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Yang Jeongin spends a lot of time at the arcade. He’s been frequenting the same one since he was around 8 years old.
It’s a humble little business sitting right on the outskirts of the small town he lives in, and it’s barely changed in the past 10 years. Maybe longer.
There’s plenty of stuff to do there, like bowling and laser tag, but Jeongin goes to the arcade for one reason and one reason only.
Space Invaders.
Tucked away in the back corner of the game room is an original 1978 Space Invaders machine, a little worn from years and years of constant use but still chugging. It’s not as popular as it used to be. People prefer to play the newer, more modern games that’ve been moved in, but Jeongin has never strayed from his one true love.
He’s poured all his blood, sweat, and tears into it. Sitting in front of that CRT screen for hours until his ass goes numb, just grinding away and trying to beat his high score, which has been steadily increasing.
Right now, it sits at 37,510.
Nobody’s been able to top it since he was 12 years old. There's a framed photo of him hanging above the machine that was taken a few years back, when he was the first person to ever break 25,000 points.
Jeongin fucking lives for Space Invaders.
•
The old CRT hums in its usual way, half comfort and half electrical hazard. Jeongin walks toward it with the confidence of a man returning to his throne. His backpack swings off one shoulder, his hair sticks up from the wind outside, and his glasses are smudged. The machine sits in its lonely corner, glowing faintly through the dust, the same polite glow it always offers him.
He reaches it, squints at the display, and then freezes.
His name is no longer in first place.
A stranger sits on the throne he has defended since he was twelve.
Sky.
The letters burn their way into his vision. His left eye twitches. His mouth falls open in a silent question that fails to form any sound.
Thirty-eight thousand nine hundred and ninety.
He reads the number again.
Then again.
He even leans in so close his breath fogs the glass.
He feels violated. Personally victimized. Like someone snuck into his house and rearranged his furniture just enough to piss him off.
His hands rise in slow horror, hovering on either side of the cabinet as if he expects the machine to explain itself. It does nothing. The CRT emits a faint buzz that feels mocking. He swears it hums louder, as if the game knows it’s betrayed him.
He backs up a step. His jaw works uselessly. A kid playing a racing game nearby glances at him with the same expression people use when they see a cat suddenly stand on two legs.
Jeongin stomps forward again. His hair flops over his forehead from the force of the movement.
“Who the fuck is Sky…?” he murmurs.
His voice cracks embarrassingly on the word “Sky.” He coughs to cover it. The kid at the racing wheel stares.
He raises his voice to a truly concerning volume.
“Who the fuck is Sky?!”
A college couple holding hands near the DDR machine stops mid-step. The employee behind the counter pops their gum slower. Someone in the bowling alley yells “strike,” and Jeongin has the strong, disorienting urge to fight them for no reason.
He drags his gaze back to the high score list. It still says Sky. It has not magically changed to a glitch or a joke or a misprint. His kingdom has been invaded. His legacy challenged. His entire personality threatened.
He presses both palms against the side of the cabinet, forehead dropping forward until it thuds against the frame. The machine wobbles from the impact. The framed photo of twelve-year-old Jeongin gasping triumphantly above the screen tilts at an angle that feels insulting.
He narrows his eyes at his own childhood face.
“I protected you,” he whispers to it. “I protected this family.”
A group of middle schoolers walks past. One of them whispers, “Is he okay?”
Another answers, “This is why I stick to Minecraft.”
Jeongin lifts his head. His expression shifts from heartbreak to determination so intense it would scare a military recruiter. One of the Marines, not some pussy from the Air Force.
Sky exists.
Sky dared to touch his machine.
Sky dared to win.
He straightens his hoodie, squares his shoulders, and mutters under his breath.
“I will find you, Sky. And I will destroy you.”
Then he grabs the start button with a dramatic flourish and sits down.
The trance begins.
His posture goes rigid. His breathing slows. His eyes lock onto the screen with such laser focus that a group of middle schoolers nearby produces an immediate, instinctive return-to-safety instinct and moves away in a clump. The child nearest the machine pauses and whispers something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer.
Beomgyu, another employee, watches from the prize area. Many a day has he seen Jeongin’s shoulders pulled so tight they form a straight line, and his fingers gripping the joystick so hard that Beomgyu’s pulled up the part replacement page for Space Invaders just in case.
“Jesus Christ,” Beomgyu says to no one. “He’s locked the freak in.”
