close

by jayjuly

Summary:

Seungmin had never looked for intimacy. All his life, he thought of it as a foreign language he might never learn; it was always something abstract, something meant for other people. A beautiful thing, sure, but distant, like a painting behind glass.

But now the glass is shattered.

Now Hyunjin kisses him like it’s easy, like it’s natural, like Seungmin’s mouth is a place he’s allowed to be. He touches him like he’s memorizing him, like he’s trying to press the shape of Seungmin’s body into his palms so he won’t forget. And every kiss, every brush of fingers, every murmured “You okay?” in the dark feels like it means something.

So Seungmin tells himself: don’t let it matter.

In a world where human touch can hurt — literally — Seungmin has learned to live without it. Yet, Hyunjin happens.

Notes:

hi :) for the last couple of months i’ve been completely burned out - because of work and other life-related stuff, so i couldn’t even look at google docs for a while. but one day i opened twitter and saw some [redacted] photos of seungmin and decided that’s enough - so i pulled this couple-of-years-old idea from my drafts and went wild with it.
i hope you enjoy this!

cause space is just a word made up by someone

who’s afraid to get too close

 

“Thank you for your purchase, we look forward to seeing you again.”

The sales associate — a young woman, roughly his age — smiles at Seungmin, even a bit more charmingly than professionalism demands, as she hands him the wine shop’s club card, his credit card, and the freshly purchased bottle of dry red wine in a branded craft bag.

Her brief, almost weightless touch to his palm, that seems completely accidental, feels like an electric shock, the pain radiating from his fingertips to his shoulder. Seungmin nods gratefully, keeping his expression neutral and polite, though the near-spasm makes his shoulder blades twitch uncomfortably.

The back of his head burns under Minho’s displeased gaze. Minho has refused to stay in the car, arguing that the younger one didn’t know how to choose wine, but Seungmin knows it was just another manifestation of his strange mother-hen complex — if Minho could, he’d control every one of Seungmin’s social interactions. Of course, hoping Minho hasn’t noticed anything is pointless, so Seungmin just sighs resignedly, bracing himself for yet another scolding.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“I told you to wear gloves,” Minho grumbles under his breath as they leave the store and head back to the car parked on the opposite side of the street. “What kind of masochistic tendencies are these, Kim Seungmin?”

“And I told you it’s uncomfortable.” Seungmin brushes him off, handing Minho the bag with the wine bottle. Minho rolls his eyes but says nothing else, dropping into the passenger seat like he owns it.

 

Seoul on Friday’s evening resembles an anthill drenched in resin. As if stuck to the asphalt, cars-ants crawl sluggishly forward with each green light. Seungmin isn’t even annoyed by it because he and Minho spend the entire ride in silence — the older one is glued to his phone, likely sending a hundred meaningless texts to his boyfriend, while Seungmin focuses on the road, tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of a hit song playing on the radio.

Silence is almost the default dynamic of their friendship, honed over years. They have enough conversations in Minho’s office, from which Seungmin always emerges relieved yet, at the same time, burdened with an inexplicable weight in his chest. The rest of the time, they fill the quiet with distractions — watching movies or attending jazz concerts recommended by Minho’s colleagues.

Minho knows perfectly well how much Seungmin hates having his mind probed outside the safety of well-lit office’s walls that, if they had ears, would hold countless secrets. Seungmin, in turn, knows his friend well enough to understand that Minho is just lulling him into complacency. Minho had claimed he was bored because his boyfriend, Chan, was away on another business trip, leaving him with too much free time. But Seungmin can read between the lines.

He knows Minho is dissatisfied with the results of their last “talk,” which means another one is coming, this time in a more informal setting.

 

Seungmin’s apartment is quiet and empty; it faintly smells of cleaning products (the cleaning service comes on Fridays) and more distinctly of sandalwood, patchouli, and neroli — the air freshener his mother always used, which he now buys out of habit. Minho wrinkles his sensitive nose and, without asking, heads to the kitchen. Seungmin just shakes his head with a smile, neatly sliding Minho’s discarded shoes into their designated spot.

In the kitchen, Minho is already rummaging through the fridge, unpacking groceries delivered that morning by Kim family’s housekeeper, and announces he’ll cook dinner. Knowing Minho’s culinary skills, Seungmin doesn’t argue, retreating without protest when Minho shoos him away while answering an incoming call from Chan.

Minho is the only guest Seungmin ever has. He’s lived alone for years and has grown accustomed to it. At first, it was hard — the walls seemed to press in, and the silence rang in his ears. Eventually, Seungmin resigned himself. Not that he had much choice.

His father’s illness stripped him of many choices in life, changed many things.

Seungmin had just graduated from university and was supposed to start his career as an assistant consultant in their company’s legal department. But when his father was hospitalized for months, Seungmin had to step into his role. On paper, managing a multimillion-dollar business at twenty-two sounded like a dream — in reality, he faced hierarchical challenges, doubts about his competence, and increased pressure from competitors who sensed weakness in the absence of the CEO. Of course, Seungmin still had the support of executives who’d known him since childhood, and they weathered the storm, but it was a terrible time, filled with grim anticipation of bad news — from the analytics department or the hospital.

After discharge, his father wanted to return to the company, but Seungmin’s mother insisted otherwise. They moved to the countryside, where Seungmin initially joined them until one day, returning from the city after a grueling workday, he nearly got into an accident. The thought of living alone was unbearable but seeing the guilt and worry in his parents’ eyes was worse.

Now, Seungmin lives alone in a spacious city apartment, occasionally visiting his parents in their large country house, listening with strange melancholy to their praises of fresh air and hour-long garden strolls far from urban chaos.

 

By the time Minho calls him to the table, Seungmin is deeply engrossed in a book randomly picked from his recent purchases. He’s loved reading since childhood, and though he rarely gets to enjoy it fully these days, fictional stories at least offer a brief escape from his all-too-real life.

It seems Minho sampled the wine while cooking because Seungmin is greeted not just by a table laden with food but also by his friend’s noticeably brighter demeanor and flushed face.

“What?” Minho feigns offense when Seungmin rolls his eyes. “I had to make sure you picked something decent to go with dinner!”

“Sometimes I think Chan-hyung’s healthy lifestyle crusade has broken something in your brain. How else can I explain why every time he’s away on business, you show up at my doorstep with expensive alcohol?” Seungmin smirks.

“You’re absolutely imagining things. First, he doesn’t force me — I willingly support him because I want to live a long life and die of natural causes, thank you very much. Second,” Minho raises his glass in a salute, taking another sip, “this is just one of life’s joys. And what do I get for wanting to share it with my best friend?”

“Well, according to you, I can’t understand it anyway.”

“That’s because you’re too young to appreciate the finer things.”

“Hyung, you’re not even thirty yet, and you already sound like an old man.”

“Be glad Chan isn’t here, or he’d hit you for mentioning anything even similar to the word “thirty.”

“Hyung isn’t capable of cruelty.”

“Oh, you don’t know him well enough!”

Their banter ends with Minho spending half the dinner complaining about his boyfriend and the trials of life with him. Seungmin hides his smile, letting him vent, because Minho seems oblivious to how his “Can you believe it?” and “Is this normal?” sound too much like “I love him so much.”

Seungmin would never say this to Minho’s face — their friendship thrives on unspoken things — but he’s genuinely happy for him. He’s glad Minho found Chan — his person. With him, Minho becomes his true self, learning to accept care and not rely solely on himself, as he always had before.

Seungmin has known him for over a decade, and even longer in a way: Minho was his sunbae in middle school, and honestly, fifteen-year-old Minho terrified thirteen-year-old Seungmin. He wasn’t a bully or a loner — quite the opposite, he was a class representative and school activist — but there was something about him that made Seungmin, who barely showed up to school twice a month, hide from him in the hallways. Maybe it was his wariness around others, or the subtle coldness radiating from him in waves of quiet irritation.

Minho was often in his own world, despite his social roles, and Seungmin once thought they were the same. But as it turned out, Minho’s index was only slightly negative.

In high school, Minho was assigned as Seungmin’s tutor — not that Seungmin needed one, as he excelled in homeschooling, but the school likely thought he needed at least minimal peer interaction, and Minho seemed trustworthy, someone who wouldn’t highlight Seungmin’s differences, at least not verbally.

And he succeeded — he understood Seungmin, who didn’t fully grasp it himself back then: what does it mean, when your index is too close to a negative absolute.

They didn’t become friends immediately; it took Seungmin much longer to figure Minho out than it took Minho to figure him out. But even now, Minho remains one of the most important people in Seungmin’s life, so seeing Minho find his most important person makes Seungmin at least a little happy.

 

Perhaps it’s this conversation, which is more of a Minho monologue, and his own thoughts about it that make Seungmin let his guard down, forgetting his suspicions about the real reason for Minho’s visit.

So, when the last sip of wine is gone, Minho seems to mentally brace himself, the playful glint in his eyes fading almost entirely. Seungmin, relaxed, doesn’t even notice it at first.

“I had a patient today...” Minho begins casually, faux-absentmindedly wrapping another piece of meat in lettuce. “We’ve been working through her childhood trauma for a while, and we’ve been stuck. She couldn’t accept her own worth. It’s a mess — bad relationships with her parents, struggles with classmates back in school, work issues now. She was convinced she was worthless and couldn’t believe she deserved anything. Then she comes back after a month-long break and says her life has suddenly gained new colors. At first, I was worried she’d say something that’d require months more work, but no — she says she’s in love. Her index is low, not like yours, of course...”

Seungmin tenses instantly — here it comes.

“Hyung...”

“Anyway, she went to a special center. You know, the one that keeps records of all anomalies...” Minho pretends not to hear the warning in Seungmin’s tone.

“Hyung!”

“You could try it too.” Minho’s casual demeanor vanishes. His jaw tightens, and his gaze turns helpless, vulnerable — emotions Seungmin should be feeling, not him. “Seungmin, you could try finding the right person.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?!”

“Because as long as I don’t think about it, I don’t feel defective.”

“Seungmin, you’re not defective.” Minho winces at the word. “Your abnormally low introversion index is just a genetic glitch. Yes, it imposes limits, but it doesn’t mean you have to give up everything. You need real interaction with real people. Otherwise, you’ll either go insane or fall into depression.”

“I think I’m paying you a fortune precisely to prevent that.” Seungmin’s voice drips with sarcasm as he raises a brow, crossing his arms defensively — closing himself off completely. Minho, reading his state, just scowls.

“I’m not saying this as your therapist, but as your best friend, damn it! And I’m happy to be your friend, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t always be around. I can’t even touch you without you flinching in pain if I accidentally brush your skin.”

Seungmin snorts, leaning back in his chair and turning away. Minho sighs heavily and falls silent for a few seconds before adding softly: “You can’t spend your whole life alone.”

“You’ve got plenty of time to see me try.”

“You stubborn asshole, Kim Seungmin.” Minho looks genuinely upset. He slumps in his chair, ruffling his hair in frustration, then glances around the kitchen as if searching for something — and a metaphorical lightbulb goes off over his head. He straightens, shedding the weight of the conversation, and suggests: “You know what, forget the center for now. Find a roommate.”

Seungmin stares at him like he’s just said the dumbest thing.

“Hyung, do I need to spell it out why that’s a bad idea?”

“Oh, come on! If you’re careful, it’ll be fine. I even have a candidate.” Minho reaches for his phone. “My hoobae from university, a great guy. Hwang Hyunjin, your age, he’s about to sign a contract with some fancy dance studio — they work with top idols, imagine that — and is looking for a place nearby. Of course, he can’t afford Gangnam apartments yet, so you could temporarily host him until he finds something suitable. I’ll send you his contacts and tell him to expect your call.”

“And you won’t let this go, will you?” Seungmin sighs, earning a smug grin from Minho. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

 

 

***

 

 

“Here you go, little buddy.”

Seungmin sets down a can of cat food bought from the nearest convenience store in front of a smoky-gray kitten. The half-asleep kitten nudges his palm with its cold, wet nose, then scoots closer to the can, sniffing the food. Seungmin runs his fingertips over its soft fur a few times. The hem of his light coat brushes the dark, dry asphalt.

The kitten, abandoned on the roadside, reminds him absurdly of himself.

He doesn’t laugh, though. At twenty-seven, the meticulously constructed life — the walls around himself — begins to crumble, and Seungmin feels more vulnerable and alone than ever. His confusion is overflowing, the ideals that his parents have nurtured since childhood are falling apart one by one, and Seungmin finds himself surprisingly helpless against the blind hands of circumstances that have thrown him to the side of the road just like this kitten without a second thought.

The conversation with Minho three days ago has left a bitter aftertaste — not so much because of their near-argument but because of what it forced him to confront again.

What Minho calls a “genetic anomaly” is, for Seungmin, a life sentence. Something unfixable, unmanageable, impossible to ignore. The pain can’t be dulled — only avoided.

As a child, Seungmin didn’t understand why he couldn’t play with other kids, why his clothes always covered his skin, and why his mother made him wear gloves even when it was warm outside, why his preschool badge had “I92” next to his name, and why everyone avoided him.

