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The thought came when Sungho was sitting on the comfortable couch in the comfort of his own home while he was watching To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before: P.S. I Still Love You. The television filled the living room with soft light, painting everything in shades of blue and gold while the movie played quietly in the background. Taesan had gone to the kitchen to make ramen after complaining that the movie marathon was “emotionally exhausting,” even though he was the one who suggested it in the first place. Sungho could hear cabinet doors opening and closing, hear Taesan humming under his breath like he always did whenever he cooked.
It came suddenly, the thought, slipping into his head so naturally that it almost scared him.
Taesan is technically his first boyfriend, and his situationships with other people back in senior high did not necessarily count. He had never had his first kiss until Taesan, he was a virgin until Taesan, he had never gone on a proper romantic date until Taesan, had never woken up beside someone and felt warm instead of embarrassed. Before Taesan, Sungho had only known the awkward almosts of teenage affection, the kind where feelings stayed trapped inside late-night chats and shared playlists instead of becoming something real.
But for Taesan, none of this was new.
Sungho stared at the television blankly while Lara Jean cried over something he was no longer paying attention to. Taesan already knew how to hold someone’s hand during movie scenes that mattered. He already knew how to kiss slowly when Sungho got nervous, knew how to calm him down afterward with soft laughter and forehead kisses. Even the ramen in the kitchen probably came from practice, from nights spent cooking for somebody else before Sungho ever existed in his life.
The realization settled heavily in his chest—for every first Sungho had with Taesan, Taesan had already experienced it with someone else.
The thought should not have hurt as much as it did. Taesan never compared him to anybody, never made him feel second place, never even talked about his exes enough for Sungho to resent them. Still, something sour twisted inside him at the realization that Taesan had already loved before, already memorized the choreography of relationships before Sungho ever got the chance to learn the steps himself.
Sungho wondered if Taesan noticed how inexperienced he was sometimes; the hesitation before kisses. The way Sungho still got flustered whenever Taesan touched his waist unexpectedly. The way he secretly googled relationship advice at two in the morning because he was terrified of doing something wrong. Taesan always smiled through it gently, always patient, always understanding, but now Sungho wondered if that patience came from having done all this before with somebody else.
From the kitchen, Taesan suddenly called out, “Do you want cheese in yours?”
Sungho blinked. “Yeah,” he answered automatically, voice quieter than he intended.
“Okay!” Taesan shouted back happily. “I’m making yours extra spicy, by the way.”
Sungho smiled faintly despite himself, hearing the excitement in Taesan’s voice over something as small as instant ramen. Then the awful thought returned anyway, quieter this time.
Had Taesan made ramen like this for someone else too?
Taesan settled the ramen on the table for the both of them to enjoy, the bowls still steaming from the heat. The smell of spice and broth quickly filled the living room, mixing with the faint sweetness of the candle Sungho lit earlier that evening. Taesan dropped onto the couch beside him with a tired sigh, immediately leaning close enough for their shoulders to touch. Before Sungho could even react, Taesan pressed a soft kiss against the top of his head like it was second nature.
“What’s happening to LJ now?” he asked, squinting at the television screen with genuine confusion.
Sungho shrugged slightly, pulling his knees closer to his chest. “She’s jealous of Gen.”
Taesan frowned immediately. “Why?” he asked, sounding honestly curious instead of judgmental. “Didn’t Peter choose her already?”
“Because,” Sungho started quietly, eyes still fixed on the movie, “Peter had all his firsts with Gen, but Lara Jean’s having all her firsts with him right now.”
The room fell quieter after that, the movie was playing in the background, and LJ was in her room overthinking everything again.
Taesan blinked once, finally understanding, his expression softening a little. “Oh.”
Sungho hated how small that single word made him feel.
Taesan reached for his chopsticks, completely unaware of the way Sungho’s chest tightened at the response. Maybe because to Taesan, it was just a movie, just a fictional teenage jealousy over things that happened years ago. But Sungho suddenly could not stop thinking about it, about how embarrassingly easy it was to place himself into Lara Jean’s position, because he understood how terrible it felt to realize somebody else got there first.
Taesan slurped his noodles casually beside him while the movie continued playing in the background. Sungho watched him from the corner of his eye for a brief second, the familiar comfort in his movements, the ease in the way he existed inside their relationship. Taesan never stumbled through affection the way Sungho did. He always seemed to know exactly what to say, exactly when to hold his hand, exactly how to make him feel loved.
Suddenly Sungho wondered who taught him that first; the thought made his stomach twist unpleasantly, not because he blamed Taesan for having a past—which would be ridiculous. Taesan had lived an entire life before they met each other, loved people before him, probably kissed people under streetlights and held their hands during movies and whispered sweet things into the dark. Sungho knew that logically.
Though, logic did not stop the ache from forming anyway.
Taesan glanced at him after a moment, brows pulling together slightly. “Why do you look sad?” he asked softly.
Sungho immediately shook his head. “I’m not.”
It was a terrible lie, Taesan stared at him for another second like he knew that too, but he did not push. Instead, he nudged Sungho’s knee gently with his own before holding out the bowl of ramen closer to him.
“Eat before it gets cold,” he said quietly.
Sungho took the bowl carefully, murmuring a small thanks, but the thought stayed there anyway, lingering stubbornly in the back of his mind while Taesan sat beside him like nothing had changed at all.
The movie was at the scene where Lara finally talks to Gen about and admits to her that all this time, she thought that Peter was never over Gen, only for her to realize that she wasn’t ever over Gen and their old friendship herself, it’s one of those delicate scenes that would normally make one cry if you were ever in Lara Jeans shoes and actually paying attention—but they weren’t really paying attention to the movie playing anymore. Taesan has this way of distracting Sungho, but he’s totally fine with it.
“Hey,” Taesan suddenly spoke up after a few minutes, twirling his chopsticks absentmindedly between his fingers, “wanna go to the beach this weekend?”
Sungho looked at him briefly, listening to him more than he was paying attention to the movie.
“There’s this place there that’s really nice,” Taesan continued, already sounding excited by the idea. “I think you’d be able to relive your movie fantasies there.”
He laughed a little afterward, teasing, but Sungho barely heard it, Taesan’s been there before, he thought immediately.
The realization came so fast that it almost overlapped with Taesan’s voice. Of course he had. Taesan knew the place already, knew it was romantic enough to recommend—he probably knew which spots looked prettiest during sunset and which restaurants nearby stayed open late. Maybe he had already walked those shores beside someone else before ever imagining bringing Sungho there too.
“Yeah, sure,” Sungho answered automatically, the words leaving his mouth before his mind could properly process them.
Taesan smiled instantly, bright and warm enough to make Sungho’s chest ache. “Really? Okay, wait, let me show you pictures.”
He grabbed his phone quickly, scooting closer until their thighs touched against the couch cushions. Sungho forced himself not to tense up as Taesan opened his gallery excitedly, scrolling through photos of the beach. There were pictures of the shoreline during golden hour, blurry photos of waves crashing against rocks, random shots of convenience store snacks eaten at midnight.
Sungho’s eyes lingered on the dates.
Last year.
A strange heaviness settled inside him again, not because there were pictures of another person. There were none. Taesan’s gallery mostly consisted of scenery, food, and random objects he thought looked funny. But somehow that almost made it worse. It meant Taesan had probably deleted them already. Erased them carefully while keeping the places themselves.
“This one’s my favorite,” Taesan said softly, turning the phone toward him fully. It was a picture of the ocean just before sunset, the sky painted in shades of pink and orange. Beautiful enough to look unreal, it looked like a scene out of a movie where the two leads walk near the shore and talk about life.
Sungho smiled weakly. “It’s pretty.”
“Right?” Taesan grinned. “I remember staying there until like two in the morning because the weather was so nice.”
I remember. Sungho hated how those two words dug into him.
Taesan said them casually, innocently, but Sungho could not stop wondering who existed inside those memories with him—the one who sat beside him on the sand, who heard his laugh carried away by the wind, who got to experience Taesan before Sungho did.
The movie continued playing quietly in the background, forgotten now.
