Chapter Text
There was a peculiar kind of loneliness that only weddings could create.
Not the loneliness of being alone. That was easy. Kim Mingyu had lived alone for nearly four years now,(and all the teenage before that) in an apartment spacious enough for a family of four but occupied by one man, an occasionally thriving monstera plant, and an alarming number of coffee mugs that somehow never found their way back into the kitchen sink before multiplying overnight. The plant, named Monstro for reasons that felt clever at the time, had survived three near-death experiences, two repottings, and one unfortunate incident involving a curious stray cat that had wandered through an open window and decided the leaves looked like a snack.
No.
Wedding loneliness was different.
It was standing in a room full of laughter and realizing life had continued moving forward while no one had thought to tell you. It was watching friends trade stories about parenting struggles and mortgage approvals and the impossible task of finding a daycare that didn't cost more than a semester of university, while you stood there with your drink, nodding along, offering the occasional "that sounds tough" because you genuinely had no frame of reference for any of it.
It was the brief, sharp moment when someone turned to you with bright eyes and asked, "So when's your turn?" and you had to smile and shrug and say something vague about work being busy, because the truth—I don't know, I haven't really thought about it, I'm not sure anyone would want that with me anyway—was far too honest for a wedding reception.
Saturday mornings usually belonged to sunlight.
The first rays slipped through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Mingyu's apartment, painting long rectangles across polished wooden floors that looked like they belonged in an interior design magazine. The light caught the dust motes floating lazily through the air, turning them into tiny golden specks that drifted like forgotten stars.
If Mingyu had been the type of person to notice such things, he might have found it beautiful. Instead, he usually noticed it only when the light landed directly on his face at seven in the morning, forcing him to roll over and bury his head beneath a pillow that had long since lost its fluffiness.
The apartment itself was exactly what people expected from one of Seoul's most promising young architect. Minimalist. Warm oak furniture. Clean white walls decorated with framed sketches of buildings he'd designed over the years—concepts that had never left the page, dreams that existed only in pencil and paper.
Shelves filled with architecture books arranged by height instead of color because, despite what everyone assumed, Kim Mingyu wasn't that obsessive. He had standards, yes, but they were reasonable standards. Functional standards. The kind that "books should be organized" without specifying how, leaving room for interpretation and, apparently, a chaotic height-based system that no one else understood but that made perfect sense to him.
Everything looked intentional. Sophisticated. Effortlessly expensive.
Until someone actually lived in it.
A jacket hung over the dining chair because he'd taken it off there three nights ago and simply... never picked it back up. It was a nice jacket, dark navy wool, the kind that cost more than he'd like to admit. It had been draped there since Wednesday evening, when he'd come home exhausted from a client meeting that had run three hours over schedule. He'd shrugged it off, hung it over the chair with the vague intention of putting it away properly, and then promptly forgotten its existence. Now it sat there like a silent accusation, a monument to his particular brand of procrastination.
Three unopened packages sat beside the entrance. One contained a lamp he'd meant to return nearly two months ago. The return window had expired six weeks earlier, which meant the lamp now belonged to him permanently, a fact he'd accepted with the same resigned sigh he gave to most of his life's small failures. The second package was a set of kitchen knives he'd ordered on impulse during a late-night browsing session.
He did cook—quite well, actually—but the knives had looked nice, sleek and professional, the kind of knives that belonged in a kitchen where someone took their cooking seriously. The ones he currently owned were perfectly functional, if a bit dull, but these had been on sale and he'd been feeling particularly inspired after watching a cooking documentary. The third package remained a mystery. He'd ordered it so long ago that he'd genuinely forgotten what was inside. At this point, opening it felt like a commitment.
A sticky note clung to the refrigerator. Buy batteries. Judging by the layer of dust gathering on the paper, Past Mingyu had left the reminder for Future Mingyu. Future Mingyu had disappointed them both. The smoke detector in the hallway remained battery-less because the beeping had annoyed him at three in the morning one Tuesday.
He'd stood on a chair, pried the device open, removed the offending battery, and told himself I'll replace them tomorrow with the absolute certainty of someone who had no intention of following through. Tomorrow had apparently entered witness protection. The smoke detector now hung open and useless, a hollow plastic shell that beeped only in Mingyu's guilty conscience.
His wardrobe held clothes arranged with military precision. Shirts by color, pants by fabric weight, suits by formality. The shelf above them, however, contained a cardboard box labeled—
Things I'll Sort Out Later.
No one knew what was inside. Not even Mingyu. Especially not Mingyu. The box had survived three apartment moves, each time transferred carefully from one closet to the next with the same promise: I'll open it when I have time. Time had come and gone. Years had passed. The box remained sealed, its contents a mystery that had grown too daunting to unravel. At this point, opening it felt disrespectful, like disturbing a tomb. It had become a relic of a past self, a time capsule from a version of Mingyu who had apparently believed he would eventually get his life together enough to sort through whatever was inside.