He abandons his post at the prize wall and moves closer, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up as if approaching a crime scene.
Jeongin’s fingers move across the buttons with frantic precision. His expression does not change. Not even when two teenagers bump into his stool while chasing each other with water guns from the ticket exchange. He does not react. He’s immune to earthly distractions.
Beomgyu stops a safe distance away.
“Bro,” he calls out, “you have not blinked in forty minutes.”
Jeongin gives no sign he has heard a word.
Beomgyu circles the machine. He squints at Jeongin’s profile. A vein on Jeongin’s forehead has begun to pulse. The glow of the CRT reflects off his eyes in a haunting, supernatural way.
Beomgyu sucks in a breath. “Jeongin, are you alive?”
Jeongin murmurs something unintelligible. The words spill out quietly, rhythmic and unsettling. Beomgyu leans in closer, trying to catch a phrase.
All he hears is, “Die, you little freaks.”
Beomgyu steps back immediately. “Alright. Swag. Healthy coping.”
A teenager filming TikToks spots Jeongin at that exact moment. She lifts her phone.
“Oh my God,” she says, “he looks possessed.”
Beomgyu lifts both hands. “Hey, maybe don’t film a man in his time of despair.”
Jeongin continues muttering.
His fingers blur. His breaths grow shallow. He refuses to pause for water despite the thin sheen of sweat forming along his hairline. Hours stretch on. Determination radiates off him in waves that border on concerning.
Beomgyu eventually brings over a water bottle, places it next to Jeongin’s foot, and then backs away slowly. His movements are careful. His expression mirrors someone feeding a wild animal through a chain-link fence.
Toward the end of the game, tension gathers in the air. A few arcade regulars gather nearby, sensing the shift. Even the bowling alley seems quieter, the world holding its breath.
The last alien drops.
The final score flashes in triumphant red text:
39,210
Jeongin stares. His eyes widen in slow, reverent disbelief. His jaw drops. Then he lifts both arms into the air with the stiff, uneven form of a robot experiencing overwhelming joy for the first time.
The stool tilts under him.
The arcade lights flicker in a dramatic, completely unnecessary display of ambiance.
Beomgyu claps once. “You good?”
Jeongin exhales a breath that trembles from exertion. “Sky will know fear.”
Beomgyu tilts his head. “Sky is probably twelve.”
Jeongin’s expression hardens. “I don’t care.”
Beomgyu places a hand on Jeongin’s shoulder. “Please drink water before you pass out, die, and haunt this machine forever.”
Jeongin drinks half the water bottle in three gulps, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then stands with the posture of a war general. Anyone watching would expect him to deliver a speech about glory and sacrifice. Instead, he digs through his backpack with frantic energy.
Beomgyu watches him rip out notebooks, pencils, loose receipts, a half-eaten protein bar, and what appears to be a crumpled syllabus.
“Are you organizing your life?” Beomgyu asks. “That would be world-breaking.”
“I am constructing a strategic countermeasure,” Jeongin says, voice low.
Beomgyu nods. “Cool. I’ll pretend I know what that means.”
Jeongin finds a blank notebook. He slaps it open on the side of the cabinet, smoothing the pages with the precision of a surgeon (read: not). He uncaps a pen with his teeth. His expression tightens in concentration.
Then he writes.
He writes with the fury of a man filing a lawsuit against his cheating whore ex-wife who took the kids and fled to Spain.
Beomgyu leans over his shoulder. “What is that?”
Jeongin steps aside so Beomgyu can admire the masterpiece.
On the page, written in enormous, angry handwriting:
SIGN HERE IF YOU ARE THE COWARD KNOWN AS SKY.
Underneath it, in slightly smaller handwriting:
You have 24 hours to explain yourself.
Beomgyu stares at the page with a slow, dawning horror.
“Oh. You’re insane,” he says.
Jeongin nods proudly. “Correct.”
“No, like, you’re actually insane,” Beomgyu repeats. “You need help. Real help. Licensed help.”
Jeongin waves him off. “Sky will have no choice. The trap is foolproof.”
Beomgyu offers a fake, tight smile. “A genius plan. A tactical masterpiece. Sun Tzu could never.”
Jeongin places the notebook carefully on top of the machine. He even picks up a glitter gel pen from his pocket and sets it beside the notebook.
Beomgyu stares at the pen. “You brought glitter.”