Taesan kept talking about the beach trip excitedly, mentioning restaurants they could try and how cold the water would probably be this time of year. Sungho nodded along at the right moments, pretending to listen properly while his thoughts spiraled somewhere uglier.
For Sungho, the beach trip would become a first memory; for Taesan, it would only become another one.
“Wait,” Taesan said suddenly, pausing midway through scrolling on his phone, “you’re free this weekend, right?”
Sungho looked up from his ramen. “Hm?”
“You don’t have any movie screenings?” Taesan asked carefully.
He already knew Sungho’s schedule well enough by now. Usually, two weekends every month disappeared into whatever film obsession had currently taken over Sungho’s life. He would find groups online, meet up with strangers who somehow always became temporary best friends for three hours, then spend the entire ride home passionately ranting about cinematography choices and badly written endings. Taesan still remembered the time Sungho came home genuinely angry over a horror movie’s plot twist and spent almost forty minutes pacing around the apartment while explaining why it ruined the thematic integrity.
The memory almost made Taesan smile to himself.
Sungho blinked for a moment before shaking his head slowly. “No, I’m free.”
“Okay, good.” Taesan relaxed immediately against the couch cushions. “Because I already started planning stuff in my head.”
Sungho let out a small laugh despite everything. “Already?”
“Obviously,” Taesan scoffed playfully. “I have a vision.”
He held his hands up dramatically while saying it, making Sungho snort softly into his ramen bowl. For a brief second, the heaviness inside his chest loosened a little. Taesan always pulled reactions out of him so naturally that Sungho forgot he was even trying to stay quiet in the first place.
Then Taesan added, “I know this really good breakfast place near the beach too.”
Sungho looked down at the noodles in his bowl before answering. “You seem to know the area really well.”
Taesan nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, I used to go there pretty often.”
Used to. The word echoed unpleasantly in Sungho’s head.
Taesan did not notice anything wrong, too busy talking while reaching over to steal one of Sungho’s fishcakes straight from his bowl. Sungho complained automatically, shoving his shoulder weakly while Taesan laughed without apologizing. The interaction was so normal, so domestic, that it almost made Sungho feel worse.
Because Taesan was good at this—sometimes, Sungho felt like he was learning how to love while Taesan had already graduated from the course years ago.
“Eat your food,” Sungho reminded him quietly, nudging the bowl closer with his foot beneath the coffee table. “Your noodles are gonna get soggy.”
Taesan gasped dramatically like he had just been personally attacked. “Oh shit, you’re right.”
He immediately grabbed his bowl with both hands, leaning forward in panic before taking an aggressively large bite of noodles. Sungho watched him struggle for a second, cheeks puffed out while trying not to burn his tongue, and could not stop the laugh that escaped him.
Taesan pointed at him accusingly with his chopsticks. “Don’t laugh at me,” he mumbled through the food.
“You look ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
Sungho rolled his eyes fondly, the warmth in his chest briefly overpowering the ugly thoughts from earlier. Taesan always made moments feel lighter, even stupid ones like this. Especially stupid ones like this. The apartment felt alive whenever Taesan was in it, filled with laughter and unnecessary commentary and little touches that happened so naturally Sungho barely noticed them anymore.
Taesan swallowed his food dramatically before sighing in relief. “You saved my life.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because every time you save me from eating tragic noodles.”
Sungho shook his head, smiling into his bowl while Taesan continued rambling about the importance of noodle texture like he was delivering a university lecture. His hands moved animatedly while talking, eyes bright with fake seriousness, and Sungho suddenly felt something painful bloom in his chest again.
Did Taesan joke around with them like this? Did they sit together late at night eating instant ramen while movies played in the background? Did they know Taesan hated soggy noodles too? Sungho hated how naturally his mind kept building a stranger out of scraps, creating entire memories for somebody he had never even met.
Meanwhile Taesan looked completely unaware of the war happening beside him.
“You’re staring,” Taesan said suddenly, raising an eyebrow.
Sungho blinked quickly. “Sorry.”
Taesan tilted his head slightly, studying him for a brief second before softening. “You sure you’re okay?”
There it was again—that gentleness, that careful way Taesan asked questions whenever he thought Sungho looked overwhelmed, like he genuinely wanted to understand instead of simply being polite. Sungho felt his throat tighten unexpectedly because even this, even Taesan knowing how to notice small shifts in his mood, probably came from experience too.
“Yeah,” Sungho lied again softly. “I’m okay.”
“Pack light for this weekend,” Taesan said suddenly, smiling to himself like he was already mentally at the beach. He leaned back against the couch comfortably, ramen bowl balanced carefully in one hand while his other hand scrolled through random travel photos on his phone. “We’re gonna have so much fun.” The excitement in his voice sounded genuine, bright enough to make Sungho glance at him for a little longer than necessary.
“Pack light?” Sungho repeated slowly, eyebrows pulling together. “For a beach trip?”
Taesan grinned immediately, like he had been waiting for that reaction. “Mhm.”
“That sounds… odd.”
“It’s not odd,” Taesan defended, already laughing. “I just don’t want you overpacking like last time.”
Sungho frowned. “I packed normally.”
“You brought three jackets.”
“It was cold!”
“It was twenty-six degrees!”
Sungho clicked his tongue quietly while Taesan laughed harder beside him, nearly spilling broth onto the couch in the process. Taesan always laughed with his entire body, shoulders shaking while he leaned into whoever was closest to him. This time, that person happened to be Sungho, warm and familiar against his side in a way that should have felt comforting.
Instead, Sungho caught himself wondering if Taesan continued talking without noticing the shift in his expression. “Just trust me, okay? I already planned everything.”
Already. Sungho hated how that word kept bothering him tonight, because of course Taesan planned things well, of course he knew how trips worked, how dates worked, how relationships worked. He had done this before—probably enough times to know exactly what made a weekend romantic, exactly what kind of moments people remembered afterward.
Meanwhile, Sungho still felt startled every time somebody loved him out loud.
“What?” Taesan asked suddenly, catching him staring again.
Sungho blinked quickly before looking away. “Nothing.”
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you’re trying to solve a math problem.”
That almost made Sungho laugh.
Taesan reached over then, fingers hooking loosely around Sungho’s wrist for only a second before letting go again. The touch was casual, absentminded, like affection had become instinctive for him a long time ago. Sungho looked down at where Taesan touched him, chest tightening painfully at how natural it seemed. Natural because it was practiced.
“You’re overthinking again,” Taesan said softly this time.
Sungho forced a small smile onto his face. “You say that about everything.”
“Because you do,” Taesan replied easily. “Your brain never shuts up.”
Maybe that was true, even now, while Taesan sat beside him planning a weekend trip with visible excitement, all Sungho could think about was how somebody else probably heard this version of Taesan first. Someone else probably got invited to spontaneous beach trips before him, got shown favorite restaurants before him, got loved by a less experienced version of Taesan before Sungho ever had the chance to exist in his life.
The movie had long finished before they even managed to finish their ramen. The credits disappeared almost twenty minutes ago, leaving the television playing some random Netflix preview neither of them cared enough to turn off. Their bowls sat half-empty on the coffee table now; forgotten between conversations that kept drifting from one topic to another naturally. Nights with Taesan always seemed to stretch like that, quiet and easy until hours disappeared without either of them noticing.
Sungho sat cross-legged against the couch while Taesan sprawled beside him comfortably, one arm thrown over the back cushions behind Sungho’s head. They talked about music first, arguing over whether sad indie songs automatically sounded better during rainy weather. Then movies. Then somehow the conversation devolved into Taesan making fun of Sungho’s tendency to romanticize absolutely everything around him.
“I’m serious,” Taesan laughed, pointing at him accusingly. “You’re one beach sunset away from recreating a whole movie confession scene.”
Sungho scoffed immediately. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“No, I’m not.”
Taesan grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself now. “You’re the type to stand there dramatically while the wind blows through your hair.”
“That has never happened.”
“You’d find a way to make it happen.”
Sungho shoved his shoulder weakly while Taesan laughed loude—nearly folding into himself from amusement. The sound filled the apartment so warmly that Sungho almost forgot the ache in his chest again, the more Taesan talked, the more obvious it became how comfortable he was with romance itself.
