Chapter Text
Autumn shifts into winter almost overnight. The vibrant oranges and reds that once dot the streets fade away, replaced by stark branches and a blanket of pristine white snow. Hao’s boots crunch against the icy ground as he steps out of the car, the frosty air biting at his cheeks. His breath comes out in visible puffs, and he instinctively pulls his coat tighter around himself, muttering under his breath.
Why does it have to be so cold?
The Sung family home stands in the distance, a cozy haven amidst the frost. Warm lights spill out of the windows, casting a soft glow on the snow-covered front yard. A neatly shoveled pathway cuts through the snow, guiding Hao to the front steps like an invitation. Hao feels a pang of bittersweet nostalgia as he drags his suitcase along the cleared path. This house has been a second home for most of his childhood—a place filled with warmth and laughter. But now, it feels like stepping into the past, a fleeting glimpse of a simpler time he isn’t sure he can reclaim.
The door swings open before he can knock.
“Haohao!” Mrs. Sung’s familiar voice greets him, bright and welcoming as ever. She hurries out, her cheeks flushing from the cold, and envelops him in a warm hug. “Oh, it’s been too long! Look at you—you should have come to see me sooner!”
Hao smiles faintly, her enthusiasm the same as always. “It’s good to see you, Mama.”
Her face lights up even more, her hands reaching up to cup his cheeks as she looks him over. “Oh, Haohao, you’re too thin! Have you been eating properly? Never mind, I’ll fix that right away.”
Hao shakes his head dramatically, mock fear on his face. Typical mom behavior—she’s already planning to feed him, whether he needs it or not.
“You must be freezing, go inside. Jiwoong’s waiting for you,” Mrs. Sung says with a smile, gesturing toward the warmth of the house. “Your mom and I will chat for a bit.”
His gaze shifts toward his own mother, standing a few steps away. Mrs. Sung has pulled her into a hug as well, and from the corner of his eye, Hao notices something—her expression is soft but tinged with sadness. The sight makes his chest tighten. Mrs. Sung grips his mother’s arm as if trying to comfort her, but his mother’s shoulders sag slightly under the weight of her friend’s sympathy. Hao swallows hard and turns away, dragging his suitcase into the house.
Jiwoong greets him with the same unbridled energy he always has.
“Finally!” Jiwoong exclaims, practically bouncing down the hallway to meet him. “I thought you were never going to get here. I’ve been waiting forever, man! We have so much to do—this whole holiday is going to be epic. Drinking, eating, and just chilling. You’re not allowed to leave until we’ve done everything we discussed over the phone.”
Hao chuckles despite himself. Jiwoong’s enthusiasm is contagious. “It’s good to see you too, hyung. I’ve missed you.”
Jiwoong grins, throwing an arm around Hao’s shoulders. “Missed you too. It’s been way too long. So, tell me—how do you feel about literally living in our house during the holidays? Instead of, you know, coming from your own house every day? And why aren’t you spending it at home, anyway?”
Forcing a smile, Hao ignores the first question—it feels strange to be excited about staying at their house under the current circumstances.
As for the second question... Hao hesitates, glancing at Jiwoong. Their friendship has always been easy, full of laughter and teasing, but not the kind where they delved into personal matters. Jiwoong is his closest friend, but serious conversations just weren’t part of their dynamic. Opening up about what’s going on feels... out of place, like stepping onto unfamiliar ground.
He brushes the question off instead, keeping his tone light. “No reason. Mom’s just busy. Can’t a guy spend time with his best friend who he hasn’t seen in forever?”
Jiwoong nods, not pressing further. He’s glad that Jiwoong just let the moment pass, even if there’s a part of him that wishes he could say more.
Hao can’t help but think back to their shared history as Jiwoong leads him deeper into the house, his easy laughter echoing through the familiar hallways. The Sungs have been part of Hao’s life for as long as he can remember, woven into his earliest memories like a constant thread.