“He has to sign with something.”
“Why not just leave the pen you wrote with?”
“It’s my only pen, I need it for class.”
Beomgyu rubs his forehead. “If Sky is real, they’re going to see this and think you’re an unmedicated threat.”
“Good,” Jeongin says. “Fear is the first step toward respect.”
Beomgyu opens his mouth to argue. No sound comes out. He closes it again. He taps the cover of the notebook with the tip of his finger.
“You know what,” Beomgyu says, “I am adding to this.”
He takes the pen and writes under Jeongin’s message.
Also please draw a little cat for me. I’m bored at work. Thank you. — B
•
Jeongin returns to the arcade two days later with swagger he shouldn’t possess. His backpack thumps against his hip. His glasses slide down his nose. His hair frizzes from the humidity in a way that feels narratively appropriate.
Beomgyu spots him immediately and rolls his eyes with the exact level of dread someone feels when they realize the psycho one has arrived.
“Oh God,” he groans, “he’s back.”
Jeongin doesn’t greet him. He doesn’t make eye contact. He marches straight toward Space Invaders at a speed that suggests he’s chasing justice.
The machine sits quietly in its corner. The notebook rests neatly on top. The glitter pen lies across the open page.
Jeongin stops three feet away.
Beomgyu shuffles closer.
Jeongin’s breath catches.
The notebook has writing on it. Not his handwriting. Not Beomgyu’s handwriting. New. Firm. Confident. Slightly neat in a way that feels almost threatening.
Jeongin snatches the notebook up with trembling hands.
Beomgyu leans over his shoulder again.
“What’d they write,” Beomgyu asks. “A confession? A phone number? Their sins?”
Jeongin reads.
On the first line, just under Jeongin’s angry demand:
Not a coward. Good luck beating 41k.
Jeongin’s throat closes.
Silence falls. Actual silence.
The DDR machine in the corner stops mid-song. A child drops their bag of popcorn. A bowling ball rolls down a lane without anyone throwing it.
Beomgyu grabs the notebook out of Jeongin’s hands before he faints and laughs so loudly a parent covers their kid’s ears.
“No way,” Beomgyu wheezes. “He totally hit you with it.”
Jeongin grips the edge of the machine. “He got forty-one thousand.”
Beomgyu nods, still giggling. “Yeah, man. He slayed you.”
Jeongin stares at the message again. He reads it over and over until the letters burn into his brain. His heart beats faster. His pulse thumps in his ears. His soul crumples into a tiny, shaking ball of humiliation.
“He mocked me,” Jeongin whispers.
Beomgyu pats his back. “He sure did.”
Jeongin’s knees weaken. “He said good luck beating it.”
“He did.”
“He knows I’ll try.”
“He absolutely does.”
“He stole my fucking glitter pen.”
“You did leave it here.”
Jeongin runs a hand through his hair in a frantic swipe. “I’m being taunted.”
Beomgyu nods. “Correct.”
Jeongin stares at the notebook again. “Who writes a taunt with good penmanship?”
“Someone deeply confident,” Beomgyu suggests. “Someone who smelled weakness. Someone who saw your glitter pen and said, ‘I’m gonna ruin his whole year.’”
Jeongin places the notebook down with the reverence of a man handling ancient scripture. Then he turns to Beomgyu.
“I’ve never hated anyone more.”
Beomgyu grins. “Yeesh.”
Jeongin ignores him. He cracks his knuckles. He cracks his neck. He cracks in general. Then he sits down at the machine.
“Start it,” he says.
Beomgyu raises a brow. “You’re going in raw? No warm up?”
“I’m meeting destiny.”
Beomgyu sighs. “I’ll get you a snack so you don’t pass out again.”
Jeongin doesn’t respond. His fingers hover over the buttons. His eyes narrow with catastrophic determination.
Somewhere, Sky is living his life.
Jeongin vows to ruin it.
•
Jeongin walks into the arcade with the weary confidence of someone who has been emotionally destroyed twice this week and refuses to let it happen again. His backpack hangs off one shoulder, the straps twisted in a way that mirrors his inner turmoil. His glasses slip down his nose. His hair is a puffed-out disaster from stress and humidity.
Beomgyu looks up from the counter, sees him, and mutters, “Round three.”
Jeongin ignores him. He heads toward the Space Invaders machine with the urgency of a man on a sacred pilgrimage, fully prepared to scream if Sky has written another note.