“You know what movie you’d try recreating?” Taesan continued, thinking hard for a second. “Probably La La Land or something equally devastating.”
Sungho grimaced immediately. “Why would I willingly recreate heartbreak?”
“Because you like emotionally traumatic cinema.”
“That’s different.”
Taesan giggled softly before reaching over to steal another bite from Sungho’s ramen despite still having food left in his own bowl. Sungho watched him automatically, watched the familiarity in the movement, the confidence in the way Taesan occupied his space like he belonged there already.
Taesan probably had conversations like this before too. Sat on another couch beside another person while talking late into the night about movies and music and stupid hypotheticals. Maybe he laughed this same way with them. Maybe he leaned against them this comfortably too, completely unaware that he was becoming unforgettable to somebody sitting beside him.
“You got quiet again,” Taesan said softly.
Sungho looked up immediately. “Sorry.”
Taesan studied him for a moment, expression gentler now compared to earlier teasing. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Sungho answered quickly. Too quickly.
Taesan’s brows furrowed slightly anyway.
Sungho looked down at the half-empty ramen bowl in his lap instead of meeting his eyes. “I was just thinking.”
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
A weak laugh escaped Sungho, his thoughts going away the moment he said that.
Taesan smiled a little at the sound, relieved enough to relax back into the couch again, but Sungho could still feel the lingering concern sitting quietly between them. It made guilt curl painfully in his stomach because Taesan was trying—he always tried—while Sungho sat here mourning things Taesan could never undo even if he wanted to.
The ride to the beach was quiet in a peaceful way, the kind of silence that only existed between people already comfortable with each other. Taesan drove with one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel while the other tapped softly against his thigh to the rhythm of the music playing through the speakers. Their shared playlist filled the car with familiar voices and soft instrumentals, moving from Goo Goo Dolls to Daniel Caesar to Tom Misch without either of them needing to touch the queue. Somewhere between songs, Yerin Baek’s voice drifted warmly through the car, blending with the early morning sunlight spilling through the windows.
Sungho rested his cheek against the window, watching buildings slowly disappear into longer roads and quieter scenery. The ocean was still far away, but he could already smell traces of salt in the air whenever Taesan lowered the windows slightly. Wind pushed through Taesan’s hair messily, making him look softer somehow in the golden light. Sungho looked at him for a second too long before turning away again.
Taesan noticed anyway.
“What?” he asked, smiling a little without taking his eyes off the road.
“Nothing.”
“You keep staring at me like I owe you money.”
That made Sungho giggle quietly under his breath.
Taesan grinned at the sound before reaching over blindly, fingers brushing against Sungho’s knee for only a moment. It was instinctive, effortless—the kind of touch that happened without thinking. Sungho looked down at Taesan’s hand afterward, chest tightening faintly at how natural affection came to him.
Maybe because he had already learned it somewhere else.
Sungho hated that he could not stop imagining Taesan in memories that did not belong to him. Driving down this exact road with somebody else in the passenger seat. Playing the same songs. Smiling the same way whenever the other person stared too long at him. Maybe Taesan had always been like this, warm and attentive and easy to love.
Maybe Sungho was not special for falling for him.
Yerin Baek’s song ended quietly before another started playing.
“Oh, I love this one,” Taesan murmured immediately.
Sungho glanced at the dashboard screen briefly before looking back outside. “You added it,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” Taesan smiled. “It reminded me of you.”
Because Taesan said things like that so casually sometimes, like loving Sungho was the easiest thing in the world. Meanwhile Sungho still carried love carefully in both hands like something fragile enough to drop. He wondered suddenly if Taesan used to dedicate songs to other people, too. If someone else once sat in this same seat hearing Taesan say soft things over music and sunlight.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Taesan said gently.
Sungho blinked. “Can you read minds or something?”
“No,” Taesan laughed softly. “Your face just changes when you disappear into your own head.”
Sungho looked down at his hands, embarrassed at how obvious he apparently was.
Taesan lowered the music slightly then, the teasing fading from his expression. “Hey,” he said quietly, “you know you can tell me if something’s bothering you, right?”
Sungho swallowed.
Outside, the ocean finally appeared in the distance, blue stretching endlessly beneath the bright morning sky. Taesan smiled immediately at the sight, excited in that boyish way he always got whenever he wanted to share something he loved with someone else.
Sungho did not want to become too much of a bother to Taesan, especially not during a trip Taesan had clearly been excited about for days now. The last thing he wanted was to ruin the mood over feelings he could not even explain properly without sounding ridiculous. So instead of sinking deeper into silence, Sungho forced himself to speak whenever he could, even if his thoughts still felt tangled and heavy underneath everything. It was easier than having Taesan look at him with concern every five minutes.
“That building looks ugly as hell,” Sungho commented suddenly, pointing at a strangely shaped hotel they passed by.
Taesan burst out laughing immediately. “Oh my god, I was literally thinking the same thing.”
“It looks like a USB.”
“A USB?”
“Yes.”
“Huh,” Taesan glanced at the building again. “It does.”
Sungho smiled faintly to himself as Taesan continued laughing long after the joke should have died. The sound softened something inside him again, warm and familiar in a way that always made him feel safe. Taesan reached over absentmindedly after calming down, squeezing Sungho’s knee once before returning his hand to the steering wheel.
“You’re in a better mood now,” Taesan said casually.
Sungho hummed quietly. “Was I in a bad mood?”
“A little.”
Sungho looked away toward the window again. “Sorry.”
“Hey.” Taesan’s voice softened immediately. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”
Sungho nodded anyway.
The playlist shifted into another song, something slow and warm from Daniel Caesar, and Taesan instantly started singing along under his breath despite barely knowing half the lyrics properly. Sungho watched him quietly for a moment, watching the way his fingers tapped against the steering wheel. how relaxed his expression looked with sunlight spilling across his face.
Then Taesan suddenly reached toward the cupholder.
“Can you hold this for me?” he asked, offering Sungho his iced coffee.
Sungho took it automatically. “Why?”
Taesan stretched his arms dramatically while still driving carefully. “My shoulders hurt.”
“You act like you’re thirty.”
“I’m twenty-two and suffering.”
Even while Sungho sat there quietly drowning in thoughts he hated having, Taesan still found ways to make him laugh without trying very hard. He made things feel easy. Comfortable. Like loving him happened naturally instead of painfully.
If Taesan was this lovable with everyone, then what exactly made Sungho different from the people before him?
Taesan glanced at him again briefly before smiling a little. “There you go.”
“What?”
“You laughed properly that time.”
Sungho looked down at the coffee cup in his hands. “You make it sound rare.”
“It is today.”
Taesan noticed everything about him so carefully, noticed shifts in his mood that even Sungho himself tried ignoring. Meanwhile, Sungho spent the entire drive mourning people who no longer even existed in Taesan’s life anymore. The imbalance of it made him feel selfish somehow.
So Sungho forced another smile onto his face and decided—at least for now—that he would keep the rest of those thoughts to himself.
The roads gradually became smaller the closer they got to the coast, surrounded now by trees and little cafés scattered near the highway. Taesan lowered the windows more once the sea breeze started becoming stronger, smiling to himself when the cold air rushed inside the car. Sungho fixed his hoodie sleeves absentmindedly before leaning back into his seat again, trying to focus on literally anything other than his own thoughts for once.
“I watched this movie last night while you were at work,” Sungho said suddenly.
Taesan glanced at him briefly. “Yeah? What movie?”
Sungho hesitated for half a second before answering. “Past Lives.”
Taesan immediately let out a soft noise of recognition. “Oh, that movie’s devastating.”
“It is,” Sungho murmured quietly.
The car settled into silence again for a moment, filled only by music and the sound of wind slipping through the windows. Sungho kept staring outside while replaying scenes from the movie in his head, especially the parts that left behind that strange ache he could not properly explain. Taesan noticed the expression on his face immediately.
“You cried, didn’t you?” he asked knowingly.
Sungho scoffed weakly. “Everybody cries watching that movie.”
“Not true. Some people are emotionally constipated.”