His family’s journey to South Korea began long before he was born, spurred by his father’s ambition. A businessman with a sharp eye for opportunity, his father had packed up their lives in China almost overnight, seizing the chance to expand his thriving enterprise.The branch his father opened focused on the import and export business, bridging the bustling markets of Korea and China. It was a whirlwind move, one that left Hao’s mother navigating an unfamiliar country while heavily pregnant. The nature of the job meant that while his father spent most of his time managing operations and building a network in Korea, he frequently traveled back to China to ensure the smooth flow of goods which meant less time with his family.
In those early days, Mrs. Sung had been a lifeline. Their mothers met not long after Hao’s parents arrived in Cheonan, and their bond was immediate. Despite the language barrier, Mrs. Sung had been endlessly kind, helping Hao’s mother settle into a new culture, find her footing, and even prepare for motherhood. Hao’s father was often busy with work, so Mrs. Sung’s steady presence became a source of comfort. She attended prenatal appointments, shared tips on raising children, and introduced her to local markets and traditions.
When Hao was born, their families were already inseparable. He and Jiwoong were practically raised together, spending endless afternoons in each other’s company. Jiwoong, two years older, naturally fell into the role of Hao’s protector and guide.
To Hao, Jiwoong wasn’t just a playmate—he was an older brother in every way that mattered. Jiwoong had been the one to teach him how to ride a bike, to stand up for himself when kids teased him about being different, and even how to tie his shoes properly after countless failed attempts. They shared toys, secrets, and an unspoken understanding that they would always have each other’s backs.
Of course, being so close also meant they squabbled like siblings. Jiwoong had a knack for teasing Hao, calling him “little prince” whenever he refused to eat vegetables or complained about getting his hands dirty. But even those moments of bickering felt like a testament to their bond—no matter how much they annoyed each other, they always made up within hours.
As they grew older, their relationship shifted but never wavered. Jiwoong remained a steady presence in Hao’s life, someone he could count on for advice, support, and an occasional dose of tough love.
Walking through the Sung household now, Hao feels the weight of that history settle over him like a warm blanket. This house, with its familiar smells and comforting chaos, isn’t just Jiwoong’s home—it is his, too.
As Jiwoong rambles about all the things they’ll do, a loud voice interrupts from the other end of the hall.
“Hao hyung!”
Before Hao can fully process the blur rushing toward him, he is scooped up in a bear hug that lifts his feet clean off the ground. He lets out a startled laugh, his hands reflexively clutching at the broad shoulders holding him up.
“Hanbin?” Hao manages, somewhere between bewildered and amused.
When Hanbin finally sets him down, Hao takes a moment to steady himself, looking at the younger man properly for the first time in a while. His trademark whisker dimples are on full display, paired with the same sparkling eyes Hao remembers so well. But, there’s something different.
“When did you get strong enough to lift me like that?” Hao asks, his tone teasing but edged with genuine surprise.
Hanbin grins, stepping back with his hands on his hips. “Gym life, hyung. I’ve changed.”
Changed is an understatement. The little, shy boy Hao remembers from his childhood is long gone, replaced by someone taller, leaner, and undeniably confident.
Then, there’s the tank top.
Hao blinks in surprise, his attention snagging on the black fabric. In the middle of winter, with frost clinging to the windows and a biting chill in the air despite the warmth of the home, Hanbin is the only person he’s ever seen comfortable wearing just a tank top. It clings to his frame, accentuating the definition in his arms and shoulders—details that make it clear the ‘gym life’ isn’t just casual talk.
And the tattoos.
Hao’s eyes are drawn downwards to the ink on Hanbin’s chest—a design of the sun, the moon, and the stars arranged in an intricate pattern. He’s, honestly, a little surprised Hanbin didn’t go for something playful, like butterflies which matched the cheerful energy of the child he once knew. His gaze trails downward, catching another tattoo snaking across Hanbin’s arm. The lines are wavy, deliberate, but he can’t quite make out the words.