He first grasped his condition in second-grade PE, during swimming lessons. All the other boys wore only swim trunks, and Seungmin, tired of standing out, ignored the swim shirt that his mother had carefully placed in his bag. Mischievous classmate, seizing the moment when their teacher wasn’t looking, pushed him into the water — on the verge of pain shock, Seungmin nearly drowned in the very shallow pool, and the handprints on his chest burned like brands for a very long time afterward.

An innocent joke became the catalyst for a long journey of self-understanding and acceptance.

In truth, humans can get used to anything. Sometimes it takes hours, sometimes days, sometimes years. Getting used to his condition wasn’t the hard part, learning to live with it was a matter of time and simple adjustments, of growing up and sorting truths into metaphorical boxes. But accepting it felt like a lifelong task — yet acceptance did come, after countless scientific articles made it clear: nothing could be done.

When he was just a child, his mother told him he was just very special, and for a while, he believed it. But his “specialness” fit into two short paragraphs in a middle-school biology textbook — an example of genetic mutation, simple and clear, known to all.

Somewhere and sometime in the process of evolution, a mutation occurred in the genes coding for skin proteins — one protein, formed in epidermal cells, began  to be perceived by the body as foreign. “It’s like an allergy, but instead of sneezing, itching, or watery eyes, the reaction to the antigen is irritation of the skin at the point of contact, often pain.” Evolution didn’t stop there — further mutations led to what’s now called extroversion and introversion: in the former, skin cells produce a protein that neutralizes the antigen; in the latter, one that heightens sensitivity to it. The index quantifies the concentration of either.

Being younger, Seungmin sometimes got angry — medical research on introversion was slow, because after establishing the basic mechanisms of the gene mutation that causes this condition back in the eighties, the scientific community didn’t think it was relevant to study the rest of its aspects. Now, Seungmin partly understands — after all, the index — positive or negative — usually doesn’t even reach double digits. Negative values of twenty or thirty are already considered an anomaly, complicating life but not making it unbearable.

Cases like his are so rare they are of interest only to psychologists — even in the 21st century, such people prefer to spend their entire lives in almost complete isolation.

Seungmin didn’t want to live in almost complete isolation — but it simplified things so much that, over time, it began to feel like the only option.

Yet now, with Minho’s words — “It doesn’t mean you have to give up everything in this life” — echoing in his mind, he finds himself wanting to believe it.

 

The kitten, strengthened by its meal, stands more confidently on its paws, nudging the empty can, licking up the last bits of food. Watching it, Seungmin makes a decision that might change his life, finally realizing that sometimes the comfort zone is not only the safety of a well-defined personal space, but also a trap imposed from the outside, ones you need to escape.

Hwang Hyunjin answers his call on the second ring, as if he’s been waiting all along. He says, after a short greeting, however, something quite different, his voice warm but tired: “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d call.”

Seungmin bites his lip — he didn’t think he would call either. But he doesn’t say that.

“Minho-hyung probably outlined my situation to you. I needed time to think it over, don’t take it personally.”

Hyunjin laughs briefly — the sound, even distorted by the speaker, somehow seems pleasant, or rather sincere, and fills Seungmin with a strange confidence that Minho might’ve been right.

“That’s exactly why I didn’t expect a call. I wouldn’t have dared to take such a step.”

“Until recently, neither would I,” Seungmin sighs, not mentioning that “recently” in this context means ten minutes ago. “Anyway, Minho-hyung can be persuasive, which is why I’m calling. Could you come by tomorrow to see the place? We could also discuss all the details.”

“We could meet somewhere in the city,” Hyunjin offers hesitantly. “Letting a stranger into your house might not be safe.”

“I trust Minho-hyung, and he trusts you. Besides…” Seungmin hesitates, glancing at the kitten now grooming itself after its meal. “I’ll be working from home starting tomorrow, so it’s more convenient. You’ll see everything firsthand, and I won’t have to rearrange my schedule.”

“To be honest, I don’t even care much, as long as there’s a place to crash,” Hyunjin laughs again. Seungmin notes how easily he expresses his emotions. “I doubt I’ll have much time to annoy you with my presence in the foreseeable future.”

“Still, you might meet me and decide we’re too incompatible to share a space.”

“If you’re anything like Minho-hyung described you, I’m sure we’ll get along,” Hyunjin’s voice carries another smile. Seungmin, for some reason, tries to smile too, as if trying on other’s openness, then rolls his eyes at himself and refuses to dwell on how Minho might’ve described him. “Then, I’ll call you about an hour or so before I come tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’ll text you the address.”

“Great. See you then.”

“See you.”

The street is quiet again.

The kitten stretches once, then begins curling in on itself, preparing for sleep — until a passing car rattles over a loose manhole cover, startling it. The tiny body jerks upright, eyes wide and alert, ears pressed flat to its skull. It meows — high-pitched, desperate, more like a gasp than a sound. The fear in it is raw, honest, and strangely familiar. Seungmin blinks slowly. The sound hits him right in the chest.

“Come here,” he murmurs, crouching down again. He holds out a hand, fingers slightly curled so as not to appear threatening. The kitten flinches, then creeps forward with hesitant, broken steps, its tail tucked low. When Seungmin’s hand meets its fur, he expects it to recoil again — but instead, it leans in, then meows again — more plaintive this time, more desperate.

When he scoops it up, cradling it against his chest, the weight of it is startling. Not the physical heft — it’s barely there — but the way its tiny body trembles, its heartbeat is a frantic staccato against his sternum, so alive it’s almost violent. He stands there, frozen, waiting for the familiar burn of contact to sear through his skin.

It doesn’t come.

Just warmth. Just this small, shuddering creature molding itself to him like he’s something safe.

It’s not human skin, Seungmin reminds himself. It doesn’t count.

For a moment, Seungmin just stands there, his arms slowly wrapping around the fragile creature as if it were something sacred. The warmth of it seeps through the fabric of his shirt, delicate but present. It feels... soft. Lighter than the ache he expects, quieter than his usual dread.

It reminds him of a memory that isn’t quite a memory: a storybook from childhood, or perhaps a half-dreamed moment where someone touched him without pain. It’s nothing he can fully recall — but this, now, feels like it could have been that memory’s ghost.

Instinctively, the kitten burrows closer to his chest, clawing lightly at the lapel of his coat. Seungmin wonders if he’s ever held anything that soft. Or anything alive.

Then, without thinking too hard about it — because thinking usually ruins things — he walks the rest of his way back home with the kitten tucked against him.

 

The bathroom is warm from the heater, the overhead light reflecting off the white tiles; it smells faintly of lavender soap and something cotton-like, something fresh and comfortable. The kitten — perched on the edge of the porcelain sink — looks absurdly small against the white expanse, like an inkblot on fresh paper. Seungmin turns the faucet, adjusting the water until it’s lukewarm, then hesitates.

He’s read online that bathing a stray is important. Fleas, parasites, infections. He knows it, but he hesitates.

He’s never done this before.

His reflection in the mirror looks at him like he’s lost his mind — disheveled, eyes glassy with fatigue, a smear of something still dark on the edge of his lip. Seungmin wipes it away absently.

The kitten watches him, ears twitching, fur mottled with road dust and city grime. Its trust in him is both baffling and terrifying.

Seungmin wets the cloth, squeezes it out, and touches the kitten’s back with the gentleness of someone handling blown glass.

The first wipe leaves a smear of gray along the towel, and the kitten chirps in complaint but doesn’t fight. Its head ducks low, eyes blinking slowly. Seungmin exhales — he didn’t even realize he was holding his breath.

The first pour of water is a disaster. The kitten thrashes, a whirl of tiny claws and panicked yowls, and Seungmin barely avoids getting scratched as he pins it gently with one hand. “Hey—” His thumb strokes the space between its ears, an instinctive gesture that surprises them both. “It’s just water. Stop being dramatic.”

Slowly, the kitten quiets. Seungmin works the soap into its fur, fingers navigating the sharp ridges of its spine, the hollow of its belly. Water sloshes onto his sleeves. His hands tremble — not from fear, but from unfamiliarity. It’s absurd how monumental this feels: washing something, caring for it. Each motion is a negotiation between instinct and uncertainty.

His voice is soft in the room’s stillness: nonsense sounds and half-formed reassurances. The kitten starts to purr — a strange, broken hum, like a distant motor idling.

When it’s clean, he wraps it in a hand towel and holds it against his chest again, damp and warm and terribly alive. The kitten sneezes.

Seungmin, against all logic, smiles.

 

He doesn’t mean to let it sleep in his bed.

But the kitten — clean now, absurdly soft — curls into the hollow of his throat as if it’s always belonged there. Its purr is a quiet, insistent rumble, a vibration that travels through his skin and settles somewhere behind his ribs.

Seungmin lies perfectly still.

The apartment is too quiet tonight. Usually, he welcomes the silence, the way it presses against his eardrums like cotton. But now, with this tiny creature’s breath warm against his collarbone, the emptiness feels… different. Seungmin doesn’t know why he feels the way he does. Relief. Longing. An ache that doesn’t quite hurt.

You’ll regret this, he thinks.

The kitten stretches, one paw kneading absently at his shirt. Its claws catch the fabric, prickling his skin through the thin cotton — not pain, just presence.

Seungmin closes his eyes.

For the first time in years, he falls asleep without counting the spaces between his body and the rest of the world.

 

***

 

The next morning dawns reluctantly, filtered through gauzy curtains and a sky the color of old bruises.

Seungmin wakes to a warm, unfamiliar weight pressed against his chest. The kitten is still asleep, curled into itself like a comma between thoughts, its breath steady and faintly audible in the hush of the bedroom. For a second, Seungmin doesn’t move, unsure whether the pressure in his chest is from the warmth or the absurdity of it all.

This wasn’t part of the plan. None of it was.

He stares at the ceiling for several long minutes before reaching for his phone. The clock blinks 7:12 AM, cruel and smug. He dials his secretary with practiced calm, voice still rough with sleep.

“Yes, it’s Kim Seungmin. I won’t be in the office today—” He pauses, his eyes falling back to the kitten now stretching in a lazy arc against his ribs. “— or for the rest of the week. I’ll be working remotely. Any meetings can be moved online.”

No explanation given. None needed. The kitten yawns, then promptly tries to climb onto his neck.

“You’re already a menace,” Seungmin mutters, catching the kitten with one hand and sighing as he sets it gently back onto the blanket. “And I haven’t even named you.”

 

The veterinary clinic smells like antiseptic, metal, and something vaguely like anxiety. Bright posters of smiling dogs and hyper-realistic diagrams of feline anatomy clutter the walls. The kitten, now tucked into a makeshift carrier (an old shoebox lined with one of Seungmin’s scarves), peers over the edge with wide, distrustful eyes.

The vet — Dr. Park, according to her nametag — has the efficient hands of someone who’s handled a thousand panicked creatures. She lifts the kitten from the box with ease, running practiced fingers over his spine. She examines the kitten with a hum, checking his paws, ears, teeth, heart. The kitten doesn’t resist — if anything, he seems pleased by the attention.

“You’ve got quite a healthy boy, about five or six weeks old,” she says eventually, smiling. Seungmin exhales, only then realizing how tense he’s been. “We’ll need to run some tests, but no fleas, no signs of malnutrition. Coat’s in good condition, too.”

Seungmin frowns. “So, he’s not a stray?”

“Doesn’t look like one.”

“He was alone on the sidewalk.”

“It happens sometimes,” the vet shrugs gently. “Probably got separated from his mother recently — kittens this young don’t usually wander far on their own. My guess? His mother was a stray who got picked up by a shelter. Maybe someone has been looking after him and he just wandered out.”

Seungmin nods, uncertain what to do with his hands. “So...?”

“No microchip,” she adds, scanning with a handheld reader just in case. “So, unless someone puts up a flyer or calls in asking, there’s no way to trace where he came from.”

The kitten, now freed, scrambles back into Seungmin’s hands, tiny claws pricking his palms.

“We’ll do the tests and administer deworming and flea meds. He’ll be clear.” Then, more gently: “If you’d like, we can keep him here and make arrangements with a shelter. He’s small, friendly — he’ll be adopted quickly.”

Seungmin stares at the kitten, who meows, butting its head against his thumb.

It’s the obvious choice. The right one. He has no time for this, no emotional bandwidth. He can barely keep himself functional, let alone something alive.

But.

But.

He imagines returning to the apartment and finding the bed cold. The blanket undisturbed. The quiet ringing in his ears again. The silence that settles not outside of him, but within.

“I’ll keep him,” he hears himself say, and instantly regrets it. “I mean. For now.”

The vet blinks once, then smiles. “That’s wonderful.”

“No,” Seungmin replies flatly, “I think it’s a terrible idea.”

Dr. Park laughs, but kindly. “You’re not the first to say that.”

“Um...” he adds awkwardly, the sound unnatural in his own throat. “I’ve never... had a pet. I don’t know how to... take care of one.”

There’s a pause. The vet tilts her head. “Do you mean feeding, cleaning, or just... in general?”

“All of it,” Seungmin admits, mortified by the flush creeping up his neck.

She explains gently — small portions of wet food, kitten-safe litter, toys for stimulation. No milk, no human food. Quiet patience. Routine. “They’re resilient,” she says. “They just need a sense of safety. And time.”

Seungmin nods slowly, absorbing her words like they’re instructions to dismantle a bomb. Because that’s what this feels like. An emotional device he’s willingly brought into his own space, ticking softly beneath the hum of his usual life.

