Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sanghyeok stood by the kitchen island, staring at the glass jar sitting atop the granite counter. Inside, the mixture of flour and water bubbled sluggishly, a pale, living thing that demanded attention but gave no affection in return.

"You’re looking a bit sluggish today," Sanghyeok murmured, his voice scraping against the silence of the room. He tapped the glass twice. "Seventy percent hydration. I treat you better than I treat myself, you know."

The sourdough starter, naturally, said nothing. It just sat there, fermenting in the afternoon sun that filtered through the blinds, casting long, striped shadows across the empty living room.

It had been two weeks. Fourteen days of silence so thick it felt like dust settling on his skin.

The memory of the departure was still etched into the doorframe. Sanghyeok could almost feel the phantom texture of Donghyun’s wool coat against his cheek—the way he had pressed his face into his friend’s shoulder, refusing to let go of the fabric. He hadn’t cried. Tears were messy, and Sanghyeok preferred to keep his messes internal. But, he had simply attached himself. Like a barnacle to a ship that was setting sail.

"Hyung," Donghyun’s voice had been a low rumble in his chest, vibrating against Sanghyeok’s ear. "I’m moving twenty minutes away. Not to Mars."

"Mars would be easier," Sanghyeok had muffled into the coat. "At least the postage is expensive enough to justify not visiting."

Beside them, leaning against the elevator with the casual grace of someone who had stolen Sanghyeok’s favorite person, Dongmin had chuckled. The sound was bright, teasing, and entirely unapologetic. He reached out, patting Sanghyeok’s head with a rhythm that was more patronizing than comforting.

"There, there," Dongmin cooed. "Let him go, Hyung. You’re wrinkling his shirt."

Sanghyeok had pulled back just enough to glare, though the effect was ruined by his red nose. "I am older than you. Show some respect."

"Then behave like it," Dongmin retorted, his grin sharp but his eyes softening at the edges. "We’ll visit. I’ll make sure Donghyun brings your Tupperware back."

Then the elevator doors had slid shut, severing the connection. And the apartment, once filled with the ambient noise of two lives overlapping—the hum of the TV, the clatter of Donghyun’s late-night snacks, the shared breathing of a home—had exhaled its final breath.

Now, it was just Sanghyeok and the yeast.

The search for a replacement had been a disaster of statistical improbability. There was the guy who chewed gum so loudly it sounded like wet sneakers on pavement. Then the university student who asked if he could pay rent in "exposure" because he was a burgeoning influencer. And the one who smelled faintly of wet dog, despite swearing he owned no pets.

Sanghyeok had almost resigned himself to a life of solitude and high rent when the doorbell rang on a rainy Tuesday.

He wasn’t expecting much. He opened the door prepared to deliver his rehearsed polite rejection.

Instead, he was blinded.

Standing in the dimly lit hallway was a man who looked like he had swallowed the sun and was now radiating it through his pores. He wore a fitted trench coat that probably cost more than Sanghyeok’s commercial oven, and his hair was styled in a way that suggested effortless perfection, though it likely took an hour to achieve.

"Hi!" The greeting was loud. Cheerful. It echoed off the walls. "I’m Myung Jaehyun. I’m here for the room?"

Sanghyeok blinked, adjusting to the glare. "Right. Come in."

Jaehyun stepped inside, bringing with him the scent of rain and expensive musk cologne. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, an energy that felt too large for the narrow entryway.

"Sorry I'm a bit early," Jaehyun said, toeing off his shoes. "Just got back from Chicago a few days ago, and my internal clock is still trying to figure out if it's breakfast or dinner time."

"Chicago," Sanghyeok repeated, closing the door. "How long did you stay there?"

"Three years too long," Jaehyun said with a grin that showed too many teeth. "But now that Seoul called—well, the agency called, so I come back. But let's say it was destiny."

A music producer. Same age as him. Sanghyeok remembered reading that on the application. It explained the vibe—creative, polished, yet possessing the chaotic energy of someone who lived on caffeine and sound waves.

Sanghyeok led him through the tour, which didn't take long. The living room (clean, minimal), the kitchen (Sanghyeok’s sanctuary, cluttered with baking tools), and the shared bathroom. Jaehyun nodded along, humming appreciatively at the high ceilings and the view of the gloomy street below.

He didn’t ask to see Sanghyeok’s room, which Sanghyeok appreciated. Boundaries were good. Boundaries were safe.

They ended up back in the living room. The rain tapped a steady rhythm against the glass, filling the silence that usually suffocated Sanghyeok. But with Jaehyun there, the silence felt different. Expectant.

Jaehyun was looking around, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, rocking back on his heels. He seemed to vibrate at a different frequency than the room itself.

"So," Sanghyeok started, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms—a defensive habit he couldn't quite break. "What do you think?"

Jaehyun stopped rocking. He turned slowly, his gaze landing on Sanghyeok. He didn’t look at the walls, or the floor, or the furniture. He looked directly at Sanghyeok, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dark and undeniably intense.

"It’s pretty," Jaehyun said softly.

The air in the room seemed to stall for a second.

Sanghyeok frowned, confused. He looked around at his beige sofa and the simple rug that had seen better days. He scratched the back of his neck, feeling a sudden, inexplicable itch under his skin.

"Well," Sanghyeok mumbled, averting his gaze to the floor. "It’s not really that pretty of a place, though. The heating acts up in December, and the water pressure is moody."

Jaehyun blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. His eyes widened slightly, the intense focus dissolving back into that golden-retriever friendliness.

"Oh," Jaehyun laughed, a short, breathy sound. "Yeah. Right. The place. The place is pretty too."

He cleared his throat, looking away towards the kitchen. "I mean... the vibe. It’s cozy. Good atmosphere."

Sanghyeok studied him for a moment. There was something odd about Myung Jaehyun. Something that felt like a puzzle piece from a different box, trying to jam itself into Sanghyeok’s monochrome life. But the rent was high, and the silence was loud, and Jaehyun’s smile, despite being blinding, didn't feel predatory.

"If you want it, it's yours," Sanghyeok said finally. "You can move-in next month."

Jaehyun beamed, extending a hand. "Deal. You won't even know I'm here."

Sanghyeok took the hand. It was warm.

"I doubt that," Sanghyeok thought, looking at the man who made the gray room look suddenly vivid.

"I’ll see you in a few weeks, housemate," Jaehyun said.

After two weeks of dead air, finally the silence shifted. No longer heavy, but waiting.

Moving day arrived with the screech of packing tape and the heavy thud of cardboard hitting the floor.

Sanghyeok stood near the hallway, holding a mug of tea that had gone cold ten minutes ago, watching his living room undergo a surgical transformation. If the apartment had felt empty before, it was now being force-fed a lifetime of belongings that definitely did not belong to him.

And Jaehyun did not come alone.

He brought backup. A man introduced simply as Park Sungho.

Sungho was sharper than Jaehyun. If Jaehyun was a golden retriever bounding through an open field, Sungho was a cat navigating a shelf full of crystal glasses—precise, careful, and quietly judgmental.

What unsettled Sanghyeok wasn’t the boxes; it was the choreography.

Sungho didn’t ask questions. He didn’t ask, "Where should I put these vinyls?" or "Does Jaehyun keep his cables in a drawer?" He just knew. He moved with a hair-rising efficiency, unpacking Jaehyun’s life as if he had memorized the blueprint of his habits.

"Not there," Sungho said, intercepting Jaehyun who was about to place a stack of books on the lower shelf. He took the stack from Jaehyun’s hands without making eye contact. "You’ll spill coffee on them within a week. Top shelf."

Jaehyun blinked, then grinned, relinquishing the books. "Right. Good call."

Sanghyeok took a sip of his cold tea. He felt like a guest at a private performance.

They bickered constantly, a low-level hum of friction that spoke of years, not months, of acquaintance. They argued over the orientation of a lamp, the necessity of a hideous neon cactus light, and the folding of sweaters.

"Jaehyun, if you put that ugly lamp on the console, I’m leaving," Sungho warned, holding a box cutter like a weapon.

"It’s art, Sungho. It’s avant-garde," Jaehyun retorted, lovingly plugging in the cactus. It glowed a radioactive green.

Sungho sighed, a sound of deep, spiritual exhaustion, and turned to apologize to Sanghyeok with a bow. "I’m sorry about him. He has the aesthetic taste of a raccoon."

Sanghyeok managed a polite, tight-lipped smile. "It’s... colorful."

The breaking point of Sanghyeok’s patience—or perhaps his ability to remain a spectator—came ten minutes later.

Jaehyun was struggling to lift a heavy crate of audio equipment. His face was flushed, hair falling into his eyes. "Hey, give me a hand with this, Yeppi."

The nickname hung in the air, distinct and sugary.

Sungho froze. He slowly set down a bundle of hangers and turned to Jaehyun with a look that could have curdled milk. He shot a quick, mortified glance at Sanghyeok, his ears turning pink.

"Don't call me that," Sungho hissed.

Jaehyun didn't even look up, still heaving the crate. "Why? It fits."

"We are in public. There is a witness," Sungho gritted out, gesturing vaguely at Sanghyeok, who suddenly found the pattern on his floor tiles incredibly interesting. "Stop calling me Yeppi."

Jaehyun finally set the crate down with a groan and straightened up, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looked at Sungho with genuine confusion, which quickly melted into a teasing smirk.

"Well, you are pretty," Jaehyun said, matter-of-factly. "What else am I supposed to call a pretty person if not Yeppi? Stop being pretty, then."

Sungho looked like he was calculating the legal repercussions of throwing a picture frame at his friend’s head. His jaw worked silently.

"I hate you," Sungho stated flatly.

"You love me. Hand me the scissors."

It was too much. The intimacy was suffocating. It wasn't romantic in the overt sense, but it was exclusive. It was a language Sanghyeok didn't speak, a rhythm he couldn't dance to. He felt like an intruder in his own living room.

"I’ll... I’ll be in the kitchen," Sanghyeok murmured. Neither of them seemed to hear him.

-

The kitchen was Sanghyeok’s temple. Here, things made sense. Flour acted predictably. Sugar dissolved when heated. There were no nicknames that made the air feel thin.

He was arranging a plate of leftover cinnamon rolls from the bakery—warm, sticky, and smelling of comfort—when Sungho walked in.

The other man looked drained. The sharp edges of his earlier efficiency had softened into fatigue. He leaned against the counter, exhaling long and slow.

"Bathroom?" Sungho asked, jerking his head toward the hallway.

"Down the hall, first door on the left. But Jaehyun is in there," Sanghyeok said.

Sungho rolled his eyes. "Of course he is. Probably fixing his hair. He takes longer than a bride on her wedding day."

Sanghyeok pushed the plate toward him. "Sugar? It helps with the headache."

Sungho looked at the cinnamon roll, then at Sanghyeok. His expression softened, the first genuine, unguarded look he’d given all day. "You’re an angel. Please tell me you own a bakery and this isn’t just a hobby."

"I own The Crust & Crumb down on 4th street," Sanghyeok said. "Consider it a welcome gift."

Sungho took a bite, hummed in appreciation, and closed his eyes for a second. "Okay. Maybe Jaehyun moving here won’t be a total disaster."

Sanghyeok leaned back against the sink, drying his hands on a towel. "You two know each other well."

"Since we were in diapers," Sungho replied, dusting sugar off his fingers. "Our mothers were best friends. Unfortunately, that meant I was contractually obligated to be his keeper since birth."

"It shows," Sanghyeok said. He hesitated, then added, keeping his tone light, conversational. "If you’re that close... I was wondering why you two didn't just live together. Seems like it would save a lot of bickering over lamps."

Sungho paused mid-chew. The humor didn't leave his face, but it didn't reach his eyes anymore. For a split second, a shadow passed over his features—something heavy, complicated, and old.