When did this happen? Hao wonders, unable to suppress his curiosity. How many does he have?
“So, hyung,” Hanbin begins, leaning against the wall, “why are you here for the holidays? I’m happy to have you, of course—it feels like old times.”
Hao crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. “What, am I a stranger now? Can’t I just stay like I used to?”
Hanbin laughs.
“Damn,” Hao says, breaking the moment with a smirk. “You’ve really changed, huh? Even bulked up a bit. Been working hard at the gym?”
Hanbin’s cheeks tinge pink at the comment, his eyes darting to the floor. He looks almost bashful, the familiar boyishness surfacing despite the confident exterior.
Now that is the Hanbin Hao remembers—the kid who used to follow him around, eager for approval but quick to blush at the slightest bit of teasing.
Hanbin was born two years after Hao, a fact that had thrilled him at the time. As a child, the idea of having someone younger to look after felt like a chance to step into Jiwoong’s shoes. Jiwoong had always been the older brother figure to him—bossy, protective, and annoyingly good at everything. Hao had envisioned himself doing the same for Hanbin, finally getting the chance to order someone else around.
But, things didn’t turn out that way.
The moment Hanbin was old enough to toddle after him, with bright eyes and a gap-toothed grin, all of Hao’s plans to assert his dominance melted away. Hanbin was the kind of kid you couldn’t help but indulge—sweet, affectionate, and eager to please. Instead of hoarding toys like he’d planned, Hao found himself handing them over without a second thought.
“Here, Hanbin, you can have the red car,” Hao would say, placing it gently in Hanbin’s chubby hands. He couldn’t even bring himself to feign reluctance, not when Hanbin’s face lit up with pure delight.
And when Hanbin tugged at his sleeve, pointing to something new in a store window, Hao didn’t hesitate. He’d pester their parents until they caved, making sure Hanbin got whatever it was he wanted. A new set of blocks? Done. That colorful picture book? Absolutely. Hao never told him “No.”
It wasn’t just about material things, either. Hanbin had this uncanny ability to draw out Hao’s softer side, the part of him that wanted to protect and nurture rather than command. If Hanbin tripped and fell, Hao was the first to rush to his side, brushing off imaginary dirt and whispering, “You’re okay, Hanbin. Don’t cry.”
Looking back, Hao realized he’d never really been an older brother in the traditional sense. He hadn’t scolded or teased the way Jiwoong had done to him. Instead, he’d played the role of Hanbin’s biggest cheerleader, the person who always made sure his little brother-like companion had whatever he needed.
Even now, as Hanbin stands in front of him—grown, confident, and so different from the boy he used to be—Hao can’t help but feel a flicker of that old protectiveness. Hanbin might have changed, but to Hao, he would always be the same kid who used to tug at his hand, asking him to play.
The living room buzzes with warmth, both literal and figurative. Hao is struck by the faint scent of cinnamon lingering in the air, likely from Mrs. Sung’s habit of brewing spiced tea during winter. The faint hum of the radiator blends with the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards, adding a lived-in charm to the space.
The walls are lined with framed photographs spanning decades—Jiwoong and Hanbin as toddlers, awkward school portraits, and even a few candid shots of Hao from his younger years. A slightly worn but still vibrant rug covers the floor, its pattern an intricate mix of blues and reds that seems to brighten the space no matter how dim the lighting.
On the coffee table sits a stack of well-loved books, their spines cracked from years of use, alongside a small tray with coasters that look handmade. The Sung family’s attention to the little things is everywhere—embroidered cushions on the couch, a patchwork throw draped over the armrest, and the faint but familiar scent of lavender fabric softener that seems to cling to everything.
“Let’s get your stuff to the guest room,” Jiwoong says, grabbing Hao’s suitcase. Hanbin quickly takes it from him, rolling it towards the room with exaggerated ease, as if to show off his strength.