People often mistook forgetfulness for sentimentality.
They looked at the old hoodie folded on the highest shelf of his closet and assumed heartbreak. They imagined him keeping it as a memento, a tangible reminder of a love that had slipped through his fingers. They pictured late nights spent holding the fabric, remembering the warmth of the person who had once worn it.
Truthfully? He'd forgotten it existed.
It belonged to Sooyoung. Or had belonged to Sooyoung. His ex-girlfriend. They'd dated for almost three years, a relationship that had felt, at the time, like the natural progression of things. She was smart and funny and kind, and everyone had assumed they'd eventually get married. Mingyu had assumed it too, in the vague, distant way people assume things about futures that feel far away. They'd loved each other honestly. Broken up peacefully. No betrayal. No screaming. Just two people who slowly realized they wanted different futures, who had looked at each other one evening over takeout and acknowledged that the relationship had run its course.
She'd moved overseas. He'd stayed. That was four years ago.
Sometimes he'd wonder how she was doing. In the same way people wonder whatever happened to their favorite teacher from middle school—with quiet curiosity, nothing more. He'd scroll past her social media posts occasionally, see photos of her with her new partner, her new city, her new life. He'd feel a small pang of something that wasn't quite jealousy but wasn't quite indifference either. A recognition that time had passed, that paths had diverged, that two people who had once been everything to each other had become strangers who occasionally liked each other's vacation photos.
The hoodie simply remained because every time he cleaned the closet he'd think—I should text her. Then—No, that's weird. Then—I'll donate it next weekend.
Next weekend never arrived.
Kim Mingyu wasn't bad at letting go. He was bad at finishing things. There was a difference. A very important one. One that would, unbeknownst to him, alter the course of two people's lives.
"Mingyu!"
His head lifted from the blueprint spread across the conference table. He'd been staring at the same staircase for what felt like an eternity, his eyes tracing the lines over and over without actually processing them. The design was sound. He knew it was sound. He'd checked the measurements three times. But something about the placement felt off, like a note in a melody that was technically correct but emotionally wrong.
Across from him, his coworker Chan snapped his fingers twice. "You've been staring at the same staircase for five minutes."
"I've been thinking," Mingyu said, though even he wasn't sure what he'd been thinking about.
"You've been buffering." Chan's voice was teasing, familiar. They'd worked together for three years now, long enough that Chan had learned to read Mingyu's silences the way some people read books.
A laugh rippled around the meeting room. Mingyu rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, a gesture so ingrained it had become muscle memory. His hand found the slight bump where he'd hit his head on a cabinet last week, still tender. He'd forgotten about that too.
"Sorry."
"No, don't apologize," another colleague chimed in, a junior architect named Soojin who had joined the firm six months ago and still looked at Mingyu with something approaching hero worship. "Just tell us whether the emergency exit is staying."
"It is."
"See?" Chan spread his arms dramatically, his voice carrying across the conference room. "He downloaded the answer."
Another round of laughter. Mingyu laughed too, a warm sound that came easily to him. It happened often enough that no one thought much of it anymore. At work, Kim Mingyu was dependable. Creative. Patient. The sort of architect clients specifically requested. He remembered measurements down to the millimeter. Could spot flaws in blueprints from across a room. Yet somehow forgot where he'd parked his own car at least twice a month, wandering through parking garages with a bemused expression while his keys jingled uselessly in his hand.
His coworkers had long accepted that his brain simply prioritized information in bizarre ways.
Load-bearing walls? Perfect memory.
His own Wi-Fi password? Not a chance.
The layout of every building he'd ever designed? Ingrained in his consciousness like a second language.
The location of his favorite coffee shop? He'd walked past it three times last week before remembering it was there
By six in the evening, work had finally ended. The team had wrapped up the emergency exit discussion, resolved the staircase placement, and survived a heated debate about whether the client's request for an open-concept kitchen was structurally feasible. (It wasn't. Mingyu had explained this three times. The client had asked four times. Such was the nature of architecture.)
His phone buzzed before he'd even reached the elevator.
College Group Chat
Seungcheol: Where are you?
Jeonghan: If you're late to the wedding, I'm telling everyone you cried during Titanic.
Mingyu: I did cry.
Jeonghan: THAT'S NOT THE POINT.
He smiled, the first genuine smile that had touched his face all day. Some things never changed. The group chat had existed since their university days, surviving graduation, career changes, relationships, and one memorable incident involving Seungcheol accidentally sending a very private message to the entire group instead of his girlfriend. They'd never let him live it down. The screenshot lived in the chat's permanent memory, dragged out whenever someone needed to remind Seungcheol that his judgment wasn't always sound.