He rounds the last row of machines and stops dead.
Someone is already seated at Space Invaders.
A guy.
A very cute guy.
Jeongin freezes in place.
The boy sits on the stool with one leg tucked underneath him, a posture that should be physically impossible yet looks completely natural. He wears an oversized gray hoodie that swallows his entire frame. The sleeves fall over his hands so much that only the tips of his fingers peek out to hit the buttons. His dark hair falls over round glasses that keep slipping down his nose. Every few seconds he pushes them up with the edge of his wrist in a small, absent gesture that hits Jeongin in the chest with unfair force.
Headphones rest around his neck, not in use. He looks calm. Serene. A small crease sits between his brows as he plays, and the faintest smile tugs one corner of his mouth when he clears a row of aliens.
Jeongin forgets to breathe for a moment.
The boy senses movement in his peripheral vision and glances over. His eyes sweep up Jeongin’s face, down to his shoes, and back to his face again. Then he turns his attention to the framed photo above the machine. The photo of twelve-year-old Jeongin staring at the camera and pointing back at the Space Invaders machine like a wojak.
His gaze drifts between the photo and the real Jeongin several times before he speaks.
“Oh,” he hums, completely flat. “It’s you.”
Jeongin blinks. “Me.”
“Yeah.” The boy nods once. “Mini you is up there.” He points lazily with the sleeve-covered end of his arm. “Didn’t recognize you at first. The hair’s worse now.”
Jeongin’s soul implodes. He chokes on air. “My hair isn’t worse.”
“It’s pretty rough,” the boy says with mild sympathy. “I can see the effort, though.”
Jeongin presses a hand to his scalp, suddenly aware of every frizzy strand. His face grows hot. He starts to reply, but the boy turns back to the screen with smooth finality.
The digital aliens descend in neat rows. The boy taps the buttons with light, precise movements, completely unbothered. His hoodie sleeves sway with each motion.
Jeongin stares at him hard enough to burn holes through fabric.
The boy speaks again without looking away from the screen. “You’re like, breathing down my neck, dude. Should I move? Or are you planning to hover behind me until I die.”
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re hovering.”
Jeongin inhales sharply. “I’m waiting.”
“For what,” the boy asks. “Your moment of triumph?”
“No,” Jeongin says, flustered. “For my turn.”
The boy hits a bonus wave with inhuman ease. “You can ask, you know. I’m not a dragon guarding treasure.”
Jeongin narrows his eyes. “You’re sitting in my spot.”
The boy raises one eyebrow. “Your spot?”
“Yes,” Jeongin says. “This is my machine.”
“Interesting,” the boy replies. “You’re opposed to sharing, then? Skip that lesson in kindergarten or something?”
Jeongin opens his mouth, ready to fire back something cutting and righteous, but all that comes out is a wounded, “I didn’t skip anything.”
The boy hums, the sound light and skeptical. He lands another flawless row without a single wasted movement. His sleeves slip forward again, nearly covering the buttons, yet he plays like he’s been doing this since birth. Jeongin hates it. Jeongin also kind of wants to watch those hands forever. It’s deeply upsetting.
“You can sit,” the boy says suddenly.
Jeongin’s brain short-circuits. “What?”
The boy nudges the stool beside him with one foot, still not looking up. “Sit. If you’re waiting for your turn, you don’t have to loom like a cryptid behind me.”
Jeongin bristles. “I don’t loom.”
“You do. It’s very ominous.” The boy glances up at him, eyes soft in a way that feels unfair. “But I don’t mind.”
Jeongin’s heart stutters at the last part. He steps closer before he’s processed the invitation. “You don’t?”
“No,” the boy says simply. “It’s cute.”
Jeongin nearly dies on the spot.
Cute.
He hasn’t been called cute since he was, like, six and helped an old lady pick up her coupons. He sits because his body decides for him, and the stool squeaks in a tragic violin-string kind of way as his weight settles on it. He folds his hands in his lap awkwardly and straightens his spine like he’s posing for a school portrait.
The boy finally pauses the game—not dead, just paused, which sends a tiny shock of outrage through Jeongin’s chest—and turns his head to look at him.
Up close, he’s even cuter. Jeongin hates that, too.
“So.” The boy studies him with quiet curiosity, “you’re really that attached to this machine.”
Jeongin lifts his chin. “Yes.”