 

By the time they leave the clinic, the sky has lightened into something resembling morning. Not bright, not blue — just pale and diluted.

The kitten perches on the passenger seat like a tiny gray storm cloud, its fur still faintly damp from the vet’s manipulations. Seungmin’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel as he glances at it, the morning light catching in its wide, watchful eyes.

“San,” he says, the name tasting strange yet inevitable on his tongue. It has slipped into his thoughts like a leaf caught in the breeze. The kitten blinks slowly, as if weighing this new identity.

“Sunny,” Seungmin clarifies, not because the kitten looks the part, but because Seungmin wants him to be despite the circumstances they met in had been anything but. The name feels like a quiet rebellion — against the shadows that cling to them both, against the way the world expects broken things to stay broken.

Because maybe names can be wishes, too.

(He doesn’t voice the other meaning — mutual — because that would mean admitting this is more than temporary. As if this tiny, fragile thing could ever be anything mutual between them. As if Seungmin knows the first thing about reciprocity.)

San stretches, needle-claws pricking the leather seat, and Seungmin holds his breath until the kitten curls again, small and self-contained. His chest aches with something he doesn’t name.

 

The pet store is overwhelming. Brightly lit aisles stretch endlessly, packed with enough supplies to sustain a small zoo. Seungmin stands frozen in the entrance. The vet has given him a list. Not long — just the basics. Food, litter, a proper carrier, a scratching post, some toys.

It might as well have been written in a foreign language.

Seungmin moves through the aisles like a man navigating a minefield. The litter section alone is a gauntlet of options — clumping clay that promises odor control, silica crystals that glitter like snow, something made from recycled paper that claims to be eco-friendly. His fingers hover over each bag before he grabs all three, the plastic crinkling accusingly in his cart.

The food aisle is worse.

“Kitten formula,” he mutters, scanning rows of cans with pictures of blissful cats. Chicken in gravy. Salmon flakes. Something called “ocean whitefish medley.” His stomach twists — how is he supposed to know what it would like? The vet has said high protein, but the cans all blur together, their cheerful labels too bright under the harsh lights. He takes one of each.

A display of ceramic bowls catches his eye — sleek, modern things in matte colors that won’t clash with his kitchen. He selects two, then pauses. What if they are too heavy? Too shallow? His breath comes quicker as he adds a set of silicone mats, a stainless-steel fountain (“Cats prefer running water!” the tag insists), and — after a frantic Naver search — a pair of elevated feeders that claim to aid digestion.

The toys are his undoing.

A rainbow of feathers on sticks. Tiny mice stuffed with catnip. Balls that jingle, balls that rattle, balls with bells inside. His hands move without thought, filling the cart with every variation until the pile threatens to spill over. At the last second, he adds a plush donut bed — the kind with raised edges that cradle — because San has slept curled tight against him, as if trying to make himself even smaller.

A store employee approaches, eyeing the overflowing cart. “First-time cat owner?”

Seungmin’s jaw tightens. “Is it that obvious?”

The employee grins. “You’re missing the most important thing.”

“What.”

“Treats. How else will you bribe him to love you?”

Seungmin stares. The employee laughs and tosses a bag of salmon bites into the cart.

Near the checkout, a display of knitwear stops him cold.

“Pawsome,” he reads aloud, holding up a miniature sweater. The cashmere blend is soft against his fingers, the stitching perfect. Ridiculous. Completely unnecessary.

He adds it to the cart anyway.

At the register, the cashier blinks at the mountain of supplies. “How many cats do you have?”

Seungmin doesn’t blink. “One.”

There’s a moment of silence before the clerk laughs. “Lucky guy.”

Seungmin doesn’t answer. He swipes his card, ignoring the total.

 

Back home, the apartment is warm and shadowed in late morning light.

San explores the apartment with the solemnity of a scholar surveying ancient ruins. His tiny nose twitches at every new scent — the crisp linen of the couch, the faint citrus of Seungmin’s cleaning products, the rich leather of shoes left neatly by the door.

Seungmin unpacks the haul from the store, setting up the bowls, testing the litter boxes, clipping tags off soft toys. The food goes in a lined drawer. The treats in a tin he doesn’t yet know how often to use. The tunnel unfolds beside his bed like a small amusement park. Seungmin assembles the scratching post (instructions unclear, one screw left over).

It’s too much. Overprepared. Ridiculous, even.

But Seungmin doesn’t know how to give a little. He only knows how to give everything or nothing.

San ignores all of it.

With single-minded purpose, the kitten climbs onto Seungmin’s ergonomic office chair — the one that costs more than some people’s rent — and curls into a perfect circle in a patch of afternoon sun. His fur glows gold at the edges. The rise and fall of his tiny sides are hypnotically steady, as if the room itself holds its breath to accommodate this softness.

Seungmin’s throat tightens.

He pulls out his phone before he can think better of it. The shutter sound is too loud in the stillness of the apartment, but San doesn’t stir. The photo catches everything — the sunlight turning his fur to smoke and amber, the perfect arc of his spine, the delicate paws tucked beneath him like something holy.

He stares at the photo on his screen again and, almost without thinking, hits send.

It isn’t until the message whooshes off into the digital void that he remembers exactly who he’s texting: Minho, who doesn’t just like cats. Minho, who worships them. Minho, who, at any given moment, had at least seventeen photos of his three spoiled cats ready to deploy in conversation. Minho, who has once described himself as “an unwilling concubine in a feline-run monarchy.” A man who calls himself “appa” without irony. A man who, upon receiving this image will —

His phone explodes.

▶ ????!!!!

IS THAT A CAT

KIM SEUNGMIN

DID YOU GET A CAT

WHEN

WHY

SEND MORE PICTURES RIGHT NOW

IS HE SOFT

WHAT’S HIS NAME

I’M CALLING YOU

Seungmin’s screen lights up with an incoming call. He declines it.

◁ It’s temporary.

▶ LIAR

YOU’RE A CAT DAD NOW

WELCOME TO THE DARK SIDE

Seungmin exhales, laughing despite himself. But when he looks up, San is still there — curled in the sun like something half-wild that chose, inexplicably, to trust him.

He opens his phone once again and scrolls idly through the messages, pausing over the contact Minho sent him. Hwang Hyunjin.

The conversation feels distant already. The possibility of a stranger sharing his space. A dancer, Minho said. Seungmin imagines someone graceful, energetic, charismatic. Someone whose presence would take up too much room, like sunlight filling all the shadows he’s learned to live with.

And what if he’s allergic?

What if he walks in and starts sneezing? What if he hates cats? What if —

Seungmin presses the back of his hands to his eyes, groaning softly.

First, a roommate he hasn’t met yet. Now — a kitten who looks at him like he’s not broken.

He’s either making progress or a series of irreversibly stupid decisions.

But the weight in Seungmin’s chest isn’t regret. Isn’t panic. It’s something softer — an ache that feels like it’s been there a long time, waiting for a shape to grow into.

San opens one eye, as if sensing the shift in the air, and lets out a squeak so small it barely qualifies as a meow.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Seungmin mutters.

The kitten blinks — slow, deliberate, devastating. And Seungmin, against all reason, against every carefully constructed boundary he’s ever lived behind, feels something in him give way.

 

The wind carries the scent of rain long before it arrives.

By late afternoon, the sky has dulled into a heavy, pewter gray, its weight pressing down like a held breath. Leaves — dry and curled at the edges — whisper across the pavement in restless spirals, as though the earth itself is fidgeting. Seungmin stands by the window, the soft warmth of the phone still lingering against his palm from the brief call.

“I’m nearby. Fifteen minutes, max.”

San is a quiet smudge of comfort, curled in the freshly claimed corner of the windowsill, one paw slung lazily over his face in dramatic disinterest. Seungmin watches him, not without envy.

His own nerves have been steeping all day, quietly and stubbornly — like tea leaves in lukewarm water, the kind that never quite blooms, only seeps. He keeps telling himself this isn’t a big deal. Just a roommate. Just temporary.

And yet —

He catches himself checking his reflection in the microwave’s glossy door as he passes the kitchen. Then again in the hallway mirror. It’s ridiculous. He’s not trying to impress anyone. That isn’t what this is.

Still, when the intercom buzzes, it slices through the quiet with sharp finality. He startles like someone caught doing something shameful.

He opens the door and is met with motion first, then sound.

A voice — low, polite, faintly breathless. “Hi! Sorry, traffic was—”

Oh.

Hwang Hyunjin stands on the threshold, haloed by the golden spill of hallway light. And Seungmin, unprepared, forgets to breathe.

The man is unfair.

A buzzcut — sharp, severe, the kind that should make a person look harsh — only serves to highlight the elegant lines of his face. It draws attention to the slope of his neck, the strong set of his jaw, the way his dark eyebrows frame eyes that seem to catch the light even in the dim evening. His skin glows with the aftermath of exertion, flushed at the high points of his cheeks, a drop of sweat trails down from his temple, evidence of whatever training he came from, clinging to his skin like an afterthought. His lips are parted slightly, just enough to suggest breathlessness, as though he’s run up the last flight of stairs.

He’s taller than Seungmin expected. Dressed casually — just sweats and a zip-up hoodie with a damp t-shirt underneath that clings to the planes of his chest, the fabric darkened in patches where sweat hasn’t yet dried, a dance bag slung over one shoulder — and still, he moves with the unthinking ease of someone who understands his body well. No arrogance. No self-consciousness.

Just grace.

He’s smiling. Not the calculated kind — the real kind. Bright-eyed, unaffected, generous. That, perhaps, is the most disarming part of all.

It’s almost cruel.

Seungmin’s stomach does something complicated.

Hyunjin shifts the bag onto his other shoulder and, without hesitation, steps forward — right hand extended in automatic greeting.

Seungmin stares at it.

Hyunjin realizes it an instant too late. His expression shifts — embarrassment, then something softer, almost apologetic. “Ah— shit,” he mutters, pulling his hand back. “I’m so sorry. Old habit.”

Seungmin’s pulse thrums too loudly in his ears. He can’t decide if he’s annoyed or relieved that Hyunjin remembered. He steps aside, gesturing for Hyunjin to enter. His voice comes out quieter than he means it to. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not, though. That was incredibly inconsiderate of me.” Hyunjin runs a hand over the back of his buzzed head, embarrassed. The motion is boyish, endearing in a way that annoys Seungmin precisely because it’s genuine.

Hyunjin ducks his head as he crosses the threshold, his boots thudding softly against the hardwood. The scent of crisp autumn air and something faintly spicy clings to him, cutting through the usual sandalwood of the apartment. He toes off his shoes neatly, lining them up beside Seungmin’s, and glances around with open curiosity. His socks are mismatched — one black, one navy — and the sheer normalcy of it makes something in Seungmin’s chest loosen.

“Thanks for having me. Minho-hyung said you were—” He pauses, searching for a word that isn’t reclusive or antisocial. “—selective about roommates.”

“I am.”

Hyunjin’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it softens at the edges, like he finds Seungmin’s bluntness endearing. Infuriating.

The apartment feels altered with him in it — smaller, as though the air has thickened, charged with something that prickles at the edges of stillness. Hyunjin is too much — not in volume, but in presence. He doesn’t move like someone unused to new places. He simply exists. As though he’s already carved out space in the room without meaning to.

Seungmin watches as Hyunjin takes in the space, his gaze lingering on the bookshelves, the minimalist furniture, the half-finished cup of tea left on the coffee table. He doesn’t move to touch anything. Doesn’t linger near the walls. He just stands there with his dance bag resting quietly at his feet, eyes scanning the space with quiet, open curiosity.

“Nice place,” Hyunjin offers, voice still gentle from the earlier awkwardness.

San, ever the traitor, wakes up, stretches, and pads over to him like they’ve known each other for years.

“Ohhh,” Hyunjin breathes out, then crouches, moving slowly, and offers the back of his hand. San sniffs it once, then butts his head against Hyunjin’s fingers with immediate trust. “You didn’t say you had a roommate already.”

“He’s new.”

“Hey, little guy,” Hyunjin murmurs, scratching under San’s chin. His voice is stupidly gentle, his fingers careful. Seungmin watches, something tight and unnamable coiling in his chest. Hyunjin’s hands are big, his fingers long. There’s a faint scar across one knuckle, a callus on the pad of his thumb.

This is a terrible idea.

Because Hyunjin is handsome, yes, in a way that makes Seungmin’s skin prickle with awareness. But worse — far worse — is how easy he seems. How effortlessly he fills the silence, how naturally he fits into the space, as if he’s always belonged there. How he’s here — warm and real and ridiculously kind — as though this isn’t strange for either of them.

Seungmin swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.

“What’s his name?”

“San.”

“Like... mountain?”

Seungmin lifts a shoulder. “Or sunny. Depends on the language.”

Hyunjin looks up from where he’s crouched, surprised, then... something gentler flickers across his face. Not amusement. Not judgment. Just interest. “That’s kind of beautiful.”

Seungmin looks away.

“Thanks again for letting me stay,” Hyunjin says after a moment. “I know it’s not ideal, and I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible.”

“I’m not expecting miracles,” Seungmin replies. “Just don’t burn the apartment down.”

