Archive of Our Own

Love.

Love.

Love.

It’s always that saying that love is in the air, that it lingers in the very space between people, that it clings to skin like warmth and slips into lungs like steam. That the love inside someone does not stay contained, that it rises and spills and becomes visible in the way they look at someone a second too long.

Love.

All kinds of love, of different kinds of affection displayed for your fated true love, for your significant partner, for your partner for life and all the trials life would bring. That kind of love where they share hugs and kisses and share roses as a declaration that says, I choose you. That kind of love where someone would ask, “Flowers or chocolates?” and the other would respond with both, because they are entirely sweet like that, because why choose when you can give everything?

Love that is loud. Love that is quiet. Love that is chosen. Love that just… happens.

If Gyuvin were in the hot seat and someone asked him very hard questions—he thinks they would be hard, but maybe he would just go with it, let it flow like him. He imagines it sometimes. A man in front of him, swiping flash cards, making this a fast talk, not giving him enough time to think too deeply.

“Hugs or kisses?”

“Hugs?” Gyuvin says, unsure.

“Night or day?”

“Day.”

“A beach date or a cinema date?”

“A beach date.” He answers like he has already seen it in his head—the sun setting, sand clinging to ankles, laughter carried away by the tide. Not something he has experienced, but something he has watched from afar.

“Coffee or tea?”

“Tea.”

“Promise rings or promise necklaces?”

“Rings.”

“Santa Claus or Jack Frost?”

Why is it Christmas now? Why has the season changed without warning? Still, “Jack Frost.”

“Mangoes or strawberries?”

“Mangoes.” Of course. That's his favorite.

“Half-full or half-empty?”

“Huh? Half-full.” Even when confused, he chooses optimism.

“Lights on or lights off?”

What kind of question is that? Still— “Lights on.” And he doesn’t know why he feels heat rush up his neck, but he ignores it.

“Someone you love or someone who loves you?”

That question does not feel like a game anymore.

It repeats in his mind long after the imaginary flashcards stop flipping. He has thought about this before, alone, staring at nothing in particular. He has turned it over and over like a coin between his fingers, weighing which side feels heavier.

“Someone I love.”

Yes.

He wants to be with someone he loves, even if the question makes it seem like that someone might not love him back. Even if it sounds foolish. Even if it sounds like choosing the harder path. That is still what he wants.

And if that happens—if the love is one-sided at first—he will do everything in his power to make that someone love him back.

…Which, if he is honest, is what he has been doing for a long time now.

But we’ll get to that later.

“Love or hate?”

Four letters. Same length. Entirely opposite directions. One builds, one burns.

“Love.”

The man discards another flashcard. Only one remains between his fingers.

“What is love?”

Ah, the classic question.

Love is blind, they say. Love is deaf, love is mute. Love makes you do every crazy possible thing until you are dizzy with it, until you are acting too emotionally and forget that rationality ever existed. Love is dangerous as much as it is freeing. It can feel like falling and flying at the same time. Love has different interpretations for everyone, shaped by different hands, different histories, different kinds of hurt.

One would think Gyuvin is an expert on love.

…Because he is.

Love is what they work with every day. Humans know them as cupids, as the tiny winged gods of love with bows and arrows and mischievous smiles. Not entirely gods, though. More like angels on assignment. Employees, if you really wanted to reduce the romance of it all.

And with this whole cupid thing, there is always something to be done. Schedules to follow. Pairings to calculate. Timelines to respect. Making sure mortals find their perfect match at the perfect time in the perfect place.

It involves arrows.

Always arrows.

Golden ones, light as breath in their hands but heavy with consequence once released.

Gyuvin watches the field below, watches the humans move through their little lives unaware of the strings that sometimes guide them. He sees an arrow fly—and land slightly off.

Well, it’s not so bad, he tells himself at first. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t leave a wound. It just… redirects the heart. Whoever or whatever is the first thing the target sees after being struck by the arrow becomes their “love of their life.”

Simple.

Except he knows that arrow.

He knows the way it curves midair, the way it glints faintly before it lands.

He knows whose hand released it.

Ricky.

His beloved Ricky.

Ricky who is usually so concentrated with his bow, brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed in that quiet line of determination.

Ricky who was perfectly fine earlier, steady and precise, not a single tremor in his fingers.

Ricky who now has fired an arrow too fast—too early—before the intended moment, before fate had set the stage properly.

Ricky who is now staring down at the human world with wide eyes because he has just made the worst mistake a cupid could make.

He shot the arrow too soon.

He made the heart bloom before it was meant to.

And what is worse—what is almost laughably cruel in its timing—is that the arrow struck when the human was looking at a mirror.

Not at another person. Not at a stranger passing by. Not at some future love waiting patiently in the same room.

A mirror.

The human blinks at his own reflection, and Gyuvin feels the magic in the air.

Oh.

Oh no.

The heart has chosen the first thing it saw.

Himself.

Soon to become a very dire case of self-love. Not the healthy, gentle kind. The obsessive, all-consuming kind. The kind that leaves no space for anyone else.

“Oh no,” Gyuvin hears Ricky breathe beside him, the words barely there. 

Ricky’s hands are still wrapped around his bow. They are trembling.

And suddenly this isn’t funny anymore. Not a strange little cupid mishap. Not something to be filed and corrected with paperwork and a stern reminder from higher-ups.

It is Ricky’s arrow. Ricky’s mistake. Ricky’s panic.

What a strange case of an L-O-V-E emergency this is.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

Is being a cupid easy? 

No.

No job ever truly is. No matter how small or grand it sounds when spoken aloud, there is always responsibility stitched into it. There are always consequences hiding quietly behind even the lightest actions.

And love—of all things—is not light.

But is it fun? Did they like their role as cupids?

Well… yes.

There was something beautiful about watching two strangers become something more. About seeing a glance linger half a second too long and knowing you had something to do with it. About witnessing the exact moment a heart softened.

Even if, sometimes, Gyuvin wished he could shoot an arrow straight into his own heart.

Not to make himself fall in love. That had already happened long ago. He knew it had.

He remembered the moment it must have, though there had been no golden arrow, no flash of magic. It had been quieter than that. It had settled slowly. He was very much aware of it now, painfully so. He just wanted Ricky to realize it too—at his own pace.

Slow and steady.

Even if that pace felt excessive sometimes. Even if it felt like standing still.

But slow and steady worked. He had seen it. He had studied love from every angle. The rushed ones burned bright and burned out. The gentle ones, the ones built on patience, the ones that chose each other again and again—they lasted.

He believed in probability. In patterns. In outcomes.

He believed that if he loved Ricky carefully enough, steadily enough, one day the answer would tilt in his favor.

It wasn’t unusual for cupids to stumble mid-flight. Wings got tired. Focus slipped. But it had happened enough times that it was burned into Gyuvin’s memory—the way Ricky sometimes fell from the sky as if he had lost his way.

As if gravity suddenly remembered him.

Those were the days that worried Gyuvin the most.

Some assignments required them to descend to the mortal world and observe. Valentine’s Day was always the busiest. The humans decorated everything in red and pink, like they were trying to convince the world that love was something you could manufacture if you just tried hard enough.

They visited dating spots. Lovely restaurants with heart-shaped desserts and limited-edition menus “for two.” Discounts for couples. Buy one, get one. As if love were a package deal. As if affection could be measured by shared receipts.

Couples took pictures with roses and chocolates, holding them up. Some were so sweet it bordered on embarrassing, but who would dare say that on the day of hearts? On a day built entirely around devotion?

And yet, beneath the sweetness, Gyuvin always noticed something else.

The singles. 

The ones pretending not to mind. The ones scrolling through their phones a little too long. The ones watching other people’s hands intertwine.

Their mission was simple: find them. Nudge fate gently. Make a meeting happen on a day filled with love. Let someone’s first glance become unforgettable.

