perfect museum.

"Mr. Zhang," Junseo murmured.

The name, which had started as a cold, sharp formality in a hobby shop, now sounded different. It was softer, laced with a tiny, playful spark that caught Jiahao off guard.

Jiahao let out a shaky breath, a small cloud of white vapor. "Yeah?"

A tiny, genuine smirk played on Junseo’s lips — the kind of expression he usually kept locked in a vault. He took a half-step closer, bringing the scent of cold air and expensive soap into Jiahao’s personal space. The tiny reindeer on his chest seemed to prance in the dim light.

"I think there might be something wrong with me." Junseo said, his voice dropping to a low, warm vibration. "Since yesterday I haven't been able to stop thinking about one thing. So I'm going to ask with all the courage I have: can I kiss you?"

Jiahao’s heart performed a wild, uncoordinated thud against his ribs. He let out a soft, stunned laugh, his eyes searching Junseo’s for any sign of a joke, but he only found a deep, terrifyingly honest vulnerability.

"If I told you that there's something wrong with me too, would you believe me?" Jiahao whispered, his hand sliding up from Junseo’s arm to the back of his neck, his thumb brushing against the warm skin just above the collar. "I would love that."

Junseo didn't hesitate. For a man who spent his life calculating risks, he moved with a sudden, decisive grace. He leaned in, reducing the final few inches of distance, and pressed his lips against Jiahao’s.

For Jiahao, it felt like a healing. It was the touch of someone who saw his mess, his burnt cookies, and his disorganized life, and decided it was worth holding anyway. It was the warmth he had been chasing through the snow all day, finally found in the most unlikely person.

For Junseo, the contact was the sound of a lock clicking open. It was the sharp, metallic snap of his own protective "box" finally breaking apart. As he felt the heat of Jiahao’s mouth and the dampness of the snow melting between them, the decades of isolation and rigid order felt suddenly, beautifully irrelevant. He wasn't just observing a life anymore — he was finally, messy and imperfectly, inside of one.

They stayed like that for a long moment, tucked away on a tiny balcony while the city turned white around them. When they finally pulled apart, the cold night air felt less like a threat and more like a witness.

Junseo rested his forehead against Jiahao's shoulder, his glasses slightly fogged from the heat of the moment. He let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for years.

"Yeah, I think there's definitely something wrong with me," Junseo whispered, his voice slightly rough. "We should do this again just to confirm my theory."

Jiahao laughed, a bright, joyous sound that echoed softly in the quiet night. He tightened his grip on Junseo’s sweater, pulling him back in for more. "Your silly side is intriguing."

—

When the clock on the wall neared 3 AM, the frantic energy of the day was gone, replaced by a soft, lingering glow. Near the front door, Junseo began the familiar ritual of preparing to leave. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt beneath the red sweater, but the movement was different now — it didn't feel like a man putting on armor. It felt like a quiet, domestic habit, a way to find his bearings after a night that had completely reconfigured his internal map.

"I would very much like to repeat this entire… night," Junseo said, his voice low so as not to wake the sleeping boy in the next room. "And besides, Anxin mentioned that the Batman requires advanced tactical training. I happen to be the only certified specialist in the area. You should call me. For the sake of the hero's development, of course."

Jiahao felt a rush of heat to his chest, the playful challenge in Junseo’s voice acting like a spark. He leaned against the doorframe, a tired but genuine smile spreading across his face.

"Advanced training, huh?" Jiahao whispered. "I'll make sure to put it on the schedule. I think Batman is free on weekends."

As Junseo turned to leave, Jiahao felt a sudden, sharp impulse. He didn't want the night to end without giving back a piece of the magic Junseo had brought into the house.

"Wait," Jiahao said, a sudden thought striking him. He reached into the pocket of his cardigan and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He carefully smoothed it out — it was the drawing. The Iron Spider with the messy gold legs and the red crayon hearts, the one Junseo had found in the slush and dried with such meticulous care.

He held it out to Junseo.

"Since the toy was for Anxin, I think this should be yours," Jiahao said softly. He looked at the drawing, then back at Junseo. "The proportions are all wrong, I know. The legs look more like a spider having a mid-life crisis than a superhero. But you were the one who saw the beauty in it first, even when it was just a wet piece of paper in the snow. I want you to have it."

Junseo took the drawing with the same reverence he would have shown a rare, first-edition collectible. He looked at the jagged lines and the smeared colors, and to him, it looked more perfect than any masterwork. It was a record of the moment his world started to change.