“That’s kind of adorable.”
Jeongin stops breathing completely. A full reboot might be required.
The boy tilts his head, the crease between his brows deepening slightly as he inspects Jeongin like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Guys don’t usually get this sentimental over cabinet games,” he continues. “I like it.”
Jeongin swallows. “You do?”
The boy’s smile is small—barely there, barely formed—but devastating. “Yeah. I like guys who get attached to things.”
Everything in Jeongin’s body freezes except his heartbeat, which does not freeze. It slams. He tries to form words and fails. Several times.
The boy looks back at the screen, lifts a hand, and gestures with two sleeve-covered fingers.
“Play with me,” he offers casually. “I’ll teach you a new strategy.”
Jeongin scoffs. “I don’t need a strategy.”
“Mhm.” The boy’s lip twitches. “Sit closer. I don’t bite.”
Jeongin does sit closer.
He sits so close their knees almost touch, and it’s embarrassing how fast he complies. His pulse rams against his ribs with every inch. The boy unpauses the game and angles the joystick toward Jeongin without looking away.
“You’re surprisingly shy for someone who leaves angry notes,” he murmurs.
“I’m not shy,” Jeongin lies, voice breaking in three places.
“Sure,” the boy says, smiling again. “I believe you.”
And then, so effortlessly it feels like a weapon, he adds:
“By the way, I’m Seungmin.”
Jeongin doesn't really care. “Okay.”
Seungmin pauses the game again and looks at him, fully. “Okay? That’s it?”
Jeongin blinks rapidly. “Do you want a medal?”
Seungmin bursts into a short laugh, as surprised as Jeongin is. “Wow. You get spicy when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“You absolutely are.”
Seungmin turns the joystick toward him. “C’mon, Jeongin. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
“I can keep up.”
“Prove it.”
Their knees knock again, and neither pulls away. A hint of a smile lifts one corner of Seungmin’s mouth, the kind of smile that makes Jeongin look down at the machine rather than at him.
Seungmin unpauses the game with a soft click.
Something shifts immediately. His posture stays relaxed, but his focus sharpens in a way that makes the hairs on Jeongin’s arms lift. His fingers move with light, practiced ease. His sleeves drag over the buttons but never interfere. His rhythm is clean and confident.
The score rises. A little at first, then faster. The numbers blink past the ranges Jeongin knows by heart. The aliens descend in tighter rows. Seungmin meets every wave with the exact rhythm he needs. He reacts before the pattern fully shifts, and Jeongin feels a tension crawl up his spine. His knee nudges Seungmin again without meaning to. Seungmin doesn’t shift away.
Jeongin watches the digits climb.
Twenty thousand.
Then twenty-six.
Then thirty-three.
A tiny pulse starts in Jeongin’s throat. He turns slowly toward Seungmin. His eyes narrow, more confused than angry.
“Where’d you learn to play like that?”
Seungmin’s lips curve into the faintest smile. He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Here and there.”
“Here and where?”
“Here.” His tone stays light.
Jeongin’s chest tightens. His hand grips the edge of the stool hard enough to make it creak. “That feels like a loaded answer.”
Seungmin gives a quiet hum. “Maybe.”
Jeongin’s pulse stutters when the score jumps again. The cabinet flickers from the rapid movement on the screen. The tension in the corner of the arcade thickens in a way he recognizes from his own sessions of intense play. It’s the air shifting, a pull toward something bigger than the moment.
The score passes thirty-eight.
“Dude,” Jeongin croaks in a thin voice. “You’re heading toward Sky territory.”
Seungmin leans in slightly, elbows loose, posture serene. “You seem very concerned about him.”
“Sky’s a menace.”
“You think so?”
“He keeps beating my scores.”
“I know.”
Jeongin turns fully. “What.”
Seungmin’s eyes stay on the screen. The smile on his face looks too calm, too knowing.
The score ticks to forty. Along the back wall someone drops a bowling ball. A group of teenagers goes silent in the middle of a Nerf fight. Beomgyu glances over the counter with an expression that says he can feel the buildup from across the room.
Jeongin doesn't breathe.
Seungmin hits the last alien in a wave before finally getting got. The sound that erupts from the cabinet feels louder than it should. Red numbers flash across the CRT.
41,680.
Jeongin stares at the score until the numbers blur. His voice breaks on the first word. “No. That. No.”