Sungho rolled his eyes at that.
Taesan smiled a little before speaking again. “What got you the most?”
Sungho stayed quiet for a second too long. “I don’t know,” he answered eventually, voice softer now. “I guess… the idea that someone can love you and still have parts of themselves connected to another person.”
Taesan’s hand stilled briefly against the steering wheel.
Sungho immediately regretted saying it out loud. He tried fixing it quickly with a laugh that sounded too thin to be convincing.
“That sounded dramatic.”
“A little,” Taesan admitted gently.
Sungho looked away toward the ocean appearing closer in the distance. “But you get what I mean, right?”
Taesan did not answer immediately this time.
The playlist continued quietly in the background, Tom Misch humming softly through the speakers while sunlight flickered across the dashboard. Sungho suddenly wished he never brought the movie up at all. He could already feel himself sounding strange, too emotional over things that should not matter this much.
Then Taesan spoke carefully.
“I think everyone carries parts of people they loved before,” he said softly. “Not in a romantic way necessarily; you don’t erase experiences like they never happened.”
Sungho swallowed quietly and nodded like the statement did not make his chest ache.
Taesan glanced at him again afterward, brows furrowing slightly like he realized too late how heavy the conversation suddenly became. His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel before he reached over and squeezed Sungho’s knee gently.
“You okay?”
Sungho forced a small smile onto his face before answering. “Yeah,” he lied again.
Taesan’s grip on the steering wheel loosened slightly, guilt flickering across his face almost immediately.
“Sorry…” he said quietly, voice careful in the way it always became whenever he thought he accidentally hurt Sungho somehow. The apology sounded sincere enough to make Sungho’s chest ache for an entirely different reason now. Taesan looked genuinely worried—it was as if he was trying to retrace the conversation in his head to figure out where things went wrong.
Sungho shook his head quickly. “No, it’s okay,” he murmured. “Don’t apologize.”
“But—”
“Let’s just switch to a lighter topic,” Sungho interrupted softly.
Taesan stayed quiet after that.
Sungho could practically see him debating whether to push further or respect the boundary being placed in front of him. Eventually, Taesan exhaled quietly through his nose before nodding once, accepting it despite still looking unconvinced. The concern never fully disappeared from his expression though.
“Okay,” he said gently.
A few seconds passed before Taesan tried again carefully.
“So…” he started, clearly searching for something safer to talk about, “if you had to survive inside one horror movie, which one would you choose?”
Sungho blinked at the abrupt change.
“That’s your lighter topic?”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
Taesan grinned a little, relieved at hearing amusement return to Sungho’s voice again. “Answer the question.”
Sungho leaned back in his seat thoughtfully, pretending to think seriously about it despite still feeling emotionally wrung out inside. “Probably Scream.”
“That’s a terrible answer.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You would die immediately.”
Sungho frowned. “Why are you so confident about that?”
Taesan laughed softly. “Because you’d try overanalyzing Ghostface instead of running away.”
“Okay, now you’re just making things ip.”
“You literally stop movies midway to explain character motivations.”
Sungho opened his mouth to defend himself before realizing Taesan was unfortunately correct. He clicked his tongue quietly while Taesan continued laughing beside him—visibly relaxing now that the tension from earlier had eased slightly.
The sound filled the car warmly again.
Sungho looked at Taesan from the corner of his eye for a brief moment, watching the sunlight catch against his skin while he smiled. Taesan always tried so hard to take care of uncomfortable moments gently—never forcing conversations before Sungho was ready. Even now, after sensing something wrong, he shifted the mood without making Sungho feel cornered for it.
He wondered quietly if someone else once sat in this exact position too, being cared for by the same gentle version of Taesan before Sungho ever arrived in his life.
The conversation drifted into easier territory after that, mostly filled with Taesan making fun of Sungho’s survival skills and Sungho defending himself with increasingly terrible arguments. The tension from earlier softened enough for laughter to return naturally between them, though the heaviness inside Sungho never fully disappeared. It lingered quietly beneath everything, hidden underneath smiles and teasing comments and half-finished songs playing through the speakers. Sungho wondered briefly if Taesan could still feel it sitting there too.
At some point during the drive, Taesan reached toward him again without thinking much about it.
His hand found Sungho’s easily against the center console, fingers slipping naturally between his before squeezing gently once. Taesan kept his eyes focused on the road ahead while his thumb absentmindedly rubbed slow circles against the back of Sungho’s hand. The gesture was soft, automatic, almost unconscious in its tenderness.
Then Taesan lifted their joined hands slightly and pressed a kiss against Sungho’s knuckles.
Sungho felt his breath catch embarrassingly fast.
Taesan did it so casually too, like affection belonged inside his body naturally instead of being something he had to consciously perform. His lips lingered for only a second before he lowered their hands again, still driving like nothing significant had just happened. Meanwhile Sungho sat frozen beside him, heart beating painfully against his ribs.
Because this was exactly the problem.
Taesan knew how to love somebody already.
He knew all these tiny gestures that made Sungho feel cherished so effortlessly that sometimes it scared him. The hand kisses. The quiet touches during conversations. The way Taesan always reached for him instinctively whenever they sat close enough. Sungho still got nervous over simple things like initiating affection first, while Taesan moved through intimacy like someone already fluent in it.
Suddenly the thought returned again, crueler this time.
Who did Taesan learn this from first?
Sungho hated himself immediately for thinking it.
Taesan turned slightly then, noticing the way Sungho had gone quiet again. “What?” he asked softly, smiling a little. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Sungho looked down quickly at their intertwined hands instead. “Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
Sungho laughed weakly under his breath, but it sounded tired now.
Taesan’s thumb slowed against his skin. “Hey,” he murmured gently, “talk to me.”
The sincerity in his voice almost broke something inside Sungho right there.
Because Taesan cared. That much was obvious. Every touch, every glance, every tiny shift in tone proved it over and over again. Yet somehow Sungho still felt haunted by people who no longer even existed in Taesan’s life anymore, comparing himself to memories he could never compete against because they happened first.
Sungho swallowed quietly before forcing another small smile.
“I’m okay,” he whispered again.
Taesan looked unconvinced, because of course he did. He had known Sungho long before they started dating, back when they were only friends sharing playlists and movie recommendations at two in the morning. And somehow, after becoming his boyfriend, Taesan only grew more attentive to every tiny shift in his moods. He always knew when something was wrong the moment Sungho’s energy changed, even before Sungho himself fully understood what he was feeling.
It made hiding things from him almost impossible.
Sungho could feel Taesan still thinking about it quietly, still trying to piece together why he had been acting strange all morning. But Taesan also knew when not to push too hard, knew that forcing words out of Sungho usually only made him retreat further into himself. So instead, Taesan simply kept holding his hand while the music continued playing softly between them.
They were getting closer to the beach now.
Sungho could tell because Taesan lowered the windows more, letting the salty air rush properly through the car this time. The breeze felt cooler against his skin now, carrying the faint scent of the ocean somewhere nearby. Palm trees slowly replaced taller buildings outside, and small roadside cafés painted in faded colors appeared more frequently the farther they drove.
Taesan smiled almost immediately at the scenery.
“We’re close,” he said softly, excitement slipping back into his voice again.
Sungho nodded quietly.
The sunlight reflected against the ocean in the distance now, bright enough to hurt his eyes if he stared too long. Taesan looked relaxed beside him, fingers still lazily intertwined with Sungho’s whenever he could manage it between shifting gears and steering. Sungho watched him for another second before looking away again, chest tightening with that same unbearable tenderness from earlier.
Because Taesan always looked happiest when sharing things he loved.
And Sungho hated that even this thought came poisoned now.
Had Taesan looked this excited bringing someone else here before too? Did he lower the windows the same way for them? Did they sit in this exact silence together while music played softly in the background? Sungho wished desperately that his brain would stop building ghosts out of everything Taesan did.
“You’re thinking again,” Taesan murmured suddenly.
Sungho sighed softly through his nose. “You say that like it’s a crime.”
“It is when you start looking sad afterward.”
Sungho smiled faintly despite himself.
