Chapter Text
The cameras start flashing the moment Juhoon steps out of the limousine.
Chaos breaks out instantly, fans screaming his name and trying to slip past the security to get a better look at him. He squints, trying to adjust to the blinding camera flashes as his bodyguard guides him forward.
They make their way toward the hotel entrance, reporters swarming around them. Juhoon bows politely, waving at the cameras with a practiced smile, slipping seamlessly into his professional model mode.
He feels the familiar disconnect settle over him. Smile, bow, move—don’t think.
A reporter lurches forward, nearly shoving the camera into Juhoon’s face. His bodyguard reacts instantly, forcing them back, and Juhoon can’t help the small surge of gratitude that rushes through him.
“Breathe, Juhoon, keep breathing,” he tells himself.
He slips inside just as the situation threatens to spiral further. A relieved breath slips past his lips when the warmth of the hotel lobby washes over him, the noises fading behind the closed doors.
Despite being a model, the spotlight has never been something he enjoys.
“Welcome, Mr. Kim,” a young lady greets him, bowing politely. “I’ll take you to the rooftop.”
“Thank you,” Juhoon dismisses his bodyguard, and starts following her.
On the elevator he briefly fixes his clothes, smoothing his black blazer that wraps around his delicate frame, highlighting his model features. He is not wearing anything underneath, revealing a little bit of his chest, and he had asked his stylist to leave his hair as it is, letting a couple of defiant strands fall over his forehead.
The elevator door opens with a ‘ding’, and Juhoon steps out after the lady. He can’t help but grimace when the party music blasts through his ears, so loud that it’s almost deafening.
He scans the crowd—noting the actors wearing tuxedos, actresses in designer gowns, popular singers, and fellow models. The place is full of familiar faces, though he hasn't met most of them personally. The combined net worth of everyone here tonight is probably higher than Seoul’s GDP.
“Enjoy the party, Mr. Kim.” The woman disappears, leaving Juhoon by himself.
He sighs, already regretting his life choices. He’d like to enjoy a cozy Friday night at his home, curled up under a blanket with a warm cup of coffee in his hands. Only if his manager, James, didn’t force him to attend the party, insisting it was the perfect networking opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss.
At just twenty-two, Juhoon is already among the nation’s top models, burdened by the pressure to live up to expectations and prove he is more than just a pretty face.
He tells himself he can get through the night. All he has to do is talk to a few people and get their contacts. But before that, he heads to the cocktail buffet to get himself a glass of champagne.
“Here, sir.” The waiter in a tuxedo hands him a glass, pouring more champagne than Juhoon would like.
Juhoon thanks him anyway and turns around a little too quickly, nearly crashing straight into someone. At the very last moment, he manages to move the glass out of the way, so he spills only a few drops onto his hand.
“Shit,” the man in front of him curses. “I’m sorry.”
Juhoon lifts his head, ready to scold the man for standing too close, but as soon as their eyes meet, they both freeze.
His eyes widen in shock, his grip on the glass tightening. “Martin?” he whispers in disbelief.
Martin looks utterly baffled, gawking at him. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
Juhoon takes a step back involuntarily, almost panicking.
Running into his ex-boyfriend was not among his plans today.
Martin clears his throat, trying to regain composure. “Hello, Juhoon,” he forces out. “Nice to see you again.”
He is dressed in a black leather jacket over a grey tank top, paired with baggy jeans that makes him look effortlessly swag, perfectly suiting his image as a pop star.
“It’s been a while,” he mutters, eyes raking over Juhoon.
It's been a while indeed. Five years, to be exact, since they last spoke to each other.
“Yeah,” Juhoon says quietly, glancing up at the blond boy. He had always been slightly shorter than Martin, but now he notices there’s at least a full head difference between them.
An awkward silence settles over them, and suddenly they both realize they are standing in the middle of the rooftop, staring at each other.
Juhoon can feel the weight of curious eyes turning towards them, and he silently prays it won’t spark a dating rumor. The last thing he wants is to see his name paired with Martin’s on magazine covers tomorrow morning.
“Well, see you around…I guess,” Juhoon says, attempting to abort the conversation before it gets more awkward.
He has no intention of spending the night talking to his ex. With tense shoulders, he turns around and starts walking away.
“Juhoon,” Martin calls from behind, voice tight and betraying a hint of nervousness.
The model stops in his tracks and sighs, turning to Martin reluctantly. “Yes?”
Martin closes the distance between them with a few quick strides. “Can we talk a little more?” he asks quietly, almost pleading, as he searches Juhoon’s eyes for a reaction.