Seungmin finally turns his head. The strands of hair across his forehead shift a little from the movement. His eyes stay gentle, steady, almost soft with something that feels like warmth.
“You’re Sky,” Jeongin whispers.
Seungmin’s smile deepens. “Yeah.”
“You’re Sky.”
“I thought we covered that.”
Jeongin opens his mouth again and gives up halfway through forming a sentence. “You’ve been taunting me.”
“Motivating,” Seungmin corrects.
“That’s so much worse.”
Seungmin lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. He shifts closer, just enough that their shoulders touch in the smallest, easiest way.
He glances over, amused. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yes. Uh-huh. Definitely.”
“Your eye’s twitching.”
“It does that sometimes.”
“It’s twitching at me,” Seungmin observes.
“It does that sometimes,” Jeongin repeats, louder this time, which doesn’t help his case.
Seungmin snorts. “Relax, dude. I’m just a guy.”
Jeongin stiffens. “You beat my score.”
“That doesn’t make me, like, a demon.”
“It kind of does.”
Jeongin swallows. His throat feels dry in the way someone’s throat feels dry when they’re looking directly at their lifelong nemesis and their crush at the same time. “You beat my score,” he repeats, dazed.
Seungmin nods. “I did.”
“On my machine.”
“Yep.”
“In my presence.”
“That part made it more fun,” Seungmin admits.
Jeongin visibly reels. “You’re evil.”
Seungmin smiles like he’s being handed a compliment. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t praise.”
“Still sounds nice.”
Jeongin grips the stool again for stability. “I need a minute.”
Seungmin tilts his head, curious. “To breathe?”
“Yeah. And also to reevaluate my entire life.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You’re dramatic,” Jeongin fires back, then immediately fumbles. “In a bad way. In a terrible way. Like… like a… villain.”
Seungmin scrunches his nose. “I told you. I’m not a demon.”
“You’re worse than a demon.” Jeongin waves one frantic hand toward the screen. “Demons don’t steal glitter pens.”
Seungmin chokes on a laugh. “You left it there.”
“You stole it,” Jeongin insists.
“I borrowed it.”
“You never returned it.”
Seungmin stares at him for a moment. “You want it back?”
“Yes.”
Seungmin reaches into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulls out the glitter gel pen. The exact glitter gel pen. The one that has tormented Jeongin for seventy-two hours.
Jeongin gasps. “You carry it with you.”
“I got attached.”
“To my glitter pen.”
“It sparkles,” Seungmin says, as if this explains everything.
Jeongin clutches his heart. “You’re unbelievable.”
Seungmin twirls the pen once and rests it across his knee. “You want it now or later.”
“Now,” Jeongin says, then pauses. “No, wait. Later. Wait. No. Actually, no idea. I’m panicking.”
“You are,” Seungmin agrees cheerfully.
Jeongin drags both hands down his face. “I can’t talk to you while you’re holding my glitter pen. It feels too intimate.”
“It’s a pen.”
“It’s symbolic.”
Seungmin looks down at it with an amused little hum. “Symbolic of what.”
“You taunting me,” Jeongin says.
“Motivating,” Seungmin corrects again.
“Stop saying motivating. It makes me feel like I’m in a self-help book.”
Seungmin leans back a little and watches him calmly. “So you’re telling me I motivated you successfully?"
“No. Yes. Sort of. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you enjoy this.”
Seungmin’s smile grows. “I do.”
Jeongin nearly vibrates off the stool. “Stop enjoying this.”
“Can’t.”
“I’m begging you.”
Seungmin scoots a tiny bit closer. His shoulder presses into Jeongin’s. The warmth is immediate, annoying, and distracting all at once.
“You’re cute when you’re worked up,” Seungmin says lightly.
Jeongin makes a sound that doesn’t belong in any human language. “I am not cute.”
“You are,” Seungmin says with the kind of certainty people usually reserve for math equations.
Jeongin looks like someone unplugged him and plugged him back in wrong.
A middle schooler walking past mutters something about “romantic tension” before their friend shushes them.
Jeongin tosses his hands up, defeated. “Fine. You beat it. Whatever. Congratulations. Hope you’re proud.”
Seungmin nods. “Very proud.”
“You could’ve at least pretended it was hard.”
“It wasn’t.”
Jeongin clutches the air in front of him like he’s trying to strangle the concept of humility itself.
