Chapter Text
Dim amber light spilled from pendant lamps over the counter, casting long shadows across the worn leather stools. The walls were exposed brick, faded in places, and the shelves behind the bartender held bottles with labels that had been rubbed smooth by years of use. It wasn't loud. It was the kind of place people came to when they wanted to sit in the dark and not be recognized.
Beomgyu liked it for exactly that reason.
He shrugged his coat off as he settled onto a stool near the end of the bar, the fabric sliding from his shoulders with a quiet whisper. The air inside was warm compared to the autumn chill he'd walked through, and he could feel the temperature shift settling into his bones. He folded the coat over the back of the stool, then reached up to loosen his tie. His fingers worked the fabric slowly, almost lazily, because even that small motion felt like something he had to drag out of himself.
Then he pushed his hair back.
His palm dragged across his forehead, fingers threading through dark strands that had been pressed flat by hours of staring at documents under fluorescent office lights. The hair fell back almost immediately.
The bartender appeared in front of him, a woman with tired eyes and a quiet efficiency.
"Old fashioned," he said. "Bourbon."
She nodded and turned away.
Beomgyu watched her for a moment before his gaze drifted to the reflection of the bar lights in the bottles across from him. There was something calming about places like this. No expectations. No one asked him for anything. Just the low hum of conversation from the few other patrons scattered across the room and the soft clink of glass against glass.
The drink arrived. A single cube of ice floated catching the light as he lifted the glass. He took a sip, letting the warmth spread through his chest before he exhaled. Not relief, exactly. More like a temporary surrender.
Then his phone buzzed.
Once. Twice. A third time.
The screen lit up on the bar counter where he'd set it face-up, and he could see the notifications stacking on top of each other without even reading them. Emails. Messages from the firm. Something from a client who probably hadn't slept either. He reached over, thumb swiping across the screen to silence it, then turned the phone face-down on the worn wood.
He took another sip of his drink.
The ice had already started to melt, tiny trails of water bleeding into the bourbon. Beomgyu watched it happen, watched the way the amber swirled into something lighter, something diluted.
He let his gaze wander.
Across the room, a couple sat in a corner booth, their heads bent close together over something on a phone screen—laughing at whatever they were seeing, their shoulders shaking with a kind of ease that Beomgyu couldn't remember ever feeling. Near the door, a man in a baseball cap nursed a beer and stared at nothing. The bartender wiped down a section of the counter with a rag that had seen better days.
The door opened.
A gust of cool air swept through the room, carrying with it the distant sound of traffic and the smell of rain that hadn't quite started falling just heavy yet. Beomgyu turned his head toward the entrance.
Taehyun.
Taehyun was shrugging off a dark jacket as he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room with that focused efficiency he carried into everything. He looked tired, but then again, Taehyun always looked tired these days. There was something about the way he held himself—upright, deliberate, like even his exhaustion had been carefully managed—that made Beomgyu's chest loosen just slightly.
He found himself smiling before he could stop it. Just a small lift at the corner of his mouth.
Taehyun spotted him almost immediately and started weaving between the scattered tables, his footsteps quiet against the floor. When he reached the stool beside Beomgyu, he didn't sit right away—just draped his jacket over the back and ran a hand through his hair, which had been flattened by the wind outside.
"Hyung," Taehyun said, and his voice was softer than usual, the way it got when he was carrying something heavier than he wanted to admit. "Sorry for being late. Something came up."
Beomgyu shook his head, lifting his glass slightly. "It’s okay, I’m just here."
It wasn't entirely true. He'd been sitting here for almost twenty minutes, letting the silence settle around him like a second skin. But Taehyun didn't need to know that.
Taehyun nodded, sliding onto the stool beside him. He caught the bartender's eye and ordered something simple—a whiskey neat, nothing fancy—and then turned back to Beomgyu. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The bartender set Taehyun's drink down, and Taehyun lifted it, took a sip, and let out a breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep.
Then he turned to look at Beomgyu.
Not casually. Not the way people glanced at each other in bars, waiting for conversation to fill the space. Taehyun looked at him—the kind of look that skimmed over Beomgyu's face like he was reading something written there. The lines around Beomgyu's eyes. The way his tie hung loose. The slight shadows beneath his lower lashes that no amount of sleep seemed to fix.
Beomgyu felt the weight of it and turned his head to meet Taehyun's gaze.
"What?" he asked. "Are you counting my gray hairs now? Because I swear if you find one, I don't want to know."
Taehyun's mouth twitched. "You don't have gray hairs. You have premature existential dread. Different thing."
"Comforting."
Taehyun shrugged, lifting his glass to his lips again, then took a slow sip before lowering the glass and letting his fingers rest against its side.
"Work has been hard?" Taehyun asked. It wasn't really a question. More like an opening.
Beomgyu hummed, low in his throat. "You know how it is there."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. Taehyun had worked at the same firm before leaving two years ago. He knew about the endless hours, the impossible expectations, the way the partners looked at young lawyers like they were machines designed to bill time instead of human beings who needed to sleep and eat and sometimes just stop. Taehyun knew, and that was precisely why he'd left.
Taehyun nodded slowly. "I still don't understand how you can still work there." He tilted his head, studying Beomgyu with an expression that was half curiosity, half exasperation. "What is it about that place? Did they put something in the water? Is it Stockholm syndrome? Because at this point, I'm genuinely concerned."
Beomgyu laughed despite himself. "Stockholm syndrome. Really."
"I'm serious. You've been there since we were interns. The pay is mediocre, the partners treat you like garbage, and I'm pretty sure the coffee machine in the break room is older than both of us combined. So what's keeping you there? Sentimental value?"
Beomgyu pursed his lips, but there was no real weight behind it. Taehyun's teasing had always been like this—sharp enough to poke, but never enough to wound.
"it's just not that easy, you know," Beomgyu finally said, settling on something that felt true enough. "I've been there since the beginning of my career. And the pay isn't that bad either."