There’s a beat of silence — and then Hyunjin grins. Not the wide kind. Just a curve at the corner of his mouth, softened by exhaustion and maybe relief.

“I’ll do my best.”

Seungmin clears his throat. “Your room is the second door on the left down the hall. It has its own bathroom, so we won’t have to share.”

Hyunjin nods. “That’s perfect.”

“A cleaning service comes twice a week — Tuesdays and Fridays — around noon, so don’t be surprised if someone lets themselves in,” Seungmin continues, his voice steady despite the way his fingers curl into his sleeves. “They do laundry, too, if you leave it in the hamper.”

Hyunjin’s eyebrows lift slightly. “That’s… really generous.”

Seungmin shrugs. “It’s just how it’s set up. I don’t usually have time to do all this myself”.

“Honestly, I doubt I’ll be around that much anyway too. I train and teach from morning till late most days. I just needed somewhere to sleep that isn’t a cramped dorm or a couch at the studio.”

“You can come and go as you like,” Seungmin says. “Also, there’s a housekeeper — my parents’. She brings groceries and cooks sometimes, but I usually order takeout. There’s a list of places in the kitchen. All small businesses. Family-run.”

Hyunjin’s lips quirk. “You have a favorite?”

“The kimchi jjigae from the place on the corner,” Seungmin admits before he can stop himself.

Hyunjin grins. “Noted.”

San wounds between Seungmin’s ankles, purring. There’s a moment of stillness — comfortably quiet, not forced — until Hyunjin glances at the wall clock and stretches his arms above his head, spine curving with the motion. His shirt rides up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned muscle before it drops back into place.

Seungmin looks away immediately, throat tightening.

“I should get going,” Hyunjin says, standing. “I’ve got practice early tomorrow, and I don’t want to keep you up.”

“It’s okay. The spare keys are on the shoe cabinet”.

“I’ll move in officially over the weekend. Saturday, maybe?”

“That’s fine. I’ll be working from home until the end of the week either way. So, if you need anything — just call ahead.”

Hyunjin’s smile is soft. “Thanks.”

They face each other again at the threshold. The air between them feels thin, like a stretched canvas — not tense, but not quite relaxed either.

“Thanks again, Seungmin,” Hyunjin says, voice quieter now. “Really.”

Seungmin opens his mouth to say something — anything — but nothing comes. He just nods.

Hyunjin steps into the hallway, his silhouette briefly backlit by the motion sensor light outside. “See you soon.”

The front door clicks shut, and Seungmin stands frozen in the silence, staring at the closed door as if it might change its mind and open again. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. The silence after Hyunjin leaves is louder than his presence. The apartment feels too large suddenly, the air too still. Seungmin exhales, long and slow, as if he has been holding his breath the entire time.

San meows once, hopping down from the couch and trotting toward him like a small, soft accusation. Seungmin scoops him up with both hands and holds him against his chest.

“I didn’t expect him to look like that,” he mutters aloud. San purrs. “Or sound like that. Or— be like that.”

The kitten blinks up at him.

“I mean— he’s fine. He’s fine.” Seungmin walks slowly back to the living room, settling on the couch with San tucked under his chin. “He’s polite. Normal. Not annoying. Just a person.”

He scratches behind San’s ear absently. “A really tall, really graceful, stupidly good-looking person who wears sweatpants like it’s a fashion statement and apologizes before he even makes a mistake.”

San flops into his lap, warm and boneless.

It settles — Hyunjin has been here. In his space. With his stupidly perfect buzzcut and that smile — warm and effortless. He said his cat’s name was beautiful. Seungmin simply wasn’t prepared. Maybe, he has expected someone louder. Someone who’d make the walls feel tighter, more intrusive. Instead, Hyunjin has looked at his space — and at him — with the kind of gentleness that felt dangerous.

And his hands.

Why is he thinking about Hyunjin’s hands?

Broad palms, long fingers, the faint calluses. Hands that cradled San so gently, scratching under his chin like he knew exactly how to make the kitten melt.

And he is coming back.

On Saturday.

To live here.

Seungmin’s stomach twists. He isn’t used to this — to someone else’s presence lingering in his space long after they’ve left. To the way the air still smells faintly of that scent Hyunjin carried with him.

San butts his head against Seungmin’s wrist, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“This is a disaster,” Seungmin mutters.

The kitten just blinks at him, unimpressed.

 

All evening, Hyunjin drifts at the edge of his mind like the echo of a bright song — one he doesn’t know the lyrics to but can’t stop humming.

And underneath it all, a soft panic begins to bloom. Not because something is wrong.

But because something might finally be right. Like the kind of thing, you could get used to.

And that — more than anything — is what terrifies him.

 

***

 

Hyunjin moves in on a Saturday. The process is oddly uneventful — two suitcases, one duffel bag, a box of vitamins and hair products, and a small collection of framed photos that he never hangs. He claims the guest room without ceremony, thanks Seungmin twice, and disappears the next morning before the sun finishes rising.

And then, it begins: their strange and careful coexistence, like two ghosts haunting the same house but keeping it to separate rooms.

There’s nothing dramatic. It’s not jarring, either — just off. Like wearing someone else’s coat: warm, but unfamiliar in the lining.

Seungmin is so used to silence that even the softest of sounds unsettle him. The faint creak of floorboards in the hallway at midnight. The rhythmic hiss of the shower behind a closed bathroom door. The low thud of footsteps echoing through the apartment when he isn’t the one walking. The scent of someone else’s shampoo in the air after Hyunjin passes by — clean, citrusy, faintly herbal — feels like an intrusion. The clatter of dance shoes dropped by the door. The accidental hum of a song caught on Hyunjin’s breath as he moves through the kitchen. The muffled voice of a phone call, private but not secret, on the other side of the thin guest room wall.

At first, Seungmin notices everything. Not out of curiosity. But because his body remains braced for the impact.

But the thing about humans — especially ones who live in defence — is that they’re remarkably good at adapting.

It happens gradually, the way all irreversible things do.

Days blur into a quiet, repeating rhythm, the kind that settles over a space like a favorite blanket — worn at the edges, but dependable. The autumn leaves outside their window deepen from amber to burnt umber.

And one day, Seungmin realizes he no longer flinches at the sound of the front door unlocking. He doesn’t pause anymore when he hears someone shuffle around the kitchen in socked feet. Doesn’t stare at the hallway light with suspicion when it clicks on at an odd hour. Instead, he finds himself cataloguing those things — almost fondly.

Hyunjin’s presence is quiet, always careful, like someone moving through a church they don’t believe in but still respect. And Seungmin begins to find comfort in the traces left behind — an empty glass on the drying rack, a forgotten hoodie draped over the back of a chair, the subtle, half-washed scent of sweat and citrus lingering long after Hyunjin leaves for work.

Even the quiet greetings they exchange in passing — once stiff, formal — begin to soften. They carry no expectation. No demand for conversation. Just acknowledgements.

 

Hyunjin turns out to be — against all of Seungmin’s initial fears — a good roommate. He’s neat, quiet, and surprisingly considerate. His shoes are always put in a shoe cabinet, his dishes get rinsed and left in the sink for the cleaning service, his laundry never lies strewn about.

They barely cross paths during the week. Hyunjin leaves early for the dance studio, often before Seungmin even wakes, and returns late, long after Seungmin has retreated to his room for the night. Sometimes, though, their schedules align — just enough for them to share a meal.

Dinners become careful, quiet affairs. Seungmin orders takeout — always from his list of small, family-run places — and Hyunjin emerges from his room, freshly showered, hair damp and sticking up in soft spikes. They eat at opposite ends of the dining table, chopsticks clicking against ceramic bowls, the space between them charged. The conversations are simple — weather, work, the train system’s perpetual inefficiency. Sometimes music plays softly in the background, Hyunjin’s playlist or Seungmin’s, indistinguishable in tone.

They never touch.

Not once.

Not even by accident.

It becomes an unspoken rule.

They move around each other like water around stone — fluid, adaptive, cautious. If they pass too close in the narrow hallway, Hyunjin pauses to let Seungmin go first. If they both reach for the fridge handle, one of them steps back without comment. The air between them is not cold. But it is held. Measured.

Hyunjin never makes jokes about it. Never asks if it’s difficult or awkward. Never offers reassurances or apologies — and somehow, that’s the kindest thing of all.

Hyunjin is careful, always angling his body away, always mindful of Seungmin’s space. And Seungmin — well, Seungmin tries not to notice the way Hyunjin’s sweatpants hang low on his hips, or the way his throat moves when he swallows too-hot soup, or the way he sometimes hums under his breath when he thinks Seungmin isn’t listening. How sometimes there’s a faint imprint of Hyunjin’s body left on the couch cushions that Seungmin, against his better judgment, sometimes presses his palm against.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

San, of course, adores Hyunjin completely. The kitten follows him like a shadow, curling up in his abandoned sweatshirts, batting at the drawstrings of his sweatpants when he stretches after long days at the studio. Seungmin tells himself he doesn’t mind.

(He minds a little.)

And that’s it. That’s them.

A careful dance of proximity and distance, of shared meals and silent mornings, of stolen glances and deliberate space.

It’s fine.

(It isn’t.)

 

***

 

San has grown into a whirlwind of energy. A sleek grey blur of restless energy, he tears across furniture with the reckless joy of a creature discovering gravity is optional. The floor, the couch, the wide ledges of the windowsill — all of it is old news. What San wants now is altitude. Vertical conquest. Every cabinet, every shelf, every smooth, unclimbable surface is a mountain waiting to be mastered.

Worst of all, he’s set his sights on the tallest bookshelf in the living room — the one Seungmin once believed was safe. Too high, too smooth, too far from any viable launch point.

He was wrong.

The fourth time that week Seungmin catches San mid-scramble, one paw dramatically outstretched toward the spine of a rare poetry edition, he just sighs — long and defeated — and orders a set of cat shelves online. Minimalist. Oak-toned. Sleek.

They arrive two days later in a comically oversized box.

 

On a quiet Sunday morning, sunlight pooling on the floor in drowsy gold, Seungmin spreads everything out across the living room floor: brackets, screws, the compact drill, a pencil for marking, a measuring tape. He paces the wall, checks the spacing, levels the imaginary lines in the air with a craftsman’s patience.

When he’s finally satisfied, he drags over a sturdy dining chair and climbs up with the misplaced confidence of someone who thinks: This’ll be quick.

The shelves are simple: pale wood, smooth to the touch, with discreet black brackets designed to disappear into the wall, meant to be staggered across the wall like a feline staircase. Seungmin aligns the first two shelves carefully, marks the drill points with faint graphite lines, checks the level again.

It should be easy.

And it is, for a while.

Until it’s not.

Seungmin balances precariously on the wooden chair, the drill whirring in his hand as he tries to secure the highest cat shelf. The hem of his oversized sweater has ridden up, exposing a sliver of pale skin above his sweatpants. San circles below like a tiny, impatient supervisor, tail flicking as he watches the human struggle with the installation.

The drill bit catches unexpectedly, jerking in Seungmin’s grip. Just a minor shift in balance. Just his fingers slipping on the drill trigger as the chair legs creak beneath him. His weight slides. The shelf slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor. The drill drops with a sickening thud. His stomach flips. The room blurs as gravity catches his body and drags it sideways.

Strong hands seize his waist, hauling him backward against a solid chest just before the chair goes crashing sideways.

“Got you,” Hyunjin breathes, voice rough against the shell of Seungmin’s ear.

Time stops.

Hyunjin’s hands are on his bare skin. Seungmin’s sweater has ridden up, leaving the narrow plane of his skin exposed, and Hyunjin’s fingers are there — there — burning hot against the sensitive dip of Seungmin’s waist. His thumbs dig in just above Seungmin’s hip bones, holding him steady with terrifying ease. The scent of Hyunjin’s cologne — something warm and woody — fills Seungmin’s lungs.

Seungmin’s breath hitches. He braces for the familiar lance of pain, the electric shock of contact that never fails to sear through him, muscles tensing, eyes squeezing shut. It should come. It always comes.

But it doesn’t.

His skin prickles, but not in the usual way. Not that searing pain. Not the acid sting of a body rejecting contact. Not the familiar wave of burning electric agony. It’s just... the heat. The rough texture of Hyunjin’s calloused palms. The way his fingers flex unconsciously against Seungmin’s skin, as if testing the reality of this contact. The rapid thud of a heartbeat against his back — his own or Hyunjin’s, Seungmin can’t tell.

“Fuck—” Hyunjin starts to pull away, panic lacing his voice. “Did I hurt you? I wasn’t thinking—”

Seungmin turns in his arms before he can retreat.

The movement brings them chest to chest. Hyunjin’s hands remain frozen at his waist, his breath coming, lips slightly parted. Up this close, Seungmin can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes.

“I...” Seungmin’s voice comes out wrecked. “I don’t feel anything.”

Hyunjin’s throat bobs as he swallows. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

The words hang between them, charged and impossible.

Slowly, deliberately, Seungmin lifts his hand. His fingertips brush the pulse point at Hyunjin’s wrist — just the barest contact — and they both shudder.

Not from pain.

From the way Hyunjin’s skin seems to ignite under his touch. From the electric current that has nothing to do with Seungmin’s condition and everything to do with the way Hyunjin’s breath catches when Seungmin's fingers trail up his forearm.