"Trust me," Sungho said, his voice dropping an octave, aiming for a joke but landing somewhere more brittle. "Living with Myung Jaehyun is a full-time job. I value my sanity too much. Plus, I think he needs... space. To be his own person."

It was a deflective answer. Sanghyeok knew the texture of a lie; he worked with customers every day. Sungho wasn't lying about Jaehyun being annoying, but he was omitting the weight of the truth.

"Fair enough," Sanghyeok said easily, turning back to the sink to wash a spoon. He didn't pry. He never pried. "Well, as long as he pays rent on time, he can be as annoying as he wants."

Sungho chuckled, but the sound was faint. Behind them, the bathroom door creaked open, and Jaehyun’s voice boomed through the hallway, calling for his "Yeppi" to help him find a towel.

Sungho’s shoulders slumped. He gave Sanghyeok a look of shared suffering before pushing off the counter.

"Duty calls," Sungho sighed.

Sanghyeok watched him go. He stayed in the kitchen, listening to the muffled laughter and the thud of boxes, feeling the distinct, cold sensation of being the only person in the room who didn't know the script.

Living with Myung Jaehyun was like cohabitating with a solar flare. It was bright, it was warm, and if you stood too close, it burned.

Two months in, and the apartment had developed a split personality.

On the left side of the hallway—Sanghyeok’s domain—order reigned supreme. Shoes were aligned by color, coats hung at precise intervals, and the air smelled faintly of sanitizer and peace.

On the right side—Jaehyun’s territory—entropy had won. His sneakers were never side-by-side; one would be by the door, the other halfway to the kitchen, as if he had simply launched himself out of them in a hurry to exist. His hoodies draped over chairs like shed skins, and his sheet music migrated from the coffee table to the kitchen counter like invasive ivy.

And then, there was the noise.

Sanghyeok craved silence after twelve hours at the bakery, surrounded by the hum of industrial ovens and the chatter of customers. He wanted to come home to a comfy calm.

Instead, he came home to a concert.

Jaehyun sang in the shower. Not a quiet hum, but a full-chested, reverb-heavy performance that turned the bathroom tiles into an arena. He sang pop ballads with tragic devotion while scrubbing his back. He rapped verse-heavy tracks while brushing his teeth, the foam muting the diction but not the enthusiasm.

"You know," Sanghyeok said one evening, looking up from the laundry basket he was carrying as Jaehyun emerged in a cloud of steam, towel-drying his hair. "The neighbors are going to file a noise complaint. They’ll think we’re running a karaoke bar."

Jaehyun just grinned, his face flushed pink from the heat. "Let them. I’m giving them a free show. People pay for this, Sanghyeok-ah."

Sanghyeok rolled his eyes, but he couldn't fight the twitch at the corner of his lips.

That was the problem. The mess was annoying, the noise was excessive, but the source was... difficult to hate.

The real danger wasn't the clutter or the concerts. The real danger was the unpredictability.

Jaehyun’s schedule was a riddle. Sometimes he was gone for two days, buried in the studio, surviving on vending machine coffee. Other times, he was home all day, sprawled on the rug with a laptop, looking like a college student procrastinating on a thesis.

And in those moments, he was helpful. Terrifyingly helpful.

Sanghyeok would come home, bones aching, dreading the pile of dishes he had left in the sink that morning—only to find them washed, dried, and stacked. He would find the trash taken out. He would find a glass of water placed on his nightstand before he even realized he was thirsty.

It might be a minimal standard for as a good housemate as Jaehyun can be, but it was a casual, domestic competence that bypassed all of Sanghyeok’s defenses and went straight for his arteries.

The breaking point—or perhaps the melting point—happened on a Tuesday night.

Sanghyeok was making a late dinner. He needed the large pasta bowl, the heavy ceramic one that Donghyun, with his annoying height advantage, always insisted on keeping on the highest shelf of the cupboard.

Sanghyeok stood on his toes, his fingers just brushing the rim of the bowl. He stretched, his shirt riding up slightly, gritting his teeth as he tried to get a grip without bringing the whole stack crashing down.

"Come on," he muttered, straining.

Suddenly, the light was blocked.

A warmth pressed against his back—not touching, but close enough that the air between them spiked in temperature. A scent of sandalwood and something distinctly Jaehyun filled his senses.

A hand reached over his shoulder. A long arm, clad in a grey sweatshirt, extended with effortless reach, easily grasping the heavy bowl that Sanghyeok had been fighting for.

Sanghyeok froze.

He was trapped between the cold counter and the solid wall of heat that was his housemate.

"Careful," Jaehyun’s voice was right by his ear. Low. Raspy from sleep or disuse. The vibration traveled down Sanghyeok’s spine like a warning.

Jaehyun didn't step back immediately. He brought the bowl down, his chest brushing against Sanghyeok’s shoulder blade for a fleeting, electric second. He placed the bowl on the counter in front of Sanghyeok, his arm still caging him in.

Sanghyeok stopped breathing. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, loud enough that he was sure Jaehyun could feel it through their clothes. He gripped the edge of the counter, desperate to keep his composure.

Move, his brain screamed. Lean back, his instincts whispered.

"Who puts heavy ceramics on the top shelf?" Jaehyun asked casually, finally stepping back and breaking the spell. He leaned against the fridge, looking at the cupboard like it was a logic puzzle. "You have a death wish?"

Sanghyeok spun around, perhaps a little too quickly. He grabbed the bowl, clutching it to his chest like a shield.

"My ex-housemate," Sanghyeok managed to say, his voice sounding thin and strangled. He cleared his throat. "He... he was tall. And evidently enjoyed making my life difficult."

Jaehyun laughed—that sleepy, soft sound that made his eyes crinkle into crescents. "Sounds like a hazard. Just ask me next time. I’m right here."

He scratched his stomach, yawned, and shuffled out of the kitchen, completely oblivious to the fact that he had just induced a minor cardiac event over a pasta bowl.

Sanghyeok stood there for a long minute, staring at the empty doorway. His legs felt like jelly.

He set the bowl down with a trembling hand and pulled his phone from his pocket. He opened his chat with Donghyun.

>Sanghyeok : I think I need to move out.
> How do I survive living with a walking heartbreak risk?

The reply was almost an instant.

>Donghyunie : Don’t sell urself short. You can break him too.
> But damn, I owed Dongmin now.
> Just marry him, Hyung. It’ll save on rent.

Sanghyeok groaned, dropping his forehead against the cool cupboard door.

He was doomed.

Insomnia didn’t always knock. Sometimes, it simply walked in, sat heavily on Sanghyeok’s chest, and refused to leave.

It wasn’t anxiety. The bakery accounts were balanced, the sourdough starter was thriving, and the rent was paid. There was no catastrophe looming on the horizon. Yet, here he was at 2:47 AM, staring at the ceiling, his brain humming with a static energy that made his eyelids feel like sandpaper.

In the old days—the Donghyun as a Housemate Era—the solution was simple. He would have padded across the hall, crawled under his high school friend's duvet, and anchored himself to Donghyun’s steady breathing until the world faded away.

But Donghyun was gone, replaced by a ghost of habit that made Sanghyeok’s arms ache with phantom uselessness.

He couldn't use his phone; the blue light was a stimulant. He couldn't verify the inventory list again; that was madness.

So, Plan B.

Sanghyeok shuffled to the living room, wrapping a knitted blanket around his shoulders like a protective shell. He turned on the TV, muting the volume until it was just a murmur—level three, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. An infomercial about a non-stick pan flickered on the screen, the colors washed out and soothingly boring.

He sat rigid on the edge of the sofa, waiting for boredom to drag him under.

Just close your eyes. You have to proof the croissants in four hours.

Ten minutes passed. The non-stick pan was replaced by a juicer. Sanghyeok was still wide awake.

Then, the hallway floorboard creaked.

Sanghyeok flinched, pulling the blanket tighter.

Jaehyun emerged from the shadows like a nocturnal creature disturbed from its habitat. He was wearing oversized sweatpants and a t-shirt that had seen better decades, his hair a chaotic masterpiece of bedhead. A laptop was tucked under one arm, its power light blinking rhythmically.

He stopped dead when he saw the lump on the sofa.

"Oh," Jaehyun blinked, his voice rough with sleep. "You’re awake."

Sanghyeok scrambled to find the remote, guilt flushing his cheeks. "Sorry. Did I wake you? I thought the volume was low enough."

"No, no," Jaehyun waved a hand dismissively, dragging his feet towards the open concept kitchen. "I was awake. Work."

He set the laptop on the kitchen island but didn't open it. Instead, he rested his hip against the edge of the granite, rubbing his face with both hands as if trying to rearrange his features back into something human.

"Actually," Jaehyun confessed, peeking through his fingers with a sheepish grin. "Work is an excuse. I was coming out to raid the fridge. There was... a slice of strawberry shortcake in a white box. It’s been calling my name for an hour."

Sanghyeok blinked. The tension in his shoulders dropped an inch. "The shortcake."

"Yeah." Jaehyun walked over to the fridge, the cool light illuminating his messy hair as he opened the door. "I know it’s yours. I was going to steal a bite and blame it on a mouse. Or a ghost. I haven't decided on the alibi yet."

Sanghyeok fought a smile. He had brought that box home specifically because he noticed Jaehyun eyeing the strawberry display in the bakery window photos Sanghyeok had shown him once. He just hadn’t found the courage to say, 'Here, I bought this for you.'

"The mice in this building are very aggressive," Sanghyeok said dryly. "You can have it. I don't eat sweets after midnight."

Jaehyun’s face lit up as he retrieved the prize. "You’re a lifesaver. Remind me to build a statue in your honor."

He grabbed a fork, but instead of staying at the island, he wandered over to the living room. He dropped onto the other end of the sofa, tucking his legs under him, settling into Sanghyeok’s personal space with alarming ease.

"So," Jaehyun said around a mouthful of cream. "What are you doing up? Bad dream?"

"Just... woke up," Sanghyeok lied smoothly. It was easier than explaining the pathetic reality of his insomnia. "Couldn't get back to sleep. Figured boring TV was better than staring at the wall."

"Valid strategy," Jaehyun nodded. He took another bite, humming in appreciation. "Chicago was like that for me. The jet lag never really went away. I spent three years being awake when everyone else was dreaming."

The TV flickered, casting shifting blue light across Jaehyun’s profile. He looked softer like this, the sharp edges of his usual energy smoothed down by the hour.

"Three years is a long time," Sanghyeok ventured. "To be away from home."

"It was," Jaehyun agreed. He poked at the strawberries with his fork, his expression turning thoughtful. "But I needed it. Seoul was... loud. Too many memories packed into too few streets."

"Memories of what?"

Jaehyun turned to look at him. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a quiet, open vulnerability that caught Sanghyeok off guard.

"Of Sungho," Jaehyun said simply.

Sanghyeok stiffened. "Your friend? The one who helped you move?"

"My ex-fiancé," Jaehyun corrected.

The word hung in the air, heavier than the silence. Fiancé.

Sanghyeok’s brain did a quick recalibration. The bickering, the closeness, the 'Yeppi'.

"Oh," Sanghyeok managed to say. "I... I didn't know."

"We were engaged," Jaehyun continued, his gaze drifting back to the TV screen where a woman was aggressively juicing a carrot. "Childhood thing. Our parents thought it was a fairy tale. We thought... well, we tried. But Sungho called it off right before I left for the States."

He said it so casually. No anger. No bitterness. Just a soft, resigned acceptance.

Sanghyeok watched him. He saw the way Jaehyun smiled sadly at the cake box, the way he spoke of Sungho with such gentle familiarity.

He’s not over it, Sanghyeok realized. The thought settled in his stomach like a stone.

Jaehyun wasn't just a cheerful, chaotic roommate. He was a man nursing a broken heart, a man who had flown across the ocean to escape a love he couldn't have, only to come back and stay friends with the person who broke him.

He was a martyr. A tragic, handsome, idiotic martyr.