At least, that was what the love gods had assigned them to do.

So Gyuvin stood in the center of the park, by the seaside, wind tugging softly at his coat, eyes scanning the crowd. He watched for hesitation. For longing. For loneliness.

And then, he heard it.

He heard it before he saw anything. Before his mind processed the situation. His body reacted first.

A scream. A very familiar one.

“Ahhh! Qubi—!”

He knew that voice.

He always knew that voice.

That bright, slightly dramatic, far-too-beautiful voice.

Ricky.

Gyuvin didn’t even look up at first—his body already moving, heart already leaping. Of course. Of course it was him. That angel who somehow managed to look ethereal and distressed at the same time.

Ricky was falling. Actively falling from the sky.

Had he forgotten how to fly?

Had his wings given out?

Had his mind wandered too far again?

It didn’t matter.

Because Gyuvin was already beneath him. Already reaching out.

Ricky landed in his arms in a burst of white—feathers scattering everywhere, drifting down like misplaced snow. They decorated the grass around them. If he had missed by even a few centimeters, Gyuvin thought distantly, Ricky might have plunged straight into the sea beyond the park.

And then he would have turned into a mermaid.

The thought almost made him laugh.

Instead, he tightened his hold.

“Hello, my cupid,” Gyuvin had said softly, admiring the way Ricky fit against him so naturally, like this was where he had been meant to fall all along.

Ricky had been flushed, cheeks tinted pink from the rush of the fall, from embarrassment, from something else Gyuvin selfishly hoped was because of him. His white wings shimmered faintly behind him, brilliant and impossibly soft.

Humans couldn’t see them.

It felt almost exclusive.

As if Ricky’s wings existed only for Gyuvin’s eyes.

And Gyuvin, who had spent centuries studying love from a careful distance, found himself greedy for once. He wanted this moment to belong to him alone. He didn’t want the other love experts to swoop in with teasing smiles and knowing looks. Those smooth lovers who thought they understood everything.

This was his.

Ricky in his arms. Feathers at their feet. The world temporarily forgotten.

A very Gyuvin-driven interpretation of the situation, perhaps.

But he let himself have it.

Then Ricky cleared his throat, reality settling back in.

“I was asked to accompany you on this specific case,” he had said, pulling out a sealed envelope, crisp and official, stamped with a golden insignia only cupids would recognize.

“We were asked to pair Sung Hanbin and Zhang Hao.”

Ricky continued as he shifted slightly, and whether he realized it or not, he was still half in Gyuvin’s lap. Comfortable. As if this was natural.

Gyuvin had to bite back a giggle.

“Ready to shoot their hearts?” he had asked, tilting his head.

Ricky’s eyes had brightened immediately, almost sparkling. “We practiced it enough, right? We calculated their compatibility, their timing, their meeting point. We just had to make their hearts meet.”

We.

It was always we.

And Gyuvin thought he would have chosen that word over any confession in the world.

The mission went smoothly. Perfect timing. Perfect aim. The arrows flew in tandem, twin streaks of gold cutting through air. Sung Hanbin looked up at exactly the right moment. Zhang Hao turned, just as intended.

Their eyes met.

There was that subtle shift in breathing that meant something irreversible had begun.

Case #408111: Success.

Another pair written into the archives of eternity. Another love story blooming.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

The sound of the bowstring being released had never failed to amaze Gyuvin.

That sharp, clean note when tension became motion. When restraint became action. When potential became fate.

He loved that sound.

When the arrow left the bow, slicing through air, it felt as if Gyuvin’s own breath left with it. It moved with the wind, steady and sure, guided by Ricky’s unwavering hands.

The practice field stretched before them—heart-shaped targets lined up in perfect rows. They could not afford mistakes. Human emotions were fragile things. A few seconds too early, a few degrees too far left, and everything would change.

So Gyuvin watched as Ricky drew the bow.

Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. Fingers precise. There was something almost sacred in the way he prepared each shot.

Tsun.

The arrow flew.

It landed dead center in the heart-shaped target.

Perfect. 

Every time.

As if missing simply did not exist in Ricky’s nature. As if the world itself adjusted to ensure his success. He didn’t celebrate though. He just lowered the bow calmly, like excellence was expected.

And maybe that was what undid Gyuvin the most.

Ricky didn’t seem to know how brilliant he was.

Or maybe he did—but he only measured himself against perfection.

Gyuvin stood at the sidelines, hands tucked behind his back, pretending he was only observing technique.

But really…

His eyes were shooting hearts of their own.

Not magical, golden arrows.

Just quiet, relentless devotion aimed at one single being.

He sometimes thought that if love could manifest visually the way cupid arrows did, Ricky would have been struck a thousand times over by now.

All from him.

And he would never have missed.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

Perfect as he was, like the day that refused to change in their sky.

They were in the heavens—of course it was bright. No clouds ever dared to linger long enough to obscure the light. The sky stretched endlessly, blue and blinding, so brilliant it almost hurt to look at.

Perfect was the sky.

And perfect was Ricky.

Perfect.

Yes, perfect.

That was why, even when his fingers bruised purple beneath the grip of the bow, even when his shoulders trembled just slightly—a silver strand of imperfection barely visible—he still continued. He kept drawing the string back. Kept anchoring it at the same point beneath his jaw. Kept releasing.

Maybe this time. Maybe this shot would be the one.

Ricky’s gaze stayed focused on the target. No words. No wasted breath. Just pure concentration carved into the line of his profile.

Beautiful. Always beautiful.

Tsun.

But the arrow did not hit.

It landed just outside the heart-shaped mark, grazing the edge as if deliberately avoiding the center. As if it wanted to show him something.

As if it wanted to whisper, you are not what you used to be.

The arrow joined the others scattered across the grass. Too many of them. Far too many. A quiet graveyard of almosts and not quites.

Where did it all go wrong?

Ricky’s eyes remained trained on the field of arrows he had shot. There were occasional successes, yes—but even those felt accidental. More luck than certainty.

It was his 9,999th shot. And even that had been imperfect. It had not landed where he wanted it.

Where did it all go wrong?

That was the question Ricky had been asking himself over and over, like a whisper that did not leave even when the sky was bright and the wind was calm. It had all been going fine before. His bow had felt light in his hands, his arrows obedient, the target always waiting for him as if it already knew it would be struck. He did not have to think too much, did not have to calculate the distance or steady his breathing twice. It simply happened. He would draw, release, and it would land where it was meant to.

So why was it not enough now?

Why was it that even when the arrow landed close, even when it pierced somewhere near the center, all he felt was a thin thread of satisfaction that disappeared too quickly? Why did his hand tremble even before he pulled the string? Why did his eyes blur between the bow and the target as if they could not decide where to focus? Why did it feel wrong when nothing seemed wrong at all?

Gyuvin felt like he knew the answers to the questions Ricky refused to say out loud. Or maybe he did not know the exact answers, but he knew the weight of them. He saw it in the way Ricky’s shoulders tensed. In the way his fingers curled too tightly around the bow. In the way he exhaled as if he were bracing himself for disappointment before the arrow had even left the string.

So Gyuvin reached for him.

He gently wrapped his hand around Ricky’s trembling one. He felt the slight shake under his touch, and it made his chest tighten. If he could, he would have taken that tremble into himself instead.

“Qubing, what’s wrong with me?” Ricky asked, and when he turned to face him, his eyes were bright with tears that refused to fall. They stayed there stubbornly, clinging to his lashes, and he looked at Gyuvin as if Gyuvin were the only place he could let this question exist safely.

Why was he questioning himself like that over something that should have only been a small hiccup? Ricky had always done his best. Ricky was already more than enough. How could he not see that?

“Nothing’s wrong, Rick,” Gyuvin said softly, still holding his hand, still feeling the tremble that slowly lessened with every second they remained like that. “You’re just being too hard on yourself.”