Skin to skin.

Still nothing.

Except — goosebumps, rising all along his arm like a ripple on still water.

A soft shiver blooms in his chest and spreads outward.

Hyunjin’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly on Seungmin’s waist. His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the warm brown.

“Seungmin,” he says, voice low, taut, vibrating with something neither of them can name.

But Seungmin isn’t listening.

He’s staring at their hands. At this impossible, quiet contact. At the place where pain should live — but doesn’t.

He swallows again. His voice, when it comes, is paper-thin.

“I think...” He exhales, shaky. “I think I need to sit down.”

 

The air in the apartment feels strangely alive — dense and static-charged, as if it’s holding its breath along with them. Seungmin sits rigid on the edge of the couch, every nerve buzzing, his fingers curled tightly around the hem of his sweater. The silence between them is a taut string, stretched to the point of snapping. His skin still tingles faintly where Hyunjin had grabbed him — not with pain, not with the scorching rejection he’s known all his life, but with the haunting echo of warmth. It lingers, an imprint of contact his body should have repelled.

He keeps touching the spot absentmindedly, as if expecting delayed pain to bloom there. It doesn’t.

Touch without pain.

The phrase loops in his mind, surreal and echoing. It’s like trying to say your own name over and over until it loses all meaning — only in this case, the words gain weight each time they repeat, pressing heavier against his chest. His whole life has been mapped around avoidance, around fear and caution: gloves in summer, distance at dinner tables, flinching from even the suggestion of warmth. A hundred quiet, invisible rituals of survival.

And now — this.

Hyunjin exhales harshly, dragging a hand through his hair until it stands on end, defiant tufts of black against his temple. The sound is loud in the hush of the living room, as if even the walls are listening.

“I don’t think my extroversion index is that high,” he mutters, his voice rough-edged, like he’s still catching up to the implications himself.

Seungmin turns toward him slowly. “You don’t think?” His voice is flat, mechanical — it’s the only way to keep it from shaking.

Hyunjin shakes his head, shoulders tensing visibly beneath the loose hang of his sweater. His fingers flex at his sides like they’re aching to move, aching to touch again. But he holds himself still.

“I mean... I don’t really know,” he admits. “I took a test, obviously, like everyone. But I was a baby. I don’t remember it. And no one’s ever... reacted to me. I’ve never triggered anything in anyone before. So, I figured I was just... average. Nothing special.”

Seungmin stares at him like he’s grown a second head. The words settle in his stomach like ice.

“You don’t know your index,” he says, carefully, like tasting something bitter.

Hyunjin winces. “Okay— yeah. I know how it sounds.”

It sounds like a luxury. Like something only people who’ve never had to think about survival get to say. A quiet kind of carelessness. Something unthinkable for someone like Seungmin, who’s had to know his own body like a battleground, who’s grown up fearing the warmth of others more than the cold.

Something sharp twists behind his ribs.

“I think we should call Minho,” Seungmin says suddenly, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. He stands, too fast, too tense, and reaches for his phone like it’s a lifeline. “Right now.”

Hyunjin’s brows jump. “Wait— now? Can’t we just... I don’t know. Breathe for a second? Think this over?”

“No,” Seungmin snaps, already scrolling through his contacts. “Because if I think about it, I’ll start spiraling. I’ll talk myself out of it. I’ll convince myself I made it up, or that I’m broken in some new way, or that it’s going to come back even worse—”

“Okay, okay,” Hyunjin cuts in, holding up his hands in surrender. “Just— okay.”

He slumps against the couch like a man surrendering to fate, dragging a palm down his face. “God. Minho’s going to yell. He is so protective of you, he’s going to kill me just for the possibility of you getting hurt.”

Seungmin gives him a look. “No, he’s going to gloat.”

They’re both wrong.

When Minho picks up, his voice crackles through the speaker with the restrained mirth of someone trying — and failing — not to sound smug.

“You’re calling me to say you didn’t feel pain after someone touched your skin?” he asks, a beat of silence following, like he’s waiting for a punchline.

“Yes,” Seungmin replies tightly, voice clipped, as if keeping it to one syllable will make this all feel more manageable.

“And this someone is Hyunjin?”

“Yes.”

A pause. Then: “And he’s sure his index isn’t that high?”

“I mean,” Hyunjin’s voice is flat and guilty, “I’m not sure, actually...?”

Silence. And then, like a match being struck: “Come to my office,” Minho says. “There’s a lab across the street. They do express testing. We’ll get his numbers.”

Hyunjin groans audibly, flopping back against the cushions like a man in mourning. “Do we really have to—”

“You just handed me a possible miracle, Hyunjin,” Minho says, dry and delighted. “You think I’m going to let you go easily?”

Seungmin’s throat works around a swallow. He glances at Hyunjin out of the corner of his eye — the slump of his body, the pinched furrow between his brows, the nervous movement of his fingers tapping against his knees. The sight fills Seungmin with a strange mixture of fondness and dread.

 

The ride to Minho’s office is short. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty with the lights. But to Seungmin, it feels endless — stretched thin and trembling like a fraying wire. Time bends under the weight of what just happened, distorting in the silence between them.

He grips the steering wheel a little too tightly, his knuckles pale against the black leather. Every breath feels shallow, caught somewhere between his lungs and throat. He can’t seem to get enough air. The city blurs past the windows, but he barely registers it — just color and movement, shadows on glass. His focus narrows to the sound of the turn signal clicking like a metronome, and to the presence beside him.

Hyunjin sits with his spine ramrod straight, as if afraid the car seat might accuse him of something. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, fingers twined so tightly it looks like he’s trying to anchor himself in place. The space between them is charged — not with tension exactly, but something quieter, more fragile. It’s like a line has been drawn down the middle of the car, invisible but palpable, and Hyunjin is doing everything in his power not to cross it.

Not even accidentally. Not even a brush of wool against denim.

Seungmin can feel it — the restraint. The way Hyunjin holds his breath every time Seungmin adjusts the gearshift or shifts in his seat. He’s trying so hard not to mess this up. Not to touch again. Not to make it worse.

And Seungmin wants to say something. Anything. That it’s fine. That it didn’t hurt. That he doesn’t have to sit like a prisoner waiting for a verdict. But the words dissolve before they reach his mouth, hollowed out by the ache building in his chest.

Because beneath all the confusion and disbelief, something else is stirring.

Something restless.

Something dangerously curious.

His body remembers the touch. Not in the usual way — not the way it remembers pain, imprinting it like a scar, bracing for the next time. This is different. His skin still hums, as if the warmth left behind was not just an echo, but a question. A promise. Hyunjin’s hands had been solid and sure. Warm, yes — but not burning. Steady. Safe.

Seungmin hadn’t known his body could register touch as anything other than threat. But it had. It had recognized something in Hyunjin, something familiar and unexpected and deeply terrifying.

Because this wasn’t just about what didn’t happen.

It was about what did.

The hitch in his breath. The goosebumps blooming across his arms. The low, trembling pull in his stomach. His heart still hasn’t settled into a normal rhythm, thudding unevenly in his chest like it’s chasing something it can’t name.

It had felt like longing.

And that — that is something Seungmin has no idea how to survive.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the road, jaw tight, thoughts roiling too loud in his head. Finally, when the silence gets too heavy, he speaks without looking over.

“Why are you acting like I’m radioactive?”

Hyunjin jumps a little, like the sound startled him. Then he exhales, long and low. “I just…” He shifts in his seat, carefully, like even that might trigger something. “I don’t want to risk it. Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe you were in shock.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Still.” Hyunjin glances at him, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to smile but doesn’t trust himself to. “I’m keeping my distance until we’re sure.”

Seungmin sighs through his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You almost fell on your face,” Hyunjin points out, eyes fixed on the dashboard. “I caught you. And now we’re going to Minho-hyung to figure out why the world didn’t end. Forgive me if I’m a little cautious.”

Seungmin scoffs, but it’s quiet, almost affectionate. “Hyung will say it’s fate.”

“Oh god, he will,” Hyunjin groans, finally slumping a little in his seat.

Despite himself, Seungmin’s mouth twitches. The tension eases just slightly — not gone, but softened around the edges.

“Still,” Hyunjin adds, voice gentler now, “I’m not taking any chances. I’d rather be overly careful than hurt you.”

That makes Seungmin’s throat tighten. He swallows hard, but it doesn’t go away.

He doesn’t say thank you. He can’t, not yet. But his fingers ease on the wheel. His shoulders settle, just a little.

The silence that follows isn’t quite comfortable, but it’s no longer unbearable.

They drive the rest of the way like that — cautious, quiet, and just a little bit changed.

 

The lobby of the building where Minho rents his office smells faintly of roasted coffee from the café tucked into one corner, where two students sit hunched over textbooks, surrounded by empty espresso cups. The lighting is warm but clinical — the kind of brightness meant to soothe rather than illuminate — and the floor tiles echo faintly under Seungmin’s boots as he steps inside.

Hyunjin follows close behind but keeps just enough distance not to brush his arm. He looks like he’s bracing for a firing squad.

Minho is already waiting for them, arms crossed, dressed in one of his usual effortlessly tailored jackets and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that make him look more like an eccentric professor than a private therapist. His expression is unreadable at first, but the moment he spots them, a slow, satisfied grin unfurls across his face.

“Oh,” he says, drawing out the word like a note in a song. “You two look exactly how I expected. Terrified. Confused. Full of barely contained existential dread. Adorable.”

Seungmin scowls. “Hyung.”

“Yes, yes,” Minho waves him off. “You had a moment. A brush with death. A miracle. Very romantic.”

Hyunjin groans. “Please, don’t.”

Minho smirks. “Let’s test you.”

 

The lab across the street sits between a florist and a pharmacy, its discreet glass front marked only by a white vinyl logo and a set of polished metal handles. Inside, the space is sterile and strangely silent, in that uncanny way medical spaces often are — not peaceful, exactly, but suspended. As if time is waiting too.

Hyunjin is called back almost immediately, the technician beckoning him with a clipboard and a polite smile. “Just you, please,” she says, and Hyunjin hesitates for the barest second before giving Seungmin a glance — uncertain, as if asking permission. Seungmin gives a small nod.

“I’ll be right back,” Hyunjin says softly, more to himself than to anyone else, and disappears through the white door with a quiet click.

Minho doesn’t speak. He moves toward the front desk and picks up a clipboard left there by a passing tech, scribbling in quick strokes. Seungmin watches him, arms folded tight across his chest, heart ticking its slow panic. Minho fills out the form with clinical precision, all boxes and checkmarks. When he reaches the line for results delivery, he writes his personal email address in clean, blocky letters — not his professional one, but the one Seungmin’s seen before on weekend check-ins and occasional dinner invites.

“You’re not putting in Hyunjin’s email?” Seungmin asks, low.

Minho doesn’t look up. “I don’t know his email by heart, and I figured you both would want a buffer.”

Seungmin swallows and says nothing.

They wait in silence until Hyunjin reappears ten minutes later, rubbing the inside of his elbow, a square of gauze taped down. “That was fast,” he says, almost sheepish. “The technician said it’ll take thirty minutes. Maybe less.”

Minho gives a short nod. “Let’s head back. We’ll wait in my office.”

 

Minho’s office is on the sixth floor, tucked into the quieter wing of the building. Seungmin knows the way by heart — the pattern of the tiles, the scent of old wood and strong coffee, the scuffed corner of the hallway where interns always park their bags. But today, the familiar feels distant. Thinner somehow.

Once they’re inside, Minho sets them up in the small lounge corner of his office — mismatched armchairs, a low coffee table, and a dented electric kettle. He puts water on and rummages through a drawer for packets of instant mix, sliding them onto the table like playing cards.

“Sugar?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

Hyunjin nods. Seungmin doesn’t respond.

Minho makes the drinks in silence. The water hisses, the kettle clicks. When he finally sits across from them with his own mug, the steam curls between them like a thin wall.

“So,” Minho begins, tone light, too light, “how are you both—”

“Please don’t turn this into a session.” Seungmin cuts in before he can stop himself, voice tight. “I can’t do that right now.”

Minho leans back slowly. Not offended. Not surprised. Just... resigned. “Okay,” he says gently. “No sessions.”

He sips his coffee, his gaze drifting toward his computer screen, where the inbox folder of his email is already open.

None of them speak after that. Not really. The only sound is the quiet hum of the radiator, the occasional scrape of a mug against ceramic, and the steady ticking of the clock above the door.

Each second stretches. Heavy. Electric. Waiting.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Minho says, swiveling dramatically in his desk chair exactly thirty minutes later, “we have results.”

He clicks a few times, the sound of his keyboard sharp in the quiet, then leans forward toward his monitor with a small, drawn-out whistle. “Well. That explains it.”

Seungmin sits up straighter without meaning to. His hands curl around his coffee mug, suddenly cold.

Minho turns toward Hyunjin, his expression somewhere between impressed and delighted. “You, Hwang Hyunjin, are a medical curiosity.”

Hyunjin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Please don’t say things like that.”

“I’m serious. Your index is zero. Exactly. No deviation.”

Hyunjin blinks. “...What?”

“Ambiversion,” Minho confirms, tapping the screen. “Textbook case. Balanced protein markers in your skin tissue. Neutral immune response. No allergy triggers, no overactivity. You’re Switzerland.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Hyunjin huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair like he’s not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed. “That’s... rare, right?”