It sounded weak even to his own ears. A placeholder. An excuse dressed up as a reason.
Taehyun sighed—not loudly, not dramatically, just a soft exhale that carried the weight of someone who had heard this all before and was tired of pretending it made sense. But beneath the exhaustion, there was warmth. There always was with Taehyun.
"Yeah," Taehyun said, quieter now. "But the hard work you put in? It sure as hell doesn't balance with the salary."
Beomgyu hummed again. That was also true. Painfully true. He took another sip of his drink, letting the warmth settle in his chest, and then he turned his body slightly toward Taehyun—a shift in posture that signaled a change in the conversation.
"So," Beomgyu said, his voice quieter now, more deliberate. "Why did you ask to meet? And don't say 'because I missed your face.' You never ask me out this late just for drinks."
Taehyun's expression flickered just for a second, just enough for Beomgyu to notice.
"Maybe I did miss your face," Taehyun said, but his voice lacked its usual ease.
"You saw me three days ago."
"Three days is a long time. You could have died."
"From what?"
"Lack of sleep. Caffeine overdose. General stubbornness." Taehyun swirled his glass. "The possibilities are endless."
Beomgyu waited. He knew Taehyun well enough to know when he was stalling.
Taehyun glanced away.
It was a small movement. Just a flicker of his gaze toward the window, toward the street outside where headlights occasionally swept across the glass but Beomgyu noticed it immediately. He'd known Taehyun long enough to recognize when he was hesitating. When he was gathering himself.
Taehyun looked around the room for a moment, as if checking to make sure no one was listening. Then he turned back to Beomgyu, and when he spoke, his voice had dropped.
"It's about Yeonjun hyung."
Beomgyu felt something shift in his chest. A subtle tightening.
"Yeonjun?" he repeated.
"Yeah." Taehyun's jaw tightened. "Yeonjun."
Beomgyu waited. When Taehyun didn't immediately continue, he raised an eyebrow. "Okay…What about him?"
"He isn't…" Taehyun started, then stopped. Pressed his lips together. Tried again. "He isn't looking like himself."
"What do you mean?"
He didn't look away from Beomgyu's face, but there was something careful in his expression now, something that suggested he was choosing his next words with a precision that went beyond his usual manner.
Beomgyu didn't know Yeonjun well. Not really. They'd been introduced at a mutual friend's birthday party years ago, and they'd crossed paths a handful of times since then. Taehyun's gatherings, mostly. A dinner here, a casual drink there. Yeonjun was always bright in those settings, laughing at something someone said, his presence filling whatever room he stood in. He was the kind of person who made other people feel like they mattered just by paying attention to them.
But knowing him? That was different. Beomgyu couldn't claim that.
Taehyun pinched the bridge of his nose—a gesture Beomgyu recognized as stress, the kind that came from worrying about something he couldn't fix. Not the usual exasperation. Something deeper.
"Since that case," Taehyun said, the words coming out slower now, "he's been not wanting to leave his house."
"Case," Beomgyu repeated, though he already knew what Taehyun was referring to. Everyone knew. The rumors had spread across social media like wildfire, jumping from platform to platform, growing bigger and uglier with each retweet. Yeonjun's name had been dragged through headlines for weeks. Model Choi Yeonjun implicated in ongoing investigation. Sources say…Allegations surface that…Insider reveals…
Though, all of it had been confirmed and had been denied. Yeonjun's agency had released a statement and even provided detailed pages of evidence, timelines and witness accounts. Everything that supposedly cleared Yeonjun's name.
And yet.
The internet did what the internet always does: picked a side and dug in. Half the comments said finally, the truth. The other half said this is exactly what a guilty person would fabricate. A few said Yeonjun had simply built a better persona—that the polite, soft-spoken model was a mask, and the real him was whatever the first headlines had claimed.
Beomgyu took a sip of his drink. "Okay," he said slowly. "Then?"
He didn't mean to sound cold. It wasn't that he didn't care—Taehyun was worried, and Taehyun's worry mattered to him. But he genuinely didn't understand what this had to do with him. He wasn't Yeonjun's friend. He wasn't his therapist. He wasn't even a particularly comforting presence, if he was being honest with himself. He was a lawyer who spent most of his waking hours arguing with opposing counsel and drafting documents that no one read carefully enough.
What was he supposed to do? Show up at Yeonjun's door and say what?
Taehyun must have heard something in his tone, because he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the bar. The amber light caught the side of his face, illuminating the exhaustion he'd been trying to hide.
"I know what you're thinking," Taehyun said. "You're thinking, ‘What’s this got to do with me? I'm not even his friend.’ Right?"
"I'm thinking you should be talking to Kai or Soobin," Beomgyu said evenly. "They're actually close to him."
"I'm not done."
Beomgyu gestured with his glass. "Then keep going."
Taehyun took a breath. "Remember when you told me that if you could ever take a leave from work, you wanted to spend it doing anything? Just... anything that wasn't work?"
Beomgyu frowned. "That was—that was months ago. And I was drunk."
"You were tipsy. There's a difference."
"I was drunk."
"You were honest." Taehyun held his gaze. "You said you wanted a month where no one needed anything from you. A month where you could wake up and not know what day it was."
Beomgyu opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Because Taehyun was right. He had said that.
"With your current state," Taehyun continued, "how about thinking of taking a leave now?"
Beomgyu's frown deepened. "Taehyun-ah, it's not that easy—"
"I know." Taehyun's voice was steady, but there was an urgency underneath it, like a current beneath still water. "That's why I will pay you double. Or you can say the amount. I'll pay you."
Beomgyu blinked. Then he laughed—a short, incredulous sound. "You're going to pay me? For what? Babysitting?"
"For helping."
"Taehyun. I'm a lawyer. Not a nanny."
