Chapter Text
Mid-January in the outskirts of Seoul had a particular talent for misery.
The cold wasn’t the cinematic kind of cold. No delicate snowflakes drifting prettily onto cobblestones, no charming rosy cheeks and steaming coffee cups. It was a wet cold. The kind of cold that slid icy fingers down the back of your neck and turned every footpath into a trench of slick brown mud.
At 8 am on a bitter Monday morning, Kim Seungmin stood at the back of his van and reconsidered every life choice that had led him here.
Inside the PuppyMiles van, three dogs barked with varying levels of outrage.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Seungmin muttered, wrestling a tiny, padded waterproof coat over the dachshund’s offended little sausage body. “You hate Monday mornings. You’re not alone.”
The dog stared at him with a betrayed expression. The other dogs, a Blenheim Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with enormous caramel eyes and chronic separation anxiety, and a ludicrously fluffy Bichon Frise, whined softly.
He clipped leads onto collars with practiced efficiency, bumped the van doors shut with his hip and breathed down inside the thick woollen scarf he wore around his neck.
Three years ago, starting PuppyMiles had felt brave and romantic in the way all bad financial decisions did when you’re 22. He’d told himself he was escaping soul-destroying office work. Building something meaningful and living creatively. And it would give him time in the evenings for singing, doing the rounds of the pubs and clubs in the city, trying to make a name for himself.
In reality, he spent most days wiping mud off paws and apologising for things dogs had done or eaten.
Still. There were definitely worse ways to make a living.
He ushered the dogs toward the woodland trail, and tried not to think about the unfinished song sitting open in the notes app on his phone. Or the fact that he hadn’t performed at an open mic in almost six weeks. Or the increasingly horrifying possibility that maybe talent expired if you didn’t use it in time.
The woods stretched ahead of them in bleak winter colours. Bare branches. Fog snagged between trees. Mud so deep it made obscene noises every time Seungmin pulled his boots free.
“This,” he announced to the dogs, “is exactly the glamorous artistic life I pictured for myself.”
The spaniel sneezed and they trudged onwards, stopping every few feet to sniff where other dogs had been. The dachshund walked with the reluctant dignity of an elderly man forced onto a treadmill by his doctor. Seungmin had just started mentally composing a text apologising for the inevitable lateness of his next collection, when shouting cracked through the trees.
“Bori! Bloody hell! Come here!”
Something black and white launched out of the fog like a furry missile.
A border collie hurtled past Seungmin’s knees, barking hysterically, ears flying, followed closely by a man sprinting through the mud with the desperate expression of someone losing an argument with the world.
He was tall. Really tall. Dark blue jumper, soaked through at the sleeves. Thick padded black body warmer. Long brown hair tucked under a scruffy wool beanie badly enough that strands kept escaping into his face.
And he was quite annoyingly, absurdly, beautiful.
The man skidded slightly.
“Bori!”
The dog ignored him completely.
Seungmin stared as the collie vanished deeper into the woods. What kind of idiot let a clearly uncontrolled dog off lead near a road? The man finally stopped a few feet away, bent double, hands braced on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
“Sorry,” he puffed, looking up briefly. “She’s usually better than this.”
Seungmin raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll just have to take your word for that.”
The man blinked at him for half a second before laughing unexpectedly. It was a good laugh. Warm and slightly rough around the edges. Seungmin disliked him immediately.
“Well,” the stranger said, straightening, “I’m glad at least one of us is having a nice morning.”
The sausage dog growled protectively at the man’s boots.
“I don’t think he likes you.” Seungmin said flatly.
The stranger grinned then, quick and devastating enough that Seungmin physically looked away. Dangerous, he thought instantly. Not because the man seemed cruel or arrogant – it was much worse. He seemed charming. Seungmin had enough problems already.
So instead of helping, he gave a tight nod and continued down the trail with his little procession of reluctant hounds. Still, even twenty minutes later, he could feel the ghost of that grin irritating him.
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By two pm, the sky had somehow become even greyer. Seungmin pulled into the dog field car park balancing a rapidly cooling coffee between his knees and immediately swore under his breath.
Someone was in his space. Not that it was officially his space, obviously. Public parking. But whatever. He parked there every Monday and Thursday at two. Everybody knew that. Now, a black van sat smugly across the white lines. Seungmin narrowed his eyes. On the side, in cheerful looping script, were the words:
HWANG’S HAPPY HOUNDS — FOR ALL YOUR DOG WALKING NEEDS!
“Oh, absolutely not,” Seungmin muttered.
Competition. Fantastic. Exactly what his already unstable income needed.
