Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights in the theater department’s green room hummed like a dying insect. Seonghwa sat on the worn velvet couch, legs crossed tightly, staring at the cracked screen of his phone. The video had been posted three days ago, but the comments were still pouring in.
“LMAO Seonghwa got dumped on main 😭”
“His ex really said ‘I’ve been seeing someone else for months’ in the group chat. Brutal.”
He locked the screen and tossed the phone aside. The green room smelled of old makeup, hairspray, and faint sweat from yesterday’s dress rehearsal. Costumes hung like ghosts on metal racks, sequins catching the weak afternoon light filtering through dusty blinds. This was supposed to be his sanctuary—his final showcase, Eternal, original musical he’d poured his soul into for two years. Now it felt tainted.
Seonghwa ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling shakily. Four years with Minjun. Four years of planning post-grad moves to New York together, of late-night talks about the future, of being the reliable, elegant half of the perfect couple. And then Minjun had cheated, publicly, messily, and announced it like it was some grand liberation.
“I’m done,” Seonghwa whispered to the empty room. “No more relationships. No more distractions. Just the showcase. Graduate. Move on.”
The door burst open.
“Hyung! You’re still here?” Wooyoung’s voice cut through the melancholy like a spotlight. His best friend stood in the doorway in ripped black jeans and an oversized theater hoodie, eyes sparkling with chaotic energy. “The hockey team won big tonight. Their victory party is already raging. We’re going.”
Seonghwa shook his head. “I’m not in the mood for drunk athletes and sticky floors, Youngie.”
Wooyoung flopped dramatically onto the couch beside him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Exactly why you need it. You’ve been moping in this dusty cave for days. Your ex is trash. Time to remind the campus that Park Seonghwa is untouchable, elegant, and way too good for that cheating asshole.” He grinned, poking Seonghwa’s cheek. “One night. We dance, we drink a little, we leave with our dignity. Promise.”
Seonghwa sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Wooyoung’s chaos was hard to resist. “Fine. One hour. Then I’m coming back here to run lines.”
“Two hours,” Wooyoung bargained, already pulling him up. “And you’re wearing something that doesn’t scream ‘mourning widow.’”
---
The hockey house was a sprawling off-campus Victorian that had seen better decades. Music thumped from every window, bass rattling the old wooden frame. Golden string lights crisscrossed the wide front porch, tangled with red solo cups and abandoned jerseys. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer, pizza, sweat, and too much cologne.
Seonghwa stepped through the front door behind Wooyoung, immediately regretting his decision. The living room was packed—bodies grinding to the beat, hockey players in various states of undress shouting over the music, girls in tiny dresses laughing too loudly. The walls were covered in team photos, crooked pennants, and a massive Briar University banner. A keg stood in the corner like a throne, surrounded by a crowd.
Wooyoung’s eyes lit up. “There he is,” he murmured, nodding toward the kitchen.
Choi San leaned against the island, laughing at something a teammate said. Broad shoulders, dimples that could disarm nations, and a tight black t-shirt stretched across his chest. He spotted Wooyoung instantly, his gaze sharpening with unmistakable heat.
“Go,” Seonghwa said, nudging his friend. “I’ll get a drink and find a corner.”
Wooyoung hesitated only a second before flashing a wicked grin and disappearing into the crowd, already swaying toward San.
Seonghwa made his way to the drinks table, pouring himself a generous cup of whatever punch smelled the least lethal. The liquid was sickly sweet, burning pleasantly down his throat. He drank faster than he should have.
An hour blurred. People offered condolences mixed with awkward compliments. He smiled politely, the elegant mask firmly in place, but inside he felt hollow. The music was too loud. The lights too bright. Everything reminded him of how publicly he’d been discarded.
He slipped upstairs, seeking air. A narrow staircase led to a small rooftop balcony off one of the bedrooms. The door was ajar. Cool night wind greeted him as he stepped out, carrying the distant sound of campus traffic and the faint scent of pine from the nearby woods.
He wasn’t alone.
Kim Hongjoong stood at the railing, elbows resting on the weathered wood, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers. The hockey captain. Campus legend. Sharp jawline, dyed silver hair that caught the moonlight, and an aura of effortless command even in a simple black hoodie and jeans. He turned at the sound of the door, dark eyes meeting Seonghwa’s.
“Escaping too?” Hongjoong’s voice was low, slightly raspy from shouting earlier.
Seonghwa nodded, suddenly aware of how flushed he felt from the punch. “Too loud down there.”
Hongjoong gestured to the railing. “Plenty of space.”
Seonghwa joined him, the wood creaking under his hands. From up here, the party noise dulled to a distant heartbeat. Stars dotted the clear sky above the old rooftops of Briar University. The air felt cleaner, sharper.
“I saw the video,” Hongjoong said after a moment. No pity in his tone—just quiet acknowledgment. “That was shitty.”
Seonghwa laughed bitterly, gripping the railing tighter. “Everyone saw it. My ex decided our four-year relationship deserved a public execution.”
Hongjoong turned to face him fully, leaning sideways against the rail. Up close, Seonghwa noticed the faint freckles across his nose and the way his eyes held a surprising gentleness beneath the cocky reputation.
“People like that don’t deserve the space they take up,” Hongjoong said. “You’re better off. Hurts like hell right now, though.”
Something in Seonghwa’s chest loosened. Most people offered empty platitudes or gossip-hungry questions. Hongjoong spoke like someone who understood pressure.