"You're also the most stubborn person I know, which means once you actually care about something, you don't let go." Taehyun shrugged. "That's exactly what he needs."
Beomgyu set his glass down with more force than necessary. "It's not about the money. You know it's not about the money. I have an ongoing case. Huge one.”
That was true. The case had been consuming him for weeks—a complicated contract dispute between two companies that seemed determined to tear each other apart in court. Beomgyu had spent countless nights buried in documents, preparing arguments, anticipating every possible counter from opposing counsel. Walking away from it now would mean leaving it half-finished. Handing it to someone who hadn't spent weeks inside its complexities.
It wasn't impossible. But it wasn't simple either.
“A real case. With clients who are actually paying me. I can't just drop it because you—"
"Then don't drop it." Taehyun's voice was calm. "Finish it. And then take few months off."
"And do what?"
Taehyun held his gaze. "Help Yeonjun hyung."
The bar seemed to fall away—the low murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the soft music playing from speakers somewhere overhead. All of it faded into a dull hum as Beomgyu processed what Taehyun was asking.
Taehyun was quiet for a moment. He lifted his glass, swirled the whiskey inside, and set it back down without drinking. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted—less pleading, more strategic.
"I have a colleague who's about to start a firm," Taehyun said. "He's looking for professionals. Experienced. Big salary. I can help you get in."
Beomgyu pinched the bridge of his own nose now, "By that, you mean I should quit my current workplace?"
Taehyun nodded. "And my friend won't start the firm until next few months. So you'd have time to rest before that. Months with no cases, no clients, no deadlines."
Beomgyu stared at the bar counter.
The wood grain seemed to blur in front of his eyes. He could feel the weight of Taehyun's gaze on him, patient but expectant. This was an offer—not just an offer, a solution—to a problem Beomgyu had been circling for months. The burnout. The exhaustion. The growing sense that he was running on a hamster wheel that would never stop.
He had been looking at other firms. Quietly. Tentatively. He hadn't told anyone, because he wasn't sure if he was actually serious about leaving or just fantasizing about an escape. But the thought had been there, lingering at the edges of his mind during long nights at the office.
Taehyun tapped his glass with one finger—a soft, rhythmic sound. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I just want to see him shine again," Taehyun said, and his voice cracked slightly on the word shine. He recovered quickly, but Beomgyu heard it. "He's always been a star. But ever since those rumors started, he… he can't. He can't. And I'm afraid that if I don't do something, he'll stay like this forever."
Beomgyu looked at him. Really looked. At the way Taehyun's shoulders were set, tense with a kind of desperate determination. At the way his fingers curled around his glass like he was holding onto something that might slip away.
"I know you care about him," Beomgyu said carefully. "But what can I do for him? I'm not a therapist, Taehyun-ah."
Taehyun shook his head, almost impatiently. "I know you're not. I don't need you to be his therapist. I just need you to be there for him. Take him out of his shell. Just… do what you always do."
Beomgyu blinked. "What does that even mean? 'What I always do'? I argue with opposing counsel and draft contracts that put people to sleep. That's what I do."
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
Taehyun sighed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips now—exasperated, fond. "You remember when Kai was being bullied? When he was scared and wouldn't leave his comfort zone?"
Beomgyu raised his hand to signal the bartender for another drink. He didn't need it—not really—but he needed something to do with his hands. "That was different. Kai is my friend."
"You sat with him for three hours in his dorm room while he cried," Taehyun said flatly. "You didn't say anything. You just sat there. And then the next day, you showed up again. And the day after that. You didn't fix anything. You just stayed."
Beomgyu's hand paused mid-reach for his glass.
"That's what I mean," Taehyun said quietly. "That's what you do. You stay. You don't run away when things get uncomfortable. And right now, Yeonjun hyung needs someone who will just…stay."
Beomgyu was quiet for a long moment. The bartender came and went, setting down a fresh drink that he didn't remember ordering.
"I'm not even his friend, Taehyun-ah," Beomgyu finally said. "Are you sure he'll be comfortable with me? What if I only make things worse?"
Taehyun didn't hesitate.
"No," he said firmly. "I know you're the only one who could bring Yeonjun hyung back."
Beomgyu wanted to argue. He wanted to point out all the reasons this was a terrible idea—the lack of history between him and Yeonjun, the awkwardness of showing up uninvited, the very real possibility that his presence would do more harm than good.
But Taehyun was looking at him with an expression Beomgyu hadn't seen in years. Not desperation. Not pleading.
Certainty.
"You're insane," Beomgyu said finally.
"Probably."
"This is a terrible idea."
"Also probably."
"I haven't said yes."
Taehyun lifted his glass in a small toast. "You haven't said no either."
Beomgyu stared at him. Then, despite himself, he laughed—a real laugh, tired and reluctant and genuine.
"I hate you," he said.
"No you don't."
"No," Beomgyu admitted, picking up his glass. "I don't."
A week later.
Beomgyu dried his face with a towel and walked back into the main room, collapsing onto his bed. The ceiling stared back at him—white, unremarkable, full of nothing.
What did Taehyun mean?
And more importantly—why did Beomgyu care?
He could say no. He could call Taehyun and say, I thought about it, and I can't help you. That would be the logical thing to do. He had his own life, his own problems, his own exhausting career to manage. Getting involved in Yeonjun's situation would only add more weight to shoulders that were already straining under the load.
But his mind wouldn't let go.
It wandered, against his will, to Yeonjun.
He sighed again, louder this time, as if the sound alone could dislodge the thoughts stuck in his chest.
It wasn't a bad idea to take a rest.
He'd been wanting to for months—years, maybe. A real break. Not the kind where you worked from home instead of the office, or the kind where you checked emails on your phone while pretending to be on vacation. A real, actual, nothing break. A month of waking up without an alarm. A month of not knowing what day it was. A month where no one needed anything from him.