“I can’t hit the target right,” Ricky said, and there was something in his voice that sounded like fear, like if he missed too many times, something greater than the target would be taken away from him. His gaze shifted past Gyuvin, locking onto the field before them, where arrows were scattered in the grass. So many attempts. So many reminders.

Gyuvin stepped closer instead of pulling away.

“Then let’s practice together,” he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice.

He moved behind Ricky, careful not to startle him, and guided him gently. One hand adjusted Ricky’s grip on the bow; the other steadied his arm. His presence was close. He could feel Ricky’s uneven breath, brushing against the air between them.

“Just breathe,” Gyuvin murmured. “You don’t have to rush. The target isn’t running away.”

Ricky inhaled, and Gyuvin felt the tension in his body shift ever so slightly. He exhaled, slower that time. Gyuvin helped him draw the string back, supporting him. The bow was firm between them, but Ricky’s hands were steadier now.

“Don’t think about missing,” Gyuvin added softly. “Just let it go.”

The arrow released with a clean sound that always made Gyuvin’s heart skip. It sliced through the air and landed true—not by accident, not by luck, but because Ricky knew how to do this. He had always known.

For a moment, Ricky just stood there, staring at the target as if he could not believe it. 

Gyuvin knew this had not started that day. It had started years ago, on that mission when Ricky’s body had suddenly not listened to him. When the timing slipped and the arrow flew too soon. It had been only one mistake, one moment, but it carved doubt into him deeper than it should have. Since then, Ricky had been chasing something invisible, trying to prove that he could still be perfect, that he had never lost it.

One hundred shots a day for one hundred days.

Gyuvin had watched every single one.

He had watched the bruises form on Ricky’s fingers. Watched the frustration in his eyes when the arrow landed a little too far to the side. Watched him refuse to stop even when his arrows were worn thin, like him.

Gyuvin would have done everything for Ricky.

Not because it was grand. Not because love required sacrifice written in big gestures. But because loving Ricky felt natural. If steadying his hands was what Ricky needed, then Gyuvin would always be there to hold them. If reminding him that he was enough was what it took, then Gyuvin would say it again and again until Ricky believed it.

Was it for the sake of love? Maybe.

But more than anything, it was simply for Ricky.

Always for Ricky.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

Eventually, it had all become better—or at least manageable—until this moment happened.

“Qubing, it’s the end. Let’s end this. Oh my heavens, Qubing, I messed up. It’s the end. It’s over for me as a cupid. I’ll be sent into nothingness now.”

Ricky was panic embodied. His wings were stiff, feathers bristling with every frantic movement, as if they too were spiraling with him. But Gyuvin’s lack of immediate reaction seemed to interrupt the catastrophe building inside Ricky’s head. The silence stretched just long enough to make him pause.

It was effective, even if calming him hadn’t exactly been Gyuvin’s calculated strategy. Sometimes doing nothing worked better than saying everything.

“Qubing, why are your heads stuck in the clouds?” Ricky asked, worry replacing hysteria for a brief second. They were quite literally seated on clouds, but that wasn’t the point right now. Or maybe it was. When you lived in the sky, it was far too easy to drift away.

Ricky grabbed Gyuvin by the shoulders and shook him lightly. “Focus!”

If that hadn’t worked, Ricky would have had no idea what to do next. For someone who controlled the trajectory of human destiny with magical arrows, he was terribly helpless when it came to one cupid zoning out in front of him.

“Where were we earlier?” Gyuvin asked softly, gaze still fixed on Ricky as if nothing else in existence required his attention.

Ricky blinked at him, then stepped back, pacing from cloud to cloud. The sky felt smaller when he was anxious. “Kim Jiwoong,” he started, wings tightening at his back. His entire being moved as one with his emotions; when he panicked, even the air around him felt unsettled. “Kim Jiwoong was supposed to be matched with Kim Taerae. It says so here.”

He produced a tablet from nowhere—cupids always had a way of making things dramatically—and held it so close to Gyuvin’s face that Gyuvin could barely process the glowing screen. The compatibility chart blinked accusingly.

“Right,” Gyuvin replied gently. “But first, let’s calm down, okay?”

He reached for Ricky’s hands, drawing slow circles over his knuckles with his thumbs. The movement was grounding. A contrast to Ricky’s spiraling thoughts.

“How can you be fine?” Ricky demanded. “It’s not fine. It’s actually the end of the world. I should just shoot this arrow at myself.” His expression was dramatic enough to be almost theatrical, but beneath it was… fear. Not of punishment, perhaps, but of failing at the one thing he believed defined him.

There were days like this. Days when gravity felt heavier even in the sky. When the clouds didn’t feel soft but suffocating. When the idea of falling didn’t seem like an accident but an inevitability.

“I mean, look—” Ricky pulled him forward, forcing his attention downward to the mortal world. “Kim Jiwoong is in a room full of mirrors, admiring himself. This is a nightmare.”

Below them, Jiwoong had indeed wandered into what appeared to be some kind of museum installation: an entire room lined wall to wall with mirrors. Reflections multiplied infinitely. Angles of himself repeating endlessly into the distance.

The thousand photos he had taken of his own face in the past twenty minutes clearly hadn’t been enough.

Now he posed in front of every mirror panel, tilting his chin, adjusting his hair, offering charming smiles to himself from every conceivable perspective. Cute poses. Lovely poses. A dramatic smirk here. A soft wink there.

He looked utterly delighted.

“He’s going to earn himself the title of the next Narcissus, Rick. I just know it,” Gyuvin said, unable to stop himself from teasing, even though a large part of him knew this was truly not the time.

Ricky remained sprawled on the cloud, one arm flung over his eyes as if shielding himself from the brightness of both the heavens and his own thoughts. His wings lay slack against the white surface, feathers slightly ruffled, like they too were tired of carrying so much.

“Hey, Rick,” Gyuvin tried again, softer this time, shifting closer. “You know I made a mistake like this before. We all have.”

“I know. You told me,” Ricky replied, voice muffled behind his hands. “You said you shot an arrow between a puppy and a kitty.”

Gyuvin huffed a small laugh. “In my defense, they were very affectionate. And it worked out in the end. They still nap together in a sunbeam every afternoon.” His thumb traced absent circles against Ricky’s sleeve as his tone gentled. “So why are you being so hard on yourself?”

Ricky lowered his hands just enough for his eyes to show. They were bright with unshed tears. “Because it feels like I haven’t been able to do anything right for a long time now,” he admitted. “And it’s Valentine’s Day. They’re supposed to feel love today. Not… whatever this is. Not a wrong arrow.”

There it was. That gnawing doubt that had been living inside him far longer than this particular disaster.

They both looked down again.

Jiwoong had left the museum of mirrors and was now confidently strutting along the street, stopping random passersby with a rose in hand and an expression that screamed self-appointed heartthrob.

“Aren’t I the most handsome person you’ve ever seen in your life?” he asked an elderly woman sweetly, tilting his head with charm. The rose hovered dangerously close to his lips.

The grandmother blinked, then patted his cheek and told him to eat more vegetables.

“Oh dear,” Gyuvin murmured.

Jiwoong was undoubtedly a mess. But the bigger question hovered between them.

What about Kim Taerae?

Kim Taerae, who had unknowingly been robbed of a moment that was meant to be his. Who was supposed to meet someone today, feel that spark, begin something lovely and important. They needed to check on him. Because if Jiwoong was spiraling upward into self-adoration, Taerae might be spiraling somewhere else entirely.

“Do you think we should call back-up?” Ricky asked, attempting to sound composed and failing just slightly.

Gyuvin tilted his head. “Hmm. Okay. They can help.”

More brains meant more strategies. More experience. More chances to untangle this before it hardened into permanence.

But when Ricky said back-up, he didn’t mean just anyone.

He meant the three other cupids who were almost always with them. Helpful? Yes. Trustworthy? Absolutely. Gyuvin would entrust them with the fate of entire constellations if needed.

