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The party was happening in Jeongwoo’s apartment, which currently smelled too much like stale soda, melted ice, and whatever citrus-scented cleaning spray he’d used to wipe down the counters twenty minutes before guests arrived.
Shuaibo was leaning against the doorframe connecting the narrow hallway to the living room, holding a plastic cup of iced tea. Across the room, someone was aggressively arguing that a song from four years ago was an underappreciated masterpiece, while two people near the TV were trying to coordinate a dance move that was ninety percent guaranteed to take down Jeongwoo's floor lamp.
It was supposed to be a birthday party for Han, but the guest of honor had vanished.
Shuaibo glanced toward the couch.
Empty.
He looked down at his watch. He'd gotten distracted when a friend struck up a conversation with him, and they’d both gotten lost in the swirl of gossip. Ten minutes ago, Han had been sitting right there in an oversized shirt that kept slipping off one collarbone, casually picking seeds out of a watermelon slice while listening to a story he clearly wasn't processing. Now, there was only an empty paper plate and a tiny, perfectly constructed triangle made of watermelon seeds on the coffee table.
Shuaibo swallowed down the familiar, tight twitch in his neck. It’s fine, he told himself. He’s probably in the bathroom.
Five minutes passed. A loud thud followed by collective groaning could be heard; it was the two people failing the dance move in a predictable fashion. Still no sign of Han.
Shuaibo drifted towards the kitchen. It was the natural ecosystem for party refugees, but right now it was populated only by Jeongwoo, who was methodically trying to balance a beer can on top of an upside-down paper cup, and Steven, leaning against the fridge while scrolling through his phone.
"Have either of you seen the birthday boy?" Shuaibo asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
Jeongwoo didn't look up from his tower. "Nope."
"I saw him like fifteen minutes ago," Shuaibo said, shifting his weight. "He didn't pass by here and say anything?"
"Shuaibo," Steven said, looking up with a small, sympathetic smirk that Shuaibo immediately disliked. "It’s Han. He probably got distracted by a shiny object or followed a nice smell."
"He doesn't just wander off without saying anything," Shuaibo insisted, even though he knew, with embarrassing certainty, that Han did precisely that at least twice a week.
"Remember the convenience store in Hongdae?" Jeongwoo pointed out, delicately placing a second can on his stack. "We almost called a missing person's report before we checked the alley behind the building. He was standing there teaching a middle-aged clerk how to do a TikTok dance."
"That was different. The clerk asked him to."
"He didn't ask him, Shuaibo. Han just saw him watching reels and took his phone away." Jeongwoo tapped the top can. It wobbled, then stabilized. "Check the balcony. Or the floor under the coat rack. Sometimes he sits down to tie his shoe and somehow gets entertained by ants or something like that."
Shuaibo rubbed his forehead. "Right. Thanks."
He left the kitchen, his mind already spinning off into dangerous, hyper-specific territory.
The thing about Han was that his brain operated on a spatial logic completely unmoored from the rest of humanity. Normal people moved from Point A to Point B because they had a clear task. Han moved because he saw an interesting shadow, or because he thought he heard a dog, or because he decided, with sudden and unshakeable conviction, that he needed to inspect a piece of furniture.
What if he'd opened the wrong door in Jeongwoo's place? What if he’d wandered into a back bedroom, found an open closet, and somehow gotten stuck inside it? It wasn't impossible. Last month, he’d managed to lock himself inside an empty practice room because he tried to turn the doorknob with his elbow while holding two iced lattes.
Or worseㅡwhat if someone had asked him for help? Han had an alarming lack of boundaries when it came to being useful. If a stranger asked him to carry a heavy box, Han would follow them three blocks down the street, assist them in moving their entire apartment, and then look genuinely surprised when he realized he didn't know where he was anymore.
What if someone dragged him somewhere to talk to him? Shuaibo thought, a sharp spike of irritation flaring in his chest. What if someone was hitting on him?
Han was terrible at realizing when people were hitting on him. He usually just assumed everyone was being unusually polite. Someone could hand him a napkin with their phone number written on it, and Han would use it to wipe his hands before saying, "Thank you, your handwriting is really neat."
Shuaibo’s stride quickened as he walked down the narrow back corridor toward the spare storage room where everyone had dumped their extra jackets. The noise from the main party softened here, muffled bass thumping through the floorboards.
At the end of the hall, the door to the spare room was slightly ajar, casting a warm streak of yellow light across the floor.