He had savings. More than enough, actually. His salary wasn't as terrible as Taehyun liked to pretend. He wasn't rich, but he wasn't struggling either. Few months without income wouldn't break him.
And Taehyun's friend's firm…
That was worth considering too. A new environment. New colleagues. A chance to reset, to remember why he'd wanted to become a lawyer in the first place. He'd been at his current firm for so long that he'd stopped noticing how much it was wearing him down—like a frog in slowly boiling water, too comfortable to realize the temperature was rising.
Maybe this was a sign. Maybe the universe was nudging him toward something different.
Or maybe Taehyun was just very good at manipulation.
Probably both.
Beomgyu reached for his phone before he could talk himself out of it. The screen lit up, blindingly bright in the darkness of his room, and he squinted as he navigated to Taehyun's contact. His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment, hesitating.
Then he typed.
Beomgyu: I'm handing in my one week notice
He stared at the words after he sent them, half-expecting to regret them immediately. But the regret didn't come.
Taehyun's reply came within seconds, which meant Taehyun had also been awake at—Beomgyu glanced at the time—1:47 AM. Of course he had. Neither of them knew how to sleep like normal people.
Taehyun: great timing actually
Taehyun: i already talked to my colleague
Taehyun: he said you are always welcome
Beomgyu frowned at the screen.
Beomgyu: wait
Beomgyu: you already knew i’d say yes?
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Taehyun: probably
Taehyun: i’ll send yeonjun hyung’s new address too
Beomgyu sat up straighter.
Oh.
Things were moving too fast now.
He suddenly felt like he’d stepped onto something already in motion. He hadn't expected Taehyun to move this fast. He'd thought there would be more time. More space. More opportunities to change his mind.
Instead, Taehyun was already moving pieces around like the decision had been made days ago.
Beomgyu rubbed a hand over his face before typing again.
Beomgyu: does yeonjun hyung know about any of this
The reply came so fast it was almost insulting.
Taehyun: be serious
Beomgyu snorted despite himself.
Beomgyu groaned and dropped backward onto the bed, phone hitting his chest.
Right. Obviously not.
He pressed both palms against his eyes.
This was such a terrible idea.
Which probably explained why he was still here.
Beomgyu: are you sure this is a good idea
This time, Taehyun took longer to answer.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Taehyun: i think so
Another pause.
Taehyun: i hope so
Beomgyu stared at the screen for a long moment after that.
I hope so.
Not I know.
Not trust me.
Just hope.
Something about that made this feel more real than anything else had tonight.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he finally typed:
Beomgyu: 😀
A full minute passed before he sent another one.
Beomgyu: i’m not promising anything
This time, Taehyun’s reply was slower. Softer, somehow, even through text.
Taehyun: i know
The address Taehyun sent him was in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of the city—the kind of place where houses were spaced far enough apart that you couldn't see your neighbors' windows from your own. A place where reporters wouldn't think to look. A place where Yeonjun could disappear without anyone noticing.
The autumn air was crisp when he parked his car at the curb, carrying with it the smell of fallen leaves and the distant promise of rain. He sat in the driver's seat for a long moment, his hands resting on the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
He could still leave.
He could start the engine, pull back onto the road, and drive home. He could text Taehyun and say, I changed my mind. Find someone else. He could pretend this whole thing had never happened, bury himself in work until the guilt faded, and go back to his life of quiet exhaustion.
But his hands didn't move to the ignition.
Instead, they reached for the passenger seat, where a canvas bag sat with the handles tied in a loose knot. Inside were things he'd bought on a whim at the grocery store near his apartment—things he'd told himself were just in case, just in case he actually went through with this, just in case he found himself standing at Yeonjun's door with nothing to offer but his own awkward presence.
Rice. Banchan from the prepared foods section. A container of soup that was probably still warm. Some fruit—tangerines, because everyone liked tangerines, right? And a box of tea, because tea felt like something you brought to someone who wasn't okay.
It wasn't much. It was barely anything. But it was something to hold, something to do with his hands, something that said I came here for a reason without him having to find the right words.
He took a breath.
Then another.
Then he opened the car door and stepped out into the cold.
The building was newer than he'd expected with clean lines and a front building door that required a passcode. Taehyun had given him the code in a separate message, along with don't share this with anyone that Beomgyu had rolled his eyes at. As if he would. As if he were the kind of person who went around handing out people's private information.
He punched in the numbers, waited for the soft click of the lock, stepped inside and get in the elevator.
When he reached the floor. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet, maybe—the kind of silence that felt intentional, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Beomgyu's footsteps echoed faintly against the floor as he made his way to the door at the end of the corridor. Apartment 13. Yeonjun's new hiding place.
He stopped in front of it.
The bag felt heavier now, the handles digging into his palm. He shifted it to his other hand, then back again, as if the weight would somehow settle differently if he just kept moving it.
You don't have to do this.
But he'd already quit his job. He'd already told Taehyun yes. He'd already driven all the way here, with a bag full of groceries and a chest full of uncertainty.
He raised his free hand and pressed the doorbell.
The sound echoed inside—a simple two-note chime that seemed disproportionately loud in the silence. Beomgyu waited, his heart beating somewhere in his throat. He counted the seconds. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
No answer.
Maybe Yeonjun was asleep. Maybe he was in the shower. Maybe he had headphones on, or the television was too loud, or he simply didn't want to answer the door for someone he wasn't expecting.
Beomgyu pressed the bell again.
This time he waited longer. Twenty seconds. Thirty. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the bag of groceries rustling softly with the movement. The hallway stretched out behind him, empty and anonymous, and for a moment he felt utterly alone suspended in a space that wasn't his, waiting for a door that might never open.
Is this a mistake?
He pulled out his phone and called Taehyun, pacing a few steps down the hallway as the line rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Beomgyu hyung?" Taehyun's voice was alert despite the early hour—or maybe it wasn't early. Maybe Beomgyu had lost track of time. The sky outside was pale gray, the sun hidden behind clouds, and he couldn't remember if it was morning or afternoon.