Taesan squeezed his hand once more before bringing it toward his lips again, pressing another absentminded kiss against his knuckles while keeping his attention on the road. The gesture felt so warm, so instinctively affectionate, that Sungho nearly felt guilty for doubting anything at all.
They got to the beach a little after noon, exhausted from the drive but still visibly excited underneath it. The motel was smaller than Sungho expected, tucked between a convenience store and a seafood restaurant near the shoreline. Their room smelled faintly like clean laundry and ocean air, with sunlight spilling lazily through thin curtains facing the water outside. After checking in and unpacking their bags, the two of them settled into the quiet comfort of the room almost immediately.
Sungho sat in front of the mirror, absentmindedly fixing his hair while scrolling through his phone. Behind him, Taesan laid sprawled across the bed dramatically, still wearing the clothes from the drive despite Sungho complaining about it only minutes earlier. Taesan looked completely unbothered now, arms tucked behind his head while soft music continued playing from his phone speaker somewhere nearby. The normalcy of it all should have comforted Sungho more than it did.
“What’s first on the list?” Sungho asked eventually, glancing at Taesan’s reflection through the mirror.
Taesan hummed thoughtfully before grabbing his phone from beside him. “Well,” he started, scrolling through the notes app proudly, “dinner at six later.”
Sungho raised an eyebrow slightly. “You made an itinerary?”
“Obviously.”
“You’re terrifying.”
Taesan grinned without shame. “Thank you.”
Sungho rolled his eyes fondly before turning back toward the mirror again. “What kind of dinner is it?”
“Mixed cuisine,” Taesan answered easily. “Mostly Asian meals. It’s really good there.”
It wasn’t an I heard it was good, not an I found this place online. Taesan knew the restaurant already, knew the menu enough to describe it casually without hesitation. Sungho stared quietly at his own reflection while the thought settled unpleasantly into his stomach before he could stop it.
Taesan had probably sat there before with somebody else.
“Hey,” Taesan called suddenly, pulling Sungho from his thoughts. “You wanna see the beach before dinner?”
Sungho looked back at him through the mirror again.
Taesan smiled softly from the bed, looking genuinely excited in that warm, open way that always made him difficult to resist. His hair was messy from laying down too long, hoodie sleeves pushed carelessly past his wrists while he looked at Sungho like this entire weekend depended on whether he smiled back or not.
And Sungho hated that even now, all he could think about was whether somebody else once got looked at this lovingly first too.
“You sure you’re okay?” Taesan asked one more time before getting up from the bed.
His voice was softer now compared to earlier, stripped of the teasing tone he usually used whenever Sungho got too inside his own head. Taesan stood there for a moment beside the bed, watching him carefully like he was trying to decide whether to keep asking or let it go. Sungho could practically feel the concern sitting behind his eyes.
“Yeah,” Sungho answered quickly. “Yeah, I am.”
The lie sounded more believable this time, mostly because Sungho forced himself to smile afterward. He turned slightly in the chair to face Taesan properly, trying to look more awake than emotionally exhausted. “Sorry,” he added quietly, “I’m just really tired from the drive, you know?”
Taesan’s expression softened almost immediately.
“I told you to sleep on the way,” he said gently.
Sungho shrugged a little. “It’s okay. I’ll sleep it off tonight.”
Taesan stared at him for another second before sighing quietly through his nose, accepting the explanation even if he clearly still felt unsure about it. Then he stepped closer without saying anything else and rested his hands briefly on Sungho’s shoulders from behind the chair. The touch felt warm and grounding, thumbs rubbing absentmindedly against the fabric of Sungho’s hoodie.
“You better,” Taesan murmured softly. “I don’t want you getting sick.”
Sungho looked up at him through the mirror.
Taesan looked unfairly pretty standing there in the motel sunlight, hair messy from laying on the bed earlier, expression still carrying traces of concern that he had not fully hidden yet. Sungho felt something twist painfully inside his chest again because Taesan cared so naturally, so openly, like loving Sungho was the easiest instinct in the world.
He squeezed his shoulders lightly before leaning down just enough to press a quick kiss against the side of Sungho’s head. “C’mon,” he said afterward, voice lighter again. “Let’s go see the beach before you fall asleep in this chair like somebody’s exhausted grandfather.”
Sungho laughed quietly despite himself.
Taesan smiled immediately at the sound, visibly relieved to hear something genuine leave him again. Then he grabbed Sungho’s hand automatically on the way out of the room, intertwining their fingers without hesitation like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The beach was nice, especially during sunset.
The sky melted slowly into shades of orange, pink, and deep blue while the ocean reflected everything back like glass. Waves rolled gently against the shore in steady rhythms, soft enough to almost sound calming underneath all the distant noise around them. The entire beach felt alive in that messy, human kind of way that Sungho always secretly loved.
There were kids crying dramatically because they did not want to leave yet and return to their boring hotel rooms. Parents stood nearby bargaining desperately for “five more minutes” while trying to gather scattered slippers and sand-covered toys from the ground. Somewhere farther down the shore, groups of families laughed loudly over shared snacks while teenagers took blurry pictures of each other against the sunset.
And everywhere Sungho looked, there were couples.
Some laid quietly together on the sand while watching the horizon like the rest of the world did not exist. Others walked slowly along the shoreline hand-in-hand, stopping every few minutes to take pictures or kiss briefly between conversations. One couple sat near the rocks sharing earphones while the girl rested her head against the other’s shoulder sleepily.
Sungho immediately looked away.
Taesan stood beside him comfortably, hands tucked inside the pockets of his hoodie while the wind pushed strands of hair across his forehead. The sunset painted his face softly in warm gold and orange tones, making him look almost cinematic against the ocean backdrop. Sungho hated how easy it was to look at him and feel too much all at once.
“It’s prettier than I remembered,” Taesan murmured quietly.
Remembered.
The word struck Sungho again before he could stop himself.
He wondered who Taesan came here with before. Whether they stood on this exact beach together during sunset too, watching the same ocean while Taesan smiled softly beside them. Maybe Taesan already knew where the prettiest spots were because somebody else once pointed them out with him first.
“You cold?” Taesan asked suddenly.
Sungho blinked out of his thoughts. “A little.”
Without hesitation, Taesan stepped closer and wrapped an arm loosely around his shoulders, naturally pulling him against his side to keep him warm. The gesture felt instinctive, effortless in the way all of Taesan’s affection seemed to be. Sungho leaned into him automatically anyway, even while his chest tightened painfully at how familiar Taesan seemed with intimacy itself.
“You should’ve brought a thicker jacket,” Taesan teased softly.
“You told me to pack light.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d listen to me.”
Sungho laughed quietly under his breath.
Taesan smiled immediately at the sound before squeezing his shoulder once. Then he tilted his head slightly toward the nearby street lined with restaurants and lights beginning to flicker alive for the evening.
“C’mon,” he said gently. “Our reservation’s in like twenty minutes.”
Taesan probably planned this entire trip perfectly days ago, carefully choosing places he already knew were good enough to impress somebody he loved. Sungho followed beside him anyway while they walked away from the shoreline together, fingers brushing occasionally between them with every step.
Despite how beautiful the beach was, despite how warm Taesan’s hand felt against his own, Sungho could not stop feeling like he had arrived in the middle of a story somebody else started first.
Once they stepped inside the restaurant, one of the waitresses immediately recognized Taesan.
“Oh, Taesan-ssi! Long time no see,” she smiled warmly, already reaching for two menus beside the counter. “We’re glad to have you back.”
Sungho did not understand why that struck a nerve so suddenly.
But the fragile mood he spent the entire day trying to rebuild shattered almost instantly in that moment. Something heavy dropped deep inside his stomach before he could stop it, sharp and ugly enough to make him feel nauseous all over again. The restaurant suddenly felt too warm, too loud, too full of things he did not want to think about.
“I’m glad to be back too,” Taesan answered casually with an easy smile.
Like he belonged here.
Like this place already carried memories of him long before Sungho ever walked through the doors.
“You reserved, right?” the hostess continued brightly. “A table for two is all ready for you.”