Hao rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling. “I can carry my own bag, you know.”
“I’ve got it, hyung. I could even carry you now,” Hanbin replies cheerfully.
“Fine, show-off,” Hao mutters, trailing behind them.
As they pass the living room, Hao catches sight of his mother by the front door. Her face is drawn, the faint smile she wears barely masking her exhaustion. Mrs. Sung stands beside her, nodding as they exchange hushed words. Hao slows his steps, his heart sinking at the sight.
Jiwoong notices his hesitation and nudges him lightly. “I know you miss her, but she’ll be okay, you know. My mom won’t let her leave without enough food for a week.”
Hao manages a weak laugh, but the weight of his worry lingers. By the time they reach the guest room, Hanbin has already plopped his suitcase onto the bed, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.
Their parents’ voices drift into the house as Hao settles into the room. He can’t make out the words, but the tone is unmistakably heavy. Hao bites the inside of his cheek, a familiar ache settling in his chest.
“I’ll be here for New Year’s, okay? Take care of yourself.” His mother’s voice echoes in his mind, the memory of her parting words fresh and raw. He had wanted to fight her on it, to insist that he stay by her side, but she had been firm.
“You have to enjoy your holidays, Hao. I don’t want to bring you into this.”
The divorce, a forbidden word between them, a silent storm that had been brewing for months. Hao doesn’t blame her for wanting to shield him from it, but it doesn’t make the distance any easier to bear.
“You good?” Jiwoong’s voice breaks through his thoughts.
Hao looks up to see Jiwoong leaning casually against the doorframe, concern flickering in his dark eyes. “Yeah,” Hao says quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired from the trip.”
Jiwoong nods, though his expression suggests he doesn’t entirely believe him. “Alright. You should rest anyway.”
Mrs. Sung knocks on his door a few minutes later, just as he is unpacking, her signature warm smile radiating through the room.
“Haohao,” she says softly, wrapping him in a hug that smells faintly of lavender and laundry detergent.
“Thank you for having me,” Hao replies, his voice quieter than usual.
Mrs. Sung pulls back, looking at him with kind eyes that don’t pry. She doesn’t mention the sadness clinging to him like a remora to a shark, nor the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, she places a hand on his shoulder and waves a hand in the air, showing the room.
“You settle in, okay? And if you need anything—extra blankets, snacks, anything at all—you just let me know,”
“Thank you, Mama,” Hao says, bowing slightly.
“No need for that,” she replies with a laugh, patting his arm. “We’re family, Hao.”
Her words are simple, yet they make something inside him ache. She leaves the room, closing the door behind her, and Hao turns to face the bed.
The exhaustion hits him the moment he sits down. The hour-and-a-half train ride from Seoul to Cheonan wasn’t grueling by any means, but it had been enough to sap what little energy he had left. He flops onto the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight, and closes his eyes.
For a moment, he thinks about how quiet the house feels compared to his usual surroundings in Seoul. It’s peaceful but unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the chaos he’s left behind.
He pulls out his phone, expecting silence but finding a barrage of texts waiting for him. His heart sinks as he opens the notifications.
Let’s meet up.
I’m sorry.
Zhang Hao, pick up.
His thumb hovers over the messages before exiting the app entirely. The last thing he wants is to rehash old wounds, especially now.
He opens his conversation with his dad, his eyes landing on the last message, still sitting unread. Without a second thought, he throws his phone across the bed, letting it land somewhere among the sheets.
Sleep carries him away before he can think about it any longer.
****
When Hao wakes up, the room is dim, the faint glow of the streetlights outside casting long shadows on the walls. He sits up groggily, rubbing his face. It isn’t late—still evening—but the early winter sunset makes it feel much later.