From the back of his van came indignant barking as Cha and Keopi, two identical Maltese dogs with entirely opposing personalities, realised they’d arrived.
“Right,” Seungmin sighed. “Let’s all try behaving like adults.”
Cha immediately peed on his boot as soon as he was placed on the ground.
The field beyond the gate was slick with rainwater, the grass flattened silver-green beneath the winter sky, muddy tracks tracing the perimeter fence. Seungmin unclipped the dogs once they were safely inside and watched them tear away together, tiny white blurs bouncing through puddles. Finally, a moment of peace. Then chaos exploded across the field. A massive black and tan dog came galloping toward them at full speed.
Seungmin’s stomach dropped.
“Oi!”
The dog barked thunderously as it bounded toward Cha and Keopi, who froze in mutual horror. Seungmin stepped between them instinctively.
“Ah, shit! Sorry! Bam!”
The voice was familiar. Of course it was. Mud splashed as the same man from the woods jogged toward them, clutching a lead and looking genuinely panicked.
“He slipped his harness.”
“He’s frightening my dogs,” Seungmin snapped.
The man immediately slowed, expression falling.
“You’re right. Sorry.”
Which was irritatingly decent of him. The enormous dog - Bam, apparently - trotted happily back the second the man held out a treat.
“There we go,” the stranger murmured, clipping the lead back on. “Congratulations, mate. You’ve traumatised everybody.”
Up close, he was even worse. Big brown eyes. Long lashes. Pillowy lips. A tiny mole beneath one eye. The kind of face people spent centuries starting wars over. Seungmin suddenly became acutely aware that he hadn’t brushed his hair since six-thirty that morning. The stranger offered a hand.
“I’m Hyunjin.”
Seungmin looked at it like it might contain explosives.
“Seungmin.”
“PuppyMiles?” Hyunjin asked, glancing toward the van.
Seungmin stiffened slightly.
“Yes.”
“Cool branding.”
“It’s literally just my business name on the side of a van.”
“Exactly. It’s honest. Efficient. Minimalist.”
Seungmin stared at him.
Hyunjin smiled faintly. “Are you always this suspicious, or am I special?”
Before Seungmin could answer, Cha attempted to eat some rubbish that had fallen from a nearby bin. By the time he’d wrestled it away, Hyunjin was laughing again. And somehow, against all reason, Seungmin found himself trying not to smile too.
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Three days later, Seungmin pulled into the car park beside the dog field and immediately spotted the black van already parked there.
Of course.
He let his forehead bang lightly against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. A small, miserable percussion section to accompany the week from hell.
The night before, he’d hauled himself and his guitar ninety minutes across the city for an open mic on the other side of Seoul, only to discover the sound system seemed to have been assembled from old tin cans and misery. He’d sung his lungs raw trying to reach the back of the room, while approximately four people listened with genuine interest and one woman in the front row gawped at her phone.
There was a corporate mini-festival coming up next month where he’d somehow landed an opening slot, and technically that was exciting. The kind of thing he’d wanted for years. The kind of thing that was supposed to mean something. Instead, all he could think was: How many humiliating underground rides does one person endure before the universe politely suggests a different career path?
His gut still whispered to keep going. His brain, meanwhile, was not so sure.
With a sigh, Seungmin pasted on his most polite expression and climbed out of the van. Today’s clients were three tiny white dogs with dark eyes and expensive coats, all of whom looked like wealthy widows reincarnated into slightly anxious cotton wool balls. At least their collars were different colours. Last week he’d nearly returned the wrong small white dog to the wrong house and, honestly? He wasn’t sure whether anyone would have noticed.
The moment he entered the field, two muddy golden retrievers thundered past in a blur of flying paws and joy. Seungmin’s chest softened instinctively. He’d always loved retrievers. When he was six, someone had told him that he looked like a golden retriever puppy, and somehow it had become one of the few compliments that stuck.
So yes, maybe he watched them a little too long. And yes, maybe Hyunjin happened to be standing there throwing them a tennis ball. But that was incidental.
“Seungmin!” Hyunjin called, grinning like they were old friends instead of two men who’d exchanged approximately seven minutes of conversation. “I was hoping I’d run into you again. How’s your day going?”
“Mm.” Seungmin unclipped the leads as his tiny clients gathered around his boots in visible horror at the weather. “Could be worse.”
Hyunjin laughed softly, easy and warm. It was annoying how naturally sociable he was. Like he’d been born genetically incapable of awkward silence. The retrievers barrelled into a muddy puddle with enthusiasm.
“These two are in a great mood today,” Hyunjin said. “Which means my life is easy. I’ve walked them since they were puppies, though, so they basically think I’m their spare parent.”