And he loved them.

Of course he did.

And they loved Ricky too.

And anyone who loved Ricky, Gyuvin found it impossible not to love as well.

But sometimes—just sometimes—their affection was loud. Overbearing. A little too eager to hover. A little too delighted to tease. A little too ready to insert themselves into moments Gyuvin secretly wanted to keep small and private.

Gyuvin exhaled slowly.

He wanted to list every single scenario in his mind, every instance that proved this was simply how things had always been, but there were far too many to count. He had been doing nothing but reminiscing since earlier anyway, replaying moments like they were constellations he could trace with his fingers if he stared long enough.

Okay, fine. He would try to trace back a few. Just until they reached the others. Just until the wind drowned his thoughts out.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

The first cupid was Matthew. Lovely, bright Matthew. Ricky’s roommate. How lucky was he, really?

Matthew had always loved loudly.

There had been that one time—no, there were many times—but one in particular Gyuvin remembered too clearly. Ricky had come back from a long assignment, exhausted, feathers drooping. Before Ricky could even say a word, Matthew had gasped dramatically and rushed toward him like he had returned from war.

“Ricky!” Matthew had declared, wrapping both arms around Ricky’s waist with such force that they both toppled onto the clouds.

They ended up tangled together, laughter still bubbling between them, Matthew’s face buried against Ricky’s shoulder as if he belonged there. Ricky had pretended to complain, of course—but the giggle that slipped out of him seconds later was exactly the sound they all loved most.

“Matthew, you know I’m ticklish.”

“Ah, is that so? That so?” Matthew had started trying to tickle Ricky in every part Ricky found ticklish. Ricky had tried to escape the tickling hell, his eyes starting to tear up as he laughed to the point that he couldn’t breathe.

“Ma—Mashu!! Stop! I can’t brea—” Ricky had said, laughing so loudly, but he couldn’t escape because, again, he was pinned to the floor and there was no chance of escape. It was like Matthew had planned it to be just so.

“You love it,” Matthew had replied without missing a beat, continuing with his attack.

And then Matthew had reached for Ricky’s wing. His wing—and they all knew their wings were their most sensitive part. It was full of nerves, and it felt more than a simple touch, like every contact was intensified through each of their senses.

When an attempt to tickle the wing had been made—

“Ah—” Ricky had shrieked, trying to sit upright to stop the entire thing. It had seemed this short tickling session had drained his energy more than the task he had done that day.

“Okay, I’ll stop,” Matthew had said, smiling so wide, completely satisfied with himself.

Ricky had been flushed all over, his hair messy in every direction. It was such a cute sight it was almost unfair.

Matthew had reached up and smoothed Ricky’s hair back into place after their fall, fingers gentle despite all the chaos. “You didn’t overwork yourself again, right?” he had asked, suddenly serious in that way only Matthew could be—sunshine shifting into something soft and worried.

Ricky had tried to catch his breath before answering, “I’m fine.”

It had seemed they were in their own little bubble in that moment, not bothering to mind that Gyuvin, Yujin, and Gunwook were watching from the background.

And that was the thing. They had their own world. Their own humor that made no sense to anyone else. Shared glances across rooms. Inside jokes that sounded like nonsense syllables but carried entire histories. Matthew would say something ridiculous, and Ricky would respond before anyone else even processed it, already laughing.

Roommates.

Of course they were close.

Of course Matthew hugged him whenever he wanted. Of course they said things that sounded like nonsense to others but were entirely hilarious to them. Of course Matthew offered sweets and other kinds of food he had seen humans make, attempting to recreate them himself, always letting Ricky have the first bite of his cooking. He wiped stray stardust off his cheek, fixed his hair, tugged him down to sit when he looked like he might work himself into collapse.

Matthew loved him openly. Physically. Effortlessly.

And Gyuvin—

Gyuvin had been there that day on the floor. He had done everything he could to appear unaffected. He had looked at the ceiling. At the horizon. At a passing flock of messenger doves.

Anywhere but at the way they looked so happy in each other’s presence. Of course he was happy when they were happy, but a large, ugly part of him had been winning.

He had laughed too, maybe a bit too loudly. “What are you two doing?” he had said, as if the sight didn’t tug somewhere tender inside him.

But it had.

It had tugged and twisted and ached in a quiet, humiliating way.

He remembered trying to stretch his wings casually, pretending he had somewhere else to be. Pretending the way Matthew’s face had been buried against Ricky’s shoulder didn’t make his chest feel tight.

And Yujin, who had been at his side, undeniably had seen.

Yujin had caught his expression for half a second too long and given him the most infuriating, smug grin imaginable. A slow, knowing smirk that said, I see you. I see that jealousy trying to hide behind your indifference.

Gyuvin had shot him a glare that promised retribution.

Still, he couldn’t deny it.

Matthew was lovely. Bright and affectionate and endlessly warm. He took care of Ricky in ways that felt natural and instinctive. He made sure Ricky ate. Made sure he rested. Made sure he laughed. He loved him in big hugs and easy touches and quiet concern.

And sometimes—just sometimes—Gyuvin felt a small pang in his chest watching it.

Not because Matthew didn’t deserve to love Ricky.

Not because Ricky didn’t deserve to be loved like that.

But because Gyuvin wondered what it would feel like to be the one Ricky instinctively leaned toward. To be the one he fell onto the clouds with. To be the one whose shoulder he chose when he was too tired to stand.

It wasn’t ugly jealousy.

It was softer than that. Ache wrapped in admiration.

He loved that Ricky was loved.

He just… wished, in some quiet corner of his heart, that some of that open, careless affection might one day be directed at him in the same way.

And surely he was allowed a small pang of jealousy once in a while.

He was still a cupid, after all.

Even cupids yearned.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

There was also Gunwook.

Gunwook, who was touchy and cuddly and built like some divine, overprotective teddy bear specifically designed for Ricky’s comfort. Honestly—why was everybody so affectionate?

Fine. Okay. Gyuvin knew. They were cupids. Their entire existence revolved around love. It was only natural that they stitched affection into their everyday lives like golden thread, as if there would never be any scarcity of it in the air. As if touch was just another language they were born fluent in.

Yes, he understood that.

But sometimes, it made a problem for his poor, foolish heart.

Because why was Gunwook so devoted to back hugs?

It had started innocently enough. Gunwook had gone through a phase where he became obsessed with human romance films. He would dramatically reenact scenes, insisting it was “research.” He would pause midair, clutch his chest, and declare, “This is peak cinema. We must learn from this.”

One of those scenes had involved a back hug.

At first, it had been practice.

Ricky had been standing on the edge of a cloud, bow in hand, eyes narrowed in focus as he lined up his shot toward two unsuspecting humans below. Gunwook had crept up behind him with exaggerated stealth, then wrapped his arms around Ricky’s waist.

“Gunwook,” Ricky had sighed, not startled in the slightest. “You’re obstructing my wings.”

“I’m recreating a cultural masterpiece,” Gunwook had replied solemnly, resting his chin on Ricky’s shoulder. “Stay still. This is for art.”

“For art,” Ricky repeated dryly, though the corner of his lips had betrayed him.

Gyuvin had stood three steps away, bow in hand, watching the entire scene unfold like it was some cruel, slow-motion montage. The way Gunwook’s arms fit so easily around Ricky. The way Ricky instinctively relaxed back into him instead of pulling away.

It had become less practice and more habit over time.

Whenever Ricky focused too hard, whenever his brows furrowed in that intense little crease Gyuvin knew too well, Gunwook would appear behind him like clockwork.

“Relax your shoulders,” Gunwook would murmur, thumbs rubbing slow circles against Ricky’s sides. “You’re going to strain something.”

“I’m fine,” Ricky would insist, though his voice softened every single time.