Shuaibo stopped outside, taking a breath to steady his ridiculous heart rate. He mentally prepared himself for whatever he was about to see.
He pushed the door open.
It was a small dining nook attached to the back of Jeongwoo's kitchen, currently acting as a quiet holding area for the party food and coat pile.
Standing by the small wooden table in the center of the room was Han.
He was entirely alone.
On the table sat his birthday cakeㅡa thick, elaborate affair dripping with pastel pink frosting and decorative white piping, clearly placed back here to keep it safe until it was time to blow out the candles later in the evening.
Han was leaning slightly over the table. He had a butter knife in his left hand, balanced loosely between two fingers. His right hand was raised near his mouth, his index finger thoroughly coated in strawberry frosting, which he was currently licking off with absolute, serene focus.
Shuaibo stood frozen in the doorway.
Han slowly chewed, swallowed, and then blinked, his gaze finally drifting toward the door. When he saw Shuaibo, his expression lit up with that quiet, effortless familiarity he reserved almost exclusively for the older.
"Oh," Han said, his voice soft against the quiet room. "There you are."
Shuaibo took a slow, deep breath, letting the sheer absurdity of the last twenty minutes wash over him. He looked at Han, the knife, then at the cake.
Upon closer inspection, there was a remarkably clean, finger-shaped trench running straight through the decorative border on the left side of the cake.
"Hani," Shuaibo said slowly, his voice tight. "What are you doing?"
"Eating," Han replied simply. He gestured toward the cake with the knife in his left hand. "It's strawberry flavored."
"I can see that. But that's your birthday cake. People are out there getting ready to sing to you. It hasn't been lit or cut yet."
"I didn't cut it," Han pointed out reasonably. He dipped his right finger back into the side of the cake, precisely widening the trench by another millimeter, and brought it back to his lips. "I’m just smoothing out the edge. It was lopsided."
"You're eating the decoration."
"It’s going to get squished anyway when they put the candles in," Han said, tilting his head. He stepped back slightly, inspecting the damaged cake with the critical eye of an artist reviewing a canvas. "See? Now it’s symmetrical."
Shuaibo closed his eyes for three long seconds. He thought about the three different emergency scenarios he’d mapped out in his head over the last fifteen minutes.
When he opened his eyes, Han was watching him, a subtle, knowing twitch at the corner of his lips.
"You were looking for me," Han said. It wasn't a question.
"No," Shuaibo lied instantly, crossing his arms and stepping into the room, leaning back against the closed door. "I came looking for the bathroom."
"The bathroom is by the front entrance."
"I got lost."
"In Jeongwoo's place?"
"It's a confusing layout," Shuaibo snapped, though there was no real bite to it.
Han smiled softly, setting the butter knife down on a paper napkin. He wiped his hands, then took a step toward Shuaibo, stopping just close enough that the faint scent of sweet strawberries drifted between them.
"You always do this," Han murmured, looking up through his fringe.
"Do what?"
"Panic."
"I don't panic," Shuaibo said, looking anywhere but at Han's faceㅡfocusing instead on the tiny speck of pink frosting caught right at the curve of Han’s upper lip. "I just... monitor. Someone has to make sure the birthday boy doesn't accidentally join a cult or wander into traffic."
"I'm very careful," Han protested, taking another half-step forward until his chest was nearly brushing Shuaibo’s sweater. He reached out, his thumb casually catching the edge of Shuaibo’s sleeve, pulling lightly. "Besides, I knew you'd come find me."
Shuaibo looked down at the hand holding his sleeve. The warmth of it hummed right through the fabric. His heart, which had finally slowed down from his frantic search, gave an entirely different, inconvenient thud in his chest.
"You've just ruined your cake."
"I improved it," Han corrected softly. He tilted his head, his thumb lightly stroking the fabric of Shuaibo's wrist. "Do you want some? It's my birthday, I'm allowed to share early. The bottom layer is really good."
Shuaibo stared at himㅡat the faint, teasing light in his eyes, at the absolute lack of remorse, at the sheer, exasperating reality of standing in a dark back room with a guy who made no sense at all, yet somehow occupied every square inch of his mind.
He let out a long, quiet exhale, his posture finally breaking into a defeated slump.
"If anyone asks," Shuaibo said, reaching out to gently brush his thumb against the corner of Han's lip, clearing the tiny spot of frosting, "a cat got in through the window."
Han’s smile broadened, bright and entirely unfiltered, as he leaned into the touch for a fraction of a second.
"Deal," Han whispered. "Now give me your hand, there's still extra on the side."