"I’ll keep it safe," Junseo whispered, his voice thick with an emotion he didn't try to hide. "It’s... it’s the most valuable piece in my collection now."

Moved by the raw sincerity in Junseo’s eyes and the playful ghost of his earlier provocation, Jiahao didn’t think. He acted on that pure, impulsive energy that defined him. He stepped forward, caught Junseo by the shoulder, and pressed a quick, warm kiss to his cheek.

"See you soon, Specialist," Jiahao whispered, his eyes dancing with his usual, contagious optimism.

Junseo froze, his entire face turning a deep, visible shade of crimson that rivaled the color of his sweater. He stood there for a second, stunned, before his fingers tightened almost protectively over the drawing, pressing it against his chest. He didn't say anything, but the small, dazed smile on his face as he turned toward the elevator was the most honest thing Jiahao had ever seen.

Jiahao closed the door slowly, the lock clicking into place with a satisfying sound. He leaned his back against the wood, letting out a long, happy breath as he looked at the small card in his hand.

—

The morning of December 25th arrived with a soft, pale light that filtered through the patterned windows. The apartment was unusually quiet, the only sound being the distant, muffled hum of a snowplow clearing the streets. Jiahao lay in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling and feeling a strange, unfamiliar lightness in his chest. 

A sudden, thundering sound of bare feet hitting the wooden floor shattered the silence.

"DADDY! DADDY, LOOK! HE CAME! HE REALLY CAME!"

Jiahao scrambled out of bed, barely catching his balance as he followed the whirlwind of energy into the living room. Anxin was kneeling by the tree, his pajamas slightly twisted and his hair a chaotic nest of bedhead. In his hands, he clutched the Limited Edition Iron Spider, the golden legs gleaming under the blinking Christmas lights.

"Look, Daddy! Santa found it! He found the gold one!" Anxin’s voice was thick with a heavy, unshielded awe. He looked up at Jiahao, his eyes wider than saucers. "The Specialist was right! He said Santa had the magic codes, and he did! He really did!"

Jiahao knelt beside his son, his heart performing a slow, happy roll. Watching Anxin hug the plastic hero with a grip that threatened to snap those golden legs, Jiahao felt a lump form in his throat. He reached out and ruffled his son's hair, the messy, beautiful reality of the moment far better than any "perfect" version he had imagined.

"He did, buddy," Jiahao whispered, his voice a bit rough. "The Specialist never misses a detail."

Once Anxin was safely occupied with making the Spider-Man "patrol" the sofa, Jiahao reached for his phone on the coffee table. He found a notification waiting for him — a message sent just an hour ago.

He opened it, and his breath caught.

It was a photo. Junseo had taken a picture of his famous "museum" shelf — the one that was usually filled with vacuum-sealed rarities and flawless collectibles. But the centerpiece had changed. The spot where the Iron Spider had once stood, a silent and untouchable king, was now occupied by a small, black-rimmed glass frame.

Inside the frame was Anxin’s drawing. The spider with the mid-life crisis and the long, jagged legs was now preserved with the same reverence Junseo gave to a first-edition masterpiece. It looked gloriously out of place — a messy, colorful smudge in a world of straight lines.

Beneath the photo, a caption appeared:

"I think I’ve found a worthy replacement for the figure. It fits the shelf better than the original. Merry Christmas, Jiahao. PS: Give Anxin a kiss for me."

Jiahao stared at the screen, a small, dazed smile spreading across his face. He could almost see Junseo — likely wearing a colorless shirt — carefully measuring the distance between the frame and the edge of the shelf to make sure it was perfectly parallel. The thought made Jiahao let out a soft, joyous laugh.

He looked over at Anxin, who was currently trying to feed the Iron Spider a piece of a leftover roll, and then back at the phone. The insecurity was gone. He didn't need to be a perfect parent — he just needed to be the one who stayed in the storm. And now, he had someone who actually liked the way he scribbled outside the lines.

With a steady hand and a heart that finally felt like it belonged to him again, Jiahao began to type:

"He’s currently trying to teach the Spider-Man how to eat breakfast. I think the advanced training needs to start sooner rather than later. I know a great cafeteria nearby that should be open — care to join a messy father and a very loud superhero for a Christmas breakfast? I promise the coffee is better than my cookies."

He hit send and leaned back against the sofa, watching the mismatched lights blink. For the first time, they didn't look like a failure. They looked like a celebration.