"Are you sure you gave me the right address?" Beomgyu asked, his voice lower than he intended. He turned, pacing back toward the door, his eyes fixed on the brass numbers. 13. "Because I've been standing here for—"
The door opened.
Not all the way—just a crack, just enough for Beomgyu to see the chain still fastened on the inside. But through that narrow gap, he could see an eye. Dark, wary, ringed with shadows that spoke of sleepless nights and days that blurred together. It was an eye that had seen too much, that had learned to expect the worst from every unexpected knock.
And then that eye found his.
The recognition was instantaneous—a flicker of something that might have been surprise, or confusion, or maybe just the faintest trace of relief. Beomgyu couldn't tell. The gap was too narrow, the shadows too deep.
"Hyung?" Taehyun's voice came from the phone, small and distant. "Everything's okay?"
Beomgyu stared at that eye—at the person behind it—and felt something shift in his chest. Not the tightness from before, not the alert. Something softer. Something that ached.
"Nevermind," he said into the phone, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm hanging up."
He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket without looking away from the door. The eye was still watching him—cautious, uncertain, but watching.
Beomgyu tried to smile. It felt strange on his face—stiff and unpracticed—but he tried anyway. A small curve of his lips. An offering of peace.
"Yeonjun hyung," he said, and his voice came out gentler than he'd expected. Softer than he'd intended. "It's Beomgyu. Choi Beomgyu."
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then the door opened wider, and Yeonjun appeared in the doorway.
Beomgyu's breath caught.
Not because Yeonjun looked different—though he did, terribly so—but because he looked the same in all the ways that mattered. The same sharp jaw. The same dark eyes. The same mouth that had once smiled at him across a crowded room and said, "A lawyer? That's impressive."
But everything else had changed.
Yeonjun was thinner than Beomgyu remembered—not dramatically, not in a way that would alarm most people, but Beomgyu noticed. He noticed the way the collar of Yeonjun's shirt hung loose around his neck, slipping slightly off one shoulder. He noticed the sharpness of his collarbones, the hollows beneath his cheeks that hadn't been there before. He noticed the shadows under his eyes—deeper than Beomgyu's own, darker, the kind that came from weeks of not sleeping rather than just a few late nights at the office.
His hair was longer too, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger and older at the same time. Vulnerable. Tired. Fragile.
And yet.
And yet, standing there in the dim light of his doorway, with his clothes hanging loose on his frame and his hand trembling slightly against the doorframe—he was still beautiful.
He always had been.
Beomgyu had noticed it the first time they'd met, all those years ago. He'd noticed it at every party, every casual gathering, every brief exchange that had never quite become a real conversation. Yeonjun had a way of existing in space that made everything around him seem duller by comparison—like a single flame in a room full of candles that had already burned out.
He was still that flame. Dimmer, maybe. Flickering. But still burning.
Yeonjun's gaze swept past Beomgyu, scanning the hallway behind him with an alertness that made Beomgyu's chest ache.
Oh.
Beomgyu understood immediately.
"Don't worry," he said quietly. "I'm alone. I didn't bring anyone."
Yeonjun's eyes flicked back to his face. There was something unreadable in them—a mixture of things Beomgyu couldn't untangle. Suspicion, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or the simple, weary confusion of someone who had stopped expecting kindness and didn't quite know what to do when it appeared.
"I know you wouldn't," Yeonjun said, and his voice was rougher than Beomgyu remembered—hoarse, like he hadn't used it much lately. "I just thought…Taehyun would be here too."
Beomgyu shook his head slowly. "No. It's just me."
The words hung in the air between them. Just me. As if that were enough. As if Beomgyu alone could possibly be what Yeonjun needed.
Yeonjun chewed on his lower lip. His teeth worried at the soft skin, leaving it pink and slightly swollen.
Then, without another word, he stepped back from the doorway.
"Come on in," he said.
The invitation was quiet, almost reluctant—but it was real. Beomgyu nodded once and stepped across the threshold.
The apartment was dim.
Not dark, exactly. There was light filtering in through the curtains, thin and gray but the curtains were drawn tight, blocking out most of the day. The lamps were off. The overhead lights were off. The only illumination came from the pale glow of a television that had been muted, its screen casting shifting shadows across the walls.
Beomgyu stood in the entryway, taking it all in.
The apartment was smaller than he'd expected—a living room, a kitchen, a hallway that probably led to a bedroom and bathroom. The furniture was sparse but nice: a couch that looked comfortable, a coffee table with a few magazines scattered across it, shelves that were mostly empty except for a few books and what looked like a small collection of framed photos turned face-down.
It wasn't messy, exactly. Just…lived in the way a hiding place was lived in. Blankets piled on one end of the couch. A half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. A pair of slippers kicked off near the door.
But there were signs of neglect too. Dust on the shelves. A plant in the corner that had wilted beyond saving. A pile of unopened mail on the kitchen counter that looked like it had been sitting there for weeks.
"I didn't expect anyone," Yeonjun said from behind him. His voice was quieter now, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry for the mess."
Beomgyu turned to look at him.
Yeonjun had retreated slightly, not far, just a step or two back toward the hallway and he was hugging his arms across his chest. It wasn't a defensive posture, exactly. It was more like he was trying to hold himself together, to keep his own pieces from scattering across the floor.
"There's no mess," Beomgyu said honestly. And there wasn't. Just the mess of a person who had stopped caring about the small things because the big things had become too heavy to carry.
Yeonjun's eyes darted to the bag in Beomgyu's hand—the canvas bag with the groceries, the handles still digging into his palm.
"What's that?" Yeonjun asked.
Beomgyu looked down at it as if seeing it for the first time. The soup was probably cold by now. The tangerines might still be good.