The wedding venue glowed beneath strings of golden lights, the kind that created an instant atmosphere of warmth and celebration. They'd strung them across the garden in careful patterns, threading through the branches of old oaks that had stood on the property for decades.
Music drifted through the air, a string quartet playing something soft and romantic that Mingyu couldn't quite identify. People laughed over champagne glasses, their voices rising and falling in the easy rhythm of old friends reuniting. Someone's toddler sprinted across the lawn wearing tiny dress shoes that squeaked with every determined step, his small legs pumping furiously as he chased a butterfly that had no interest in being caught.
Mingyu watched the child nearly collide with a flower arrangement before an exhausted father swooped in, scooping him up with the practiced reflexes of parenthood. The father laughed, breathless and sweaty, his tie askew and his expression a mixture of love and exhaustion that seemed to define early parenthood. The toddler laughed harder, completely unaware of the near-disaster he'd caused. Everyone laughed. It was the kind of moment that felt scripted, too perfect to be real, except Mingyu knew it wasn't scripted. Life didn't write scripts. Life was messy and chaotic and occasionally delivered moments of pure, unscripted joy.
Mingyu smiled into his drink. The champagne was good, dry and crisp, the kind that cost more than he'd ever pay for himself. He took another sip and watched the garden fill with people, each person carrying their own story, their own joys and sorrows and secrets.
Life really had a funny way of moving forward.
One by one, old friends found him. Each conversation followed a familiar pattern—warm greetings, quick updates, the inevitable questions.
Someone had just bought their first apartment, a tiny studio in a neighborhood that had been sketchy five years ago but was now trendy. They showed him photos on their phone, their excitement palpable as they swiped through images of exposed brick and a kitchen that was technically a wall with appliances attached.
Someone else announced they were moving to Canada, a decision that had come from nowhere and now consumed their every thought. "It's just time for a change, you know?" they said, and Mingyu nodded because he did know, even if he'd never made such a dramatic change himself.
One couple proudly passed around ultrasound photos, the grainy black-and-white image showing something that was either a baby or a very small alien. "Due in October," they announced, their faces glowing with the particular happiness of expecting parents. "We're so excited."
Another friend complained about daycare fees with the weary expression of someone who'd accepted financial ruin as a personality trait. "It's more than our rent," they said, shaking their head. "How is that possible? How is daycare more than rent? We're paying someone to watch our child for eight hours and it costs as much as a mortgage."
Every conversation ended the same way. A pause. A tilted head. The question that always came, inevitable as sunrise.
"What about you, Mingyu?"
"Oh, work's been busy." He said it with a smile, the same smile he'd perfected over years of deflecting. It was warm and genuine-looking, even when he felt anything but.
"You still single?"
"Yeah."
"You should get back out there."
"I know." Another smile. Another deflection.
He always answered with a grin. Not because the question bothered him—it didn't, not really. The question was fine. The question was expected. What bothered him was the look that followed, the slight pity in their eyes, the way they quickly changed the subject as if they'd accidentally brought up something painful. Being single wasn't the problem. He didn't mind being single. He'd been single for four years now, long enough that it felt like his natural state. The problem was realizing everyone else had quietly entered new chapters while yours still looked suspiciously like the previous one.
That lingered.
By the time the reception ended, the city had settled beneath a cool spring night. The temperature had dropped sharply after sunset, that particular springtime chill that felt pleasant after a warm day but quickly turned uncomfortable once the alcohol warmth faded. A few friends insisted on one last round of drinks. Then another. Then someone ordered soju. Then beer. Then shots because someone shouted, "We're only young once!" Which, considering half the table had toddlers waiting at home, felt increasingly debatable. The toddlers weren't going to care about their parents' youth. They were going to care about breakfast at seven in the morning, regardless of how many shots their parents had consumed the night before.
Mingyu wasn't drunk enough to forget his own name. He'd learned his limits years ago, after one particularly disastrous night that his friends still occasionally brought up for entertainment. He was drunk enough, however, to believe fresh air sounded like an excellent idea. The bar had grown too loud, too hot, too full of voices that all seemed to be speaking at once. He needed space. He needed quiet. He needed to stand somewhere that didn't smell like spilled beer and expensive perfume.
round one in the morning, he stumbled out of the taxi in front of his apartment building. The city hummed softly around him, a sound that had become familiar background noise. His cheeks tingled pleasantly from the alcohol, his skin warm despite the cool air. He fumbled with his keys for a moment, the metal slippery in his fingers, before finally managing to unlock the main entrance.
He glanced upward as he stepped into the lobby. The sky was cloudy. No stars visible, just the orange glow of city lights reflecting off low clouds. Somewhere above, the moon was probably shining, hidden from view by the accumulated haze of Seoul's nightlife.
"Hm."