“Your ‘I’m fine’ sounds very tense,” Gunwook would tease gently, tightening his hold just enough to be grounding, never suffocating.

And sometimes—sometimes—Ricky would lean back fully, just for a second, letting his weight rest against Gunwook’s chest before straightening again to release the arrow.

“Did that help?” Gunwook would ask.

“…A little,” Ricky would admit, almost shy.

Gyuvin would joke, of course. He would lift his bow and aim it dramatically at Gunwook. “Interfering with official cupid duties is punishable by accidental misfires,” he would announce.

Gunwook would laugh, not moving an inch. “You wouldn’t.”

Ricky would glance back at Gyuvin then, amused. “He really wouldn’t.”

And Gyuvin would laugh too.

Just jokingly.

All while loudly screaming inside.

Because they looked romantic.

They did.

From a viewer’s perspective, it would have been beautiful. If Gyuvin had been part of an audience seated in a cinema, watching two celestial beings framed by soft clouds and golden light, he would have sighed at the sweetness of it. He would have nudged the person next to him and whispered, “They’re so cute!”

But he wasn’t an audience member.

He was Gyuvin.

And all he wanted, in those moments, was to insert himself between them. To be the one Ricky leaned into. To be the arms around his waist. To be the quiet voice near his ear telling him to relax.

Gunwook wasn’t aggressive about it. He wasn’t claiming anything. He was simply affectionate in the way he always had been—big hands, warm presence, steady and reassuring. When Ricky’s arrow finally hit its mark and a faint shimmer of love bloomed below, Gunwook would loosen his hold and grin.

“See? My cinematic technique works.”

“It was my aim,” Ricky would protest.

“Team effort,” Gunwook would counter, squeezing him once before letting go.

And when Gunwook was done with whatever affectionate intrusion he had decided upon for the moment, he would wander off as if nothing monumental had just occurred.

That was when Gyuvin would step in.

Casual. Easy. Like he hadn’t been waiting.

“Good job,” he would say, softer than Gunwook’s teasing tone. “That was a clean shot.”

Ricky would look at him then—really look at him—and something in Gyuvin’s chest would ease.

“Thanks,” Ricky would reply, a little breathless.

Gyuvin would reach up without thinking, brushing his thumb gently across Ricky’s hair. “You’ve got a feather here,” he would murmur, wiping it away like it was just natural.

Sometimes Ricky would let his hand linger. Sometimes their fingers would brush. Sometimes—if the moment felt particularly fragile and unguarded—Gyuvin would dare to intertwine their hands for a second.

Just a second.

If permitted.

If Ricky didn’t pull away.

And Ricky never did.

That was what made it worse. Or better. Or both.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

And then there was Yujin.

Yujin was not merely a bystander like Gyuvin often pretended to be. No, Yujin was always by Ricky’s side.

You see, whenever love mails were written in the mortal world—confessions slipped into lockers, poems folded into coat pockets, long midnight emails sent with trembling hands—a magical copy would shimmer into existence in the heavenly office. Every single human declaration of love left a trace.

And Ricky and Yujin were usually the ones assigned to them.

They would sit side by side at the long celestial desk, stacks of glowing envelopes hovering between them. They loved reading them. Not in a nosy way. In a tender, reverent way. They would analyze the wording, the sincerity, the metaphors. Sometimes they would even pin particularly beautiful lines onto the board as “learning material.”

There would be messages like:

“I don’t know when I started loving you. Maybe it was when you saved me the last piece of cake, or maybe it was when you listened to me talk about nothing for three hours and still smiled. I just know that when I think of the future, you’re standing there.”

Or:

“If loving you is embarrassing, then let me be the most embarrassed person in the world. I don’t care who sees.”

Ricky would read them softly under his breath, lips curving at certain phrases. Yujin would lean in closer, pointing at certain sentences.

They were good together like that. 

And sometimes—sometimes—Yujin would be mischievous.

Whenever the love mails passed through his hands, one or two letters would mysteriously disappear from the official pile. Instead, they would reappear in one of the cupids’ lockers, stripped of the sender’s name. The handwriting altered just enough to be ambiguous. Just enough to cause chaos.

It had sparked confusion more than once.

“Who wrote this?” Matthew had once cried dramatically, waving a letter in the air.

Gunwook had demanded a formal investigation.

Yujin had only blinked innocently.

And Gyuvin, unfortunately, had been a victim once.

He had opened his locker that morning expecting nothing more than a routine mission briefing. Instead, a soft pink envelope had fallen into his hands.

On the front, written in delicate script:

To my dearest Qubing.

His heart had stopped.

Qubing.

No one used that nickname except him.

His fingers had trembled slightly as he unfolded the letter.

Let’s be together for a thousand years more. <3

That was the first line.

He couldn’t read further. He truly couldn’t. Because the tone, the softness, felt like Ricky. It sounded like the way Ricky spoke.

Let’s be together for a thousand years more.

Gyuvin had flushed so fiercely he was sure even his wings had turned pink. The letter had crinkled in his grip as he marched toward where Ricky and Yujin were currently sorting glowing envelopes at the board.

This was one of the rare times he didn’t overthink.

He stood before them, eyes squeezed shut like a nervous high schooler in a fluffy romcom anime, clutching the letter behind his back.

“Ricky—” he began, voice only slightly shaking. “I want to be with you for a very long time too. Let’s be together for eternity.”

Silence.

He could hear his own heartbeat.

“Qubing,” Ricky said gently.

Gyuvin dared to open one eye.

“That’s very sweet of you to say.”

Sweet?

Sweet?

Why was Ricky not flustered? Why was he not red? Why was he not stammering?

The reaction was warm, yes. But calm. Too calm.

Gyuvin’s gaze slid slowly toward Yujin.

And there it was.

That smirk.

That big, smug, infuriating little smirk.

Oh heavens.

That child truly loved smirking.

Realization crashed over Gyuvin like a poorly aimed arrow. He sighed, shoulders deflating, entirely disappointed in no one but himself for believing—even for a second—that Ricky had written it.

“Never mind,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, quickly shoving the letter further behind him as if he could erase the evidence of his own hopeful heart.

Ricky tilted his head slightly. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” Gyuvin said too quickly. “I was just—uh—thinking about maybe getting fresh mangoes next time we go down to the mortal world.”

“Mangoes?” Ricky repeated, amused.

“Yes. And maybe some strawberries as well?”

“I would love to,” Ricky said with a smile so warm there would never be a day where Gyuvin felt cold.

Yujin bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

They did end up talking about mangoes and strawberries. About which region had the sweetest ones. About whether they should extend their next mission just slightly to make time for it. Ricky leaned closer to Gyuvin during the conversation, pointing at a map with bright delight, the two of them exchanging other food destinations to make the most of the “trip.”

And Gyuvin tried very hard not to think about a thousand years.

What he didn’t know—what neither of them knew—was that the words in that letter had not been fabricated.

Yujin had not invented them.

He had only transferred them.

Because just days before, while reading through a particularly touching human confession, Ricky had murmured absentmindedly, “If I ever wrote a letter like this… I’d probably say something simple. Like, ‘Let’s be together for a thousand years more.’”

Yujin had looked up sharply.

“For who?” he had asked, far too casually.

Ricky had blinked, then looked away. “No one. Hypothetically.”

Yujin had stored that away carefully.

So no, Ricky hadn’t written the letter.

But he had meant every word.

And Gyuvin, poor yearning Gyuvin, had believed it because some part of him knew. Because some part of him recognized the tone of Ricky’s heart even when it was disguised in ink.

Only Yujin knew the full truth.

And Yujin—little mastermind that he was—couldn’t help but feel proud of himself.

After all, what was love without a little push?

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

That’s enough visiting his memories now, Gyuvin supposed. Even for him, the way his mind had been running felt excessive, like it had flown miles ahead while his body only just arrived. His thoughts had traveled farther than they had in this exact moment, looping through memories until his chest felt too tight with it all.