"Just…things," he said, and immediately felt stupid. Things. What kind of answer was that? "I wasn't sure if you'd been eating. So I brought food. Nothing fancy. Just—"
"You brought me food."
It wasn't a question. Yeonjun's voice was flat, almost wondering, like the concept itself was foreign to him. Someone bringing him food. Someone thinking about whether he'd been eating.
Beomgyu shifted the bag to his other hand. "Is that weird? I can—I can put it in the kitchen. You don't have to eat it. I just thought— "
"No." Yeonjun's voice cracked slightly on the word. He cleared his throat and looked away, his jaw tightening. "No, it's not weird. I just…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Never mind. You can put it on the counter. I'll—I'll deal with it later."
Beomgyu nodded and walked into the kitchen, setting the bag down next to the pile of unopened mail. He noticed, without meaning to, that the mail was all addressed to Yeonjun—bills, probably, and maybe letters from his agency, from lawyers, from people who wanted something from him. He looked away before he could read any of the return addresses.
When he turned back, Yeonjun was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, still hugging his arms across his chest. He looked small. Smaller than he should have. The loose collar of his shirt had slipped further, revealing more of his collarbone, and Beomgyu had to force himself to look at Yeonjun's face instead.
"Taehyun told you to come, didn't he?" Yeonjun asked.
There was no accusation in his voice. Just exhaustion. A bone-deep tiredness that made the question feel rhetorical.
Beomgyu considered lying. He considered saying something like I wanted to see how you were doing or I was in the neighborhood—anything that would make this seem less orchestrated, less like an intervention disguised as a visit.
But Yeonjun deserved better than that. If Beomgyu was going to be here—if he was really going to do this, whatever this was—then he wasn't going to start by lying.
"Yes," he said simply. "Taehyun asked me to come."
Yeonjun's expression didn't change. If anything, he looked almost relieved—as if the confirmation of what he'd already suspected was better than the uncertainty of not knowing.
"He shouldn't have," Yeonjun said quietly. "You have your own life. Your own work. You don't need to—"
"I quit my job."
The words came out before Beomgyu could stop them. They hung in the air between them, absurd and true, and Beomgyu watched Yeonjun's face shift from exhaustion to confusion to something that looked almost like alarm.
"You what?"
"I quit." Beomgyu shrugged, trying to make it seem casual, trying to ignore the way his heart was beating too fast. "I was going to take some time off anyway. Taehyun just…helped me decide."
Yeonjun stared at him.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The muted television flickered in the other room, casting pale light across Yeonjun's face. His expression was unreadable—a mask of stillness that Beomgyu couldn't penetrate.
"You quit your job," Yeonjun repeated slowly, "because Taehyun asked you to come see me?"
"No." Beomgyu shook his head. "I quit my job because I needed to. The timing just worked out." He paused, then added, quieter: "But yes. I'm here because Taehyun asked me to be."
Yeonjun's arms tightened around his chest. "I don't need a babysitter, Beomgyu."
"I know."
"I don't need someone to feel sorry for me."
"I know that too."
"Then why are you here?"
The question was sharp—not angry, but close to it. A blade wrapped in exhaustion. Yeonjun's eyes were bright, too bright, and Beomgyu realized with a start that he was holding back tears. Not crying. Not yet. Just fighting to keep something inside from spilling out.
Beomgyu thought about it.
He thought about all the reasons he shouldn't be here—the lack of history between them, the awkwardness of showing up uninvited, the very real possibility that his presence would do more harm than good.
Then he thought about Taehyun's face at the bar, desperate and certain. You're the only one.
He thought about the photos he'd seen online—Yeonjun shrinking away from cameras, trying to make himself small.
He thought about his own ceiling, white and empty, and the seventeen minutes he'd spent staring at it before finally reaching for his phone.
"I don't know," Beomgyu admitted. "Maybe because someone should be."
Yeonjun's let out a small, almost inaudible sound then he turned away quickly, walking into the living room.
Beomgyu didn't follow immediately. He stayed in the kitchen doorway, giving Yeonjun space, giving him time. The muted television cast its pale glow across the room, and in that light, Yeonjun looked like a photograph of himself—present but not quite real.
"You can sit," Yeonjun said eventually. His voice was steadier now, though still rough. "If you're going to be here, you might as well sit."
Beomgyu walked slowly to the couch and sat down on the opposite end. The cushions were soft, sinking slightly under his weight.
Yeonjun didn't sit.
Instead, he stayed where he was, arms still crossed. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and there was something in his posture that looked almost like defiance—but softer. More fragile. The defiance of someone who had stopped believing that fighting would make a difference, but couldn't quite bring themselves to stop fighting anyway.
They sat in silence for a while.
Or rather, Beomgyu sat. Yeonjun stood. The television flickered. The curtains shifted.
Beomgyu looked at Yeonjun from across the room, taking in the way the dim light caught the edges of his face, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves, the way his gaze drifted to the window every few seconds—checking, always checking.
How long has he been like this?
Then, so quietly that Beomgyu almost missed it, Yeonjun spoke.
"It's not the first time."
Beomgyu tilted his head. "What isn't?"
Yeonjun's fingers moved to the hem of his shirt, fidgeting with the loose thread there. A small, almost unconscious motion. The kind of thing you did when you needed something to do with your hands because the words were too heavy to say without a distraction.
"This," Yeonjun said. "Taehyun asking someone to visit. He's done it before. Three times, actually. Maybe four. I've lost count."
Beomgyu's expression didn't change, but something in his chest shifted. He thought of Taehyun at the bar—the desperation beneath the teasing, the way his voice had cracked on the word shine. He'd thought that desperation was new. Fresh. The product of recent worry.
You're the only one.
The only one, my ass.
Beomgyu had to keep the thought to himself—barely—pressing his lips together so hard they nearly disappeared. You literally try and error. He made a mental note to text Taehyun later. Something short. Something violent. Maybe just a single emoji: the middle finger.