“You sound like you know,” Seonghwa murmured.
Hongjoong shrugged, taking a slow sip of beer. “Captaincy. Team expects you to be unbreakable. Family expects you to go pro. Everyone wants a piece, but no one sees the cracks.” He smiled faintly, self-deprecating. “Doesn’t compare to what you’re going through, though.”
They talked. Really talked. About the weight of expectations—Seonghwa’s fear that his entire identity had been wrapped up in being someone’s perfect boyfriend and perfect performer. Hongjoong’s secret late-night sessions producing music in his room because hockey scholarships didn’t leave room for dreams that didn’t involve a puck. The conversation flowed easily, laughter slipping in between the heavier parts.
Seonghwa hadn’t realized how close they’d drifted until their shoulders brushed. Hongjoong’s warmth seeped through his thin sweater. The air between them thickened, charged.
“You’re even more beautiful up close,” Hongjoong said quietly, eyes tracing Seonghwa’s face. “Always thought so from afar. Elegant. Untouchable.”
Seonghwa’s breath hitched. Alcohol and heartbreak made him bold. “I don’t want to be untouchable tonight.”
Hongjoong’s gaze darkened. He set his bottle down slowly. “Be careful what you ask for, Seonghwa.”
Their first kiss was tentative—soft lips meeting, testing. Then hunger took over. Hongjoong cupped Seonghwa’s face, tilting his head as the kiss deepened, turning fierce and consuming. Seonghwa clutched Hongjoong’s hoodie, pulling him closer, tasting beer and something sweeter.
They stumbled back into the empty bedroom. The space was dimly lit by a single lamp on the nightstand—dark wood furniture, hockey trophies gleaming on shelves, a messy bed with navy sheets. Posters of famous players covered one wall. It smelled like Hongjoong: clean soap, faint cologne, and warm skin.
Clothes came off in a heated rush. Hongjoong’s hands were everywhere—reverent on Seonghwa’s waist, possessive on his thighs. Seonghwa gasped at every touch, months of neglected desire crashing over him. Hongjoong was relentless but attentive, murmuring praises against his neck, his chest, lower.
“You feel incredible,” Hongjoong groaned, voice wrecked as he moved above him. Their bodies fit together like they’d been waiting for this. The rhythm built—slow and deep, then faster, desperate. Seonghwa arched, nails digging into Hongjoong’s back, lost in the overwhelming pleasure and the way Hongjoong looked at him like he was something precious and devastating at once.
It was the hottest night of Seonghwa’s life. Raw, passionate, almost tender in the quiet moments between gasps. When they finally collapsed, tangled and breathing hard, Seonghwa felt alive for the first time in weeks.
---
Dawn crept through the half-closed blinds, painting the room in soft gold. Seonghwa woke first, heart pounding as reality crashed back. Hongjoong slept beside him, silver hair tousled, arm draped possessively over Seonghwa’s waist. He looked younger in sleep, almost vulnerable.
Mortification flooded Seonghwa. "What did I do?" One night with the campus player right after his very public breakup. He carefully extricated himself, dressing in silence. Every creak of the floorboards made him freeze. Hongjoong stirred but didn’t wake.
Seonghwa slipped out, closing the door softly behind him. The house was a disaster—cups everywhere, sleeping bodies on couches. He called an Uber and left without looking back, cheeks burning the entire ride home.
---
Later that afternoon, the theater rehearsal room smelled of polished wood and faint rosin from the small orchestra pit. Sunlight streamed through tall windows onto the scuffed stage. Seonghwa moved through his blocking, voice steady despite the exhaustion and lingering ache in his muscles.
Wooyoung lounged in the front row, legs kicked up. “You look like you got fucked within an inch of your life,” he whispered loudly during a water break. “Spill.”
Seonghwa nearly dropped his script. “Nothing happened.”
“Liar,” Wooyoung grinned. Then his expression turned dramatic. “Okay, fine. But me? I made a mistake. Or the best decision ever. San is… dangerous. Those dimples should be illegal. We disappeared for a while and—god, his hands.”
Seonghwa laughed despite himself. “Sounds messy.”
“Deliciously messy,” Wooyoung corrected. “Unlike you, Mr. Responsible. You really didn’t hook up with anyone?”
Before Seonghwa could answer, the rehearsal room door opened.
Hongjoong walked in, casual as anything, holding two iced coffees. He wore a backward cap and team jacket, looking far too awake for someone who’d had very little sleep. His eyes found Seonghwa immediately, a slow, knowing smirk curving his lips.
“Thought you might need this,” Hongjoong said, approaching the stage and offering the cup—Seonghwa’s exact order, oat milk latte with vanilla. “You ran out pretty fast this morning.”
The entire cast went silent.
Seonghwa’s face burned. He took the coffee with shaky fingers, their hands brushing. Electricity shot up his arm.
Hongjoong leaned in slightly, voice low enough for only Seonghwa to hear. “One night wasn’t enough, Seonghwa. Not even close.” His eyes sparkled with challenge and something deeper. “Let me change your mind.”
He stepped back, winked at the stunned group, and left.
Wooyoung’s jaw dropped. “Park Seonghwa. You absolute legend.”
Seonghwa stared at the coffee, heart racing, a dangerous warmth spreading through his chest. He was supposed to be done with distractions.
But Hongjoong’s touch still lingered on his skin, and the memory of last night refused to fade.