But they were here now, in the book café Ricky had pointed out from the case file. It had been written clearly: Kim Jiwoong and Kim Taerae were meant to meet somewhere. They had almost crossed paths on the street—that was why Ricky had shot the arrow—but it had not been in the calculations that fate would reroute them here again. Jiwoong had become the variable, the one who drifted too far out of proportion. Instead of following a neat, detailed plan, they were now forced to adjust around unpredictability.

So they made do.

In this quiet café meant for reading and sipping drinks peacefully, the five of them—Ricky, Gyuvin, Yujin, Matthew, and Gunwook—had turned a corner table into a strategic headquarters. To human eyes, they were just five pretty boys sharing desserts. In reality, they were observing Kim Taerae like he was a delicate equation waiting to be solved.

Taerae sat by the window, sunlight falling across the pages of the biography in his hands. Biographies. Not fantasy. Not romance. Real people. Most people came to places like this to escape reality, to drown in fictional worlds where love was grand and inevitable. But Taerae anchored himself to what was tangible. Logical. Measurable. That was one of the main reasons he did not believe in love the way others did. To him, it was heavy and overly emotional, something that clouded judgment rather than clarified it.

Ricky’s ears perked when Taerae muttered, “I guess I’ll just die,” while flipping the page and sipping his smoothie. It was said so casually it almost felt comedic. Ricky smiled faintly at that, because in a way, they were similar. The quiet dramatics. The internal monologues. Mortal or immortal, the lines blurred sometimes. Everyone was just trying to live. And maybe, in their own ways, to love.

Love and life. Two sides of the same coin, wasn’t it?

Gyuvin didn’t realize he had been staring at Ricky more than Taerae until he found himself sliding a slice of crepe onto Ricky’s plate. “Try this,” he said, attempting casual. He just wanted Ricky to taste what he liked. To share something simple and sweet.

Ricky glanced at him, then took a bite. “It’s good,” he said softly.

That was enough to make Gyuvin feel unreasonably pleased.

Across the table, Matthew leaned forward. “It should be easy. We just wait until Jiwoong and Taerae meet again and shoot their hearts. Done.”

Gunwook shook his head gently. “It’s easy in theory. Everything is easy in theory. Reality is different.”

Yujin, who had completely abandoned his cake by now, turned to Ricky with a small crease between his brows. “But do we have to use our arrows again?” Then, softer, “Hyung, are you alright with using them?”

Gyuvin felt that question settle heavily in his own chest too.

Ricky’s fingers rested calmly on the table, but Gyuvin knew him well enough to notice the faint tension in them. Still, Ricky smiled. “Thank you for your concern, Yujinnie, but I think I’ll be fine.”

He said it gently. Reassuringly. Like he always did.

Gyuvin wanted to believe him. He wanted to say something more, to tell Ricky that he didn’t have to carry every miscalculation alone. Instead, he nudged the crepe plate slightly closer again. It was small. Almost nothing. But it was what he could offer without unraveling himself.

And Gyuvin looked at him. At that smile.

It wasn’t entirely full. It reached, but not completely. And Gyuvin saw. They all did. Matthew’s laughter was softer than usual. Gunwook’s posture just slightly more attentive. Even Yujin’s teasing quieted. Maybe none of them wanted to word their worries out loud. Because once spoken, they would become heavier.

As if to redirect everything before it sank too deep, Gyuvin leaned forward and pointed lightly. “You have some here.”

Ricky blinked. “Where?”

“Here.”

There was a small dot of whipped cream at the side of Ricky’s mouth, decorative and entirely unaware of the emotional tension in the room. Gyuvin reached out before thinking too hard about it, thumb brushing gently against the corner of Ricky’s lips to wipe it away.

Ricky froze for half a second.

And that was the thing about him. One moment he was quiet and drowning in existential doubt, the next he was blinking in surprise because Gyuvin was suddenly inches away from him. His emotions moved in jumps—sharp, unpredictable shifts like he was flipping pages too fast. Sad. Soft. Composed. Flustered. It was a mess.

But weren’t they all?

Just like Jiwoong and Taerae. Extremes orbiting the same inevitable collision. One now loving himself far too loudly, almost worshipping his own reflection. The other refusing to believe in even an ounce of luck, let alone love.

And all they could do was make it work.

———

The most efficient way to make it work, apparently, was to face it head-on. Direct interaction. No more subtle nudges. No more calculated hovering. The situation was dire. So they split instinctively—Team Jiwoong and Team Taerae.

No one knew which side was worse.

Jiwoong was apparently on the verge of selecting himself as the face of a fashion brand because he believed no one embodied romance better than him. He had genuinely considered putting himself on a Valentine’s billboard for the public to admire. Meanwhile, Taerae was likely counting down the minutes until he could go home and spend a peaceful week alone, because witnessing couples for one hour had already drained his social battery.

They needed all the power they could get.

Team Jiwoong consisted of Ricky, Gunwook, and Matthew. And by the time they located him, Jiwoong was already inside a studio, standing in front of a massive blue backdrop, lights flashing around him as if the universe had decided to validate his self-love in real time.

He was shooting a perfume commercial.

If cupids worked fast, Jiwoong apparently worked faster.

The studio speakers echoed dramatically:

“Radiant. Carefree. Dreamy. 

Jiwoong. The Fragrance.”

And there he was, holding the perfume bottle with a gaze so soft and cinematic it was almost offensive. His jaw angled just right. His lips curved in a subtle, knowing smile. He looked like he genuinely believed he was the embodiment of romance itself.

They were dumbfounded.

It was laughable. Truly.

But time was their biggest enemy today, and there was no room to simply sit and giggle at Jiwoong’s self-produced devotion.

Matthew doubled over anyway. “Ah, dreamy he is, huh?” he wheezed, clutching his stomach. “The fragrance is just… himself.”

Gunwook pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is escalating.”

Ricky stared at the monitor where Jiwoong replayed his own shot and nodded approvingly at himself. He couldn’t even fully blame him. Confidence wasn’t unattractive. It was just… excessive. And excessive things were called excessive for a reason. He wanted this case to work. He wanted to make himself believe that he could still do it.

“Alright,” Matthew muttered under his breath, eyes still on Jiwoong striking another dreamy pose. “Let’s save Mr. Fragrance before he replaces Cupid with himself. Okay, Ricky?” He placed an assuring hand on Ricky’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Ricky said, smiling softly. Not entirely full. But trying.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

Meanwhile, Team Taerae.

Gyuvin and Yujin were left behind at the café when Team Jiwoong rushed off to wherever Jiwoong was. It was almost impressive how unfazed Taerae seemed, calmly reading his book as if the day wasn’t moving at all.

The two of them kept stealing glances at their target.

“Why are we thinking only now?” Gyuvin whispered.

“We thought earlier,” Yujin whispered back. “But was it really professional and ethical? It’s not. It’s not professional and it’s not ethical.”

Gyuvin slowly turned to stare at him. “Are you really the type to ask that kind of question, Yujin-ah?”

Yujin blinked innocently. The audacity.

“We’re not doing anything evil,” Gyuvin continued. “We’re just going to make an enticing offer that even Taerae can’t reject.”

Yujin tapped his chin thoughtfully. “A private theater for himself where no couples exist within a five-kilometer radius?”

“…That’s not possible.”

“Exactly.”

They both fell silent, staring at Taerae as he flipped another page of his book—something about stocks. Of course it was about stocks. Romance was collapsing around him and he chose economic stability.

Gyuvin’s eyes slowly lit up.

“Oh.”

Yujin’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“Then we just make it so. We rent out a whole theater and let him watch whatever he wants,” Gyuvin said, suddenly possessed by entrepreneurial delusion.

“Hyung, you’re just spouting nonsense now, right?”