“Pretty rare, yeah.” Minho swivels slightly back and forth in his chair, the wheels creaking. “Most people have some lean — even just two or three points toward plus or minus. You? Dead center.”

He glances sideways at Seungmin then, and the gleam in his eyes is unmistakable. “And you know what that means.”

Seungmin narrows his eyes. “No. What does it mean.”

Minho’s grin curls slow, smug. “It means his touches are potentially not dangerous for you.”

Seungmin’s heart skips. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. It stutters and seizes in his chest like it’s been tripped over.

“Potentially?” he manages.

Minho lifts one shoulder in a practiced shrug. “Well. We don’t know the psychological implications of touch for you, do we? That’s going to be a whole other discussion. But biologically?” He leans back and gestures with both hands like he’s presenting a prize. “He’s clean.”

The words are clinical.

The impact is not.

Not dangerous.

Seungmin’s breath is shallow — but it’s not panic. It’s something slower, heavier. He feels it rising from the center of his chest like steam curling beneath his ribs.

He can be touched.

By Hyunjin.

And it won’t hurt.

His throat works, but he doesn’t say anything. Because what can he say? That the knowledge of this — this safe, unbearable possibility — is somehow worse than the uncertainty?

Minho is still watching him. Not gloating, exactly, but pleased in that older-brother way he gets when proven right. “You okay, Seungmin?”

Seungmin nods stiffly. It feels like a lie.

Because nothing feels okay now.

Everything feels possible.

And that’s so much harder to live with.

 

***

 

Seungmin doesn’t know what to do with this knowledge.

The test confirmed it. The numbers were right there on the screen — precise, undeniable. Zero index. Safe. But knowledge isn’t the same as permission. It doesn’t offer instructions. Doesn’t tell him what to do with the weight of his own hands, or how to carry a body that — in this one impossible, improbable exception — can receive touch without consequence.

And it definitely doesn’t tell him how to ask.

“Hey, can I touch you?” It sounds stupid, out loud or in his head.

“Hey, can you touch me?” Worse. A plea dressed up as a question. An admission of something he’s not ready to name.

So he says nothing.

He lets the silence stretch and warp. Walks around the apartment with it clutched tight to his chest like a book with half the pages torn out. The story began — he’s sure of that much. Something real, something impossible. Something that curled beneath his skin and opened his ribs from the inside. But now the spine goes stiff, pages blank after chapter six. No more lines to follow. No ending to chase. Just the weight of potential, pages fluttering with everything unsaid.

He’s not sure what’s worse — knowing that it exists, or not knowing how to finish it.

 

Sometimes, Seungmin catches himself staring.

At first, it’s only curiosity.

He watches Hyunjin pour coffee, eyes catching on the curve of his wrist, the easy way his knuckles bend around the handle of the mug. Neutral. Safe. That hand, those fingers, touched him once. The memory of it has lived in Seungmin’s skin ever since — not like pain, not like trauma, but like heat that never quite dissipated.

Then it’s Hyunjin again, folding laundry on the living room floor, sleeves shoved up haphazardly. Seungmin’s eyes catch on the pale line of skin bared above his elbow. It’s nothing. Ordinary. But Seungmin lingers anyway.

And it gets worse from there.

Hyunjin yawns into his shoulder one morning, shirt riding up at the hem, spine arching as he stretches. The flash of skin is brief, careless — and Seungmin turns away too late.

Hyunjin, stretching in the living room after rehearsal, headphones in, muscles shifting under sweat-damp skin as he rolls his shoulders.

Hyunjin, laughing into his phone, head tipped back against the couch, the line of his throat exposed.

Hyunjin, shirtless in the kitchen at midnight, reaching for a glass of water, the ridges of his abdomen flexing with the movement.

And then, suddenly, it isn’t just curiosity anymore.

It’s something slower. Heavier. Something that settles in his gut and doesn’t move, even when he tells himself it’s nothing.

Because Hyunjin keeps existing. Effortlessly. With that unbothered kind of beauty that doesn’t try to be anything at all.

Seungmin drinks these glimpses like someone who isn’t sure if he’ll ever be allowed a second glass. And sometimes — just sometimes — he wonders if Hyunjin notices.

There are moments when their eyes meet across the room, and something flickers behind Hyunjin’s gaze — sharp, knowing. But then it’s gone. He looks away. Says nothing. Smiles, polite. Almost like he’s indulging Seungmin. Like he’s letting him watch, letting him want, but drawing no closer.

It makes Seungmin feel small.

Like a child with his face pressed against glass, watching the world move just beyond his reach. Like something foolish and naive.

And maybe it is.

Maybe Hyunjin sees it all and just chooses not to acknowledge it.

Maybe he thinks Seungmin is still just curious. A boy holding a match to his skin and pretending it’s fire. Maybe he doesn’t realize that Seungmin is on the verge of unravelling — that every inch of space between them now hums like a live wire.

It becomes a thrum under his skin. Not just curiosity now — not the clinical interest of a body learning its boundaries, but something needful. Something that leans forward every time Hyunjin walks past. Something that aches in the space between them, even when they’re only a few feet apart.

 

***

 

It’s a rainy Thursday evening, and the apartment is hushed except for the soft murmur of the television. The light flickers lazily over the room, casting a gentle wash of motion across Hyunjin’s sleeping form on the couch.

Seungmin stops in the doorway like he’s stepped into someone else’s memory.

Hyunjin is asleep — truly asleep, not just dozing. His damp hair clings to his forehead, longer now, curling at the nape of his neck. He must have showered and collapsed without drying off properly. A twisted towel rests across his bare shoulders, darkening the fabric beneath him. His collarbones catch the light in soft glints. San is sprawled across his chest, rising and falling with every slow, even breath Hyunjin takes, purring contentedly, one paw splayed possessively against the curve of Hyunjin’s collarbone.

The whole image looks unreal. Soft. Domestic. Sacred. Like something fragile that should be witnessed only once — and never disturbed.

Seungmin should leave. He should walk away. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he moves forward on instinct, each step quiet, deliberate, like he’s afraid the moment might vanish if he breathes too hard. He reaches for the damp towel with careful fingers, brushing it aside. Just for a second, his hand skims Hyunjin’s skin — warm, sleep-heated — and his breath hitches like a thread pulled too tight.

Nothing happens. No pain. No sting.

Just contact.

It rattles him.

He replaces the towel with a dry one, hands trembling slightly, heart lurching against his ribs. Hyunjin stirs, but doesn’t wake. Seungmin exhales, shaky, and reaches for the blanket folded nearby. He shakes it out, lets it drift slowly over Hyunjin’s body, tucking it carefully around one shoulder, not daring to dislodge San from his perch.

He’s just about to pull away when fingers close around his wrist.

Seungmin freezes.

Hyunjin’s eyes are half-lidded, heavy with sleep, but his grip is firm. “You can just ask, you know,” he murmurs, voice rough.

Seungmin’s pulse kicks. “Ask what?”

Hyunjin’s thumb strokes lightly over the delicate skin of Seungmin’s inner wrist, soft and warm and terrifying. “If you want to touch me.”

It shouldn’t undo him — not the words, not the tone — but it does. Something in Seungmin’s chest coils too tightly. His mouth goes dry.

Hyunjin shifts, sitting up slightly. San slips off with a grumble and hops away. Still, Hyunjin doesn’t let go of Seungmin’s wrist. “Here,” he says, quieter now. “Try.”

Seungmin doesn’t move for a beat. Then slowly, breathlessly, he lets his fingers trail into Hyunjin’s open hand.

It’s like touching sunlight.

He traces the lines of Hyunjin’s palm, the story of motion written into calluses and faint scars. The ridges feel real in a way his own body doesn’t — like Hyunjin was made to be held, and Seungmin is only now realizing he can. He follows the path of tendons, the soft dip of the wrist, the subtle dusting of hair along Hyunjin’s forearm. He memorizes each shift, each texture, like he might be asked to give it back.

Hyunjin giggles — giggles — when Seungmin brushes the inside of his elbow.

“Sorry,” he whispers, smiling. “That just… tickles.”

But he doesn’t pull away.

The heat under Seungmin’s skin is unbearable. Every point of contact lights a fuse he didn’t know was wound through his nerves. His fingers shake as they glide across skin, too reverent, too cautious, like he’s afraid that desire alone might make this fragile thing vanish.

But it doesn’t.

It stays.

Hyunjin stays.

And Seungmin can’t breathe.

He’s never felt this before — this overwhelming storm of sensation, of permission, of relief so acute it almost hurts. He’s flooded by it, undone by it — not just the touch, but the absence of pain. The realization that touch can be something more than endurance or danger.

Seungmin is drowning — in the warmth, in the texture, in the way Hyunjin’s breath hitches when Seungmin’s nails scrape lightly over his pulse point.

Seungmin can’t breathe.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

 

***

 

It begins with a memory.

A simple one: Hyunjin’s hand in his, soft and open, the pads of Seungmin’s fingers tracing along his lifeline. A laugh, quiet and unguarded. The warmth of bare skin against bare skin.

That should have been enough. A moment, a gift, tucked away like a keepsake. But it won’t leave him. It replays constantly, unbidden — in the shower, in the grocery store, halfway through a sentence he forgets to finish. The feeling of Hyunjin’s skin stays with him like static clinging to fabric. Seungmin starts reaching for it in his sleep, waking with his palm curled around nothing.

He tells himself it’s nothing special. That this is what anyone would feel after being denied something their whole life — that it’s natural to fixate, just for a little while. But days pass, and the ache doesn’t fade. It sharpens.

It turns feral.

He begins to watch Hyunjin differently — or maybe, more honestly, he just stops pretending. Every exposed inch of skin becomes unbearable — not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t.

Because Seungmin knows what it feels like now. He knows what it could feel like.

And it’s driving him insane.

One night, Seungmin sees him dancing.

It’s late — past late, the kind of hour where time feels suspended, as if the world has exhaled and forgotten to draw breath again. The apartment is hushed, the lights long off, and the only illumination comes from the gauzy spill of streetlamp glow threading through the blinds. Seungmin moves quietly down the hallway, bare feet on cool wood, a glass of water on his mind and sleep still thick behind his eyes.

He stops short at the edge of the living room.

His breath catches, lodging somewhere behind his ribs.

Hyunjin doesn’t see him.

He’s in the center of the room, earbuds in, body slick with sweat. A clingy black t-shirt is plastered to his back, damp at the collar, clinging to the contours of his spine and shoulders like a second skin. His face is tilted slightly down, lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. His chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, but his limbs — God, his limbs — they move like smoke and water, all precision and grace, like the music lives inside his bones.

It’s not a routine, it’s not practice. It’s something more intimate. More private. Something Hyunjin does only when he thinks he’s alone. The kind of movement that feels less like dancing and more like praying.

Seungmin can’t look away.

There’s something devastating about the silence — the disconnect between what Hyunjin hears and what Seungmin sees. No beat, no melody, just the shush of Hyunjin’s feet against the floor and the soft exhale of breath every time he pivots or lands. His movements are slow and deliberate, each shift of weight precise, as though he’s dragging the music out of the air and weaving it into his own body. One arm lifts, arcs, falls. A spin, a pause. The arch of his neck as he throws his head back, jawline catching the light. The ripple of muscle down his side when he twists at the waist.

Seungmin’s nails dig into his palm.

Touch.

It hits him like a wave — sudden, all-consuming, and very, very real.

Not in the abstract. Not theoretical.

But real. The pulse of it — raw, physical, aching.

The desire to touch.

To press his hand against Hyunjin’s sweat-damp chest and feel it rise and fall beneath his palm. To drag his fingers through the wet strands of hair clinging to Hyunjin’s nape and feel the heat gathering there. To run his knuckles down the slick line of his spine and see if Hyunjin shivers. To trace the curve of a hip bone, slow and deliberate, just to see what kind of sound he makes when someone touches him like that.

There’s something unholy about the way his own body responds — the tightness in his throat, the heat blooming low in his belly, the phantom sensation of skin against skin even when they’re feet apart. Every nerve in him is lit up, tuned to Hyunjin and Hyunjin alone.

He should look away. Should go back to bed. Pretend he didn’t see.

But he doesn’t.

Can’t.

He just stands there, half-hidden in shadow, heart hammering and lungs barely working, watching the boy who shouldn’t be real move like he’s made of moonlight and longing.

And for the first time, Seungmin understands why people give in to obsession.

Because if this is what it feels like to want someone — not just the idea of them, but the heat and sweat and breath of them — then he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to want less.

 

All his life, Seungmin imagined what human warmth might feel like — not affection, not care, but heat. The electricity of skin on skin. Not maternal tenderness, not friendship — but the raw, humming current of attraction. Of desire.

He used to think he was immune to it. That this part of him had been cauterized at birth by the same mutation that made his body recoil from touch. He told himself he was above it — too logical, too isolated, too strange to want what others wanted.

But now he knows better.

Now he knows exactly what he wants — and it terrifies him.

Because it isn’t just the touch anymore.

It’s Hyunjin.