Taesan nodded politely beside him while Sungho forced himself to smile too, small and polite enough to not look rude. He tried desperately to look normal while the hostess guided them further inside the restaurant, past dim lighting and soft music and couples seated close together at tables near the windows. Sungho kept his expression steady even while something painful curled tighter and tighter inside his chest.
Because he was grateful.
God, he was.
Taesan was one of those boys everyone dreamed of dating. The kind who remembered small details casually, who made playlists for long drives and planned beach trips weeks ahead because he wanted somebody he loved to have a good time. He noticed tiny changes in Sungho’s mood immediately, reached for his hand instinctively, kissed him softly whenever conversations became too quiet.
Sungho should feel lucky.
Instead, all he could think about was how practiced Taesan seemed at all of this.
The hostess led them toward a table near the windows overlooking the ocean outside. Taesan thanked her politely while pulling Sungho’s chair out for him without even thinking about it. The movement felt so natural that Sungho’s stomach twisted harder.
Who did he learn that from?
How many times had Taesan sat in this restaurant before with somebody else across from him? Did he pull chairs out for them too? Did the waitresses recognize them together the same way they recognized him now? Sungho hated how every sweet gesture suddenly felt haunted by invisible people he could never compete against because they happened first.
Taesan sat down across from him finally, still unaware of the storm building quietly inside Sungho’s head.
“This place has really good seafood,” he said casually while opening the menu. “And the drinks here are insane. You’ll like them.”
Sungho stared down at the menu without really reading anything on it. His appetite disappeared the second the waitress recognized Taesan at the entrance, leaving behind only that awful sinking feeling in his chest instead. Across from him, Taesan looked happy, relaxed, completely comfortable inside this familiar place.
Sungho still ordered food anyway.
He forced himself to smile politely at the waiter, nodding along while Taesan recommended dishes with visible excitement across the table. Even when his stomach still felt tight and uneasy, Sungho tried convincing himself that the feeling would disappear once the food arrived. Maybe he was just hungry. Maybe he was just tired from the drive like he claimed earlier.
But the heaviness stayed.
Still, Sungho tried his best.
He swallowed down mouthfuls of food even when his appetite kept fading halfway through each bite. He laughed softly at Taesan’s childhood stories, listened while Taesan talked about getting yelled at by his teachers for sleeping during class, and rolled his eyes whenever Taesan exaggerated details dramatically for comedic effect. At one point, Sungho even nagged him automatically for almost spilling sauce across the tablecloth after gesturing too aggressively with his chopsticks.
“You’re actually impossible,” Sungho muttered while handing him napkins.
Taesan grinned shamelessly. “But you still like me.”
Unfortunately, Sungho smiled at that.
That was the worst part about all of this.
Even while his chest hurt with thoughts he hated having, Taesan still made him laugh naturally without trying very hard. Sungho still loved being around him. Loved the way Taesan’s eyes disappeared slightly when he smiled too hard, loved the warmth in his voice whenever he talked about things passionately, loved how carefully he listened whenever Sungho rambled about movies or music.
Which made the guilt feel even uglier.
Because Taesan was not doing anything wrong.
Sungho lowered his gaze toward his untouched drink for a moment, fingers tightening slightly around the cold glass. Across from him, Taesan continued talking comfortably about something related to middle school soccer now, but Sungho noticed the tiny pauses slipping more frequently into the conversation. The subtle glances Taesan kept giving him whenever he thought Sungho was not looking.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Taesan had known Sungho long enough to tell when his smiles stopped reaching his eyes properly. Even now, Sungho could feel Taesan carefully avoiding asking too many questions, probably because he did not want to ruin the mood they had both spent all day trying to protect. The realization made Sungho’s chest ache in an entirely different way.
Because Taesan was trying too.
“You’re quiet again,” Taesan said eventually, voice softer this time.
Sungho looked up immediately. “Sorry.”
“Hey.” Taesan shook his head lightly. “Stop apologizing.”
Sungho forced a small smile onto his face again. “I’m okay.”
Taesan stared at him for a second too long.
The restaurant lights reflected softly in his eyes while concern flickered quietly across his expression, hidden carefully beneath the calmness he was trying to maintain for Sungho’s sake. Then, after a brief silence, Taesan simply reached across the table and hooked his fingers loosely around Sungho’s wrist.
Sungho felt like he ruined the trip through that dinner alone.
Taesan did not do anything wrong. If anything, he had spent the entire evening trying to keep things light between them, carefully steering conversations away from anything too heavy whenever he noticed Sungho drifting too far into his own head again. He smiled at him all night, laughed with him all night, reached for his hand every chance he got like loving Sungho was still the easiest thing in the world despite how strangely distant he had been acting lately.
Taesan had been absolutely great; he was being the perfect boyfriend anyone could ask for. He was nice the entire night, made Sungho smile and laugh despite the weight sitting heavily inside his chest for most of it. Even while Sungho spent dinner drowning in insecurities he could not explain properly, Taesan still looked at him softly from across the table like he was somebody worth taking care of.
That only made Sungho feel guiltier, because it felt like he ruined the trip entirely through his own mood; through his own thoughts.
Through this sudden insecurity that seemed to appear out of nowhere despite the past six months of dating Taesan being genuinely good. Taesan never made him doubt himself before, never made him question how much he cared, never once gave him a reason to feel less loved than anyone else who came before him.
So why did he suddenly feel like this? Sungho doesn’t understand where any of it was even coming from anymore.
He stayed outside on the balcony afterward just to clear his head. The night air felt colder now compared to earlier, the ocean breeze brushing against his skin while he leaned quietly against the railing. Below him, waves crashed softly against the shore in endless rhythms, blending together with distant music from some party farther down the beach. Somewhere nearby, a couple walked slowly along the shoreline, their conversation too far away for Sungho to fully hear, though occasional laughter still drifted faintly through the air.
The world kept moving normally around him.
Meanwhile his chest still felt unbearably heavy.
Sungho closed his eyes briefly, inhaling slowly through his nose while trying to quiet his thoughts for once. He wanted to stop caring about things that happened before him. Wanted to stop building invisible comparisons between himself and people who no longer even existed in Taesan’s life anymore. He hated how irrational he sounded even inside his own head.
Then the air shifted slightly behind him, Sungho knew Taesan stepped onto the balcony too; he didn’t need to turn around to recognize his presence anymore.
Taesan moved quietly beside him before stopping near the railing, close enough that Sungho could feel his warmth faintly through the cold breeze. But their shoulders did not touch this time. They simply stood there side by side in silence while the ocean stretched endlessly in front of them.
Taesan let the quiet sit for a while first.
That was another thing about him, he always knew when silence needed to breathe before conversations could happen properly, he knew that because he learned it from Sungho, who normally needs time to think before talking.
Finally, after a few long moments, Taesan spoke softly.
“What’s been going on in your head these past few weeks, Sungho?”
The question startled him slightly.
Weeks?
Sungho blinked slowly, staring out at the dark ocean while realization settled uncomfortably into his chest. He had not even realized it himself until Taesan said it out loud. At most, he thought this whole thing started after watching To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before while eating ramen together on the couch.
“It’s nothing,” Sungho answered quietly.
Beside him, Taesan sighed softly. “This is not nothing.”
“It’s really nothing, Taesan-ah,” Sungho whispered, resting his head against his folded arms on the balcony railing.
The ocean breeze pushed softly through his hair while waves crashed below them in slow, endless rhythms. Somewhere farther down the beach, music still echoed faintly from a party that sounded happier than whatever was happening inside Sungho’s chest right now. He kept staring ahead because turning toward Taesan suddenly felt too difficult.
“If this is… nothing,” Taesan said gently beside him, “then why have you been in a mood since Tuesday?”
Sungho’s throat started aching immediately. Taesan remembered the exact day it started.
Sungho squeezed his eyes shut briefly, feeling embarrassment crawl painfully through him all over again. God, he felt stupid for this. Stupid for being insecure over Taesan’s past when it was already long over before they even started dating. Stupid for quietly ruining an entire trip because of thoughts he could barely explain properly without sounding selfish.
A tiny, exhausted “I’m sorry” slipped out before he could stop it.