"That must be hard," Sanghyeok said quietly. "Being around him."

Jaehyun shrugged, scraping the last bit of cream from the box. "It’s better than not being around him at all."

God, Sanghyeok thought. He’s hopeless.

"You're a good person, Myung Jaehyun," Sanghyeok said, and he meant it. "Maybe too good."

Jaehyun laughed, confused but pleased. "I just ate your cake. I think that disqualifies me from sainthood."

They sat in silence after that, watching the infomercial loop. Jaehyun eventually opened his laptop to work, the soft clicking of keys blending with the low hum of the TV. Sanghyeok didn't sleep, not really. But the vast emptiness of the 3 AM hour felt a little less suffocating than usual.

The next morning, the sun was too bright and the bakery demanded his attention. Sanghyeok moved on autopilot, kneading dough with aggressive force.

He wiped his flour-dusted hands on his apron and pulled out his phone to message Donghyun.

>Sanghyeok : He's a 10.
> But he's still in touch with his ex-fiancé who dumped him.
> And they are best friends. It’s tragic.

He stared at the screen, sighed, and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

He was definitely doomed

Sunday evenings usually smelled of laundry detergent and impending Monday dread. But tonight, the apartment smelled of sesame oil, spicy stew, and the expensive, woody cologne that Dongmin wore like a second skin.

The "Indoorz"—a nickname coined in high school because the three of them preferred hiding in the practice room over going to parties—were reunited.

Jaehyun, to no one’s surprise, had assimilated into the group with the ease of water flowing into a crack. He didn’t just greet Donghyun and Dongmin; he charmed them. Within ten minutes, he was discussing synthesisers with Dongmin, their conversation a rapid-fire exchange of technical jargon that sounded like alien code to Sanghyeok.

"You have a Prophet-5?" Dongmin’s eyes went wide, his usual cool demeanor cracking. "In this apartment?"

"In my room," Jaehyun grinned, gesturing with his thumb. "It takes up half the desk, but it’s worth it. Want to see?"

"Does a fish live in the sea?" Dongmin stood up immediately.

"I’ll steal him for a bit," Jaehyun called out to the kitchen, winking at Sanghyeok. "Try not to burn the house down while we geek out."

Sanghyeok waved them off with a spatula, turning back to the bubbling pot of kimchi-jjigae. The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, the atmosphere in the kitchen shifted. It became quieter, heavier with history.

Donghyun stood at the counter, methodically slicing green onions. He moved with a familiarity that made Sanghyeok’s chest ache—he knew exactly which knife was sharpest and where the cutting boards lived.

"He fits," Donghyun said softly, the rhythmic chop-chop-chop of the knife punctuating his words.

Sanghyeok stirred the stew, watching the steam rise. "He pays rent on time. That’s all that matters."

"Liar," Donghyun hummed. He stopped chopping and looked at Sanghyeok, his gaze searching. "How’s the insomnia? The circles under your eyes are... artistic, but concerning."

Sanghyeok gripped the ladle a little tighter. He thought of the 3 AM sessions—the muted infomercials, the shared strawberry cake, the quiet confessions in the dark.

"It’s manageable," Sanghyeok lied, focusing intently on a piece of tofu. "I manage."

"Mhm." Donghyun didn't sound convinced. He nudged Sanghyeok’s shoulder with his own. "You know, watching him hover around you earlier... asking if you wanted water, fixing the rug so you wouldn't trip... it was domestic. Borderline husband material."

Sanghyeok nearly dropped the ladle. Heat flared up his neck, hot and sudden.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sanghyeok snapped, though there was no real bite in it. "He’s just polite. He’s like that with everyone. He’d probably fix the rug for a burglar."

Donghyun just smirked, tossing the green onions into the pot. "If you say so."

-

Dinner was a loud affair.

The dining table, usually too big for just Sanghyeok and Jaehyun, felt properly utilized for once. Bottles of soju were opened, and the air grew warm with laughter and steam from the food.

The conversation inevitably drifted to the past—the high school dance club that had brought the three of them together.

"You should have seen him," Dongmin said to Jaehyun, pointing a chopstick at Sanghyeok. His face was flushed with alcohol and enthusiasm. "Sanghyeok-Hyung was the ace. The man had knees of steel. He could do isolations that defied physics."

Jaehyun looked at Sanghyeok, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Really? You never told me you danced."

Sanghyeok focused on picking up a piece of pork belly, avoiding Jaehyun’s gaze. "It was a long time ago. Ancient history."

"He was popular," Donghyun added, pouring more soju. "The juniors used to leave drinks on his desk. He never drank them, of course. Too shy."

"Nope, it’s just because I don’t like drinking. But enough about me," Sanghyeok interjected, desperate to shift the spotlight. He pointed his spoon at the couple. "Let’s talk about how you two spent three years pretending to hate each other like Tom and Jerry, ruining the club atmosphere for everyone else, before finally getting together."

Dongmin choked on his drink. "We had artistic differences."

"You threw a shoe at him," Sanghyeok deadpanned.

"It was a slipper! And he deserved it!"

The table erupted in laughter. Jaehyun was laughing the hardest, clutching his stomach, looking between them with bright, delighted eyes. The tension melted away, replaced by the golden haze of good food and better company.

But comfort, Sanghyeok learned, was a dangerous thing. It loosened tongues.

"Man," Dongmin sighed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Those were the days. Training camps were the worst, though. Hard floors, cold rooms."

"Sanghyeok-Hyung suffered the most," Donghyun said, his voice dropping into that affectionate, caretaking tone he used when he was slightly tipsy. He looked at Jaehyun. "This one needs specific conditions to shut his brain off."

Sanghyeok froze. No. Don't.

"Oh?" Jaehyun leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. "Like what? White noise? Lavender oil?"

"Nah," Donghyun waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing that fancy. He just needs to be held. The moment you wrap your arms around him and squeeze, he’s out like a light. It’s like pressing a shutdown button."

Sanghyeok felt the blood drain from his face. He sat perfectly still, staring at his half-eaten rice, wishing for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

"Is that so?" Jaehyun’s voice was quiet. Not mocking. Not laughing.

Sanghyeok risked a glance.

Jaehyun wasn't looking at Donghyun anymore. He was looking directly at Sanghyeok. His expression was unreadable—the playful "golden retriever" mask was gone, replaced by a gaze that was sharp, contemplative, and dangerously intense. He looked like he had just solved a riddle he had been struggling with for months.

"I..." Sanghyeok started, his voice dry. "I was a kid. It was... a habit."

"Right," Donghyun said, oblivious to the nuclear bomb he had just detonated. "Anyway, pass the kimchi."

Jaehyun slowly picked up his glass, his eyes never leaving Sanghyeok’s flushed face. He took a sip, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a way that made Sanghyeok’s heart stop.

"Good to know," Jaehyun murmured.

The secret was out, and with it, the sanctuary of the living room had evaporated.

Ever since the dinner party—since the words 'shutdown button' had been tossed onto the table like a live grenade—Sanghyeok had retreated. The beige sofa, once his nightly raft in the ocean of insomnia, now felt like a stage. He couldn't go out there. He couldn't risk sitting in the dark, vulnerable and sleepless, only to have Jaehyun walk in and look at him with that new, knowing weight in his eyes.

So, Sanghyeok stayed in his room.

It was 3:12 AM.

Through the thin drywall, he could hear the faint, rhythmic taka-taka-taka of Jaehyun’s mechanical keyboard. It was a rapid, chaotic tempo tonight; Jaehyun was likely chasing a melody that refused to be caught.

Sanghyeok stared at the ceiling fan, counting the rotations. One. Two. Three.

He had to be at the flower market by 6:00 AM to pick up edible flowers for a wedding cake commission. He needed sleep. His body was heavy, dragging with exhaustion, but his mind was a live wire, buzzing with static.

Do something, his brain hissed. Tire yourself out.

Sanghyeok kicked off the duvet. He sat up, the room spinning slightly.

"Okay," he whispered to the darkness. "Let’s exercise then."

It was a stupid idea born of desperation. He wasn't dressed for it—wearing only oversized cotton pajamas and socks—but logic had left the building hours ago.

He tried a stretch first. Then, he attempted a series of lunges near the foot of the bed. It felt ridiculous. He was a baker, not an athlete. On the fourth rep, his sock found a particularly smooth patch of the hardwood floor.

Friction failed him.

One moment he was upright; the next, gravity claimed him.

It wasn't a graceful fall. His hip checked the floor with a dull, heavy sound that seemed to shake the entire room. A sharp hiss of pain escaped his teeth as he sprawled out, staring at the dust bunnies under his nightstand.

"Ow," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Pathetic."

The door flew open.

There was no hesitation. No polite knock. No pause to ask for permission. The handle turned, and Jaehyun was there, framed by the hallway light, his glasses perched askew on his nose and eyes wide with panic.

"Sanghyeok?"

He was breathless, as if he had been sprinting. Or perhaps, as if he had been standing right outside the door, waiting for a sound.

Sanghyeok scrambled to sit up, clutching his bruised hip. "I’m fine. I’m fine."

Jaehyun didn't stop at the threshold. He crossed the room in three long strides, crouching down beside Sanghyeok. His hands hovered, wanting to touch, to check for broken bones, but stopping just inches away.

"What happened?" Jaehyun demanded, his voice tight. "I heard a crash. Did you faint?"

"I slipped," Sanghyeok confessed, the humiliation burning hotter than the bruise on his hip. He refused to look at Jaehyun, focusing instead on the frayed hem of Jaehyun’s sweatpants. "I was... trying to exercise. To sleep."

Jaehyun let out a breath, a sharp exhale of relief that sounded almost angry. He slumped back on his heels, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"You were doing aerobics at 3 AM because you couldn't sleep?"

"It seemed logical at the time," Sanghyeok mumbled.

Jaehyun stared at him for a beat longer, then stood up. He didn't leave. Instead, he turned to Sanghyeok’s bed.

The sheets were a disaster area—twisted and tangled from hours of Sanghyeok tossing and turning. Jaehyun reached out, smoothing the bottom sheet with efficient, deliberate movements. He fluffed the pillows. He straightened the duvet until the bed looked inviting again, a soft white cloud in the dim room.

Sanghyeok watched him from the floor, bewildered. "What are you doing?"

Jaehyun finished with the pillows and turned around. He extended a hand to help Sanghyeok up.

"Get up," Jaehyun said softly.

Sanghyeok took the hand. Jaehyun’s grip was firm, pulling him to his feet with an ease that made Sanghyeok feel weightless. But once Sanghyeok was steady, Jaehyun didn't let go immediately.

"Get in," Jaehyun instructed, nodding at the bed.

"Jaehyun, I can't—"

"I know," Jaehyun interrupted. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, patting the empty space beside him. The playfulness was back in his eyes, but it was softer now, layered with a quiet determination.

"Donghyun said it works. So, we’re going to test the hypothesis."

Sanghyeok stiffened. "We are not doing this."

"Why not?" Jaehyun challenged, tilting his head. "You need sleep. I need a break from that track. It’s a mutually beneficial transaction."

"It’s weird," Sanghyeok argued weakly.

"It’s only weird if you make it weird," Jaehyun countered. He shifted, lifting the duvet invitingly. "Come on. Just lie down. I’ll just... exist here. Like a very expensive, high-quality body pillow."

Sanghyeok wavered. His hip throbbed. His eyes burned. The bed looked incredibly soft, and Jaehyun looked... safe.

"If I don't fall asleep," Sanghyeok warned, his resolve crumbling under the weight of exhaustion. "You leave immediately."

Jaehyun smiled. It wasn't his usual blinding grin; it was small, private, and very much gentle.

"Deal," Jaehyun said. "Try it. If it doesn't work, I'll pay double rent tomorrow."

Sanghyeok sighed, defeated. He climbed into the bed, keeping a respectful distance, his back to Jaehyun.