For reasons that would never make sense even to himself later, he decided the rooftop would have a better view. Maybe it was the alcohol talking. Maybe it was the lingering melancholy from the wedding, the sense of being left behind that had settled in his chest like a stone. Maybe he just wanted to see the city from above, to remind himself that he existed in the midst of something larger.
The elevator carried him to the top floor, its doors sliding open with a soft chime. The hallway was silent, the kind of silence that felt heavy and expectant. He walked to the rooftop door, the familiar metal handle cool beneath his palm. The door creaked open, a sound he'd heard a hundred times before. A rush of cool air greeted him, carrying the scent of rain somewhere distant.
He walked to the edge, hands tucked into his coat pockets, breathing deeply. The alcohol fog began thinning beneath the cold, his thoughts sharpening as the night air cleared his head. Below, Seoul glittered endlessly. Cars flowed like ribbons of light along the highways, their headlights creating rivers of gold and red. Apartment windows glowed warm against the darkness, each one a tiny universe of its own. Somewhere down there, people were sleeping, or working, or fighting, or making love, or watching late-night television they'd regret in the morning. The city was alive, breathing, pulsing with a million stories happening simultaneously
He stayed there for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Long enough to feel pleasantly small beneath the endless stretch of night. Long enough for the last traces of alcohol buzz to fade, replaced by the clean clarity of cold air. Long enough to wonder, briefly, if this was what it felt like to be truly alone.
Then he turned to leave.
He pushed the heavy metal door.
Nothing.
He frowned. Pushed harder. The handle refused to move, the latch caught in a way that felt wrong, like it had clicked into place while he wasn't looking.
"...Huh."
Another shove. Still nothing. The door didn't even rattle. It sat there, solid and unyielding, like it had decided to become part of the building's structure.
His smile faded. The warmth that had been blooming in his chest vanished, replaced by a creeping cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. He rattled the handle harder, his fingers gripping the metal with increasing desperation. The sound echoed across the empty rooftop, sharp and alarming in the silence.
"Oh."
A pause. His heart began to beat faster, a steady thump-thump-thump that seemed to grow louder with each passing second.
"...Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
The realization settled slowly, like cold water seeping through fabric. The rooftop door had automatically locked behind him. Of course it had. It had been installed precisely for that purpose, to prevent anyone from accessing the roof without proper authorization. The system was designed for safety. The system had worked perfectly.
And he—
Kim Mingyu, twenty-eight years old, architect, functioning adult on paper, a man who had designed buildings that housed hundreds of people, who had navigated complex structural challenges and temperamental clients and impossible deadlines—
Was stranded on the roof of his own apartment building.
Fuck.
He tried the handle again, harder this time, with the desperate energy of someone refusing to accept reality. The door remained closed. The lock remained locked. His options, he realized with growing dread, were extremely limited.
His phone. He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the familiar shape. One bar of signal. Maybe enough for a call. Maybe not.
He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb moving faster than his thoughts. Friends. Coworkers. Family. The building manager, whose name he couldn't remember because he'd never actually needed to call them before. His parents, who lived three hours away and would panic if he called at 1 AM.
His thumb stopped.
Jeon Wonwoo liked nights.
Not because they were beautiful. People always assumed that. "You stay up because you like the stars?" No. He stayed up because nights were honest. The city finally stopped pretending it wasn't exhausted. Office lights blinked out one by one. Coffee shops stacked chairs onto tables. The traffic that spent all day screaming at itself became a distant hum. There was something comforting about a city that had finally admitted it needed to rest.
Wonwoo understood that feeling.
His apartment was smaller. Older. Everything had a place. His bookshelf stood against the living room wall, almost embarrassingly organized. Novels filled one shelf. History books another. A row of video games sat beneath them, lined up with unnecessary precision. A single fern rested beside the window. Unlike most houseplants, this one had survived. Mostly because Wonwoo treated watering it like brushing his teeth. Same day. Same time. Every week. Routine was easier than remembering.
He had finished work around eight. Picked up takeout on the way home. Read three chapters of a mystery novel. Played exactly two matches of an online game. Lost both. Turned off his computer with the quiet dignity of someone accepting defeat. By twelve thirty, he'd brushed his teeth, washed the dishes, and changed into an oversized black hoodie.
His phone rested face down on the bedside table. Silent. Exactly the way he liked it.
At 1:14 a.m., it rang.
Wonwoo frowned. Unknown Number.
He stared at the screen. Spam. Probably. He almost let it ring out. His thumb even hovered over the ignore button. Instead, he answered.
"...Hello?"
Nothing. Only wind. Strong enough that it crackled through the speaker.
"...Hello?"
Still nothing. He pulled the phone away, checking whether the call had disconnected. No. The timer continued climbing. Six seconds. Seven. Eight.
Then—
"...Hi."
The voice sounded young. Male. Breathing slightly heavier than normal.