It’s the way he hums under his breath when he chops vegetables. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s caught off-guard laughing. The way he says Seungmin’s name — lazy, affectionate, always dragging out the last syllable like it’s something warm in his mouth. It’s the way he curls up on the couch with his knees drawn up and hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, and the way he looks at Seungmin sometimes — eyes soft, mouth parted, like he’s waiting for something.

Seungmin starts to drown in those looks.

He starts to build entire fantasies out of them — things he never used to allow himself to imagine. Not just touches, but moments. Hyunjin’s head tipped back in pleasure. Hyunjin’s hand tangled in his. Hyunjin’s breath stuttering against his mouth.

He wants to push Hyunjin against the nearest surface and map every inch of him with his hands, his mouth. He wants to see if Hyunjin’s skin flushes as prettily everywhere else as it does on his cheeks when he’s flustered. He wants to know if Hyunjin’s thighs are as firm as they look under his sweatpants, if the small of his back is as sensitive as the inside of his wrists.

He wants to learn Hyunjin’s body the way he’s learned everything else in his life: with precision, with hunger, with single-minded focus. He wants to trace the ridges of Hyunjin’s knuckles, the dip of his collarbones, the taut planes of his stomach. He wants to press his mouth to the pulse fluttering in Hyunjin’s throat and feel the vibration of his laughter.

It’s maddening.

He thinks about it constantly.

He thinks about it too much.

And the more he thinks, the worse it gets — the more unbearable it becomes to be near Hyunjin and not have. Not touch. Not give or take.

He walks through the apartment in a fog, his thoughts half-formed and trembling, half-hoping for another accident — a brush of skin, a moment of invitation, a reason not to stop. He starts leaving his door open at night, just in case. He watches Hyunjin stretch on the floor after rehearsals, his shirt sticking to his spine, sweat glistening in the hollows of his back, and it feels like punishment.

Seungmin is fraying.

He can feel it at the edges of his mind — like something thin and vital is coming loose.

He doesn’t know what’s worse: the touch he can’t have, or the fact that he’s already had it once and now can’t go back.

And through it all, Hyunjin is just there. Soft and close and unbearably warm. Unknowing. Or — worse — maybe knowing, and choosing not to say a word.

That would be cruel.

The uncertainty is torture.

So Seungmin watches. And waits. And burns.

 

***

 

The apartment is silent in the deep, blue-black hours of the night when Hyunjin returns. Seungmin, tangled in the thin sheets of his bed, stirs at the distant sound of the front door clicking open, the muffled thud of shoes being kicked off. His body tenses instinctively at the familiar rhythm of Hyunjin’s footsteps — the weight of them, the way the floorboards creak under his stride. The shower turns on, the rush of water a distant hum through the walls, and Seungmin’s skin prickles with awareness.

He drifts.

His mind, hazy with sleep, conjures images without permission — Hyunjin under the spray, steam curling around the sharp angles of his shoulders, water sluicing down the taut planes of his stomach. The towel he’ll use afterward, slung low on his hips, damp skin glistening in the dim bathroom light. The way his muscles flex when he runs a hand through his wet hair, the way his throat moves when he sighs, tired from rehearsal.

A soft knock at his door.

Seungmin’s eyes flutter open, his pulse already stuttering. The room is bathed in the faint silver glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains, just enough to outline the figure now leaning against his door frame.

Hyunjin.

He’s shirtless, a towel hanging precariously from his hips, water still dripping from the ends of his hair. The scent of his body wash drifts into the room, mixing with the cool night air. His chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, the muscles of his abdomen flexing as he shifts his weight. A single droplet of water clings to his collarbone, trembling with each movement.

“Sorry,” Hyunjin murmurs, voice rough from exhaustion and something else, something deeper. “Did I wake you up?”

Seungmin doesn’t even hear the question.

His throat is too tight, his skin too hot. All he can do is stare — at the way Hyunjin’s throat moves when he swallows, at the faint pink flush still high on his cheeks from the heat of the shower. His fingers twitch against the sheets, aching to touch, to know.

Hyunjin’s gaze darkens.

He sees it — of course he sees it — the way Seungmin’s breath hitches, the way his lips part unconsciously. The air between them thickens, heavy with something electric, something inevitable.

Hyunjin steps inside. The door clicks shut behind him. Seungmin’s heart pounds so violently he’s certain Hyunjin can hear it.

Slowly — so slowly — Hyunjin approaches the bed. His fingers brush the edge of the mattress, the sheets, then — finally — the bare skin of Seungmin’s ankle. The touch is feather-light, questioning, but it sends a shockwave of heat up Seungmin’s leg.

“Tell me to stop,” Hyunjin whispers.

Seungmin can’t.

He won’t.

Hyunjin’s hand slides higher, his palm scorching against Seungmin’s calf, his thigh, his hip. His other hand comes up to cradle Seungmin’s jaw, his thumb brushing the swell of Seungmin’s lower lip.

“You’re shaking,” Hyunjin murmurs.

Seungmin is shaking. Every nerve in his body is alight, every inch of his skin hypersensitive. He’s never been touched like this — not with this kind of deliberate, aching intent.

Hyunjin leans down, his breath warm against Seungmin’s mouth. “I’ve thought about this,” he admits, voice low. “About how you’d feel. About how you’d sound.”

And then —

He kisses him.

It’s not gentle. It’s hunger, pure and consuming. Hyunjin’s mouth is hot, his tongue sliding against Seungmin’s with a desperation that steals the air from his lungs. His hands are everywhere — tangling in Seungmin’s hair, gripping his waist, sliding under his shirt to map the trembling skin beneath.

Seungmin gasps, his back arching off the bed as Hyunjin’s teeth scrape against his throat. His fingers clutch at Hyunjin’s shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle there.

“Hyunjin—”

Hyunjin’s mouth on his neck, his jaw. Hands roaming over skin like it’s something sacred. Seungmin arches into every touch, stunned by the way it doesn’t burn — no pain, no flinch, only the electric thrill of pleasure curling deep and low in his belly. Fingers trace his ribs, his spine, the soft skin just beneath his waistband. Every inch Hyunjin touches becomes molten. Every breath is a stutter. He lets out a small, helpless sound when Hyunjin slides a thigh between his legs and presses —

It’s too much.

Too much and not enough.

He reaches for Hyunjin’s back, his shoulders, his waist, wanting more. Wanting everything. His hips shift forward without thought, instinct taking over. The friction sends heat crashing through him, fast and wild, and when Hyunjin moans — quiet, close, right against his mouth — it almost undoes him.

“Tell me what you want,” Hyunjin breathes against his skin, his hands sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of Seungmin’s sleep pants.

Seungmin’s hips jerk involuntarily. “You,” he chokes out. “Just— you.”

Hyunjin makes a low, approving sound in the back of his throat, and then his hand is there, wrapping around Seungmin’s cock with a sure grip. Seungmin whimpers, his entire body tensing at the contact — warm, so warm — his hips stuttering up into the touch.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin murmurs, stroking him slowly, his thumb swiping over the head, smearing the wetness there. “You’re so responsive.”

Seungmin can’t think. Can’t breathe. All he can do is feel — the rough drag of Hyunjin’s palm, the way his fingers tighten just so, the way his other hand grips Seungmin’s hip hard enough to bruise.

“Look at me,” Hyunjin orders, his voice rough.

Seungmin’s eyes flutter open — he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them — and the sight of Hyunjin above him, his lips swollen from kissing, his pupils blown wide with want, is enough to make his stomach clench.

Hyunjin leans down, his breath hot against Seungmin’s ear. “I want to hear you,” he murmurs, his hand speeding up. “Let me hear you.”

Seungmin moans, his fingers twisting in the sheets as pleasure coils tight in his gut.

“Hyunjin, I’m—”

Seungmin is panting, trembling, hands grasping blindly at bare skin, so close to—

Seungmin is burning.

 

He wakes up.

Suddenly.

Jolts upright.

The room is dark, the sheets tangled around his legs, his body throbbing with unsatisfied need. His skin is slick with sweat, his lips still tingling from the ghost of a kiss that never happened, his cock hard and aching.

It was just a dream.

Seungmin presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His heart hammers against his ribs, his skin still buzzing with phantom touches.

God.

 

The cold shower does nothing.

And it is cold. Painfully so.

Seungmin stands beneath the torrent, hands braced against the tile, head bowed. Water crashes over his back in punishing sheets, a relentless rhythm that drums against his skin, but the heat beneath it — inside him — refuses to be washed away. His teeth are clenched so tightly his jaw aches. The steam coils around him like mockery, blurring the world into soft edges, dreamlike — dangerously like the dream he’s trying to forget.

But he can’t.

Every time he closes his eyes, it resurfaces with staggering clarity: the phantom weight of Hyunjin, the imagined heat of lips brushing along his collarbone, the realness of hands moving over his body like they belonged there — as if Seungmin had been made to be touched. The moan — quiet, breathy, close to Seungmin’s mouth — that’s the part that keeps slicing through him like glass. That and the way he’d gasped in the dream, helpless and trembling, wanting.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t —

He jerks the faucet off with too much force. The pipes groan.

The mirror isn’t fogged, but his reflection bleeds as if through the mist — disheveled, cheeks flushed, mouth still parted in something like shock. His throat is blotched with color. A phantom kiss, a traitor’s memory. He looks...

Ruined.

Dressing is a clumsy, mechanical process — fingers numb, trembling, snagging on buttons. His mind is elsewhere. Still in that dream-space where touch doesn’t hurt and desire doesn’t shame him. Still tangled in invisible sheets, Hyunjin’s name thick on his tongue.

The scent of coffee wafts from the kitchen, warm and familiar. Hyunjin must be up. The very thought turns Seungmin’s stomach. His body flinches with the memory — not of the dream, but of the waking that followed. The sticky aftermath. The humiliation of desire. Of want. Of needing someone in a way he was never allowed to.

He grabs his bag and leaves without a word, the door clicking shut behind him like a verdict.

The office is a blur.

His body shows up. His mind does not.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The screen in front of him pulses dull and white, the words there swimming like fish he can’t catch. He doesn’t know what time it is. Doesn’t remember the drive. He barely registers when his secretary appears beside him, murmuring something polite and efficient before setting a stack of documents on his desk. He nods absently, reaching for his pen. His fingers almost brush the back of her hand.

She jerks back in surprise, her eyes widening.

Seungmin freezes.

Shit.

He never risks like this. But today — today he’s so distracted, so consumed by the memory of Hyunjin’s hands that he—

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, pulling back.

His secretary stares at him for a long moment before nodding slowly. “It’s— it’s fine, Mr. Kim.”

But it’s not.

It never is. And today... it’s worse.

Today his mind is still wrapped in silk and sweat, in the memory of a mouth on his throat and a hand between his thighs. Today he is half-lost in a fantasy that shouldn’t exist, undone by the echo of skin on skin that never was.

Seungmin spends the rest of the morning locked in his office, door closed, blinds drawn. He tries to focus on work, on the contracts in front of him, on anything other than the way Hyunjin had looked in his dream — damp skin, dark eyes, that mouth—

He groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. This is pathetic.

The rest of the day is even worse.

Every sound is too loud. Every touch of fabric too sharp. He’s hyper-aware of his body in a way that feels unbearable — his shirt too close to his skin, his seat too warm, the air too thick. His coffee tastes like ash. His fingers tremble on the keyboard.

By the time he’s home, the shame has calcified into something dense and acidic in his chest. He doesn’t see Hyunjin’s shoes at the door. Doesn’t hear any sound from the hallway. And still — he hesitates before opening his bedroom door.

Because he doesn’t know how to look at Hyunjin again. He doesn’t know how to exist next to him without thinking of that dream — without imagining what it would be like to wake up and find it still real, Hyunjin still over him, warm and sweat-slick, whispering his name like a prayer.

And that thought — that monstrous, humiliating thought — makes him feel sick.

 

***

 

The apartment feels too small now.

Seungmin has spent the last couple of days mapping out its dimensions like a prisoner studying the walls of his cell — calculating the exact distance between his bedroom door and Hyunjin’s, the precise timing of their routines, the minimum number of steps required to cross the living space without being noticed. He moves through the rooms like a ghost, silent and weightless, careful not to disturb the fragile equilibrium he’s built.

It’s pathetic. He knows it’s pathetic.

But he can’t stop.

Not when every accidental glance at Hyunjin sends his pulse skittering like a startled animal. Not when the memory of that dream lingers on his skin, searing and inescapable.

So, yeah, Seungmin avoids him.

Not dramatically — not in a way Hyunjin could point to with certainty. But still, the shift is there. Subtle. Controlled. Measured with the same precision Seungmin uses to get through most of his life. Like a man walking a tightrope with a hand over his own mouth. A turned shoulder in the hallway, a clipped response over dinner, the faintest hesitation before stepping into a room where Hyunjin already is. Subtle things. Barely perceptible to anyone else. But Hyunjin is not anyone else.

By midweek, the distance between them has grown into a quiet chasm, carved with surgical precision.

Seungmin no longer lingers in the kitchen in the mornings. He pours his coffee with mechanical efficiency, eyes on the counter, never on Hyunjin, who watches from the stove with a spatula in hand and something unreadable flickering behind his lashes. He doesn’t press — not yet. But Seungmin can feel it: the slow, patient tension of someone waiting for the truth to reveal itself. There’s a difference in his eyes. A quiet watching. Like Hyunjin is counting the inches between them. Like he’s started to notice the way Seungmin flinches when he brushes too close. The way Seungmin always finds an excuse to leave the room.