Juhoon gulps, his fingers gripping the glass so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He should reject him, tell Martin he has other things to do, pretend to suddenly see someone he knows, or simply just run back into the elevator. But Martin’s eyes, full of expectation and quiet plea, glues his feet to the ground.
After all these years, he still can’t find the strength to reject Martin. “How pathetic,” he thinks. “I still crumble under his gaze.”
“Okay,” Juhoon sighs, silently cursing himself, and takes a long sip of his forgotten champagne. He is going to need the alcohol to get through the night.
Martin’s eyes light up immediately, his lips curling into a soft smile for the first time tonight. “Come,” he says gently, gesturing to Juhoon to follow him.
They pass along other guests, making their way to a quieter place on the rooftop and lean to the railings, leaving a decent amount of space between their shoulders. The night view of Seoul stretches below, the lights beaming from the windows like colorful dots.
For a while, Juhoon nearly forgets about his ex’s presence beside him, captivated by the view. He doesn’t realize Martin has been watching him the whole time with a soft but pained smile.
“Juhoon.”
Martin’s voice strips him away from his thoughts, and suddenly reality sinks in, uneasiness creeping inside him as he turns to the blond man.
“What do you want to talk about, Martin?”
Martin takes a deep breath. “Nothing particularly. I just wanted to know how you are doing.”
The words land on Juhoon’s chest heavier than he expected, igniting five years of pent-up frustration inside him. “Really?” he scoffs bitterly. “After all these years, you decided to check up on me now?”
Martin averts his eyes. “I know,” he mumbles.
“Why?” Juhoon crosses his arms. “Why are you suddenly interested?”
Martin swallows hard. “Because I’m tired of this—” his voice breaks as he turns to Juhoon. “I’m tired of running away, pretending I forgot about you.”
The brief silence that follows is suffocating.
Juhoon’s breath catches at the confession. “What?” he murmurs in shock.
“I miss you, Juhoon,” Martin admits quietly, his voice laced with hurt. “I know we can never be the same again, but at least let’s not be strangers.”
Juhoon blinks, the words echoing inside his brain. For the past five years, he’s tried to get over Martin, the boy who chose his career over him, the boy who gave him everything and then took it all back in a day.
How can he act like nothing happened?
“Martin,” Juhoon sighs, his heart feeling heavier than it should’ve. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s possible,” Martin insists desperately. “It’s not that hard to keep in touch if we want.”
“And what makes you think I want to keep in touch?”
Martin looks at his face, properly this time, eyes lingering as if he is trying to memorize every detail.
Juhoon’s plush boyish cheeks, the ones Martin used to adore are long gone, replaced by pale and hollow skin. His eyes, which once curved into crescents whenever he smiled, now look back at Martin with emptiness.
He is glad that at least Juhoon’s mole at the corner of his mouth is permanent, a small, familiar detail that strikes Martin with bittersweet warmth.
And he realizes how much they’ve grown.
They are no longer the silly teenage boys who once were in love. They have become strangers, bound together only by a fragile thread of unwanted memories.
“I don’t want a lot, Juhoon,” Martin begs. “I just can’t bear another five years without hearing from you.” His voice holds a raw sincerity, thick with pain and desperation, yet worst of all, carrying a fragile spark of hope.
Juhoon’s stomach clenches under the weight of Martin’s words. He takes another sip of his champagne. It turns bitter in his mouth, filling him with the urge to vomit.
Five years ago, Juhoon wasn't angry at him for leaving, he was angry at him for not trying. This time, he can see Martin is trying, but it’s too late. He needed that effort five years ago, not right now.
“Too late, Martin.”
The singer nods in defeat, his blurry gaze drifting back to the view below. For a while, both silently gaze at the view, the silence heavy with unsaid words, lingering memories, and broken promises.
“There’s a cafe I go to regularly,” Martin says after a while. “Small and cozy, run by a sweet old lady without many customers. I will be there tomorrow at six o’clock, waiting for you, whether you come or not.”
Juhoon frowns, but before he can speak, Martin takes his hand and places a piece of folded paper in his palm. Juhoon’s hand curls into a fist instinctively as he stares at the blond man with a puzzled expression.
Martin’s eyes flicker to him for the last time. Then, he turns around without a word and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
Juhoon watches in confusion as Martin fades from sight. With his heart in his throat, he opens his palm, unveiling the piece of paper.
He takes his time unfolding it, handling it with reverence as if it were something sacred.
–Jung District, Seojongdaero st., no. 26, Ajumma’s Cafe&Cookies– M.
It’s the address of the cafe Martin mentioned.
He stares at it for a moment, his emotions caught in a restless swirl.
Then he downs the remaining champagne in one go, folds the paper again, and slips it into his pocket.