He hated this, he didn't want to spend a trip with Taesan acting distant and miserable, and now that Taesan was finally asking him directly about it, Sungho somehow felt worse. Because now the night was becoming about him too, about his feelings and insecurities and overthinking. He knew Taesan probably did not mind listening, but Sungho also knew he deserved an answer after days of carefully walking around Sungho’s moods.
“It’s stupid,” Sungho breathed out quietly.
Beside him, Taesan immediately shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “Nothing’s stupid right now.”
Sungho finally glanced toward him briefly.
Taesan was already looking at him while Sungho still stared somewhere far beyond the ocean. His expression looked calm, patient, open in that way that always made Sungho feel both comforted and painfully vulnerable at the same time. Like Taesan would sit here all night if that was what Sungho needed from him.
“Stupid insecurity,” Sungho admitted quietly. “Just…” He exhaled shakily through his nose before continuing. “I don’t know. You’re my first in technically everything.”
The words made his chest tighten immediately. “My first boyfriend. My first kiss. First date. Everything.” Sungho laughed weakly under his breath afterward, embarrassed by how emotional he suddenly sounded. “But then here you are… and you already had your firsts with someone else.”
Taesan stayed silent.
Sungho looked back toward the ocean quickly before forcing himself to continue anyway. “And that someone probably reacted way better to all this than I am right now.”
Taesan did not interrupt immediately, which somehow made Sungho even more nervous. He could practically feel him processing every word carefully beside him, trying to understand where all these thoughts had been coming from these past few weeks. The silence stretched long enough for Sungho to start regretting saying anything at all.
Then Taesan finally exhaled softly. “If this is about the trip,” he started quietly, “I haven’t gone out here with anyone else except for my family.”
Sungho blinked.
Taesan brushed his hair back slowly, eyes focused somewhere out toward the ocean instead of directly at him. The wind pushed against his hoodie gently while he stood there thinking carefully through his words, like he wanted to explain himself properly instead of rushing to reassure Sungho with empty comfort.
“I’ve never taken any of my exes out on dates like this,” Taesan admitted honestly. “If anything, it was always them who planned things. They’d ask me out first, pick restaurants first, organize trips first.” He laughed softly under his breath afterward, almost embarrassed by it. “I never really initiated stuff before.”
Sungho stayed quiet, suddenly the entire trip looked different in his head now. The playlists. The beach. The reservation. The itinerary sitting inside Taesan’s notes app. The way he looked genuinely excited every single time Sungho smiled during the drive over here. All of it stopped feeling practiced for the first time since Tuesday.
Then Taesan finally looked at him properly. “It’s my first time taking someone out here.”
The words settled quietly between them, for some reason, that hurt Sungho even more. Not in a bad way—just enough to make his chest ache painfully warm all at once. Taesan sounded sincere. There was no hesitation in his voice, no sign that he was simply saying what Sungho wanted to hear to make the insecurity disappear faster. If anything, Taesan looked almost nervous now, like he suddenly realized how much this entire trip actually mattered to him too.
Sungho looked away first because his eyes started stinging unexpectedly. “I still feel stupid,” he admitted quietly.
Taesan frowned immediately. “Why?”
“Because this shouldn’t matter so much to me.” Sungho laughed weakly under his breath, rubbing at his face tiredly. “Your life didn’t start when we met. I know that.”
“No one said it did.”
“I know.” Sungho swallowed quietly. “But sometimes it feels like I’m arriving after all the important parts already happened.”
Taesan’s expression softened instantly. He stepped closer this time, slow enough for Sungho to pull away if he wanted to, before resting his arms carefully against the balcony railing beside him. Their shoulders brushed lightly now in the cold night air.
“You know what’s funny?” Taesan asked softly.
Sungho looked at him again.
“You think someone else had all my firsts,” Taesan murmured, a small laugh slipping from him quietly. “But nobody’s ever had me like this before.”
Sungho felt his breath catch.
Taesan looked almost shy after saying it, eyes dropping briefly toward the ocean before continuing anyway.
“I’ve dated people before, yeah,” he admitted. “But I’ve never planned trips like this before. Never cared this much if someone was enjoying themselves. I’ve never memorized someone the way I memorized you.”
Sungho’s throat tightened painfully again.
Taesan smiled faintly then, softer now compared to earlier. “With them, it always felt like I was just… dating.” He glanced toward Sungho carefully. “But with you, it feels like I’m loving someone for real.”
Sungho did not even realize he started crying until he lifted a hand to scratch absentmindedly at his cheek and felt dampness there instead.
He blinked quickly afterward, almost startled by it, before rubbing harshly at his eyes using the sleeves of his jacket. The movement felt embarrassing somehow, especially because he had spent the entire trip trying so hard not to make this into a bigger issue than it already was. But now that the words finally existed outside his chest, now that Taesan was looking at him so gently instead of dismissing him, everything suddenly felt too overwhelming to keep inside anymore.
“Hey,” Taesan whispered softly.
Sungho laughed weakly under his breath while wiping at his face again. “This is embarrassing.”
“It’s not.”
“I just cried over your exes.”
“You cried because you thought you weren’t special to me,” Taesan corrected gently.
That only made Sungho’s eyes sting worse.
The ocean breeze blew softly around them while silence settled again, quieter this time, softer than before. Taesan stayed close enough that their shoulders touched fully now, warm and steady beside him while distant music echoed somewhere far down the beach. Sungho stared down at the balcony floor because looking directly at Taesan still felt impossible with tears threatening to fall again.
Then Taesan spoke quietly.
“You’re the first person who makes me feel this way.”
Sungho froze.
Taesan looked at him carefully while saying it, expression completely open now in a way that almost hurt to witness. There was no teasing left in his voice anymore, no attempt to soften the sincerity of what he meant. He looked nervous and honest all at once, like he needed Sungho to truly understand him this time.
“I mean it,” Taesan continued softly. “I’ve liked people before. I’ve dated before. But this…” He exhaled quietly, shaking his head once. “I’ve never loved anyone like this before.”
Sungho’s chest tightened so painfully that he had to look away again.
Because suddenly every insecurity he spent weeks building inside his head started collapsing apart one by one. The beach trip. The playlists. The careful planning. The way Taesan noticed every tiny shift in his mood before Sungho even spoke. None of it came from practice. None of it came from recycled affection handed down from past relationships.
It came from Taesan loving him.
“You make me want to try harder,” Taesan admitted quietly. “You make me want to do things I never cared enough to do before.”
Sungho pressed the sleeve of his jacket harder against his eyes, overwhelmed in the most humiliating way possible.
Taesan laughed softly at the sight, fondness slipping into his voice again. “You’re crying harder now.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m being serious.”
“You’re making it worse.”
Taesan smiled properly then, small and warm and unbearably affectionate. Then, after a brief hesitation, he reached up and carefully pulled Sungho’s sleeve away from his face so he could wipe beneath his eyes gently with his thumb instead.
“You know what I think?” Taesan murmured.
Sungho sniffled quietly. “What?”
“I think you spent so much time worrying about being my first,” he said softly, “that you forgot to notice you became my favorite.”
Sungho let out a wet laugh at that, the kind that slipped out accidentally between tears because his chest suddenly felt too full to hold everything properly anymore. He looked away immediately afterward out of embarrassment, rubbing at his face again while Taesan watched him with that same unbearably soft expression. The ocean breeze pushed gently against them both, cold enough to dry the tears on Sungho’s cheeks little by little.
“You’re really cheesy,” Sungho muttered weakly.
Taesan grinned. “And yet you’re still crying.”
“Because you keep saying insane things.”
“I’m saying true things.”
Sungho shook his head quietly, but this time the heaviness inside him no longer felt sharp. It felt tender now, exposed and aching but no longer poisonous the way it had been for weeks. Somewhere along the conversation, the invisible ghosts he kept comparing himself against stopped feeling so important.
Because none of them were standing here with Taesan now.
None of them knew this version of him.
Taesan leaned beside him against the railing afterward, their shoulders pressing together fully this time while they looked out toward the dark ocean. The music from the distant party still echoed faintly through the night air, blending together with crashing waves and laughter from strangers somewhere down the shore. Everything suddenly felt quieter inside Sungho’s head.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered eventually.