The familiar weight of seasonal melancholy settles on his chest as he stares out the window. Everything looks so still, suffocated under the heavy blanket of snow. The barren trees, the lifelessness. It seems to mirror the stillness inside him, the way he’s been avoiding his problems, locking them away somewhere he can’t bear to look.
He isn’t ready to confront any of those thoughts yet. Not tonight. His throat feels dry, the faint craving for water giving him a reason—an excuse—to move. Pushing himself to his feet, he steps out of the room.
The house is quiet as he makes his way toward the kitchen. The faint hum of the television drifts from the living room, accompanied by the low rumble of a newscaster’s voice.
Hao pauses at the entrance, peeking in to see Mr. Sung seated on the couch, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he watches the news.
“Uncle,” Hao greets softly, stepping into the room.
Mr. Sung looks up, his expression breaking into a wide smile. He stands and approaches Hao, wrapping him in a firm hug.
“Hao-ya! It’s been too long,” he says warmly, stepping back to look at him. “You’ve grown even taller, haven’t you?”
Hao chuckles lightly. “I don’t think so, Uncle. Maybe you’ve just gotten shorter.”
Mr. Sung laughs, the sound hearty and genuine. “Careful now, or I’ll tell Jiwoong to wrestle you like the old days.”
Hao shakes his head with a grin. “I think I’ll pass on that. It’s nice to see you again, Uncle. How’s everything been?”
“Oh, same as always. Busy, but good. And you? How’s school? Still attending that fancy music academy?”
Hao nods. “Yes. It’s going well—just a lot of work. We had a big performance recently, and I was part of the ensemble for a major recital.”
“That’s wonderful! I’m sure you were amazing,” Mr. Sung says proudly.
Hao smiles, the warmth in Mr. Sung’s voice easing some of the tension he’s carried all day.
“Well, I won’t keep you. I know you’re probably tired from the trip,” Mr. Sung says, patting Hao’s shoulder. “Make yourself at home, okay? And if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Hao says, bowing slightly.
As Mr. Sung returns to his spot on the couch, Hao continues toward the kitchen.
The faint sounds of movement draw him toward the kitchen, where the unmistakable scent of butter and eggs fills the air. He rounds the corner and pauses at the sight before him.
Hanbin stands at the counter, a spatula in one hand and a frying pan in the other, humming softly to himself. He wears a simple apron over his tank top and joggers, looking far too comfortable for someone cooking in the middle of winter..
“Hyung, do you need something?” Hanbin asks enthusiastically, noticing Hao lingering by the doorway.
“Just water,” Hao replies, stepping further into the kitchen.
“Got it.” Hanbin sets the spatula down and reaches for a clean glass, filling it with water before handing it to Hao. His smile is wide and infectious.
“Thanks.” Hao takes a sip, leaning against the counter. His gaze flickers to the pan, where the golden edges of an omelette peek out. “So... Little Hanbinnie cooks now?”
Hanbin lets out a playful scoff, gently nudging Hao’s arm. “Hyung, I’m not little anymore.”
Hao laughs, setting the glass down. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Rolling his eyes, Hanbin flips the omelette with a practiced motion. “Do you still like omelettes, by the way? I’m trying to make it the way my mom makes it.”
Hao blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do.” Hanbin doesn’t look up from his task, but there’s a fondness in his voice. “You always said it was your favorite when we were kids. Mom would make it for you whenever she babysat.”
The memory rushes back—sitting at the Sungs’ kitchen table, swinging his legs as Mrs. Sung placed a fluffy omelette and a steaming cup of hot chocolate in front of him. It had been a small comfort during those long afternoons when his parents were too busy to pick him up.
“Wow, you’re a lifesaver,” Hao says with a smile. “I’m starving.”
Hanbin grins. “Then sit and wait. It’ll be ready in a minute.”
Hao makes his way to the dining table, settling into one of the chairs. “So, what’s the occasion? Cooking for me this late in the evening?”
“Mom and Jiwoong went grocery shopping,” Hanbin explains, returning to the stove. “Figured I’d do something useful while they’re out.”