"Double rent," Sanghyeok muttered into the pillow, closing his eyes. "I'm going to hold you to that."

"We'll see," Jaehyun whispered.

The mattress dipped as Jaehyun settled in behind him. There was no touching, not yet. Just the radiant heat of another body, close enough to chase away the chill, steady enough to quiet the static in Sanghyeok’s head. The air in the room was thick, heavy with the absurdity of the situation. It felt less like a sleepover and more like a scientific experiment gone wrong.

Subject A (Lee Sanghyeok) attempts to initiate shutdown sequence while in proximity to Subject B (The Human Radiator, Myung Jaehyun).

"You’re vibrating," Jaehyun’s voice cut through the dark.

"I am not," Sanghyeok hissed back, staring aggressively at the wall. "I am relaxing."

"You’re stiff as a board. If I poked you, you’d probably snap."

"Don't poke me."

"I won't. I value my fingers."

Rustling followed. The mattress dipped and shifted as Jaehyun adjusted his position. The movement sent a small tremor through the frame, a physical reminder that someone else was there.

Sanghyeok squeezed his eyes shut. This was a mistake. He should have just accepted the double rent. He should have accepted insomnia as his life partner.

But then, the room settled.

Jaehyun stopped moving. His breathing, initially shallow and awake, began to lengthen. It deepened, finding a steady, rhythmic cadence.

In. Out. In. Out.

It was a slow, heavy sound, like the ocean rolling against a shore miles away.

Sanghyeok tried to focus on his own breathing, but his body—traitorous thing that it was—began to synchronize with the rhythm behind him.

The heat radiating from Jaehyun’s back was grounding. It seeped across the six-inch gap, warming the chill that had settled in Sanghyeok’s bones during his earlier floor exercise. The scent of sandalwood and clean cotton drifted over, subtle but pervasive.

Sanghyeok’s grip on the pillow loosened. His shoulders dropped an inch. For a moment, he is floated in that rare, weightless space between wakefulness and oblivion. He didn't even realize he was drifting until the anchor finally dropped.

The world went black.

Morning arrived with the slow, syrupy return of sensation.

Sanghyeok felt warm. Impossibly, deliciously warm. The kind of warmth that made limbs feel heavy and bones feel like liquid. He buried his face deeper into the pillow, which smelled different today—earthier, muskier.

Wait.

Pillows didn't have collarbones.

Sanghyeok’s eyes flew open.

His vision was filled with grey cotton. Specifically, the fabric of a t-shirt stretched over a solid chest.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of sleep. Sanghyeok froze, his brain frantically conducting a damage assessment of his own body.

He was no longer on the edge of the bed. He had migrated.

His left arm was thrown carelessly over a waist. His face was pressed against a shoulder. And his legs... oh god, his legs. His left leg was tangled with another pair, hooked over a calf in a grip that could only be described as possessive. He was clinging to Jaehyun like a koala to a eucalyptus tree.

And Jaehyun?

Jaehyun was still asleep. One of his arms was tucked under his head, while the other rested heavily on Sanghyeok’s lower back, effectively pinning him in place.

Sanghyeok stopped breathing.

He needed to extract himself. Strategically. Surgically. He tried to slide his leg back, moving with the agonizing slowness of a bomb disposal technician.

Jaehyun stirred.

Sanghyeok turned to stone.

Jaehyun let out a low, satisfied hum, his hand on Sanghyeok’s back shifting slightly, fingers curling into the fabric of Sanghyeok’s pajama top.

He didn't wake up.

He just settled closer, nuzzling his chin into the top of Sanghyeok’s hair.

The intimacy was a physical blow. Sanghyeok’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum solo against Jaehyun’s chest.

He’s warm, a treacherous part of his brain whispered. 

Sanghyeok squeezed his eyes shut again, paralyzed between the urge to flee and the terrifying desire to stay right where he was.

It started as a transaction.

Now, it became a narcotic.

The "clinical trial" had officially failed, in the sense that the control group (sleeping alone) no longer existed. The boundaries they had drawn—only for sleep, stay on your side, no funny business—had dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

It wasn’t spoken about. They didn’t have a meeting to discuss the amendments to their lease. It just happened.

Sanghyeok found himself lingering in the living room long after his shows ended, pretending to fold laundry or reorganize his recipe book, simply waiting for the sound of Jaehyun’s laptop closing. And Jaehyun, in turn, began cutting his studio sessions short, returning home with the desperate urgency of someone running out of oxygen.

The bed was no longer a battlefield of neutral territories. It was a magnet.

And the pull was getting stronger.

It was a Thursday, the kind of night where the air felt heavy and static. They were in the middle of the unspoken pre-sleep ritual—Sanghyeok fluffing the pillows, Jaehyun checking his emails one last time at the desk in the corner of the room.

Then, the phone rang.

Jaehyun groaned, a sound vibrating with exhaustion, and silenced it.

It rang again immediately. A video call request.

He still declined it.

Three seconds later, the screen lit up again. Contact named Kim Woonhak flashing relentlessly.

Sanghyeok, who was already sitting on the edge of the bed, sighed. "Just answer it. I think it’s not going to stop."

"It’s Woonhak, my junior. He probably deleted a project file again." Jaehyun muttered, rubbing his temples.

“He seems presistent.” Sanghyeok persuading.

"He’s just a menace," Jaehyun corrected, but he swiveled his chair around to face the desk. "Fine."

He accepted the call from his MacBook.

Immediately, the silence of the bedroom was shattered.

"Hyung! You can't just ghost me! The mix for the title track is sounding weird on the bass, and the director is asking if we can change the synth to something more 'wobbly', and I don't know what 'wobbly' means in a professional context!"

The voice was loud, frantic, and coming from a face that was dangerously close to the camera lens. Woonhak looked like he had been living in the studio for a week—eyes wide, hair messy, vibrating with caffeine-induced panic.

"Woonhak-ah," Jaehyun said, his voice deadly calm. "It is midnight. 'Wobbly' is a problem for tomorrow morning."

"But Hyung—"

"I am busy."

"Busy doing what? You’re at home! I see the wall! That’s your bedroom wall!"

Jaehyun let out a sharp breath. He looked at the screen, then turned his head to look at Sanghyeok sitting on the bed. A spark of mischief—or perhaps just annoyance at Woonhak—flashed in his eyes.

"Sanghyeok-ah," Jaehyun said. "Come here."

"Why?" Sanghyeok asked, wary.

"Just come here."

Before Sanghyeok could protest, Jaehyun reached out, grabbed his wrist, and pulled.

It wasn't a gentle tug. It was a decisive yank. Sanghyeok stumbled forward, losing his balance, and before his brain could process the trajectory, he landed.

Not on the floor. Not on a chair.

He landed squarely on Jaehyun’s lap.

Sanghyeok froze. His hands instinctively gripped Jaehyun’s shoulders to steady himself. He could feel the solid warmth of Jaehyun’s thighs beneath him, the steady rise and fall of his chest against his arm.

"See?" Jaehyun said to the laptop, wrapping an arm around Sanghyeok’s waist to hold him in place. His tone was casual, arrogant, and completely final. "I am occupied. I am very busy."

On the screen, Woonhak’s jaw dropped. He blinked rapidly, his eyes darting between Jaehyun’s smug face and Sanghyeok’s frozen, terrified expression.

"Oh," Woonhak squeaked. The frantic energy evaporated instantly, replaced by a flustered, chaotic apology. "Oh my god. Oh. I didn't—I mean, I thought—Hi! Hello! Sorry!"

Sanghyeok, whose soul had temporarily left his body, managed a weak, stiff wave at the camera.

"I am so sorry!" Woonhak yelled, looking like he wanted to dive under his mixing desk. "Please continue! Pretend I don't exist! I’m hanging up! The bass can wait! 'Wobbly' is fine! Bye!"

The screen went black.

The silence that followed was deafening.

They were still in the chair. Jaehyun’s arm was still looped tight around Sanghyeok’s waist. The heat between them was no longer just warmth; it was a fire.

"Thanks," Jaehyun murmured, his voice low, vibrating against Sanghyeok’s ribcage. "He won't call back tonight."

Sanghyeok’s brain rebooted. He scrambled off Jaehyun’s lap as if he had been burned, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Right," Sanghyeok choked out. "Good. Great."

He turned his back on Jaehyun, marching to the bed with stiff, mechanical movements. He dove under the covers and rolled all the way to the edge, facing the wall, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the mattress.

What was that? Why did he do that? Why didn't I push him away?

A moment later, the lights clicked off.

The mattress dipped.

Jaehyun didn't stay on his side tonight. He slid in close, closing the gap until there was no gap left.

An arm draped over Sanghyeok’s waist—heavy, possessive, familiar. Jaehyun’s chest pressed against Sanghyeok’s back, fitting together like two spoons in a drawer. He buried his face in the crook of Sanghyeok’s neck, exhaling a long, contented sigh that ghosted over Sanghyeok’s skin.

"Goodnight, Sanghyeok-ah," Jaehyun whispered into his hair.

Sanghyeok stared at the dark wall, his entire body burning, trapped in the sweetest, most soothing cage he had ever known.

"Goodnight," he whispered back, knowing with absolute certainty that he was never going to be able to sleep alone again.

The silence in the apartment was different today. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of an empty house, nor the heavy silence of tension. It was the silence of a machine that had suddenly powered down.

Jaehyun hadn't come out of his room.

Sanghyeok, fresh from a twelve-hour shift surrounded by the heat of ovens, frowned at the closed bedroom door. Usually, by this hour, there would be music—something bass-heavy thumping against the walls—or Jaehyun would be in the kitchen, scavenging for leftovers like a hungry raccoon.

"Jaehyun?" Sanghyeok called out, toeing off his shoes.

No answer.

A prickle of unease climbed Sanghyeok’s spine. He walked to the door and knocked. Still nothing. He turned the handle.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. The air was thick, smelling of stale heat and unwashed sheets. And there, buried under a mountain of duvets, was a lump that vaguely resembled a human being.

Sanghyeok approached the bed, his footsteps soft on the hardwood.

"Jaehyun-ah?"

The lump shifted. A face emerged—pale, sweaty, with hair sticking to his forehead in damp clumps. Jaehyun’s eyes were glassy, struggling to focus.

"Sanghyeok," he croaked. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel. "Everything hurts."

Sanghyeok’s baker instincts—precision, temperature control, damage management—kicked in instantly. He sat on the edge of the mattress and pressed the back of his hand to Jaehyun’s forehead.

It was radiating heat like a freshly baked loaf.

"You’re burning up," Sanghyeok murmured, his brow furrowing. "How long have you been like this?"

"Since... morning? Yesterday?" Jaehyun squeezed his eyes shut. "Time is fake."

"Time is not fake, and neither is dehydration," Sanghyeok stated firmly.

He moved.

The next hour was a blur of domestic efficiency. Sanghyeok stripped Jaehyun of the sweat-soaked hoodie, replacing it with a fresh t-shirt. He forced a glass of water into Jaehyun’s hand. He went to the kitchen, the rhythmic chop-chop of vegetables for rice porridge filling the silence that the music usually occupied.

When he returned with a steaming bowl and a cold compress, Jaehyun looked small. The "solar flare" energy was gone, extinguished by exhaustion.

"Eat," Sanghyeok commanded gently, blowing on a spoonful of porridge.

Jaehyun obeyed weakly. But as Sanghyeok moved to place the cool towel on his forehead, Jaehyun’s hand shot out from under the covers. His grip was weak, his fingers trembling, but he latched onto Sanghyeok’s wrist with desperate need.

"Don't go," Jaehyun mumbled, his eyes half-lidded, swimming in feverish delirium.

"I'm just putting the bowl down," Sanghyeok said softly.