"...Sorry."
Wonwoo blinked. "...Do I know you?"
"...I..." Silence. "...I don't think so."
"….."
"….."
"Then why are you calling me?"
Another pause. The stranger sighed. Not dramatically. More like someone realizing they had made a spectacular mistake.
"...That's actually a really good question."
Wonwoo looked at the ceiling. Somewhere out there, the universe had selected him specifically for whatever this was. Lucky him.
"...Wrong number?"
"I..." The man hesitated. "I think maybe."
"...Okay."
"….."
"….."
"...Could you... maybe not hang up yet?"
Wonwoo didn't answer immediately. There it was. The sentence. The one that made something in his chest tighten just enough to keep his thumb away from the red button. The voice wasn't slurred. It wasn't aggressive. It wasn't trying to sell him insurance. It sounded... embarrassed. And underneath the embarrassment—afraid. Not screaming-for-help afraid. Just... "I've landed myself in a situation that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore."
Wonwoo sat up. "...What's going on?"
The man inhaled slowly. "I'm stuck."
"..."
"...Where?"
"...On my apartment rooftop."
Wonwoo blinked once. "...What?"
"I know."
"..."
"I know."
"...How?"
"I made..." A long sigh. "...Several poor decisions."
For the first time that night, Wonwoo laughed. It escaped before he could stop it. Just one short breath through his nose.
"...Several?"
"I'd say... five."
"Five decisions?"
"Minimum."
Despite himself, Wonwoo smiled. "...Have you called building security?"
"I did."
"No answer?"
"No answer."
"The emergency maintenance number?"
"I forgot that existed."
"..."
"..."
"I remembered after I called you."
Wonwoo pinched the bridge of his nose. "...Then call them."
"I did."
"..."
"They're not answering either."
The wind howled through the phone again. This time Wonwoo noticed something. The stranger was shivering. Not dramatically. His breathing kept hitching every few seconds. The rooftop must've been freezing.
"...How long have you been up there?"
"...Maybe..." A pause. "...Forty minutes?"
"...And your phone battery?"
"...Four percent."
"..."
"...Three."
"..."
"...It went down while we were talking."
Wonwoo looked toward the digital clock beside his bed. 1:22 a.m. He could simply hang up. The logical part of his brain presented an excellent argument. You don't know this man. You don't know if anything he's saying is true. He could be lying. He could be dangerous. This is how every crime podcast starts.
Instead, he asked—"Which apartment building?"
The answer came so quickly it was almost pathetic. Like the man had been hoping someone would ask.
Wonwoo typed the address into his phone. Twelve minutes away. By motorcycle.
"...Listen." He stood, already walking toward the hallway. "I'm going to call your building's emergency line myself."
"...Okay."
"If someone answers, great."
"...Okay."
"If nobody answers..." He opened the shoe cabinet. "...I'll come."
Silence. Long enough that Wonwoo checked whether the call had dropped.
Then—"...You'd actually do that?"
"I didn't say I would."
"You literally just did."
"...I'm reconsidering."
The stranger laughed. It was quiet. Tired. But genuine. "...Fair."
Wonwoo hung up.
The apartment became silent again. He stared at his phone. Then at the helmet hanging beside the front door. Then back at his phone.
"...What the fuck am I doing?"
No one answered. Which was probably for the best.
He called the emergency maintenance number. No answer. Again. Nothing. A third time. Straight to voicemail.
"...Seriously?"
He searched for another number. The management office. Closed. Building security. Unavailable. Wonwoo looked at the address again. Then at the clock. Then sighed the sigh of a man who knew he was about to make a decision that tomorrow morning would sound utterly insane.
"...Fine." He grabbed his helmet. "If I get murdered..." The visor clicked shut. "...My mother is never letting me hear the end of it."
He locked his apartment. Walked downstairs. The cool night air greeted him. His black motorcycle waited exactly where he'd left it that morning. Reliable. Predictable. Unlike literally everything else that had happened in the last ten minutes.
He swung one leg over it. Started the engine. The familiar vibration settled beneath him. Somehow, the routine of putting on gloves and adjusting mirrors made the entire situation feel slightly less absurd. Slightly. Not much.
As he pulled away from the curb, one thought repeated itself over and over.
I am either helping someone... or making the single worst decision of my life.
The convenience store was still open.
Wonwoo almost drove past it. The glowing sign caught his eye, and he slowed, his motorcycle rumbling beneath him. He checked the time. 1:28 a.m. The rooftop stranger had been up there for nearly an hour now. Forty minutes of shivering in the cold, of watching his phone battery drain, of hoping someone—anyone—would answer.
He's probably freezing.
Wonwoo pulled over.