“Weird I haven’t seen you around before,” Seungmin said casually, while internally feeling very uncool about how much he wanted to know why.
“I’m still pretty new to the area,” Hyunjin replied. “Most of my clients are back near my old place, but this park’s worth the drive. Way cleaner than the others. People here actually pick up after their dogs.”
“Well,” Seungmin said dryly, “we do strive for excellence.”
And somehow, against all odds, the conversation kept going. Which was unfortunate, because Seungmin was already socially exhausted for the rest of the year. Hyunjin, apparently, had the energy reserves of a golden retriever himself.
“You should show me some of your walking routes sometime,” he said suddenly, reaching into his coat pocket. “Seriously. I’m still learning the area.”
Before Seungmin could formulate an escape plan, Hyunjin handed him a business card.
“My number’s on there,” Hyunjin added. “Text me sometime?”
Seungmin stared at the card like it might explode. What was the etiquette here? Refusing felt psychotic. Accepting felt dangerous in an entirely different way.
“Uh. Thanks.” He shoved it into his pocket. “Not sure I know anywhere special, though.”
Hyunjin smiled anyway, bright and easy, like Seungmin hadn’t just given the conversational equivalent of a closed door.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Most places are better with company.”
And annoyingly, that sentence stayed with Seungmin for the rest of the day.
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By February, the season had dissolved into endless grey skies and knee-deep mud. The kind of cold that felt personal. Seungmin trudged through the woods with his usual dachshund, spaniel, and bichon, while contemplating whether humans had always suffered this much during winter or if earlier generations had simply been too busy dying of dysentery to complain about it.
The dachshund refused to walk through puddles. The other two insisted on walking directly through every puddle. Seungmin was losing a battle of wills with all three.
“Hey, Seungmin! Wait up!”
He froze. Not because he was excited.
Obviously.
Mostly because he briefly entertained the possibility of pretending not to hear and walking directly into the woods forever. A minute later, Hyunjin caught up beside him, slightly breathless, two Golden retrievers bounding ahead like overenthusiastic Boy Scouts.
“Jeez” Hyunjin laughed. “You walk fast for someone with the world’s shortest dog.”
The dachshund immediately began snarling at the retrievers with the unearned confidence of a tiny dictator.
“He’s all noise,” Seungmin said. “Severe small dog syndrome.”
He dug into his pocket for treats. “Can yours have gravy bones?”
Hyunjin nodded, and Seungmin handed one to each dog. Within seconds, peace negotiations had been successfully completed.
“Honestly,” Seungmin muttered, watching the dachshund happily crunch his treat, “I swear he thinks he’s a rottweiler or something.”
“My parents’ chihuahua is the same,” Hyunjin said. “That dog genuinely believes he could survive armed combat.”
Seungmin snorted before he could stop himself. Hyunjin noticed. His smile flickered wider, victorious somehow.
“Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit?” he asked. “I’m getting tired of talking exclusively to dogs.”
“I mean,” Seungmin said, adjusting the leash in his hand, “they’re usually better conversationalists.”
Hyunjin laughed loudly enough to startle the spaniel. And somehow, they fell into step together. Seungmin was painfully aware that Hyunjin was taller than him. Not dramatically, just enough to be noticeable. Enough that Seungmin had to tilt his head slightly when he looked at him. Not that he was looking.
“So,” Hyunjin said, “how long have you been doing this?”
“About twenty minutes.”
Hyunjin blinked. Then barked out a surprised laugh. “Wow. Okay. So you're funny.”
“I’m really not.”
“Sure.”
Seungmin rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“I mean the job,” Hyunjin clarified. “How long have you been walking dogs?”
“Three years.”
“Same here,” Hyunjin said. “Art school didn’t exactly launch me into financial stability.”
“You’re an artist?”
“Mm-hm. Painter.” Hyunjin shoved his hands into his pockets. “Turns out the starving artist stereotype is less stereotype and more legally binding contract.”
Despite himself, Seungmin glanced over.
Hyunjin’s nose and cheeks were pink from the cold. His long brown hair was escaping from beneath his woolly hat. There was white paint dried near the cuff of his jacket. He looked friendly. Open. Like someone who belonged easily wherever he stood.
“And you?” Hyunjin asked. “What got you into this?”
Seungmin shrugged. “My family wanted me to work for the government like my dad and sister. But I wanted flexible hours. More time for…” He trailed off.
“For?”
Seungmin hesitated. He hated talking about his music. Saying it out loud made it fragile somehow. Embarrassing.
“I sing sometimes,” he admitted finally.