He dragged his gaze back to Yeonjun, who was still pulling at that loose thread like it owed him money.
Yeonjun laughed, but it wasn't a real laugh. It was hollow—a sound that had been emptied of everything except the memory of what laughter used to feel like. He let go of his shirt and pushed his hair back from his forehead, a gesture that seemed to take more energy than it should have.
"Maybe he thought it would ease me," Yeonjun continued, staring at a spot on the wall somewhere above Beomgyu's head. "You know. Send someone over. Someone nice. Someone who could sit with me and listen and tell me everything would be okay." His voice dropped. "But it wasn't. It never is."
Beomgyu watched him carefully. He didn't interrupt. He didn't offer empty reassurances. He just listened.
"Taehyun means well," Yeonjun said, and there was something almost tender in the way he said it—a love that had been worn smooth by time and frustration and the particular pain of watching someone you cared about fall apart. "He always means well. But he doesn't understand that you can't just…send people to fix this. Whatever this is. Whatever I am now."
"He's just worried," Beomgyu said softly.
Yeonjun's gaze snapped to him. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—irritation, maybe, or the spark of an argument he'd had too many times before.
"You think I don't know that?" Yeonjun asked. His voice was sharper now, but not cruel. Just tired. Just human. "You think I don't see it every time he looks at me? The worry? The guilt? The way he blames himself for not being able to make it better?" He looked away, his jaw working. "I know, Beomgyu. I know. And I hate it. I hate that I'm the reason for it. I hate that he spends his nights worrying about me when he should be living his own life. I hate that I've become a burden to the people who love me."
The word burden landed heavily between them.
Beomgyu thought about correcting him. Thought about saying, You're not a burden. You're just going through something. But he knew, from experience, that those words never landed the way people intended. When you already felt like a burden, being told you weren't one just felt like proof that people were lying to spare your feelings.
So instead, he said nothing.
Yeonjun exhaled—a long, shaky breath—and then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the hallway. His footsteps were soft against the floor, barely audible over the hum of the television. The bedroom door opened, closed, and then there was silence.
Beomgyu sat alone in the dim living room.
He didn't follow. He didn't call out. He just sat there, on the couch that wasn't his, in the apartment that wasn't his, and waited.
The television flickered through its muted scenes—a car chase, a conversation, a woman crying. Beomgyu watched none of it. His mind was full of Yeonjun's voice, rough and worn, saying I hate that I'm the reason for it. He thought about the weight of that—the weight of believing that your existence was a problem other people had to solve.
Five minutes passed. Maybe ten. Beomgyu had stopped counting.
He let his gaze wander while he waited. The apartment revealed more of itself in the quiet. The books on the shelf—mostly untouched, spines still stiff. The framed photos turned face-down—too painful to look at, maybe, or too painful to throw away. A jacket draped over the back of a chair, still creased from being worn. A pair of shoes by the door that looked like they hadn't been touched in weeks.
This was a place where someone was waiting. Not for something specific—just waiting in general. Waiting for the bad thing to end, or for the good thing to start, or for the strength to get up and face whatever came next.
The bedroom door opened.
Yeonjun emerged, and Beomgyu could see that he'd composed himself—somewhat. His face was clearer, less raw, though the shadows under his eyes remained. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his pants, and his shoulders were set in a way that looked almost like resignation.
He walked toward Beomgyu, stopped a few feet away, and spoke.
"You can leave."
The words were flat. Matter-of-fact. Not cruel, not angry—just final.
Beomgyu frowned. "What?"
"I already called Taehyun." Yeonjun gestured vaguely toward his phone, which he'd left in the bedroom. "About whatever this is. Whatever he promised you—it's still a promise. But you don't have to stay."
Beomgyu stood up slowly from the couch, his knees protesting slightly after sitting still for so long. "Yeonjun—"
"I don't know what he offered you," Yeonjun continued, cutting him off. He was already walking toward the kitchen, his back to Beomgyu. "Money, probably. Or a job. Or something else. I don't care. Whatever it is, you'll get it. You don't need to earn it by sitting here in this boring, lame-ass house with someone like me."
He said someone like me the way other people said garbage—dismissive, self-contained, as if the phrase was a box he'd sealed himself inside long ago.
Beomgyu followed him into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. "Someone like you?" he repeated. "What does that mean?"
Yeonjun shrugged, still not looking at him. He'd reached the counter where Beomgyu had left the canvas bag, and now he was picking it up—the groceries rustling inside, the handles swinging slightly.
"You know," Yeonjun said. "Like all those rumors say. All the accusations."
He turned and held the bag out to Beomgyu—an offering, a dismissal, a door closing.
Beomgyu looked at the bag. Looked at Yeonjun's face. Looked at the way his hand trembled slightly as he held the weight of the groceries.
He didn't take the bag.
Yeonjun pushed it toward him again, more insistently this time. "Take it."
"Wait—"
"I don't need your pity." Yeonjun's voice cracked on the word pity, and something in his expression flickered—pain, maybe, or anger, or the particular humiliation of being seen when you'd spent months trying to become invisible. "I don't need you to sit here and watch me like I'm some kind of—I don't know—some kind of project. I'm not a case you can win, Beomgyu. I'm not a legal problem you can solve with arguments and evidence. I'm just—"
He stopped. Pressed his lips together. Took a breath.
"I'm just tired," he finished, quieter. "And I don't have the energy to pretend that your presence here is helping."
He pushed the bag into Beomgyu's hands—not roughly, but firmly, leaving no room for debate—and then walked past him, back toward the living room. Toward the front door.
Beomgyu stood in the kitchen, holding the bag, staring at Yeonjun's back.
Yeonjun gestured toward the door. "You can leave. I won't tell Taehyun you didn't stay. You can just…go back to your life. Forget you ever came here."
He started walking again, heading toward the door as if to open it for Beomgyu, to make leaving easier, to speed up the process of being abandoned.