“Yeah,” Gyuvin admitted. “But I can’t think of anything else. These neurons won’t work. It’s like they swam into another region of my brain and now they’re sightseeing instead of functioning.”

Yujin sighed. “So we just make do?”

Gyuvin’s expression shifted into something dangerous and determined. Slightly unhinged.

Five minutes later, they stood in front of Taerae’s table with customer-service smiles so bright.

“Hello, Mr. Kim Taerae.”

Taerae slowly looked up. “…How do you know me?”

Gyuvin remained unfazed. “You won a promo from our company.”

“What company?”

“The mall,” Yujin answered smoothly. “We actually work at the mall near here.”

Taerae’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve never entered a raffle.”

“Automatic entry,” Gyuvin said confidently. “Very exclusive. Very limited. You were… selected.”

“Selected how?”

Yujin leaned forward slightly. “Algorithm.”

“What algorithm?”

Gyuvin nodded solemnly. “A very advanced one.”

Taerae stared at them like he was mentally calculating fraud percentages. “This sounds like a scam.”

“It’s not a scam,” Yujin said quickly.

“It’s a lifestyle enhancement opportunity,” Gyuvin corrected.

Before Taerae could dismantle their entire fictional corporation, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen. His expression softened just a little.

“It’s Hanbin-hyung,” he muttered.

He answered. A faint voice of Hanbin echoed through the receiver, cheerful and bright, and then another familiar tone layered in—Hao insisting they all go somewhere together to relax.

Taerae listened, nodded slightly, then smiled.

“Oh… sorry,” he said after hanging up. “I have somewhere else to be.”

Mission failure hovered in the air for exactly half a second.

Then Gyuvin inhaled dramatically.

“Oh, what do we have here,” he said, pulling three printed tickets out of absolutely nowhere. “Three tickets. Please, Taerae-ssi. This is a one-time offer only.”

Yujin added smoothly, “It expires today. In fact… very soon.”

Taerae blinked. “Why are there three?”

“Because experiences are statistically more enjoyable in balanced groups. And because at our mall, we’ve got it all for you,” Yujin replied instantly.

Gyuvin knew exactly what he was doing. He recognized the urgency, the exclusivity, and the limited-time pressure—a classic tactic, straight out of the textbook. Most people used it to sell vacuum cleaners; they were using it to corner destiny. The only difference was that they were actually going to make it happen. They would rent the space, control the variables, and trap both sides of this emotional equation in the same room until there was nowhere left to run.

Time was ticking. Opportunity was fleeting. Romance was inefficient without intervention.

Taerae looked at the tickets. Then at them.

He sighed, long and defeated.

“…Fine.”

Victory fireworks went off silently behind Gyuvin’s eyes. Yujin maintained professional composure for exactly two seconds before almost smiling.

Poor Taerae. Truly. They just hoped he wouldn’t readily believe other forms of these schemes in the future.

But for now?

For now, he stood up, adjusting his bag strap, completely unaware that he had just been strategically scammed by two cupids. And honestly, if love needed a little fraudulent marketing to survive the day—

So be it.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

“Excuse me, Mr. Kim Jiwoong. I’m your number one fan,” Ricky said, bowing slightly with an elegance so convincing it was almost concerning.

He clasped his hands together, eyes shimmering with exaggerated admiration. Anyone with a fully functioning sense of reality would have questioned how Jiwoong already had a fanclub during the soft launch of his self-produced perfume campaign.

But Jiwoong did not have a fully functioning sense of humility at the moment.

He turned slowly, hair falling perfectly into place like it, too, respected him. “Ah… really?”

Ricky nodded with absolute devotion. “Ever since five minutes ago.”

Jiwoong smiled, deeply touched. “I see. My impact is immediate.”

Matthew suddenly appeared beside Ricky. “Mr. Jiwoong, when you looked at that camera earlier? I felt my standards rising.”

Gunwook stepped in next. “The way you held that perfume bottle… I have never seen glass look so shiny.”

Jiwoong blinked, absorbing the praise without difficulty.

“Well,” he said smoothly, “if an artist such as me is the one holding something, then surely it would shine.”

“No truer words have ever been spoken,” Gunwook replied, clutching his heart dramatically as if struck by revelation.

And after a while—after Jiwoong had carefully signed the stack of fake, printed-out photos of himself with an autograph flourish that took far too long—Matthew leaned in conspiratorially. “Actually… we did something.”

Jiwoong tilted his head, intrigued. “Something?”

Gunwook nodded once. “A very exclusive something.”

Ricky straightened slightly. “We set up a private Jiwoong Experience.”

“…A what?”

“A space,” Matthew explained with theatrical sincerity, “where your aura can truly expand without being limited by ordinary walls.”

Gunwook added calmly, “A place where you can embrace your truest self.”

Ricky lowered his voice just enough to make it feel important. “Only a select few are allowed in.”

Jiwoong’s eyes sparkled. “…Select few?”

“Yes,” Ricky said gently. “You.”

There was a pause. As if on cue, a soft breeze from the studio fan lifted Jiwoong’s hair at the exact right cinematic angle. Even destiny seemed to understand lighting.

“And,” Matthew continued carefully, “a very limited audience.”

Jiwoong smiled, visibly moved. “I didn’t realize my artistry required such… protection.”

“It does,” Gunwook said firmly. “Greatness must be contained within the right environment.”

When they saw the look in Jiwoong’s eyes—him gazing somewhere beyond them, clearly imagining a place so grand, so Jiwoong-worthy, so aesthetically perfect that it probably had marble floors and a spotlight permanently assigned to him—the three cupids exchanged small, satisfied smiles. He was already there in his head. Already convinced.

“So,” Matthew said brightly, “would you honor us with your presence?”

Jiwoong pretended to consider it, because drama was part of the brand. Then he gave a soft, radiant, carefree, dreamy smile—the exact one from the commercial.

“I suppose,” he said humbly, “if it is for my fans.”

Ricky bowed again. “Thank you, Jiwoong.” And he truly meant it. Because even if Jiwoong’s ego had been gently guided in this direction, it still took trust to follow something this absurd. Love really was dangerous—it made people agree to ridiculous, theatrical set-ups with alarming ease.

And just like that, Team Jiwoong successfully redirected the self-proclaimed fragrance of destiny toward a very specific, very controlled location.

Little did he know, another team was carefully escorting a very special someone toward the exact same destination.

₊˚ʚ ➼➻❥

The first to arrive was Team Taerae. And true to the ridiculous promise, it was indeed an exclusive theater. Completely rented out, dim lights glowing softly against rows of plush seats, the kind of place that felt too intentional for something that had been introduced through suspicious networking tactics. On the massive screen in front of them, however, there wasn’t a movie. There wasn’t even an advertisement. There was only a single animated heart rotating slowly in place, spinning and spinning like it had nowhere else to be.

It was odd.

But then again, everything had already been odd from the start. They had followed two overly polite “employees” with scheming smiles. At some point, logic had simply decided to sit this one out.

“I guess it is a good place to be,” Hao said softly, settling into his seat. Very Hao of him—wanting solidarity with the people he cared about even on Valentine’s Day. The world really was small when one of their past target humans somehow connected to the human they were meant to match now. And whatever destiny or fate or cosmic scheduling mistake this was, it had to happen today of all days.

Gyuvin and Yujin were still there, guiding them down the aisle like proper, gentlemanly staff this time instead of the questionable mall representatives they had been earlier. They gestured toward the best seats as if they genuinely worked there, faces composed, movements smooth, no trace of the scammers from before.

“Please enjoy,” Yujin said politely.

“Happy Valentine’s,” Gyuvin added with a smile.

They were seated then, talking quietly among themselves while the rotating heart continued its lonely performance. Every strange detail registered somewhere in their minds, but none of them felt urgent enough to question. It was just… happening.

And then Jiwoong arrived.