“Useful, huh? Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Hyung,” Hanbin whines, shooting him a mock glare.
Hao chuckles, resting his chin in his hand. “Okay, okay. I take it back. You’re very capable. I’m impressed.”
Hao leans forward slightly. “How’s uni going for you?” he asks, his tone casual but genuinely curious.
Hanbin turns with a grin. “It’s great! Way better than I thought it would be. My friends make it really fun.”
Hanbin’s enthusiasm is infectious as he launches into stories about his three closest friends—how they keep him laughing through late-night study sessions, drag him out to parties, and make everything about university life feel like less of a chore.
Hao listens, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though his mind briefly wanders. He remembers how Mrs. Sung used to call him when Hanbin was preparing for the CSAT, her voice a mix of worry and hope. “Hao, give Hanbin some tips, will you? He needs to do well enough to get into a good university.”
Typical Korean parents. She wasn’t asking, not really. Of course, Hao had obliged, spending hours over video calls or during visits, explaining study techniques and sharing the strategies that had worked for him.
“That’s good to hear,” Hao says finally, his voice soft but sincere.
“Oh, and guess what? I got a winter job at the ice skating rink. It’s with my three best friends, so it’s going to be awesome. Can you imagine working and having fun at the same time?”
Hao chuckles. “That does sound like a good deal. You’re lucky to have them.”
“Yeah, I am,” Hanbin says brightly, though his expression softens when he looks at Hao.
Hanbin sits down beside him at the dining table, his energy unwavering as he places the plate of omelette and a steaming cup of hot chocolate in front of Hao.
“What about you, hyung? Do you have close friends in Seoul?”
Hao pauses, his fork hovering over the omelette. Friends. The word feels complicated. Sure, he’s had people to hang out with, but most of them had come as part of a package deal with his boyfriend—now his ex. And ever since he started ghosting his ex, those so-called friends have all but disappeared.
“They’re... fine,” Hao says vaguely, forcing a small smile.
Hanbin doesn’t press, instead nudging the plate closer to Hao. “Well, dig in before it gets cold. You need to eat.”
Hao smiles at the gesture and takes his first bite. The omelette is simple but comforting, much like the boy sitting across from him.
“How’s uni though? I bet it’s a whole different vibe there. Tell me everything—parties, nightclubs, all the fun stuff!”
Hao hesitates, his fork hovering over the plate. “I mean... It’s fine. I wouldn’t really call it fun.”
“Why not?” Hanbin asks, tilting his head.
Hao exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I went out a lot, but it wasn’t really my thing. My boyfrie—ex was the one dragging me to all those parties.”
“What about you, hyung? Did you have a favorite place to go?”
Hao blinks. “Huh?”
“You know,” Hanbin says, his tone light, “like, your favorite bar or club? Somewhere you actually liked going to.”
“Oh.” Hao frowns, thinking it over. “There was this one place in Itaewon. The drinks were awful, but I guess that’s what made it fun. And the music was good. Once, I got so drunk there that I fell asleep in the booth and woke up when the staff was cleaning the next morning.”
Hanbin laughs, though there’s a touch of concern in his voice. “How did you get home after that?”
“My ex dragged me into a taxi. I think.” Hao smiles faintly at the memory. “It was a rough night. I’d just failed a course for the first time, and I didn’t know how to handle it.”
Hanbin’s expression softens. “That sounds tough, hyung. But failing once doesn’t mean you’re not good at what you do.”
“Yeah, I know,” Hao says, shrugging. “Still sucked, though.”
They fall into a comfortable rhythm, Hao eating while Hanbin asks more questions.
“So, did you drink anything other than the alcohol served?” Hanbin asks, grinning.
“Not really. I’m pretty basic when it comes to drinks. Beer, soju, whatever’s available,” Hao replies.
Hanbin nods. “What about food? Did you find any cool places to eat? Seoul has everything, right?”