The store was empty except for a bored cashier who barely looked up as he walked in. Wonwoo grabbed two cups of hot chocolate from the dispenser, the kind that came in paper cups with plastic lids. Not fancy. Not even particularly good. But warm. That's what mattered.
He paid quickly, tucked the cups carefully into his jacket pockets, and walked back to his bike.
If this is how I die... at least I'll die with hot chocolate.
The thought made him snort. He was definitely losing his mind.
The apartment building loomed ahead, nondescript and ordinary. Wonwoo parked his motorcycle in the visitor spot, killing the engine. The sudden silence felt heavier than the roar of the bike. He pulled off his helmet, ran a hand through his hair—it was getting long, probably needed a trim—and walked toward the entrance.
The lobby door was unlocked. Lucky break. He slipped inside, his footsteps echoing across the tiled floor. The building was quiet. Too quiet. The hum of the elevator. The distant drip of a faucet somewhere. The soft buzz of the fluorescent lights above.
Wonwoo found the stairs and started climbing.
The rooftop door was heavy. He pushed it open with his shoulder, the metal groaning in protest. The night air hit him immediately, cold and sharp. And there, huddled against the wall near the edge, was a figure.
Wonwoo had pictured someone older. Someone more... weathered. The voice on the phone had sounded young, yes, but not this young. The man who sat crumpled against the concrete was tall—Wonwoo could tell even from here, even with him sitting down. Long legs stretched out awkwardly, arms wrapped around his knees, dark hair falling across his forehead. He was shivering, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air.
When Mingyu looked up, Wonwoo's first thought was: He's beautiful.
His second thought was: What the hell is wrong with me?
"Hey," Wonwoo said, his voice cutting through the silence. He walked forward, his boots echoing on the concrete. "You the one who called?"
Mingyu blinked up at him, eyes wide. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. Lost. Confused. Slightly relieved. "...Yeah. That's me."
Wonwoo crouched down, pulling one of the hot chocolate cups from his pocket. The warmth seeped through the paper, grounding him. He held it out.
"Here. Drink this."
Mingyu stared at the cup like it was a foreign object. Then, slowly, he reached out and took it. His fingers brushed against Wonwoo's—freezing cold, trembling slightly.
"You brought me... hot chocolate?"
"It was either that or coffee. Coffee at 1 AM seemed cruel."
Mingyu's lips twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close. "Thanks." He wrapped his hands around the cup, savoring the warmth. The paper crinkled under his grip. "I didn't expect..."
"Someone to actually show up?"
"...Yeah."
Wonwoo shrugged, settling onto the concrete beside him. "Me neither, honestly." He pulled out his own cup, popping the lid open. Steam rose into the cold air. "But here we are."
Mingyu took a tentative sip. The hot chocolate was sweet, comforting. It spread warmth through his chest, chasing away some of the cold that had settled deep into his bones. "You didn't have to come."
"I know."
"I could have been anyone."
"I know."
Wonwoo didn't say anything. Just took a sip of his own drink.
Mingyu watched him for a moment. The stranger—Wonwoo—looked calm. Unbothered. Like this was a completely normal thing to be doing at 1:40 in the morning. His face was all sharp lines, high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass. His eyes were dark behind the glasses, unreadable.
He's kind of...
Mingyu stopped the thought before it could go anywhere.
They sat in silence for a while. The wind had died down slightly, and the clouds were beginning to thin. Patches of sky peeked through, revealing faint pinpricks of light. Stars. Not many—the city lights drowned most of them out—but enough to remind Mingyu that there was something beyond all this concrete and neon.
"Sky's clearing up," Wonwoo observed.
"Yeah." Mingyu tilted his head back, staring upward. "Not many stars, though."
"Seoul. What do you expect?"
"Fair point."
Another silence. Mingyu sipped his hot chocolate, feeling the warmth spread through him. It was nice. Calming. The panic that had been clawing at his chest had faded, replaced by something quieter.
Then Wonwoo moved. His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, and he pulled out a small pack of cigarettes. Mingyu watched as he tapped one out, placed it between his lips, and flicked a lighter to life. The flame briefly illuminated his face—those sharp cheekbones, that unreadable expression.
"You smoke?" Mingyu asked. It was a stupid question. Obvious. But he didn't know what else to say.
"Sometimes." Wonwoo took a drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing orange. He exhaled, smoke curling into the cold air. "When I'm thinking."
"What are you thinking about?"
Wonwoo glanced at him. There was something unreadable in his gaze. "Right now? I'm wondering how a grown man gets himself locked on a rooftop."
Mingyu winced. "It's... a long story."
"I've got time." Wonwoo gestured vaguely with his cigarette. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."
Mingyu looked down at his hot chocolate. The paper cup was growing warm in his hands. He thought about the wedding. About the laughter and the champagne and the way everyone's lives seemed to be moving forward without him.
"I went to a wedding tonight," he said finally. "An old friend from university. It was..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Nice. It was nice."