"No," Jaehyun whined, tugging Sanghyeok closer until Sanghyeok had to brace himself on the mattress to avoid toppling over. Jaehyun pressed his hot cheek against Sanghyeok’s cool hand, nuzzling into the palm. "You’re cold. And you smell like vanilla. Stay."

Sanghyeok’s heart stuttered. He looked down at the man who was usually so confident, now reduced to a clingy, tactile mess.

"It’s just the fever talking, Jaehyun," Sanghyeok whispered to himself more than to the patient. "You’re delirious."

"Not delirious," Jaehyun slurred, his eyes fluttering shut as he held Sanghyeok’s hand hostage against his face. "Just... you."

Sanghyeok sat there, trapped and willing, stroking Jaehyun’s damp hair with his free hand until the grip on his wrist loosened into sleep.

-

The doorbell rang an hour later.

Sanghyeok disentangled himself carefully from the bed and went to answer it.

Standing in the hallway was Sungho. He looked impeccable as always, holding a pharmacy bag with the logo of a hospital that was definitely not in their neighborhood.

"His mother called me," Sungho said by way of greeting, lifting the bag. "She said Jaehyun didn't answer his phone for twenty-four hours, so she assumed he was dead or sick. I assumed sick."

"He has a fever," Sanghyeok said, stepping aside to let him in. "I made him eat some porridge."

Sungho nodded, stepping into the living room like he owned the building. "Good. He turns into a toddler when he’s sick. Needs to be force-fed."

He walked straight to Jaehyun’s door.

"I’ll... I’ll leave you to it," Sanghyeok said, feeling suddenly like a redundant employee in his own home.

Sungho paused at the door, glancing back. "Thanks for watching him, Sanghyeok-ssi. Usually, I’m the one on duty."

He slipped inside and closed the door.

Sanghyeok stood in the hallway, staring at the wood grain.

He shouldn't have lingered. He should have gone to the kitchen, cleaned the pot, distracted himself. But his feet felt leaden.

Through the thin wood, he could hear them.

"You idiot," Sungho’s voice was muffled, sharp but laced with that undeniable familiarity of a lifetime shared. "I told you not to overwork on that track. Sit up. Take this."

A low, incoherent mumble from Jaehyun followed. It sounded soft. Whiny.

Sanghyeok’s imagination, cruel and vivid, filled in the blanks.

He pictured Jaehyun grabbing Sungho’s wrist. He pictured Jaehyun nuzzling into Sungho’s hand, seeking the same comfort he had sought from Sanghyeok minutes ago.

Of course he does, Sanghyeok thought, a bitter taste rising in his throat. It wasn't about me. He just needed someone. Anyone.

And Sungho was the someone who had the mandate from Jaehyun’s parents. Sungho was the someone with the history.

Sanghyeok turned away from the door, retreating to his own room. He felt cold, despite the heating being on. The vanilla scent on his hands suddenly felt cloying, a reminder of a baker who had mistaken a feverish desperation for a confession.

Five months into their cohabitation, Sanghyeok realized two things. First, the apartment had accumulated a layer of dust that was offensive to his baker’s hygiene standards. Second, he had somehow acquired a husband without the hassle of a wedding.

It happened at the supermarket. Usually, Sanghyeok shopped alone. It was a tactical mission: get in, get the flour, get out.

But today, Jaehyun had tagged along, pushing the cart with a highly enthusiasm, tossing in items that were definitely not on the list—tangerines, a new brand of fabric softener because it "smelled like sunshine," and a questionable amount of gummy worms.

"We need this," Jaehyun insisted, holding up a bottle of spicy sauce. "For the stew next week."

We. Next week.

Sanghyeok looked at Jaehyun, who was debating the merits of two different brands of tofu with intense focus. They looked like any other domestic pair navigating the Sunday rush. The realization didn't send Sanghyeok running; instead, it settled in his chest, warm and dangerously comfortable.

"Fine," Sanghyeok conceded, dropping the tofu into the cart. "But if it’s too spicy, you’re eating it alone."

"Deal."

-

Back home, the cleaning operation began.

Jaehyun lasted exactly twenty minutes before boredom set in. He abandoned the vacuum cleaner in favor of the Bluetooth speaker, filling the living room with a heavy, funk-bass track that vibrated against the windows.

"Work is boring," Jaehyun announced, sliding across the floor in his socks. "We need rhythm, Sanghyeok-ah. Rhythm increases productivity."

He started dancing—loose, goofy movements, exaggerating every beat just to make Sanghyeok laugh. And it worked. Sanghyeok, who was wiping down the shelves, cracked a smile.

"You look like a deflated tube man," Sanghyeok commented.

"Oh yeah? Let’s see you do better," Jaehyun challenged, spinning around and offering a hand. "Come on. Dance with me."

Maybe it was the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains. Maybe it was the lingering domesticity from the grocery run. Sanghyeok put down the duster.

He stepped into the center of the room.

At first, he just swayed, matching Jaehyun’s silly energy. But then the bass dropped. A familiar syncopated rhythm hit his ears, and muscle memory—dormant for years but never dead—woke up.

Sanghyeok’s movements sharpened. His chest popped on the beat, a crisp, precise isolation that rippled down to his hips. He spun, not with the clumsiness of a baker, but with the calculated grace of a dancer who knew exactly where his center of gravity lay. For thirty seconds, he wasn't Sanghyeok with the insomnia and the yeast; he was Sanghyeok the Ace.

When the song ended, he froze, suddenly aware of what he had just done. His breath hitched.

He looked up to find Jaehyun staring at him. The playfulness was gone, replaced by awe.

"Wow," Jaehyun breathed. "You... you’re incredible."

Sanghyeok quickly picked up the duster, his ears burning. "I told you. Ancient history."

"That wasn't history," Jaehyun argued, stepping closer. "That was professional level. Sanghyeok, the agency is looking for choreographers for the new rookie team. You should come. Just for a consultation. You’d be amazing."

Sanghyeok’s hand tightened around the duster handle until his knuckles turned white. The smile he forced onto his face was brittle.

"Maybe later," Sanghyeok said, turning his back to scrub a spot on the shelf that was already clean. "Let’s finish cleaning first."

-

Lunch was takeout jjajangmyeon, eaten on the living room floor because the table was still covered in cleaning supplies.

The silence was heavier now. Jaehyun was still buzzing with the earlier discovery, watching Sanghyeok with a question mark in his eyes.

"Why did you stop?" Jaehyun asked finally, breaking the quiet. He didn't need to specify what he meant.

Sanghyeok stirred his noodles, watching the dark sauce swirl. There was no point in lying. Not to Jaehyun, who slept—literally—in his bed every night.

"I had an accident," Sanghyeok said simply. He tapped his right knee. "Tore the ligament. Shattered the meniscus. The doctors put it back together, but they said high-impact dancing was off the table. Unless I wanted a knee replacement by thirty."

Jaehyun stopped eating. His face fell. "Sanghyeok... I’m sorry,"

"It’s fine. I have the bakery now." Sanghyeok took a bite, chewing mechanically. "The worst part wasn't the knee, actually. It was... the timing."

He swallowed, the memory bitter on his tongue.

"My partner at the time... he was a dancer too. We were supposed to open a studio together. When the doctor gave the diagnosis, I was a mess. I couldn't walk, couldn't work. I needed him." Sanghyeok let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "He left two weeks later. Said he couldn't be with someone who 'lost their spark'. Said I was depressing to be around."

Sanghyeok risked a glance at Jaehyun.

Jaehyun glaring at the floor with such intensity that Sanghyeok worried he might set the rug on fire. His jaw was clenched tight, a vein pulsing in his neck. He looked furious. Not at Sanghyeok, but for him.

"That’s..." Jaehyun started, his voice low and trembling with suppressed rage. "That’s garbage. He’s garbage."

"He was realistic," Sanghyeok shrugged, trying to defuse the tension. The anger in Jaehyun’s eyes made his chest ache in a way he wasn't ready to examine.

"No," Jaehyun snapped, looking up. His eyes were fierce. "He was an idiot who didn't deserve you. You didn't lose your spark, Sanghyeok. You just... changed the frequency."

The sincerity was too much. It was too raw. Sanghyeok needed to hide.

"Well," Sanghyeok said, putting on his best deadpan expression. "I guess you could say... I really kneaded a break."

Jaehyun blinked. The ferocity in his expression stalled. "What?"

"You know," Sanghyeok gestured vaguely with his chopsticks. "Because I'm a baker now. I kneaded a break. Get it?"

Jaehyun stared at him for a long, agonizing second. Then, he groaned, throwing his head back.

"That was terrible," Jaehyun complained, though the anger in his shoulders began to dissipate. "That was a crime against comedy."

"It was yeast I could do," Sanghyeok added, hiding a smile behind his cup of water.

Jaehyun let out a startled laugh, shaking his head. "Stop. Please. Eat your noodles before I evict you."

-

That night, the darkness of the bedroom felt different.

Usually, Jaehyun held him with a casual, heavy comfort. But tonight, as they settled under the duvet, Jaehyun pulled Sanghyeok closer than usual. His arm wrapped tight around Sanghyeok’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest.

It wasn't just a cuddle. It was a shield.

"You're not depressing," Jaehyun whispered into the back of Sanghyeok’s neck, his breath warm against the skin.

Sanghyeok closed his eyes, his hand coming up to rest over Jaehyun’s arm, holding him there.

"Go to sleep, Jaehyun," Sanghyeok whispered back.

But he didn't pull away. In the safety of that grip, the old ache in his knee seemed to fade, replaced by the steady, rhythmic beating of the heart against his back.

Dreams were usually abstract—a collection of disjointed images and nonsensical plots. But this dream was heavy. It had weight. It had friction.

In the haze of REM sleep, Sanghyeok wasn't a baker. He wasn't tired. He was straddling a storm.

The heat was suffocating, a fever that started low in his belly and radiated outward. He was moving against something solid, a rhythmic grinding that pulled gasp after gasp from his throat. He felt desperate, needy, his hands gripping onto broad shoulders as he whined into the darkness.

"Please," he murmured in the dream, his voice thick. "Please."

The figure beneath him shifted. Hands, large and warm, tightened on his hips. The face, previously blurred by the fog of sleep, suddenly sharpened.

It was Jaehyun.

But not the Jaehyun with the blinding, sun-soaked smile. This Jaehyun looked at him with eyes that were pitch black, dilated with a hunger that could swallow Sanghyeok whole.

"Sanghyeok," the dream-Jaehyun growled.

Sanghyeok’s eyes flew open.

The dream shattered, but the sensation didn't.

Reality rushed in, cold and grey. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. Sanghyeok’s heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, bird-like rhythm. He was panting, his skin slick with a thin sheen of sweat.

And he wasn't alone.

Jaehyun was awake.

He wasn't sleeping beside him. He was looming over him, propped up on one elbow, his silhouette cutting through the dim light. His hair was messy, falling over his forehead, but his gaze was awfully focused.

Sanghyeok froze. His brain tried to catch up with his body.

He realized two things simultaneously. First, his hips were pressed obscenely close to Jaehyun’s thigh. Second, Jaehyun’s hand was under his shirt.

The palm was resting on Sanghyeok’s waist—skin on skin—hot, heavy, and motionless. It felt like a brand.

"Jaehyun," Sanghyeok croaked. His voice was wrecked, breathless. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to say, 'I'm sorry, I was asleep, I didn't mean to rub against you.'

But the words died in his throat when he met Jaehyun’s eyes. They were dark, hooded, and stripped of all their usual playfulness. There was no judgment there, only a raw, alarmingly intensity.

Jaehyun didn't pull his hand away. Instead, his thumb swept a slow, deliberate arc over the sensitive skin of Sanghyeok’s hip bone.

"You were loud," Jaehyun whispered between the jugular of Sanghyeok’s neck. His voice was rough, vibrating with the same morning huskiness that Sanghyeok usually found comforting. Now, it sounded dangerous.