He walked in like he owned the building. No—like the building had been constructed specifically for him. His coat swayed behind him dramatically as he took in the space, clearly expecting something more. Perhaps framed photos of himself along the walls. Maybe a mirrored hallway. At the very least, a banner acknowledging his radiance.

There was nothing.

Just the rotating heart.

For a brief second, confusion crossed his face. But would that faze him? Of course not.

“Behold—my radiance,” he declared, flicking his coat back with full confidence as if unveiling something spectacular.

Up in their seats, Taerae, Hanbin, and Hao leaned slightly toward each other.

“Who?” Taerae asked, genuinely confused. He didn’t remember signing up for this.

“Doesn’t he seem familiar?” Hao murmured, studying Jiwoong’s posture.

“Mm. I don’t think so. No,” Hanbin said after a moment of observation, then shook his head.

“He looks like he could be in a commercial,” Hao added casually.

And how right he was.

“He looks exactly like Taerae’s type, don’t you think?” Hao continued, that knowing grin forming as if he and Hanbin had silently decided to push their friend toward growth. It was about time, honestly.

“What nonsense…” Taerae muttered, sounding offended in theory. But there was a smile threatening to show. A very unconvincing attempt at dismissal. He definitely did not hate what he was seeing.

Jiwoong, now fully aware of the whispering trio, turned toward them with curiosity. “Are you my fans too?” he asked from below, standing at the center beneath the rows of cushioned seats like a performer waiting for applause.

“No,” Taerae answered immediately, gaze sharp and unwavering. “We don’t even know you.”

Jiwoong placed a hand over his chest. “Then let me introduce myself.” He straightened slightly, as if preparing for a camera that wasn’t there. “I’m Kim Jiwoong—”

His voice slowly blurred into the background because, right there at the side of the theater near the wall—the five cupids were huddled together, whispering urgently. They were not about to waste this chance. Jiwoong and Taerae were looking at each other directly. Proper eye contact. This was the alignment they had been waiting for.

Ricky drew his bow.

He couldn’t afford another missed shot. He simply couldn’t. And he certainly wasn’t going to throw away his shot.

So he breathed, just like he always did.

Form perfect. Fingers steady. Shoulders aligned. Even with the relentless crawling of worry that had tried to swallow him whole earlier, it felt different now. Clear. As if everything that had been noisy inside him had gone quiet at once. Like there was a glowing target displayed right in his eyes and all he had to do was let go.

Everyone was watching him. 

And Ricky didn’t feel pressure.

He felt light.

Tsun.

The arrow released cleanly from his fingers.

And it was cinematic in the most unfair way. It was as if petals burst softly around him, white feathers drifting through the dim theater lights as if someone had deliberately timed the special effects. It was almost too perfect that they were already in a theater. If there had been background music, it would have swelled.

The arrow struck Jiwoong.

And in the same heartbeat, it struck Taerae.

How ironic it was to undo a magical failure with magic again. But the moment Jiwoong’s heart was pierced with love, Taerae’s was too—like it had always been meant to be that way.

Love.

They were in love.

Not loud, not dramatic, not fireworks exploding kind of love. Just that immediate shift. Jiwoong’s confident posture softened, his voice losing its theatrical edge. Taerae’s sharp gaze warmed, curiosity replacing skepticism.

Below, Jiwoong blinked first. “Do I know you?” he asked, and this time, it wasn’t a performance.

Taerae tilted his head slightly. “No. But we could start now,” he said with a smile.

“What did I say? Totally his type,” Hao whispered to Hanbin.

Hanbin only laughed at the situation, clearly finding it endearing, especially coming from his boyfriend, cat-like whiskers practically visible as he smiled.

Ricky’s own heart nearly collapsed in the process. It hadn’t even been a full day and it already felt like he had run through emotional marathons. Cupid work was exhausting.

When he lowered his bow, he didn’t even have a second to recover, because suddenly he was surrounded by the other four.

“Rick!” Gyuvin wrapped his arms around him tightly. “You did so well!” He kept patting him without any coordination, just pure, overwhelming pride.

Their wings had appeared without them noticing, feathers scattered around their feet, but none of them cared. The humans couldn’t see anyway.

Jiwoong and Taerae were already fully engaged in conversation, both pretending to be composed while very clearly finding each other more than just intriguing. Intriguing was too light a word. Attractive. Yes. They were absolutely telling themselves that the other was attractive. Hao and Hanbin watched proudly from the side.

Then Gyuvin slowly pulled away from the group hug. His expression shifted, becoming strangely serious. Suspiciously serious.

“Since this case was a success,” he began.

Ricky blinked. “Hm?”

Gyuvin inhaled steadily. “May I propose something.”

Everyone paused for a second.

“Can I be your target this time?” Gyuvin said, entirely serious. No jokes anywhere in sight.

“YO—” Gunwook blurted out, genuinely shocked in an excited kind of way.

“BRO—” Matthew stared at him like history had just been rewritten. They had all assumed Gyuvin would take at least another century to confess. Minimum.

Yujin was practically bouncing off the walls, hands clamped over his mouth, eyes sparkling so hard he looked like he might ascend to another level of heaven.

Ricky felt the heat rise immediately. It spread across his cheeks like the very hearts they had been assigned to shoot all day. All that earlier composure? Gone. Completely gone.

He swallowed. His fingers tightened slightly around the bow, suddenly very aware of how close they were standing. “If you’d allow me,” he replied, voice quieter than usual, cheeks undeniably red.

“Roll the credits, movie’s over,” Yujin announced dramatically, wiping imaginary tears. It was exaggerated, yes—but could anyone blame him? Love was thick in the air.

Gyuvin didn’t look away. “Let’s be together for a thousand years more,” he said, like suggesting eternity so casually was just that easy.

Only then did Yujin stop screaming and jumping and actually freeze. He was caught—he knew it. But everything worked out for them, right? He wasn’t that much of a criminal.

“Oh.” Ricky blushed harder—if that was even possible. His wings twitched slightly behind him, feathers drifting down as if even they were overwhelmed. Those were his own words. A thousand years. As if that wasn’t already excessive. As if that wasn’t already everything.

They both knew.

They knew that they knew.

And somehow, that knowing had always been there, sitting quietly between them like an unspoken truth waiting for the right day. With that knowing alone, it might have already been enough.

But hearing it? Hearing it was different.

“I would also say I would like it if it was forever,” Ricky said, finally lifting his gaze fully to meet Gyuvin’s. His voice was still soft, still flustered, but steady. “But even forever’s not enough for me to love you so.”

Silence.

And then Gyuvin dramatically clutched his chest like he had just been struck by an arrow and fell straight onto the theater floor. “Ah—” he gasped, collapsing into the pile of feathers he had personally shed in excitement.

Matthew screamed. Gunwook lost composure entirely. Yujin dropped to his knees beside Gyuvin like a witness to the greatest love confession in cupid history.

There was love everywhere. It wasn’t scarce. It wasn’t rationed. It spilled from the rows of theater seats where Jiwoong and Taerae were still discovering each other, in Hao and Hanbin that were also love targets, and it overflowed here on the side of the floor where five cupids had forgotten all professionalism.

Even without a formal, structured confession, Gyuvin had always known Ricky loved him. Somehow, he just knew. Even when he was afraid of letting himself drown in the what ifs, even when he wasn’t one hundred percent sure, even when doubt tried to whisper otherwise, there was always something steady underneath it all that told him the truth.

But knowing and hearing were entirely different stories. Knowing was warm. Hearing was warmth poured directly into his hands. It was assurance. And assurance was something this yearning cupid had needed more than he ever admitted out loud.

If someone were to ask him, “Someone you love, or someone who loves you?”

He would answer both.

Because for him, wasn’t it already both?

Gyuvin loves Ricky.

And Ricky loves Gyuvin.

A love case successfully closed. A love that would remain true, not just for a thousand years, but for forever.

♡