Hyunjin stopped walking for half a second.
“Wait. You’re a singer?”
Seungmin instantly regretted everything.
“I perform here and there,” he muttered.
“That’s so cool!”
“It’s really not.”
“What kind of music?”
“Indie mostly. Some covers, and I write some of my own stuff too.”
“Do you play gigs?”
“Sometimes.”
“My best friend’s a singer too!” Hyunjin said excitedly. “Oh my god, you’d probably get along with him. And my other friends write music…”
“Why would I meet your friends?” Seungmin interrupted.
The words came out sharper than he meant them to. Hyunjin blinked. Seungmin sighed internally. Great. Fantastic. Another successful human interaction.
“We barely know each other,” he added, quieter this time. “Why on earth would your friends want to meet me?”
For a moment, the only sound was mud squelching beneath their boots. Then Hyunjin took a breath.
“No, we don’t know each other,” he said gently. “But every friendship has to start somewhere.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than it should have.
Seungmin looked away first. Ahead of them, the dachshund had become tangled around a tree trunk while the retrievers attempted to help in the least useful way possible.
“I usually turn around at that oak tree,” Seungmin said eventually.
Hyunjin nodded. “I should head back too.”
Silence settled between them. Not awkward exactly. Just… unfinished.
Then, before he could stop himself, Seungmin heard his own voice say:
“So. Your art. What do you paint?”
Hyunjin lit up instantly. And against his better judgment, Seungmin found that maybe he didn’t mind walking a little slower after all.
By the time they got back to the lay by where their vans were parked, the sky had started threatening snow properly. The air was sharp and metallic, the kind that turned everyone’s breath visible.
Seungmin lifted the dachshund into his crate while enduring the look of profound betrayal the dog reserved exclusively for the end of walks. Beside him, Hyunjin was towelling mud off one of the retrievers with the patience of a nursery school teacher.
“You know,” Hyunjin said conversationally, “I think your sausage dog might genuinely hate my dogs.”
“Oh, he hates everyone,” Seungmin replied. “Don’t take it personally.”
“That actually does make me feel better.”
Seungmin snorted softly as he latched the crate door shut. The retriever immediately shoved his entire muddy face into Hyunjin’s chest.
“Oh, okay,” Hyunjin laughed, stumbling backward slightly. “That’s enough affection, thank you.”
Seungmin glanced over before he could stop himself.
Hyunjin’s hair was damp from melted sleet. With his cheeks flushed from the cold, he looked warm somehow, despite the miserable weather. Like one of those annoyingly charming people in adverts who genuinely enjoyed winter. It was deeply suspicious behaviour. Seungmin turned quickly toward his van before his brain could continue down that path.
He was halfway into the driver’s seat when Hyunjin spoke again.
“Hey.”
Something in his voice made Seungmin pause.
Hyunjin shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, suddenly looking less effortless than usual. More careful.
“Look, I know you said we’re not friends, but…” He smiled sheepishly. “Would you maybe want to get a drink sometime? No pressure. I just - I really do want to know more people around here.”
Seungmin opened his mouth fully intending to say no. Not because he disliked Hyunjin. That was the problem.
Hyunjin had somehow bulldozed his way through every defence mechanism Seungmin raised, using nothing but friendliness and eye contact, and Seungmin wasn’t stupid enough not to recognize danger when it appeared in front of him wearing a paint-stained scarf.
He liked his life compartmentalized and controlled. Dog walking here. Music there. House mates somewhere in the middle. No unexpected variables. No people who looked at him like they genuinely wanted to know him. His inner self-preservation system screamed ‘absolutely not’.
Unfortunately, his mouth betrayed him.
“Yes, actually,” Seungmin heard himself say. “That could be nice.”
Hyunjin blinked. Then smiled slowly, like he hadn’t expected success on the first try.
“What about tomorrow?” Seungmin added quickly, before he could reconsider his entire personality. “Do you know The Mayfly?”
Hyunjin’s entire face lit up, which, frankly, felt excessive for someone being invited to a pub.
“Yeah,” he said immediately. “Seven?”
“Sure.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
Neither of them moved.
One of the retrievers barked loudly from inside the van, apparently tired of witnessing whatever this was.
Hyunjin laughed first. “Right. I should probably go before they start going mad back there.”
Seungmin nodded once. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Seungmin.”
And then Hyunjin climbed into his van and drove away, leaving Seungmin standing beside his own vehicle, fingertips swiftly freezing.
For a long moment, he just stared after the disappearing taillights.
Then he got into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and dropped his head back against the head rest.
What the hell had he just agreed to?