Sanghyeok flushed, heat rising from his chest to his hairline. He tried to scramble back, to put distance between them, but the evidence of his dream—the aching, undeniable hardness between his legs—made movement humiliating.

"I... I was dreaming," Sanghyeok stammered, his hands fluttering uselessly against the sheets. "I didn't..."

Jaehyun’s gaze dropped. He looked down at the tent in Sanghyeok’s sweatpants, then back up to his eyes. The look was scorching.

"I know," Jaehyun murmured.

He shifted, his knee slotting between Sanghyeok’s legs, widening the space. The friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to Sanghyeok’s spine. Sanghyeok gasped, his back arching off the mattress involuntarily.

Jaehyun watched the reaction, his pupils blowing wide.

"You’re struggling," Jaehyun noted softly.

"I'm fine," Sanghyeok lied, though his breath was coming in short, ragged shallow bursts. "I just need to... to go to the bathroom."

"Do you?"

Jaehyun leaned down again. His face was inches from Sanghyeok’s. Sanghyeok could feel the ghost of his breath against his lips.

"Do you want me to help you?"

The question hung in the air, suspended in the heavy silence.

Sanghyeok’s mind screamed No. It screamed Danger. It screamed This is a line we do not cross.

But his body was a traitor. His hips bucked slightly, seeking the pressure, seeking the heat.

Jaehyun didn't wait for an answer. He didn't need one.

His hand slid from Sanghyeok’s waist to his thigh, gripping hard enough to leave a mark. Then, he moved down.

"Jaehyun, wait—" Sanghyeok started, panic warring with desire.

But then Jaehyun’s head dipped, and the world narrowed down to a single point of contact. The first touch of warmth through the fabric was shocking. Then, the fabric was gone, pulled aside with impatient hands.

When Jaehyun’s mouth finally closed over his hardening shaft, Sanghyeok’s vision went white.

"Oh, god," Sanghyeok choked out. He should have pushed him away.

His hands found purchase in Jaehyun’s hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands. He meant to pull, to stop this madness.

Instead, he gripped tighter.

Jaehyun hummed against him, a vibration that traveled through Sanghyeok’s entire nervous system. He worked with a dedicated, rhythmic intensity, using the same focus he applied to his music, learning the cadence of Sanghyeok’s pleasure.

Every drag of tongue, every suction of cheek, was a direct assault on Sanghyeok’s sanity.

"Jaehyun, please," Sanghyeok moaned, his hips lifting, chasing the sensation. "I can't... I can't..."

The words were meaningless. They weren't a refusal; they were a surrender.

The morning light blurred. The room ceased to exist. There was only the heat, the wet sound of Jaehyun’s devotion, and the shattering realization that the boundary line hadn't just been crossed—it had been erased completely.

​Then, the world came back in fragments.

​Sanghyeok lay boneless, his chest heaving, his vision swimming in a haze of white and gold. He felt untethered, floating in the aftershock of a sensation that had torn through him.

​Through the blur, movement caught his eye.

​Jaehyun had pulled back, taking off his sweatpants then looming over Sanghyeok again. His breathing ragged and harsh. His hand was working quickly, rhythmically over his own length.

​But it was his eyes that pinned Sanghyeok down. They were fixed on Sanghyeok’s face—devouring the flush on his cheeks, the parted lips, the beautiful ruin he had created.

​"God," Jaehyun rasped, his voice sounding wrecked, vibrating with a raw, desperate need. "You’re... fuck, this is better than I imagined."

​The words washed over Sanghyeok, distant but heavy. He wanted to respond, to look away from the intensity, but his limbs refused to obey. He could only watch, mesmerized and dazed, as Jaehyun falling apart for him.

​A moment later, Jaehyun groaned—a low, guttural sound that seemed to shake the very air in the room. He shuddered violently, his head dropping forward until his face was buried in the curve of Sanghyeok’s neck.

​Hot breath ghosted over damp skin as Jaehyun chased his own release, collapsing against Sanghyeok’s shoulder.

​"Sanghyeok-ah... my pretty Sanghyeok," he breathed against the pulse point, his voice trembling.

​The weight was grounding. The scent of sandalwood and musk was the last thing Sanghyeok registered before the exhaustion pulled him under, and the darkness finally claimed him.

-

Waking up was usually a slow process for Sanghyeok. Today, it was a collision.

He jolted awake, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The sunlight hitting the duvet was offensive—too bright, too vertical. It wasn't morning anymore; it was dangerously close to noon.

"Shit," Sanghyeok hissed, scrambling out of bed.

His body felt different. Heavy. Sensitized. The memory of what had happened—the friction, the heat, the wet sound of Jaehyun’s mouth—crashed into him like a tidal wave. He nearly tripped over his own pants trying to get to the door.

He expected an empty apartment. He expected to run to the shower, scrub his skin pink, and pretend he hadn't just unraveled in the hands of his housemate.

Instead, he opened the bedroom door and walked into a scene from a cooking show.

Jaehyun was in the kitchen. He was wearing a navy blue apron over a white t-shirt, flipping bacon with a casual, rhythmic grace. He looked infuriatingly fresh, his hair damp from a shower, humming a melody that sounded suspiciously upbeat.

"Morning," Jaehyun said, turning around with a spatula in hand. His grin was easy, bright, and completely devoid of the dark hunger that had been there hours ago. "Or... afternoon. I made eggs. Sunny side up, just how you like them."

Sanghyeok stood in the hallway, clutching the doorframe. He felt like he was vibrating on a different frequency.

"I..." Sanghyeok’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I’m late. The bakery. The dough."

"Eat first," Jaehyun gestured to the plate on the island. "You need the energy."

There was a glint in his eye—a subtle, teasing weight to the word energy—that made Sanghyeok’s ears burn.

"I can't," Sanghyeok blurted out. He grabbed a piece of toast, not looking Jaehyun in the eye. "I have to go. Enjoy... the eggs."

He fled to the bathroom, locking the door with a click that sounded too loud in the quiet apartment.

-

Sanghyeok stayed at the bakery until closing. Then, he stayed an hour longer, reorganizing the flour sacks that were already organized. He swept the floor three times.

He was avoiding home. He was avoiding the conversation. He was avoiding the man who had tasted him and then offered him breakfast like it was part of the lease agreement.

When he finally unlocked the apartment door at 9 PM, the lights were dim.

He tiptoed in, hoping Jaehyun was in his room, or maybe out at the studio.

"You're late," a voice said from the dining area.

Sanghyeok jumped. Jaehyun was sitting at the table, a spread of takeout containers arranged neatly in front of him. He hadn't touched the food.

"Inventory took longer than expected," Sanghyeok lied, kicking off his shoes.

"I waited," Jaehyun said simply. "Spicy pork stir-fry. It’s cold now, but we can heat it up."

Guilt, sharp and sudden, pierced through Sanghyeok’s defensiveness. Jaehyun looked like a puppy kicked into the rain—slumped shoulders, pouting lips, eyes following Sanghyeok with sad accusation.

"I ate at works," Sanghyeok lied again. "Sorry."

Jaehyun’s pout deepened. He poked at the plastic container with a chopstick. "Oh. Okay."

The disappointment was palpable. It filled the room like smoke.

Sanghyeok sighed. He couldn't do this. He walked to the fridge and pulled out a white box.

"But," Sanghyeok said, placing the box on the table. "There’s new matcha crepe cake recipe. It needs a taste tester."

Jaehyun perked up instantly. "I’m the first one?"

"You are."

"Okay," Jaehyun grinned, the puppy energy returning. "I forgive you."

Later, the apartment was quiet again, save for the sound of running water.

Sanghyeok stood at the sink, washing the dessert plates. The rhythm of the sponge against ceramic was soothing. It was a task he understood. Scrub, rinse, dry. Simple.

Then, the air shifted.

He didn't hear footsteps, but he felt the presence. A warmth radiating behind him, cutting through the cool air of the kitchen.

Jaehyun was there.

Sanghyeok stiffened. His instinct was to step aside, to make a joke, to run. But his feet felt rooted to the floor.

Jaehyun didn't touch him immediately. He moved slowly, deliberately, boxing Sanghyeok in against the counter. He leaned in, placing one hand on the granite next to Sanghyeok’s hip.

"Sanghyeok-ah," Jaehyun murmured. His voice was right by Sanghyeok’s ear, low and vibrating.

Sanghyeok stopped scrubbing. He turned off the tap and turn around. The silence was deafening.

Jaehyun tilted his head, bringing his face closer. He didn't rush. He hovered inches away, his eyes searching Sanghyeok’s, waiting. It was an offer. A question.

Sanghyeok looked at him. He saw the kindness in Jaehyun’s eyes, the patience, and the underlying heat that had been there since that first morning he comes to this apartement.

So, Sanghyeok didn't run.

He didn't step back. He stayed.

Jaehyun took the lack of movement as the answer it was. He closed the gap.

The kiss was inevitable. It was slow, deep, and tasting of matcha. It felt like coming up for air after holding his breath all day. Sanghyeok let out a shaky sigh, his hands wet and soapy, hovering uselessly in the air before he gave up and clutched Jaehyun’s shirt, dampening the fabric.

"Jaehyun," Sanghyeok breathed against his lips.

Jaehyun hummed, moving closer, pressing Sanghyeok back against the counter. The kiss deepened, tongues meeting in a lazy, heated dance.

Then, Jaehyun gripped Sanghyeok’s waist, and with effortless strength, he lifted Sanghyeok up.

Sanghyeok gasped as he was deposited onto the edge of the dining table.

"Wait," Sanghyeok pulled back, breathless, his hand pushing against Jaehyun’s chest.

Jaehyun blinked, dazed, leaning back in to kiss his neck. "What? Did I hurt you?"

"No," Sanghyeok panted. "The table. It’s... it’s not clean. It’s sticky. We eat on it."

Jaehyun pulled back, staring at him. For a second, he looked incredulous. Then, a laugh bubbled up from his chest—a genuine, delighted sound.

"You are unbelievable," Jaehyun shook his head.

"Hygiene is important," Sanghyeok defended weakly.

"Fine. No dinner table."

Jaehyun stepped in between Sanghyeok’s legs. He hooked his arms under Sanghyeok’s thighs and lifted.

"Jump," Jaehyun commanded.

Sanghyeok instinctively wrapped his legs around Jaehyun’s waist and his arms around his neck, clinging like a koala. The position was intimate, exposing, and perfect.

"Bedroom?" Jaehyun asked, though he was already walking.

"Bedroom," Sanghyeok agreed, burying his face in Jaehyun’s shoulder to hide his flush.

-

The room was dark. The sheets were cool.

Jaehyun was asleep, one arm thrown heavily over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a deep, peaceful rhythm.

Sanghyeok lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. His body felt loose, satisfied, and comfortable.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, turning the brightness all the way down.

>Sanghyeok : Is it messed up for having sex with your housemate who is supposedly still tangled with their ex?
>Hypothetically.

It takes approximately fifteen minutes for the reply to arrived.

>Donghyunie : Depend.
>Is the sex good?

Sanghyeok turned to look at Jaehyun’s sleeping profile, his heart aching with a mixture of guilt and affection.

It was really good. Great. Incredible even.

"Hypothetically," he whispered to the dark room. "I'm in trouble."

The bakery had run out of almond flour early. It was a mundane logistical error, but it gave Sanghyeok an excuse to close shop two hours ahead of schedule.

He walked home with a lighter step than usual, a small box of freshly baked madeleines swinging in his hand. He was thinking about the dinner he would cook—maybe kimchi stew again, since Jaehyun liked it these days—and maybe, if he was brave enough, he would ask Jaehyun to watch a movie. A real movie. Not just background noise for sleep.

He unlocked the apartment door, the familiar click of the tumblers sounding welcoming.

"I’m ho—"

The word died on his tongue.

The living room was occupied.