“Yeah, there’s a lot,” Hao says, laughing. “I tried a few good places, but most of the time, I just went for street food. It’s cheap and fast.”
As Hao continues talking, Hanbin listens intently, his gaze warm and focused.
Hao finishes the omelette, but the conversation with Hanbin flows so naturally that he remains at the table, talking and laughing. The warmth of the kitchen, paired with Hanbin’s easygoing energy, eases some of the tension in his chest.
The sound of the front door opening pulls their attention, followed by a familiar voice.
“We’re back!” Jiwoong calls, his voice muffled by the rustle of grocery bags.
Hao stands instinctively, but before he can make his way to the door, Mr. Sung appears, moving swiftly to greet his wife. He reaches for one of the bags, but not before leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.
“Welcome home,” he says warmly.
Mrs. Sung swats him playfully, her cheeks flushing. “Not in front of the kids!” she scolds, though her smile betrays her amusement.
Hao finds himself smiling, too. Watching them reminds him of all the times he’d witnessed their affectionate banter growing up. As a kid, he would scrunch his nose in exaggerated disgust at their displays of affection, but now, as an adult, he finds it endearing.
They’re still so in love after all these years, Hao thinks, a faint pang of wistfulness tugging at his heart. Moments like these make him believe that love—real, enduring love—is possible if you find the right person.
“Ugh, gross,” Jiwoong mutters dramatically, wrinkling his nose as he steps past them with a bag in each hand. He turns to Hao with a grin. “Come on, let’s get these into the kitchen.”
Jiwoong drops the bags on the kitchen counter with a huff. “I don’t know why Mom insists we buy so much. It’s like she’s feeding an army.”
Hanbin, already at work organizing the groceries, glances up. “Because there’s a lot of us, genius. And you eat like two people on your own.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jiwoong says dismissively, grabbing another bag to unload. His eyes land on Hao’s empty plate at the table. “Wait a second. Did you cook?”
Hao shakes his head, suppressing a grin. “Hanbin made it for me.”
Jiwoong freezes, his expression a mixture of shock and betrayal. “You cooked for him? Are you kidding me, Hanbin? You never cook for me!”
Hanbin rolls his eyes. “You have hands, don’t you? I’m not your maid.”
Jiwoong scoffs, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Unbelievable. My own brother. You’re a traitor.”
“Cry about it,” Hanbin shoots back, wincing as Jiwoong lightly kicks him in the shin.
Hao can’t help but laugh at their antics. “I missed this,” he says, leaning back in his chair.
“Missed what?” Jiwoong asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Your endless bickering,” Hao replies with a grin. “It’s nice to know some things haven’t changed.”
Jiwoong smiles at him.
“By the way,” Jiwoong says, turning to Hanbin, “what’s the plan for tonight? Mom mentioned something about dinner.”
“Yeah, she wants to do hotpot,” Hanbin replies, placing a carton of eggs into the fridge.
“She said it’s a welcome-home thing for Hao hyung.”
Hao blinks in surprise. “You don’t have to make a big deal out of it.”
“Of course, we do,” Jiwoong says, grinning. “You’re returning, remember? Besides, it’s been forever since we’ve all had dinner together.”
Hanbin nods in agreement. “Mom’s been planning it all week. She even bought those fancy mushrooms you like.”
Hao feels his chest tighten slightly at their words, though not in a bad way. It’s overwhelming sometimes—the way the Sungs treat him like one of their own.
“Thanks,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with gratitude.
Hanbin looks up, catching the expression on Hao’s face. He smiles softly, his usual playful energy momentarily replaced by something gentler. “You don’t have to thank us, hyung. You belong here.”
Jiwoong groans dramatically. “Alright, enough with the sappy stuff. Let’s finish up before Mom comes in and yells at us for doing it wrong.”
The moment passes, but the warmth lingers as they work together, the kitchen filled with the sounds of clinking dishes and lighthearted banter.