Seungmin watches, chin propped on one hand, eyes half-lidded and entertained. “You want a turn, Jeongin?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
Seungmin bumps his knee again. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
“By the score?”
“By everything.”
Seungmin lifts a brow. “Everything meaning me?”
Jeongin immediately gets up.
He stands. He walks in a tiny circle. He sits back down. “I’m going to be honest. I’ve short-circuited.”
“Yeah,” Seungmin says gently. “I noticed.”
Jeongin buries his face in his hands. “Why are you like this?”
Seungmin slides the glitter pen across the top of Jeongin’s thigh like he’s placing an offering. “You can have it back.”
Jeongin peeks through his fingers. “You’re bribing me.”
“I’m being thoughtful.”
“That’s worse.”
Seungmin smiles. “Feels pretty effective.”
Jeongin groans. “I hate that you beat my score.”
“You’re welcome to try again.”
Jeongin covers his face fully this time. “I’m in hell.”
“You’re in an arcade.”
“Same thing.”
Seungmin reaches over and nudges his shoulder with a soft, steady pressure. “You’ll beat me eventually.”
Jeongin looks up with a defeated glare. “You think I will?”
“I know you will.”
Jeongin stares at him. Seungmin stares back, comfortable, patient, slightly smug, and stupidly pretty.
Jeongin breaks eye contact first.
“I need water,” he announces.
Seungmin nods. “I’ll come with you.”
“Why?”
“You look like you’re about to walk into a wall.”
Jeongin immediately walks into a pinball machine.
A suspiciously Beomgyu-sounding laugh rings from the other side of the game floor.
Jeongin rubs the sore spot on his forehead like he is trying to massage intelligence back into his skull. “This is your fault.”
Seungmin tilts his head like a confused golden retriever. “I didn’t make you walk into anything.”
“You distracted me.”
“I sat completely still.”
“That’s distracting.”
Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “You’re attracted to me.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
Seungmin leans closer. His face moves into that dangerous area where facial features become too visible. Eyelashes. The shape of his mouth. Things Jeongin is not emotionally prepared to handle.
“You are,” Seungmin says softly.
Jeongin backs up. “Stop using logic.”
“It isn’t logic. It’s observation.”
“You observe too much.”
“You twitch whenever I talk.”
“I twitch whenever anyone talks.”
“You don’t.”
Jeongin shuts his eyes. “I hate everything.”
Seungmin nudges his foot against Jeongin’s. “You like me.”
“I don’t like you,” Jeongin lies.
“You like me,” Seungmin repeats, almost singsong.
“I don’t.”
“You like me.”
“No.”
“You like me.”
“No.”
“You like me.”
The repetition starts to feel like a spell.
“You like me.”
“No,” Jeongin says again, but the word breaks in the middle like a bad audio recording.
Seungmin smiles. He leans in even closer and lowers his voice. “Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“I’m not saying it.”
“I’ll stop if you say it.”
“Never.”
“Jeongin.”
“No.”
“Jeongin.”
“I’m not doing this.”
Seungmin leans forward until his nose nearly brushes Jeongin’s. “Say it.”
Jeongin glares. “No.”
Seungmin kisses him.
It isn’t a dramatic moment. Nothing swells. No arcade machines make triumphant noises. Someone in the background is yelling about losing their last life in Guitar Hero. A toddler is crying near the prize counter. The Space Invaders machine hums like it has no idea it created this situation.
Jeongin freezes. His brain stops entirely. A full blue-screen-of-death situation.
Seungmin pulls back just an inch. “You like me.”
Jeongin sits there in silence.
“You like me,” Seungmin repeats.
Jeongin wets his lips, stunned. “Why did you do that?”
“You were getting annoying.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It was for me.”
Jeongin blinks rapidly. “I can’t process anything right now.”
Seungmin rests his forehead lightly against Jeongin’s. “That’s fine. I can wait.”
Jeongin’s voice comes out tiny. “Do it again.”
Seungmin grins. “Say please.”
Jeongin shakes his head. “No. Never. I didn’t even say that, actually. In fact, don’t do it again. I hate you.”
Seungmin kisses him again anyway.
Jeongin stands there like a man who just got kicked in the nuts. Not really. A man who just got kicked in the nuts would probably be crying and screaming and throwing up or something. He’s not doing any of that. His hands hover awkwardly at Seungmin’s sides, as if he can't decide whether to hold him, push him away, or simply perish on the spot.