Park Sungho was sitting on the beige sofa. He was slumped, his head thrown back against the cushions, eyes closed. His face was flushed a deep, blotchy red, and his shirt collar looked disheveled, the top button undone as if he had been struggling to breathe.

He looked wrecked. Or... ravished.

Sanghyeok’s grip on the cake box tightened until the cardboard buckled.

At the sound of the door, Sungho’s eyes flew open. He sat up straight, smoothing his hair with a jerky, frantic motion.

"Sanghyeok-ssi," Sungho breathed, his voice rasping. "You’re... you’re early."

Before Sanghyeok could process the scene, the door to Jaehyun’s bedroom opened.

Jaehyun stepped out. He stopped dead when he saw Sanghyeok.

For the first time since they started living together, Jaehyun didn't smile. He looked panicked. His eyes darted from Sanghyeok to Sungho, and his hands, usually so expressive, were shoved deep into his pockets as if hiding something.

"Sanghyeok-ah," Jaehyun said, the name coming out like a question. "I thought you were working until nine."

"Almond flour," Sanghyeok said. His voice sounded calm. Detached. Like it was coming from a radio in another room. "We ran out."

He looked at Jaehyun’s hair—messier than it had been this morning. He looked at Sungho’s red face. He looked at the closed bedroom door behind Jaehyun.

The math was simple. Cruel, but simple.

They were together. In there. And I just interrupted the afterglow.

A wave of nausea rolled in Sanghyeok’s stomach, acid and cold. He felt dirty. He felt like a thief who had been caught trying to steal a life that didn't belong to him.

"I see you have company," Sanghyeok said, stepping further into the room but keeping his distance. He placed the box of madeleines on the kitchen counter. It felt heavy, like a brick. "I won't disturb you."

"No," Jaehyun took a step forward, his brow furrowed. "It’s not—Sanghyeok, wait. Sungho just came by to—"

"To relax," Sanghyeok finished for him, cutting him off with a sharp smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I can see that."

He turned to Sungho, offering a polite, devastatingly formal bow.

"There are madeleines in the box if you’d like. Please, pretend I’m not here."

Without waiting for a response, Sanghyeok turned and walked straight to his room. He didn't run. He walked with a steady, measured pace, even as his world fractured with every step.

He closed his door. He didn't lock it. Not yet. That would be an admission that he cared.

-

Night fell, turning the apartment into a landscape of shadows.

Sanghyeok sat on the small armchair in the corner of his room, listening. He heard the front door open and close—Sungho leaving. He heard the silence that followed.

Then, footsteps approaching his door.

"Sanghyeok-ah?" Jaehyun’s voice was soft, muffled by the wood. "Are you in there? You didn't come out for dinner."

Sanghyeok stared at his hands. He felt hollowed out. The anger had faded, leaving behind a residue of shame. He had let himself believe he was special. He had let himself be the Gateway Car—the vehicle Jaehyun used to drive away from his heartbreak, only to circle back to the start.

He stood up and opened the door.

Jaehyun was standing there, looking concerned. He reached out, his hand finding Sanghyeok’s waist with habitual ease.

"Hey," Jaehyun murmured, stepping into Sanghyeok’s personal space. "You okay? You were weird earlier."

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Sanghyeok’s cheek. His lips were warm. Familiar.

Sanghyeok didn't move. He stood rigid, fighting the urge to scrub the spot where Jaehyun’s lips touched.

Did he kiss Sungho like this? Did he touch Sungho’s waist like this an hour ago?

Jaehyun didn't notice the stiffness. He hummed, nuzzling closer, his mouth moving down to the sensitive cord of Sanghyeok’s neck. His hand slid under the hem of Sanghyeok’s shirt, fingertips grazing skin.

"Lets go to my room," Jaehyun whispered against his throat. "It’s late."

The touch snapped something inside Sanghyeok.

He shoved Jaehyun. Hard.

Jaehyun stumbled back, hitting the doorframe, his eyes wide with shock.

"Sanghyeok?"

"Don't," Sanghyeok said. His voice was trembling. "Don't touch me."

"What?" Jaehyun reached out again, confused. "Why? What did I do?"

"I've sick," Sanghyeok lied. The words tasted like ash. "I feel nauseous. I think I ate something bad."

"Okay," Jaehyun’s face shifted instantly to worry. "Do you need medicine? Water? I can—"

"No," Sanghyeok stepped back, gripping the edge of the door. "I need to sleep. Alone."

"Alone?" Jaehyun blinked. "But... we sleep better together. I can just hold you. I won't do anything."

"I said alone, Jaehyun."

Sanghyeok saw the hurt flash across Jaehyun’s face—a raw, open wound. It almost made him cave. Almost.

But then the image of Sungho’s flushed face flashed in his mind, and the walls slammed back up.

"Goodnight," Sanghyeok said.

He closed the door.

Click.

The sound echoed in the silence, final and absolute.

Escape required precision. It required the quietest zipper on a duffel bag and the ability to walk across hardwood floors without breathing.

Sanghyeok moved like a ghost in his own home. The sun hadn't risen yet; the apartment was steeped in the grey, grainy light of dawn. He packed only the essentials—clothes, toothbrush, charger. He left the sourdough starter; it was resilient. Unlike him.

He wrote the note on a sticky pad and stuck it to the coffee machine.

Family emergency. Going to my parents' house for a few days. Don't wait up.

It was a cowardly lie. His parents were currently on a cruise in Jeju and hadn't called him in weeks. But the truth—I am running away because I fell in love with you and I can't stand to watch you love someone else—was too long for a sticky note.

He slipped out the door before the alarm in Jaehyun’s room could go off.

Donghyun’s apartment smelled of different coffee and unfamiliar fabric softener. It was warm, welcoming, and suffocatingly wrong.

Donghyun opened the door at 6:30 AM, looking tousled and sleepy. He took one look at Sanghyeok’s pale face and the duffel bag, and he didn't ask a single question. He just stepped aside.

"Coffee is brewing," Donghyun said, rubbing his eyes.

He knew. Of course he knew.

The text message from two nights ago was the final piece of a puzzle Donghyun had been solving for months. But Donghyun, bless him, offered silence instead of interrogation.

-

Jaehyun bombarding his phone almost the same day as he runaway.

>Loud Housemate: (3 missed calls).
>Loud Housemate: Sanghyeok-ah, are you okay?
> Did I do something?
> When are you coming home?
> Don’t go too long
> Please just tell me you’re safe.

Every buzz of the phone felt like a physical pinch. Sanghyeok stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the 'Answer' button, but he never pressed it.

It’s not even one day but Sanghyeok already missed him.

He missed the off-key singing in the shower. He missed the smell of sandalwood. He missed the weight of an arm thrown over his waist in the middle of the night. The emptiness in his chest was a physical cavity, aching and cold.

But then he would remember Sungho’s flushed face. He would remember the closed bedroom door.

I am not a consolation prize, Sanghyeok told himself, turning his phone face down. I am not the placeholder you keep until the real thing is ready.

-

For the next days though, Sanghyeok couldn't just hide at Donghyun’s. He had a business to run.

At the bakery, Sanghyeok became a phantom. He retreated to the back kitchen, leaving the storefront entirely to his part-time staff. He kneaded dough with a manic intensity, punching the air out of the mixture as if it personally offended him.

Every time the bell above the door chimed, Sanghyeok flinched. He would freeze, flour dusting his eyelashes, listening for the heavy footsteps or the loud, cheerful voice that haunted his dreams.

He had rehearsed what he would say if Jaehyun stormed in. Get out. Leave me alone. I’m working.

But the bell chimed for customers. It chimed for deliveries. It chimed for the wind.

It never chimed for Myung Jaehyun.

By the third day, the absence started to gnaw at him.

"Did... did anyone ask for me?" Sanghyeok asked his shift leader, Sohee, trying to sound casual as he wiped down the prep table.

"No, Chef," Sohee replied cheerfully. "Just the usual supplier asking about the invoices."

Sanghyeok nodded, feeling a strange, heavy stone settle in his stomach.

Of course Jaehyun didn't come. Jaehyun knew how much this bakery meant to Sanghyeok. He knew Sanghyeok hated scenes.

But, he can’t help to think that it would have been easier if Jaehyun had come and made a scene. Then Sanghyeok could have been angry properly.

Not being an avoidant like the asshole he was.

It was late on the sixth night. The TV was playing a rerun of a variety show, casting flickering shadows across Donghyun’s living room.

Donghyun had gone to bed early, leaving Sanghyeok to stare blankly at the screen. He wasn't watching. He was replaying the last five months in his head, looking for the cracks he should have seen earlier.

"Your brooding’s face is ugly, Hyung. It’s affecting the feng shui."

Sanghyeok looked up. Dongmin walked into the room, holding a glass of water. He was wearing reading glasses and pajamas that looked far too fancy for sleepwear.

Dongmin didn't go back to the bedroom. Instead, he pivoted and sat on the other end of the sofa, tucking his legs under him. He took a sip of water, his gaze fixed on the TV.

"Do you remember high school?" Dongmin asked suddenly.

Sanghyeok blinked. "Vaguely. Why?"

"I was thinking about me and Donghyun," Dongmin continued, swirling the water in his glass. "Do you remember how much I hated him? I spent two years convincing myself that his kindness was fake. That he was just... tolerating me because of you."

"You guys were like oil and water," Sanghyeok muttered. "It was exhausting to referee."

"It was," Dongmin agreed. He turned his head, looking at Sanghyeok with eyes that were sharp and surprisingly gentle. "But the exhaustion wasn't coming from him. It was coming from me."

"Where is this going, Dongmin-ah?"

"I built a narrative," Dongmin said softly. "I told myself a story where I was the outsider, the annoyance. I wore that story like armor. It stopped me from seeing what was actually happening—that Donghyun was just... waiting. Waiting for me to stop fighting a war that only existed in my head."

Sanghyeok stiffened. He gripped the remote control tighter. "If you’re trying to give me advice, don't. My situation is not the same as yours. You didn't have a fiancé in the picture."

"Maybe not," Dongmin shrugged. "But denial is a universal language, Hyung. It’s the strongest enemy because it lives inside you. It blinds you."

He took another sip of water, his tone casual, conversational.

"You’re convinced you’re the villain, or maybe the victim, in Jaehyun’s story. But have you ever tried to look at the story through his lens? Or are you too busy looking at it through your own insecurities?"

Sanghyeok felt a flare of defensive anger. "You don't know what I saw. You don't know how they looked together."

"I don't," Dongmin conceded. He stood up, setting the empty glass on the table. "I’m just saying... sometimes we break our own hearts just to prove we were right about being unlovable."

He patted Sanghyeok’s knee—a brief, grounding touch.

"Don't act like you're giving me a lecture," Sanghyeok snapped, though his voice lacked heat. "My case is different."

Dongmin smiled. It was a crooked, knowing smile that made him look very much like the boy who used to throw slippers in the dance practice room.

"Who’s lecturing?" Dongmin asked innocently. "I’m just feeling nostalgic. But well… if the shoe fits, Hyung."

He walked away, leaving Sanghyeok alone in the flickering light.

Sanghyeok sat there for a long time.

Have I been fighting a war that only exists in my head?

The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the silence of the room pressed in closer.

The plan was solid: enter, retrieve clean underwear and the good vanilla extract, exit.

Sanghyeok turned the key in the lock with the gentleness of a safecracker. It was 10:00 AM on a Tuesday. Jaehyun should have been at the agency, arguing with sound engineers or charming investors. The apartment should have been empty.

It wasn't.

Jaehyun was sitting on the floor in the hallway, his back resting against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. He was staring at the front door as if he had willed it to open with his mind.

He looked terrible.

The Myung Jaehyun that Sanghyeok knew was polished—a man who styled his hair to buy milk. This version was frayed. His hair was a bird's nest, his t-shirt was wrinkled, and the dark circles under his eyes were bruised purple shadows.