"But?"
Mingyu's grip tightened on the cup. "But everyone else is moving on. Getting married. Having kids. Buying houses." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I'm still here. Still the same. Still single. Still living alone in an apartment that's too big for one person."
Wonwoo didn't say anything. He just listened, taking another drag of his cigarette.
"And I don't mind being single," Mingyu continued, the words spilling out now. "I really don't. But when you're standing in a room full of people who have everything figured out... it's hard not to feel like you're falling behind. Like everyone else got the memo and you somehow missed it."
"So you came up here to escape."
"Something like that." Mingyu gestured vaguely at the rooftop. "Fresh air. Quiet. A chance to breathe."
Wonwoo nodded slowly. "Makes sense."
"Does it?"
"More than you'd think."
Mingyu looked at him, curious. "What about you? Why were you awake at 1 AM?"
"Couldn't sleep." Wonwoo shrugged. "It happens."
"You don't seem like the type to answer random phone calls."
"Oh I'm not." Wonwoo took another drag of his cigarette. "I almost didn't answer."
"What made you came?"
Wonwoo was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "The wind. I heard the wind, and I knew you were outside. And I figured..." He shrugged again. "If I was stuck on a rooftop at 1 AM, I'd want someone to answer too."
Mingyu didn't know what to say to that. His chest felt tight all of a sudden. He looked away, staring out at the glittering city below.
"Can I ask you something weird?" Mingyu said suddenly.
"I feel like this entire night has been weird. What's one more thing?"
Mingyu laughed quietly. "How old are you?"
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. "That's your weird question?"
"I told you it was weird." Mingyu shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "You just look... I don't know. Young. I figured maybe early twenties? Twenty-three, twenty-four tops. You have that—" He gestured vaguely at Wonwoo's face. "—that thing. Where you look like you haven't been worn down by life yet."
Wonwoo stared at him. Then he laughed. A full, genuine laugh that echoed across the rooftop.
"What?" Mingyu blinked. "What's so funny?"
"Me?" Wonwoo pointed at himself. "You think I'm in my early twenties?"
"Yes?"
"Oh, that's—" Wonwoo shook his head, still chuckling. "That's hilarious."
"Why is that hilarious?"
"I thought you were the younger one." Wonwoo took a drag of his cigarette, smirking. "From your voice, from the way you talk. I figured maybe twenty-one, twenty-two."
Mingyu's jaw dropped. "What? No. I'm twenty-eight."
"You're twenty-eight?"
"Yes! How old are you?"
Wonwoo's smirk widened. "Guess."
"Don't do that."
"Guess."
"Fine." Mingyu squinted at him. "Twenty-five?"
"Nope."
"Twenty-six?"
"Getting warmer."
"Twenty-seven?"
Wonwoo shook his head.
"Okay, I have no idea. Just tell me."
Wonwoo took a slow, deliberate drag of his cigarette, clearly enjoying Mingyu's impatience. Then he exhaled, the smoke curling around his face.
"I'm thirty-four," he said. "Turning thirty-five in July."
Mingyu's eyes went wide. "Thirty-four?"
"Thirty-four."
"You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
Mingyu sputtered. "You—I—but you look—" He gestured helplessly at Wonwoo's face. "You look young! You have good skin! You don't have any wrinkles!"
"Thank you for the detailed assessment of my skin condition."
"I'm not—that's not—" Mingyu groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Oh my god. I just told a thirty-four-year-old he looks like he's in his early twenties."
"To be fair, I told a twenty-eight-year-old he sounds like he's in his early twenties. We're even."
"We're not even! You're six years older than me!"
"And yet you thought I was younger." Wonwoo's smirk was infuriating. "I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."
"Oh my god." Mingyu's face was burning. "I can't believe this. I've been—I've been thinking of you as some college student this entire time."
"A college student. Right." Wonwoo took another drag of his cigarette, clearly amused. "And I've been thinking of you as some fresh graduate who just moved to the city."
Mingyu groaned again. "This is so embarrassing."
"Embarrassing? I'm flattered." Wonwoo's voice was calm, amused. "It's not every day someone mistakes me for being a decade younger than I actually am."
Mingyu peeked through his fingers. "You're really not mad?"
"Mad? Why would I be mad? You just told me I look good for my age."
"I did not say that!"
"You basically did."
"I did NOT."
Wonwoo laughed again. It was a low, warm sound that made something in Mingyu's chest flutter. "Relax. I'm not offended. If anything, I'm more curious about why you're so embarrassed."
Mingyu lowered his hands, his cheeks still pink. "I'm not embarrassed."
"You're blushing."
"It's cold! My cheeks are red from the cold!"
"Right." Wonwoo's eyes sparkled with amusement. "The cold."
Mingyu glared at him. "You're insufferable."