Someone clears their throat.
Jeongin turns slowly, like he’s worried a ghost materialized behind him.
Beomgyu stands three feet away with a mop in his hands. His expression sits somewhere between horrified, delighted, and deeply confused.
“I’m gonna be honest,” Beomgyu says. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do right now.”
Jeongin’s entire soul leaves his body. “We weren’t doing anything.”
Beomgyu looks at him, then at Seungmin, then back at him. “You were kissing.”
“No we weren’t.”
“I saw it.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
Seungmin speaks up in the calmest voice imaginable. “He likes me.”
Jeongin groans loudly. “Stop saying that.”
Beomgyu taps the mop against the floor with the solemnity of a judge hammering a gavel. “You definitely kissed.”
“It wasn’t a kiss,” Jeongin argues.
Seungmin nods. “It was a kiss.”
“It wasn’t,” Jeongin’s voice cracks in the middle like a cheap plastic ruler.
Beomgyu narrows his eyes. “Your faces were touching.”
“It happens,” Jeongin replies in a strangled whisper.
“It doesn’t happen on accident,” Beomgyu says.
“It can,” Jeongin insists.
“Twice?” Beomgyu asks, raising the mop a little.
Jeongin shuts his mouth so fast his teeth clack together.
Seungmin clears his throat with a quiet, polite sound. He adjusts his hoodie sleeve and tilts his head in a way that feels entirely too composed. “He likes me.”
Jeongin grips the air. “Stop saying that.”
Beomgyu crosses his arms over the top of the mop. “You’re standing extremely close to him.”
Jeongin shuffles one millimeter back. “There. Happy.”
“No,” Beomgyu says. “That was nothing. That was negative distance.”
Seungmin looks Jeongin over and lifts an eyebrow. “Come here.”
Jeongin takes a step in the opposite direction like a skittish deer. “No.”
“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” Seungmin says.
“I might.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
Beomgyu sighs and rubs his forehead. “I need both of you to stop talking before I break out in hives.”
Jeongin presses both hands to his cheeks. “Why are you witnessing this? Can you go mop something?”
“I tried,” Beomgyu says. “Then you two started doing romance in the corner.”
“It’s not romance,” Jeongin seethes.
A little girl at the claw machine looks over. “It looks like romance.”
Jeongin glares at her. “Shut up. I don’t even know you.”
Seungmin reaches out and hooks a finger lightly into the front of Jeongin’s hoodie. The gesture is small. Barely there. Jeongin still feels his entire skeleton jump.
“Come here,” Seungmin repeats.
Jeongin stares at the spot where their clothes touch. “Why?”
“You’re shaking,” Seungmin says.
“I am not,” Jeongin says. His knees wobble in disagreement.
Beomgyu points at him with the mop. “He’s shaking.”
“I’m not,” Jeongin insists, and unfortunately, his voice wobbles too.
Seungmin pulls him one small step closer. “Relax.”
“I can’t relax,” Jeongin hisses. “You kissed me.”
“So you admit it was a kiss.” Beomgyu puts a hand on his hip. Jeongin ignores him.
“You didn’t seem upset,” Seungmin replies.
“I was completely upset.”
Seungmin leans in just enough that their foreheads brush. “You weren’t.”
“I was,” Jeongin whispers.
“You kissed me back,” Seungmin counters.
Jeongin stiffens again. “That was a reflex.”
“Reflexes don’t last that long.”
Beomgyu groans loudly. “Please. I’m begging both of you. Take this outside or at least behind a pinball machine. I don’t get paid enough to watch this homo shit.”
Jeongin whips around. “You can kill yourself by the way.”
Seungmin rests his chin on Jeongin’s shoulder like it is the most natural thing in the world. “He likes me.”
Jeongin slaps a hand over his face. “I need to lie down in the parking lot.”
“Wanna go play Space Invaders instead?”
“... yeah.”
They walk back toward the machine in a crooked line, bumping shoulders every few steps like they’re malfunctioning Roombas. Jeongin keeps his face buried in his hoodie, which only makes Seungmin smile harder. The arcade lights flicker overhead. Seungmin taps the start button. Jeongin takes his place beside him with a sigh that sounds like surrender.
“We should go get tteokbokki after this,” Seungmin suggests.
“No thanks. I’m broke.”
“I’ll pay.”
Jeongin turns and kisses Seungmin on the mouth.