Sanghyeok froze, his hand still on the doorknob. "I... I thought you were at work."

Jaehyun scrambled to his feet. He moved with a jerky, frantic energy, nearly tripping over his own socks.

"You're back," Jaehyun breathed. He didn't smile. He looked like he was afraid Sanghyeok was a hallucination that might vanish if he blinked too hard. "You’ve been gone for six days."

"I needed clothes," Sanghyeok said, his voice sounding thin in the quiet hallway. He gripped the strap of his bag. "I’m just... passing through."

"Passing through?"

The words seemed to snap the last thread of Jaehyun’s patience.

"You don't get to just pass through," Jaehyun’s voice rose, cracking with exhaustion. "You vanished, Sanghyeok. No text. No call. You just left a sticky note on the coffee machine like I was—like I was nobody."

"I told you it was a family emergency," Sanghyeok lied, looking at the floor.

"Bullshit," Jaehyun stepped closer, invading Sanghyeok’s personal space. He smelled of stale coffee and distress. "I called your parents' house phone. No answer. I called the bakery. Sohee told me you were there, working in the back."

Sanghyeok flinched. "You called the bakery?"

"Every day," Jaehyun admitted, his voice trembling. "I wanted to go there. I wanted to kick down the door and drag you home. I stood outside the shop three times, Sanghyeok. Three times. But I didn't go in."

He took a ragged breath.

"Because I knew you. I knew that if I cornered you in your safe place, you’d hate me. So I stayed away. I respected your space even though it felt like it was killing me. And now you’re here, telling me you’re just passing through?"

Sanghyeok felt the defensive walls crumbling under the weight of Jaehyun’s raw honesty.

"You didn't have to wait," Sanghyeok snapped, tears pricking his eyes. "You have Sungho. I saw you two. I saw his face. I saw the bedroom door. I’m not stupid, Jaehyun. I can't be your rebound. I can't be the person you use to forget him. If you want him, just go. Go back to him."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Jaehyun stared at him, his mouth slightly open. The anger in his eyes drained away, replaced by a look of utter bewilderment.

"You think..." Jaehyun started, then stopped. He let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "You think I want Sungho?"

"I think you never stopped wanting him," Sanghyeok wiped his eyes angrily. "You were engaged."

"Because our mothers decided it when we were five!" Jaehyun shouted back. "It was an arrangement, Sanghyeok. A business merger dressed up as a fairy tale. There was never anything there. Kissing him felt like kissing a mirror. It was cold. It was boring."

He took a step closer, his eyes pleading.

"Sungho didn't leave me because I wasn't good enough. He canceled the wedding because he met someone real. He fell in love with a girl from his art class. He’s happy. And I was relieved."

Sanghyeok hesitated. "But... when he was here last time, he was flushed. You were panicked."

"He was flushed because we spent three hours moving furniture!" Jaehyun explained, exasperated. "And I was panicked because I didn't want you to see the surprise before it was ready!"

"What surprise?"

"This!" Jaehyun gestured wildly to the apartment, then stopped. He groaned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. "You don't believe me. Fine."

He dialed a number and put it on speaker, thrusting the phone between them.

Ring. Ring.

"What?" Sungho’s voice barked from the speaker. He sounded annoyed and breathless.

"I’m cutting you off," Jaehyun declared, staring intensely at Sanghyeok.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You’re toxic. You’re ruining my life. I am ending our friendship effective immediately."

There was a pause on the other end. Then, a distinct, feminine voice in the background asked, "Babe? Who is that?"

"It’s just Jaehyun being dramatic again," Sungho replied to the woman, his tone shifting to something soft and sweet, before sharpening again as he addressed the phone. "Jaehyun, are you drunk? It’s 10 AM. I’m with Jiwon. We are literally in the middle of a date. Do you need something or are you just trying to sabotage my relationship because yours is a disaster?"

Sanghyeok’s eyes went wide. He shook his head frantically at Jaehyun, mouthing 'No, stop, don't.'

"I—" Jaehyun faltered.

"Whatever," Sungho sighed. "Call me when you’re sane. Bye."

Click.

Jaehyun lowered the phone. His eyes were red-rimmed, raw, and honest.

"You heard him," Jaehyun whispered. "He’s gone, Sanghyeok. He’s been gone. There is nothing to cut off because nothing ever grew there."

He took a step forward, his voice dropping to a tremor.

"The only thing that makes me feel alive... the only thing that makes the noise in my head stop... is you."

Sanghyeok let out a sob, the fight leaving his body. "You idiot. You nearly ended a twenty-year friendship."

"I’d do it," Jaehyun vowed, pulling Sanghyeok into his arms. "I’d burn the whole contact list just for you to be back in my arms."

"Don't," Sanghyeok buried his face in Jaehyun’s chest, clutching the wrinkled t-shirt. "I’m sorry. I was... I was so jealous. I felt like a placeholder."

"You are the destination," Jaehyun mumbled into his hair, holding him so tight it almost hurt. "You are the whole damn map."

They stood there for a long time, breathing in the scent of each other, the misunderstanding dissolving in the warmth of the embrace.

"Come," Jaehyun said eventually, pulling back slightly. "I need to show you. The reason Sungho was here."

He led Sanghyeok to his bedroom door. The source of so much pain.

Jaehyun pushed it open.

Sanghyeok stepped inside and gasped.

The room had changed. The chaotic tangle of cables, synthesizers, and empty coffee cups was gone. The equipment had been pushed to one corner, organized neatly.

The rest of the room had been transformed. There were warm, amber fairy lights strung along the ceiling. A thick, plush rug covered the cold floor. The blackout curtains were replaced with softer, linen ones. And on the bed—which now had new, high-thread-count sheets—sat a pile of pillows that looked suspiciously like the ones Sanghyeok favored.

It didn't look like a workspace anymore. It looked like a beautiful hideaway.

"Sungho has an eye for interior design," Jaehyun rubbed the back of his neck, looking shy. "I asked him to help me fix it up. I wanted... I wanted a place where you could sleep. If you got bored of your room. Or if you just wanted to be here."

He looked at Sanghyeok, vulnerable.

"I wanted to make it comfortable for you. So you wouldn't have to sleep on the edge of the mattress."

Sanghyeok looked at the room, then at Jaehyun. The effort, the care, the restraint Jaehyun had shown by not storming the bakery—it overwhelmed him.

His heart feeling too big for his chest.

"We don't need two rooms," Sanghyeok said softly.

Jaehyun blinked. "What?"

"My lease is up in three months anyway," Sanghyeok shrugged, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. "And I think, I will be sleeping better here. So... let’s just use this one."

Jaehyun’s face lit up, softer than the sun.

"Yeah," Jaehyun breathed. "Yeah. I’d like that."

He reached out, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of Sanghyeok’s neck, pulling him in. The kiss began with a heavy, grounding pressure. Jaehyun’s lips moved against Sanghyeok’s with a starving sort of patience, firm and warm, tilting the shorter head to deepen the angle until every inch of space between them vanished. Sanghyeok could feel the vibration of a sigh against his own mouth, a physical release of days of held breath.

It was the kind of kiss that said, 'I have been waiting for you for a lifetime, and I am not going anywhere.'

With that kiss, they tumbled onto the bed, tangled together in the nest Jaehyun had built.

Their new safety haven.

Their each other sanctuary.

The apartment no longer had sides.

There was no "Sanghyeok’s zone" or "Jaehyun’s territory."

There was just home.

Jaehyun’s sheet music lived on the kitchen island next to the flour jars. Sanghyeok’s recipe books were stacked on the bedside table in what used to be Jaehyun’s room, but was now simply their room.

The loose ends had been tied, some with grace, others with the chaotic energy characteristic of their lives.

Sungho, upon hearing the full story of why Jaehyun had briefly threatened to excommunicate him, had laughed for ten minutes straight. He now sent Jaehyun weekly texts asking if he was allowed to breathe without permission, just to be petty.

Donghyun had received a simple text: We’re dating. His reply was instant: Finally. You owe me steak. Expensive steak.

And Dongmin... well, Dongmin got a message from Sanghyeok that just said Thank you. He didn't ask what for. He just sent back a thumbs-up emoji and a link to a feng shui article about "maintaining domestic harmony."

Tonight, the harmony was being tested by a high-frequency disturbance named Kim Woonhak.

Jaehyun sat at his desk, headphones around his neck, frowning at the laptop screen. On the video call, Woonhak was vibrating with enthusiasm, waving a stylus like a conductor’s baton.

"Hyung, listen! If we swap the snare for a clap here, it’s going to sound crisp! Like—chkit,chkit, You know?"

Jaehyun rubbed his temples, a fond but tired smile playing on his lips. "Woonhak-ah, I think ‘chkit’ isn't a musical term. But I get what you mean. The texture needs to be lighter."

"Exactly! Lighter! Like a cloud! Or like whipped cream!"

The bedroom door opened. Sanghyeok walked in with the casual ownership of a man entering his own refuge. He was wearing soft cotton pajamas and holding two mugs of tea.

He placed one mug near Jaehyun’s hand, his fingers brushing against Jaehyun’s wrist in a silent greeting.

"Oh! Is that Chef Sanghyeok?" Woonhak’s voice spiked an octave. He leaned into the camera, squinting. "Hyung! Hi! How are you?"

Sanghyeok chuckled, leaning down to peer at the screen over Jaehyun’s shoulder. "Hey, Woonhak. I’m good. Still loud, I see?"

"Always!" Woonhak grinned. "By the way, Hyung! That pastry you sent last time? The one with the impossible name? The... Queen Amann?"

"Kouign-amann," Sanghyeok corrected gently.

"Yes! That one! It was insane. The office went crazy. Even the CEO ate two. I’m going to drag the whole production team to your bakery next week. Prepare yourself!"

Sanghyeok nodded, smiling. "Sure. Bring them over. I’ll make sure we have enough."

He straightened up. He looked at the clock on the corner of Jaehyun’s screen. It was past midnight. Then he looked at Jaehyun, who was watching him with that familiar, soft gaze—the one that always made the world feels so much safer.

Then, Sanghyeok didn't walk away immediately. Instead, he tapped Jaehyun’s thigh.

Jaehyun didn't say anything. He just simply shifted his chair back, opening his legs slightly to create space. It was a muscle memory now, a routine as natural as breathing.

Sanghyeok sat down on Jaehyun’s lap, settling comfortably against his chest. Jaehyun’s arm wound around his waist instantly, anchoring him.

On the screen, Woonhak faltered. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't look shocked—just happily resigned to being the third wheel.

"Okay, that’s enough work," Sanghyeok announced to the camera, his tone pleasant but final. "Woonhak-ah, can I borrow Jaehyun now? It’s really late."

"Oh," Woonhak blinked. "I mean, yeah, sure, but the snare—"

"If you come to the bakery next week," Sanghyeok interrupted smoothly, leaning his head back against Jaehyun’s shoulder. "I’ll give you a box of Kouign-amann. On the house. Consider it a bonus."

Woonhak’s jaw dropped. "Deal! Say less! I’m hanging up! Goodnight! Don't stay up too late doing—whatever! Bye!"

The screen went black.

Silence rushed back into the room—warm, heavy, and sweet.

Sanghyeok reached out and closed the laptop. He turned in Jaehyun’s lap, wrapping his arms around his neck, looking at him with wide, innocent eyes that fooled absolutely no one.

"Let’s sleep," Sanghyeok said.

Jaehyun let out a laugh—a crisp, bright sound that Sanghyeok felt against his chest more than he heard. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the tip of Sanghyeok’s nose, then his lips.

"Okay, let’s sleep!" Jaehyun agreed.

He stood up, effortlessly lifting Sanghyeok with him, carrying his world towards the bed.

Outside, the city hummed with its endless static. But inside, between the sheets and the steady thrum of two heartbeats falling into sync, everything was perfectly, beautifully clear.