"I've been told." Wonwoo stubbed out his cigarette against the concrete, then tucked the butt back into the pack. "And you're—" He paused, tilting his head as he studied Mingyu. "I don't know your name yet, actually."
Mingyu blinked. "Oh. Right." He extended his hand. "Kim Mingyu."
Wonwoo looked at Mingyu's hand, then back up at his face. A small smile tugged at his lips.
"Jeon Wonwoo." He took Mingyu's hand, his grip firm and warm. The contact sent a jolt up Mingyu's arm. "Nice to officially meet you."
"Yeah." Mingyu's voice came out slightly breathless. He cleared his throat. "You too."
They held the handshake for a second too long. Wonwoo's hand was warm, his palm calloused in a way that suggested manual work. Or maybe just life. Mingyu didn't know why he noticed these things. He didn't know why he cared.
He pulled his hand back, looking away.
"So," Wonwoo said, leaning back on his hands. "You were saying. About the wedding. About feeling left behind."
Mingyu was grateful for the change of subject. "Yeah. That."
"I get it." Wonwoo's voice was quieter now. "My mom's been on my case for years. 'When are you getting married? When are you giving me grandchildren?'" He mimicked her voice, pitching it higher. "I want at least five or six, Wonwoo. At least five."
Mingyu laughed despite himself. "Five or six?"
"Five or six," Wonwoo confirmed. "She has very strong opinions about family planning."
"That's intense."
"It's exhausting." Wonwoo shook his head. "I keep telling her I haven't found the right person yet. She keeps telling me I'm not looking hard enough."
"And you're not?"
Wonwoo was quiet for a moment. "It's complicated."
"How so?"
Wonwoo looked at him. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of something Mingyu couldn't read. "I swing both ways," he said simply. "And my ideal type is... hard to find."
Mingyu blinked. "You're bi?"
"Does that surprise you?"
"No, I just—" Mingyu paused. He hadn't expected that. But it wasn't a bad thing. It was just... information. "No, I get it. Finding the right person isn't easy. Especially when you're not looking for just one type."
Wonwoo nodded. "Exactly."
They sat in silence again. Mingyu's mind was racing, and he didn't know why. Wonwoo's confession shouldn't have affected him. It was just a fact about a stranger. He didn't even know this man. They'd met less than an hour ago.
So why do I feel so weird?
Mingyu opened his mouth, a small pout forming not really thinking. "I mean, boys won't give her a grandchild."
The words hung in the air.
Mingyu's brain caught up to his mouth a moment too late. He froze, his cheeks flaming.
He stared at his hot chocolate, refusing to look at Wonwoo. The silence stretched. He could feel Wonwoo's gaze on him, and he wanted the rooftop to open up and swallow him whole.
Then Wonwoo spoke.
His voice was low. Measured. There was something in it that made Mingyu's stomach flip.
"Gotta try hard enough."
The words were simple. But the way Wonwoo said them—the way his voice dropped, the way the words seemed to curl around Mingyu's ears—made him feel like he'd just been doused in something warm.
Mingyu's head snapped down toward his drink. He felt heat creeping up his neck, spreading across his cheeks. His face was burning. He could feel it. He stared at the paper cup like it held all the answers to the universe.
What the hell?
He didn't like boys. He'd never liked boys. He'd dated Sooyoung for three years. He'd had crushes on girls throughout university, throughout high school. He liked girls.
So why did Wonwoo's voice make me feel like this?
Why did the words—gotta try hard enough—linger in his head like an echo?
Why did he suddenly feel like he couldn't breathe?
He risked a glance at Wonwoo from under his lashes. Wonwoo was looking at him, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips. His eyes were dark and knowing.
He knows, Mingyu thought. He knows exactly what he did to me.
He looked away again, his cheeks burning.
This was fine.
Everything was fine.
He was definitely not having a crisis.
Nope.
Not at all.
Wonwoo stood up, brushing off his pants. "Come on," he said. "Let's get you off this rooftop before you freeze to death."
Mingyu didn't move. He was still processing. Still trying to figure out why his heart was beating so fast.
"You coming?" Wonwoo's voice was patient. Gentle. It made something in Mingyu's chest ache.
"Yeah," he managed. His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm coming."
He stood up, his legs stiff from sitting for so long. Wonwoo was standing by the door, waiting. His silhouette was outlined against the faint glow of the city lights. Tall. Brooding. Unreadable.
Mingyu walked toward him, his hot chocolate still clutched in his hands.
"Thanks," he said quietly. "For coming. For the drink. For..."
"Don't mention it." Wonwoo held the door open. "I'd do it again."
Mingyu stepped through the doorway, his shoulder brushing against Wonwoo's as he passed. The contact was brief. Barely a second. But Mingyu felt it everywhere. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.
I am so fucked.