And that was when something in Beomgyu shifted.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a small, internal click—like a key turning in a lock he hadn't known was there.
"I won't leave."
Yeonjun stopped. His hand was on the doorknob, frozen mid-motion.
"What?"
Beomgyu walked past him—not toward the door, but back into the living room. He set the canvas bag down on the coffee table, then lowered himself onto the couch again. Not the edge this time. He sat back, letting his weight sink into the cushions, making himself comfortable in a way that felt almost defiant.
Yeonjun turned to stare at him. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.
"What the hell?" he said. His voice was caught somewhere between confusion and frustration, his composure cracking at the edges. "Beomgyu. I said you can leave."
"And I said I won't."
Beomgyu reached for the television remote—an act of casual authority that felt absurd given the circumstances, but he did it anyway. He pressed a button, unmuting the screen. The drama that had been playing silently suddenly flooded the room with dialogue—a heated argument between two characters, their voices overlapping in that exaggerated way television arguments always did.
Yeonjun stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"Did you hear what I said?" Yeonjun asked, his voice rising slightly.
"I heard you."
"Then why are you still here?"
Beomgyu didn't answer immediately. He flipped through the channels slowly, unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world. A cooking show. A news broadcast. A nature documentary about penguins. He stopped there, because penguins seemed harmless, and the narrator's voice was soothing.
Yeonjun walked over to him, stopping directly in front of the television. His shadow fell across the screen, blocking the penguins.
"Okay," Yeonjun said, and his voice was steadier now—controlled, deliberate, the voice of someone who had learned to negotiate when he was too tired to fight. "Okay. How much?"
Beomgyu looked up at him. "How much what?"
"Money." Yeonjun's hands were on his hips now, his posture almost confrontational, though his eyes betrayed something softer beneath. "Whatever Taehyun promised you—I can pay you double. Triple. Whatever amount you say. Just tell me the number, and I'll make sure you get it. Just—" He gestured vaguely at the door. "Just get out of here. Go home. Live your life. Forget about this."
Beomgyu stared at him.
Something was burning in his chest, not the ache from before, but something hotter. Something that felt almost like offense.
He set the remote down carefully, deliberately, and stood up from the couch. He and Yeonjun were close now—not touching, but close enough that Beomgyu could see the flecks of gold in Yeonjun's dark eyes, could see the way his lashes trembled slightly, could see the pulse beating fast in his throat.
"What is it with all of you and money?" Beomgyu asked, and his voice came out harder than he'd intended. Sharp. Honest. "Do I look that petty to you? Do I look so poor that I would sell my time for whatever you felt like offering?"
Yeonjun blinked. His mouth opened, then closed.
"Not everything is about money," Beomgyu continued, and he could feel the words coming from somewhere deeper than his throat—somewhere in his chest, somewhere behind his ribs. "Not everything is a transaction. You can't just throw bills at someone and expect them to go away."
For a moment, something flickered in Yeonjun's eyes. Something that looked almost like shame.
"That's not what I meant," Yeonjun said softly, his voice stripped of its earlier sharpness. "I just—I didn't mean it like that."
"Yeah?" Beomgyu held his gaze. "That's exactly what you just said."
Yeonjun looked away.
His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck. The tension in his shoulders seemed to drain out of him all at once, leaving something smaller in its place. Something that looked less like a person preparing for a fight and more like a person who had simply run out of ways to defend himself.
"I just don't understand why you're here," Yeonjun said, and his voice was barely above a whisper now. "We aren't even actually friends. We've interacted, what—Seven times? Eight? All of them because Taehyun put us in the same room together." He sank down onto the couch, his body folding in on itself, and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "I don't understand why, out of everyone he could have asked, he would ask you to come here. And I don't understand why you actually came."
He laughed then—a small, broken sound.
"This only makes you uncomfortable," he said. "Sitting here in this dark apartment with someone you barely know. Watching me fall apart. That's not—that's not what you signed up for when you became a lawyer. That's not what anyone signs up for."
Beomgyu stood there for a moment, looking at him.
At the way Yeonjun's shoulders curved inward, trying to take up less space. At the way his hands pressed against his eyes like he was trying to hold himself together physically. At the way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, like even breathing had become something he had to think about.
Slowly, carefully, Beomgyu sat down on the couch beside him. Not close—there was still space between them, a careful distance. But close enough that Yeonjun would know he wasn't alone.
They sat in silence.
The nature documentary played on—penguins waddling across ice, their black-and-white bodies stark against the snow. The narrator's voice was calm, British, describing the mating habits of emperor penguins in the same tone other people used to describe the weather.
"It's so awkward," Beomgyu said finally.
Yeonjun let out a sound that was almost a laugh—a short exhale, surprised and reluctant. "I know."
"I didn't even know if I was allowed to sit anywhere else besides here," Beomgyu continued. "I kept thinking, 'Should I sit on the chair? Is the chair his chair? What if he doesn't want me on the couch? What if—'"
Yeonjun laughed again, and this time it was closer to real—still hollow, still tired, but with something underneath it that sounded almost like relief. "See? I knew you—"
"But it wasn't uncomfortable."
Yeonjun stopped.
Beomgyu turned to look at him. In the dim light of the television, Yeonjun's face was all shadows and soft edges—the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the dark circles that seemed to have become a permanent part of him.
"It's hella awkward," Beomgyu said, and there was something almost gentle in his voice now. "But I'm not uncomfortable. Compared to the first time I was in a courtroom—full of people, full of established, well-known lawyers who looked at me like I didn't belong there—this is nothing. This is just…two people sitting on a couch, watching penguins."
Yeonjun bit the inside of his cheek.
"You don't have to do anything," Beomgyu said quietly. "You don't have to talk to me. You don't have to pretend to be okay. You can just…pretend I'm not here. Do whatever you would normally do. I won't bother you."
He paused. Let the words settle.
"Just let me be here."