****
The dining table is a feast of ingredients laid out for hotpot, with bowls of thinly sliced beef, plates of fresh seafood, and trays piled high with colorful vegetables. There are stacks of glass noodles, tofu in every form imaginable, and delicate mushrooms that look like tiny umbrellas. The centerpiece is the steaming pot of bubbling broth, fragrant with garlic, ginger, and a hint of chili that makes Hao’s mouth water. He missed home made food.
“Sit, sit!” Mrs. Sung insists, practically pushing Hao into a chair.
He smiles, letting her fuss over him as she places a pair of chopsticks in his hand. Mr Sung, Jiwoong and Hanbin are already seated, Jiwoong piling his plate high while Hanbin quietly stirs the broth, his other hand resting casually on the table.
“Shall we start?” Mr Sung said, starting his usual challenge with Jiwoong over who could eat the most. “I hope you’re ready to lose again.”
“You’re too slow, Dad. I'll always be faster than you,” Jiwoong teases, grabbing a slice of beef and dropping it into the pot with exaggerated speed.
“Alright, bet”
Hao laughs, shaking his head, he missed this too.
Just as he’s deciding what to grab first, Mrs. Sung slides into the seat beside him, her chopsticks already moving with precision. “You’re not eating fast enough,” she scolds gently, piling his plate with vegetables before he can protest.
“Eat, Hao. You’re too thin,” she says, her tone firm but affectionate.
“I’m fine, Mama,” Hao protests, but it’s no use. She’s already dropping a piece of fish into the broth and scooping out tofu to add to his growing plate.
Across the table, Hanbin chuckles, his dimple deepening. “Just give up, hyung. She won’t stop until you’ve eaten half the table.”
Hao shoots him a mock glare but can’t help smiling. He picks up a piece of cabbage, dipping it into the broth before taking a bite. The warmth spreads through him immediately, the flavors rich and comforting in a way that feels healing.
The atmosphere is lively, as it always is in the Sung household. Jiwoong recounts a story about a mishap at the grocery store, his dramatic reenactment sending everyone into fits of laughter. Hanbin chimes in occasionally, his comments dry but perfectly timed, earning groans and laughs in equal measure.
Hao lets himself relax, leaning into the hum of conversation and the clinking of chopsticks against bowls. It’s a symphony of comfort, one that feels both familiar and precious.
“You’re not eating enough,” Mrs. Sung says suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“I’m eating plenty,” Hao insists, holding up his half-empty plate as proof.
She doesn’t look convinced. “You need more protein. Hanbin, pass me the shrimp.”
“Mama,” Hao starts, but she silences him with a look, her chopsticks already reaching for his plate.
Hanbin snickers as he hands over the shrimp. “You’re doomed, hyung.”
“Stop enjoying this.”
Despite his protests, Hao eats more than he intends to. The broth is too good to resist, and the constant stream of food from Mrs. Sung leaves him no choice.
By the time the meal winds down, Hao is leaning back in his chair, chopsticks resting on the edge of his bowl.
“I’m full,” he says, hoping the declaration will save him from another round.
“You’re young. You can eat more,” Mrs. Sung replies, waving him off.
Jiwoong laughs. “Give him a break, Mom. He’s practically falling asleep over there.”
“Fine, fine,” she relents, though not without sneaking a final piece of tofu into Hao’s bowl.
Hao takes the bite without complaint, smiling faintly to himself. He does feel full, but it’s not just the food. It’s the laughter around the table, the way Jiwoong teases his dad and Hanbin about how much they’ve eaten, the light touch of Mrs. Sung’s hand on his shoulder as she asks if he wants more broth.
Sitting here, surrounded by the Sungs’ chatter and care, Hao feels something he hasn’t in a long time: content. The weight of being alone, of a house filled with silence, feels far away. Here, there’s warmth. Here, there’s family.