Taesan immediately frowned. “For what?”
“For ruining the trip.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I was literally miserable the whole day.”
Taesan laughed softly under his breath before nudging his shoulder gently. “Sungho, I brought you here because I wanted to be with you.” He looked at him briefly, smiling smaller now. “Not because I needed everything to be perfect.”
Sungho felt his throat ache again, though this time it came from something softer.
Taesan reached for his hand then, intertwining their fingers slowly like he always did, warm and familiar and real. Sungho squeezed back immediately without thinking, and Taesan smiled faintly at the reaction before bringing their joined hands toward his lips for one quick kiss.
The gesture no longer felt practiced.
It just felt like Taesan.
They stayed outside on the balcony for a little longer after that, standing quietly together while the wind wrapped around them gently. Sungho rested his head against Taesan’s shoulder eventually, exhausted from crying and overthinking and feeling too much all at once. Taesan only leaned closer in response, steady and warm beside him like he had nowhere else he would rather be.
— EPILOGUE
“Peter Kavinsky is so annoyingly attractive,” Sungho muttered tiredly from where he was half-curled against Taesan’s side on the couch.
The movie played quietly in the background, soft lighting from the television washing over the apartment while rain tapped gently against the windows outside. Their takeout containers sat forgotten on the coffee table now, abandoned somewhere around the middle of the movie when Taesan got too comfortable to move. Everything felt warm, sleepy, familiar.
Taesan looked down at him immediately with fake disbelief.
“Really?” he asked dramatically. “In front of your boyfriend?”
Sungho was too tired to argue back properly. So, he just lifted his head slightly from Taesan’s shoulder and pressed a soft kiss against his chin. The movement was lazy, barely coordinated through exhaustion, but affectionate enough to make Taesan immediately lose whatever fake offense he was trying to perform.
“There,” Sungho murmured sleepily afterward. “Happy?”
Taesan tried fighting the smile forming on his face and failed almost instantly.
“A little.”
Sungho snorted quietly before settling back against his chest again, pulling the blanket higher over himself while the movie continued playing in the background. Taesan wrapped an arm around him automatically, fingers absentmindedly rubbing against Sungho’s side beneath the blanket while they watched Lara Jean spiral onscreen once more.
This time, though, Sungho did not feel his chest tighten painfully at the sight.
He understood the feeling now, maybe more than he wanted to admit, but it no longer consumed him the way it once did. Because somewhere between the beach trip and now, Sungho finally realized that love was not made important by being first. It became important because of how fully someone chose you afterward.
In the middle of the movie, Sungho shifted slightly until he was facing Taesan fully instead of the television.
Sungho never really looked at him during movies unless it was somebody’s first watch and he was waiting to judge their reactions carefully. Most of the time, once a film started, Sungho became completely absorbed into the screen like the rest of the world temporarily stopped existing around him. So the moment Taesan looked down and found Sungho already staring quietly at him instead of the movie, his expression softened almost instantly.
“What?” Taesan whispered, smiling a little.
Sungho did not answer immediately.
The television light flickered softly across Taesan’s face while rain continued tapping gently outside the apartment windows. He looked sleepy already, hair slightly messy against the couch cushions while one arm stayed wrapped securely around Sungho beneath the blanket. Warm. Familiar. Entirely Sungho’s.
“You’re looking at me weirdly,” Taesan murmured.
Sungho huffed out the smallest laugh before moving closer without really thinking about it. He tucked his face briefly against Taesan’s chest first, listening quietly to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt. Then, after a moment, he tilted his head up again.
“I love you,” Sungho said softly.
Taesan blinked once, visibly caught off guard.
Not because the words themselves were rare. They said I love you to each other often enough now, casually and sincerely and in-between ordinary moments. But there was something different in the way Sungho said it this time, quieter somehow, like he was saying more than just the words themselves.
Taesan’s entire expression softened afterward.
He leaned down slowly before kissing Sungho’s forehead, lingering there for a second longer than usual. “I love you, too,” he whispered back.
Sungho smiled faintly against his chest afterward, eyes drifting toward the television again where Lara Jean continued spiraling over things that no longer hurt the same way anymore.
Then Taesan spoke again quietly above him.
“You know,” Taesan murmured softly, fingers brushing gently through Sungho’s hair, “you’re still the first person who’s ever looked at me like that.”
Sungho lifted his head slightly from Taesan’s chest. “Like what?”
Taesan smiled sleepily, thumb absentmindedly rubbing against Sungho’s shoulder beneath the blanket.
“Like I’m worth more than Peter Kavinsky.”
Sungho stared at him for a second before snorting quietly.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, settling back against him again, “you’re not dumb and stupid and emotionally constipated like him, so.”
Taesan gasped softly in fake offense.
“Way to ruin a moment.”
“You brought Peter Kavinsky into this conversation.”
“He’s a victim.”
“He’s annoying.”
“He’s trying his best.”
“He communicates like a Victorian man dying of tuberculosis.”
Taesan laughed properly at that, shoulders shaking underneath Sungho’s weight while the movie continued playing forgotten in the background. Sungho smiled faintly against his chest at the sound, warmth spreading quietly through him while Taesan kept laughing over the stupid comparison.
This felt familiar now—Sungho once would have ruined by wondering whether Taesan laughed this hard with somebody else before him too. But now, tucked safely against Taesan while rain tapped softly outside and old insecurities stayed quiet for once, Sungho realized something simple.
Maybe other people got Taesan before him, but nobody got this. This version of Taesan laughing breathlessly while holding him close beneath a blanket at two in the morning, the version who memorized Sungho’s moods down to the exact weekday they shifted.
Taesan eventually calmed down enough to glance back down at him again. “You know you started all this because you were jealous of a Netflix movie, right?”
Sungho groaned immediately into his chest. “Don’t remind me.”
“That’s actually insane behavior.”
“You cried watching Everything Everywhere All At Once.”
“Because it was beautiful.”
“You cried when the raccoon showed up.”
Taesan pointed at him accusingly. “That raccoon changed lives.”
Sungho laughed quietly again, tired and warm and entirely at peace for the first time in weeks. Taesan smiled immediately at the sound before pulling the blanket higher around them both, pressing one last absentminded kiss into Sungho’s hair.
The movie eventually faded into background noise neither of them were properly paying attention to anymore.
Somewhere along the way, Taesan got distracted trying to explain why Peter Kavinsky was “misunderstood,” while Sungho argued half-heartedly against him despite barely listening himself. Their conversation drifted lazily between teasing comments and sleepy silences, interrupted only by the occasional sound of rain against the windows and the soft hum of the television filling the apartment.
At some point, Taesan started dozing off.
Sungho noticed it immediately through the way his replies became slower, softer, eventually dissolving into tired hums against Sungho’s hair instead of actual words. His hand still rested securely around Sungho’s waist though, holding him close even while sleep slowly pulled at him. Sungho smiled faintly to himself before looking up.
Taesan looked peaceful like this.
Warm light from the television flickered gently across his face while his breathing evened out little by little. Sungho studied him quietly for a moment, the same way he used to during the beginning of their relationship whenever he still felt overwhelmed by the fact that somebody like Taesan existed beside him at all.
Only now, the ache inside his chest felt different.
Softer.
No longer built from comparison or fear or invisible people Sungho could never compete against. Just love. Simple and steady and real enough that it no longer needed to prove itself through firsts.
Sungho shifted slightly closer against him afterward, careful not to wake him fully.
“I still think Peter Kavinsky is attractive,” he whispered quietly just to be annoying.
Taesan, somehow still half-awake, frowned immediately without opening his eyes.
“Break up with him, then.”
Sungho laughed softly under his breath. He leaned up one last time and kissed Taesan gently, slow and familiar and entirely theirs. Taesan kissed him back automatically despite being exhausted, instinctively pulling him closer underneath the blanket afterward like he never intended on letting him go very far in the first place.
This time, Sungho did not think about who kissed Taesan first—when Taesan held him like this, warm and sleepy and completely in love, Sungho finally understood something he wished he knew from the beginning: being first was never the thing that mattered most.
Being chosen was.