Evenings are worse.

Seungmin retreats behind the thin wall of his bedroom like it’s armor, the soft glow of his desk lamp the only companion to his brittle thoughts. He feigns exhaustion. Claims deadlines. Pretends he doesn't hear the quiet music bleeding through the living room wall, or the occasional knock when Hyunjin offers leftovers. He doesn’t trust his voice not to tremble if he answers.

His carefully constructed avoidance shatters on the Friday’s night.

Seungmin has just come home from work. His head aches, his thoughts are cotton, and all he wants is a shower and the cold solitude of his room. The apartment is quiet when he walks in. Lights low. The air smells faintly of Hyunjin’s cologne, lingering like a taunt. He moves quickly — toward his room, past the hallway, and then — into the bathroom.

It’s late, well past midnight, and Seungmin thinks he’s in the clear, when he steps out of the bathroom in his sleep shirt, hair still damp, towel slung around his neck, ready to disappear back into his bedroom and spend another night avoiding everything.

“Seungmin?”

His name lands softly. Too softly.

He turns — slowly, like he can reverse time if he just stalls enough. Hyunjin stands near the kitchen, his expression is unreadable. But his eyes are trained only on Seungmin.

Seungmin’s spine goes rigid. “Hey?” he answers, heart already speeding up. “Did I wake you up?”

“No.” Hyunjin’s voice is still soft. Measured. Something tightens in Seungmin’s chest. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

It’s not a question. The words aren’t accusatory, either. They fall somewhere between curiosity and quiet hurt. They make Seungmin’s jaw clench.

Seungmin’s throat tightens. “I haven’t.”

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow.

“Really,” he says flatly. “So, it’s just a coincidence that you’ve been leaving before dawn and coming home after midnight? That you’ve been eating takeout at your desk? That you practically bolt out of any room I walk into?”

Seungmin opens his mouth. Closes it. “It’s not—” he tries, “I’m just tired.”

“You were avoiding me even before work today.”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“Okay,” Hyunjin says gently. “So look at me.”

Seungmin’s eyes flick up — just for a second — and the second is too long.

Because the kitchen light behind Hyunjin casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip. A single drop of sweat slides down the column of his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. Seungmin tracks the movement without meaning to. Because Hyunjin is still damp from a shower, and still glowing faintly with that post-clean warmth, and Seungmin’s brain instantly betrays him with a visceral memory of skin on skin, of Hyunjin’s breath against his cheek, of heat rolling over his hips and—

He looks away.

Hyunjin sees it.

He doesn’t press, not immediately. Just walks forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching a startled animal, and Seungmin backs up without meaning to.

Hyunjin stops just inches away, close enough that Seungmin can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. His breath is warm against Seungmin’s face.

“Did I do something wrong?” Hyunjin asks, his voice even softer now, almost hesitant.

The question sends a sharp ache through Seungmin’s chest.

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not— it’s not you.”

Hyunjin’s gaze searches his face, lingering on the flush creeping up Seungmin’s neck, the way his lips part slightly around each shaky breath. “Then what is it?”

Seungmin’s pulse thrums in his throat, loud enough that he’s certain Hyunjin can hear it. He can’t tell the truth — God, he can’t, — and mind is screaming, say anything, lie, make something up, but his throat has locked.

Hyunjin’s voice is quieter now. “You don’t have to tell me. But I’d rather hear something than pretend I haven’t noticed.”

“I’m just too tired.” Seungmin forces a smile. He knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s it. You know how it is.”

Hyunjin studies him for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifts a hand and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Seungmin’s ear. His fingers linger, brushing the shell of Seungmin’s ear, the curve of his jaw.

Seungmin’s breath catches.

“Okay,” Hyunjin murmurs, before he drops his hand and steps back. “If you don’t trust me…”

Seungmin’s eyes flick up, wide, startled. “That’s not—” He swallows hard. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

Something flashes in Hyunjin’s gaze — a flicker of confusion, dawning and then darkening into something unreadable. And then Seungmin exhales, low and defeated, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t trust myself.”

Hyunjin stills. His brows draw together, not in anger — never that — but in something quieter. Something like realization. Or maybe recognition. His eyes soften. His lips part, as if he’s about to say something —

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he steps back. Not abruptly. Not coldly. But with a gentleness that guts Seungmin more than rejection ever could.

“Okay,” Hyunjin says quietly. “Okay.”

He leaves him there — standing in the hallway, skin still damp, heart still unraveling.

 

***

 

The doorbell rings just past eight.

Seungmin isn’t expecting anyone. He freezes mid-motion, fingers halfway to brushing San off the kitchen counter, an unsent email still blinking accusingly on the screen of his laptop. Outside, the sky has gone charcoal-grey, the kind of autumn evening that tastes like cold metal through the windowpane, and everything in the apartment feels too still — caught in the breath before something shifts.

Then: a familiar voice.

“I know you’re home. I can smell your existential crisis through the door.”

Seungmin sighs. Deeply. His shoulders drop.

Minho stands on the doorstep with the air of someone arriving exactly where he belongs — bottle of expensive champagne swinging casually from one hand, smirk already fully in place. His cheeks are flushed, hair slightly mussed from the wind, and his scarf hangs off one shoulder like it had better places to be.

“I brought you a piece of France,” he announces, lifting the bottle in greeting. “I was given a bonus.”

“You have a private practice,” Seungmin says flatly. “You work for yourself.”

“I know.” Minho breezes past him like a gust of seasoned chaos. “And I gave myself a bonus. Don’t argue with your elders, you fool.”

The door swings shut behind them, muffling the world outside. Seungmin follows him into the apartment with the quiet resignation of someone who knows resistance is futile — and maybe, deep down, isn’t entirely opposed.

Despite himself, Seungmin feels the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. He is glad to see Minho — even if he’d never admit it out loud. There’s something grounding about his presence, something that makes the whirlwind of emotions inside Seungmin’s chest settle, if only for a moment.

Minho moves like he owns the place. Coat on the hook, champagne on the counter, glasses from the cupboard. It’s ritual. Steadying.

San hops down with a disgruntled chirp, then trots over to greet him, tail high.

“You’re growing,” Minho murmurs, crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Still haven’t broken anything valuable?”

“Not for lack of trying,” Seungmin mutters, rubbing at his temple.

The cork pops with a sharp crack that echoes through the quiet apartment. The champagne fizzes faintly as Minho pours — golden and effervescent, far too celebratory for the weight Seungmin carries in his chest.

They settle on the couch. Minho sprawls like a cat with a glass in hand, legs kicked up, already halfway to making himself at home. Seungmin tucks one foot under himself and perches warily at the other end.

“Let me guess,” he says, after a cautious sip. “Chan-hyung is on another business trip?”

Minho waves a hand. “They’ve got some major project. Tech something. Seoul-to-Tokyo back and forth. I think he’s building a second apartment at this point. Where’s Hyunjin?”

“Studio. Said he’d be back late.”

Minho hums. “Of course he did.” He sips again, then looks sideways at Seungmin. “So. How’s cohabitation?”

Seungmin keeps his eyes on the drink in his hands. “Fine.”

“Mm-hm.”

“He’s quiet. Cleans up after himself. Doesn’t make noise past midnight. We exist in harmony.”

“Like a pair of monks.”

“Something like that.”

Minho snorts. “Sure.” It’s not teasing. Not really. Just the kind of gentle poke only Minho can deliver — the kind that gets under your skin and settles there, warm and patient and knowing. “You haven’t texted me at weird hours lately. Haven’t booked another session yet. Which either means you’re dying in silence or doing suspiciously well.”

“I’ve been busy,” Seungmin says.

“Mhm.”

Minho lets it go. He always does when he sees the wall still standing. But his eyes flicker — the therapist’s gaze now. Trained, assessing. Careful. Minho shifts in his seat. “You look tired.”

“I am.”

“You’ve been working a lot?”

“Yes.”

“Sleeping?”

“Sometimes.”

Minho sighs — a soft exhale, not judgmental. Just weary for him.

The conversation shifts — drifts like the champagne bubbles in their glasses. They talk politics. Cafés. The new bakery Minho won’t shut up about. San’s dramatics — his impossible climbing habits, his loud meows deep in the night, his habit of sleeping on Hyunjin’s chest. They circle around the real things like birds afraid to land.

Seungmin lets himself laugh.

Just a little.

It’s easier with Minho here. Even if he knows he won’t talk — can’t talk — about the things he wants to. Not tonight. Not until their next session. He doesn’t have the vocabulary yet. Doesn’t know how to say, I dreamed about him and now I’m drowning in wanting. I can't even look at him without remembering.

But Minho’s presence steadies him. Anchors him.

And even if Seungmin doesn’t say a word about Hyunjin, Minho watches him closely. Listens more to what he doesn’t say.

 

The champagne bottle is nearly empty when they run out of topics to discuss. So they don’t talk: Minho turns the music on his phone, something simple, instrumental. And Seungmin’s just starting to feel that rare, soft kind of ease when the front door clicks open.

Hyunjin walks in — hoodie pushed back beneath a wind-creased jacket, hair tousled, cheeks pink from the cold, one earbud still in. His eyes flick to them in the living room and lift in mild surprise.

“Oh.” He toes off his shoes, slow and unbothered. “Didn’t know we had company.”

Minho lifts his glass with a lazy grin. “Didn’t know you were coming home early.”

“I’m never early,” Hyunjin replies, unzipping his jacket. “You’re just still here.”

Minho grins. “Fair.”

Hyunjin glances at Seungmin as he shrugs off the hoodie, revealing the soft slant of his collarbone, the curve of his throat, the worn cotton of simple t-shirt stretched over his frame. His gaze lingers for barely a second — not enough to be readable, but enough to make Seungmin’s breath falter.

“You want a glass?” Minho offers.

“I’m good,” Hyunjin says. He glances toward the kitchen, then back again. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” Minho says. “Actually— come here a sec.”

Hyunjin walks over, and Minho pats the space beside him on the couch, though Hyunjin doesn’t sit. He stands behind it, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking between the two of them with mild curiosity.

Minho leans back. His voice softens. “Thank you.” He says that without fanfare, without drama, in the same tone he might use to mention the weather.

Hyunjin tilts his head. “For what?”

“For bringing my friend back to life.”

Hyunjin blinks. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re here,” Minho says simply. “That’s enough.”

Seungmin tenses.

It lands too hard. Too real.

He can’t look at either of them. He stares at his lap, heat crawling up the back of his neck, the tips of his ears burning. It’s too much. Too exposed. Like someone opened a curtain on something he was still trying to understand. It makes him feel like a child — young, vulnerable, helpless. Like his inner world has been pulled into the light without his permission.

Minho says it so plainly, like it’s just fact. Not a confession. Not a wound.

But it is.

It is.

He hates this — hates being talked about like some broken thing that needed fixing.

When he finally glances up, Hyunjin is watching him. Not obviously. Not with shock or pity or even warmth. Just... awareness. And for a moment, the air between them tightens — just slightly, just enough to make Seungmin’s heart feel suddenly too big for his chest. And Seungmin — like a thread pulled too tight — feels something splinter quietly inside him.

Hyunjin’s expression doesn’t change. But he breaks eye contact first. Straightens. Steps back.

“I’ll let you two talk,” he says. “I’ve got something to do anyway.”

He leaves without another word. Seungmin exhales shakily, like he’s just been released from something he didn’t know had bound him. Minho watches him for a long moment, then lifts his glass in silent toast.

“I’m not saying I told you so,” he murmurs, “but I told you so.”

Seungmin doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.

He just sits there, glass cold in his hands, feeling every beat of his heart echo louder in the empty space Hyunjin left behind.

 

Minho’s laughter still lingers faintly in the apartment like smoke long after the door clicks shut behind him. The warmth of his presence — sharp, knowing, effortlessly grounding — fades into a quieter stillness, leaving behind the echo of his final words and a champagne flute. Seungmin stands in the kitchen, fingers wrapped loosely around the stem of his untouched glass, feeling like something fragile has been stirred inside him and then carefully set aside.

The apartment feels different now. Or maybe it’s just Seungmin.

He doesn’t hear Hyunjin approach until he’s already there, hovering just past the kitchen entrance like he’s unsure whether or not to intrude. Seungmin doesn’t turn immediately. He feels Hyunjin’s presence before he hears the sound of his voice, low and a little uncertain.

“You know, what Minho-hyung said...” His voice is rougher than usual, the words careful. “About bringing you back to life.” A pause. “I thought—” He cuts himself off, exhales sharply through his nose. “God, Seungmin, I didn’t realize how much I was taking for granted.”

The champagne flute slips from Seungmin’s fingers into the sink with a crystalline clink, forgotten. The water runs lukewarm over his hands, but he doesn’t feel it — not when every nerve in his body is attuned to the man standing behind him. He can smell Hyunjin’s shampoo mixed with the lingering warmth of his skin after dancing. Can hear the way his breath hitches slightly when Seungmin doesn’t immediately respond.

Seungmin turns off the faucet with trembling fingers. Water drips from his wrists onto the tile.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Hyunjin’s hand hovers near Seungmin’s elbow, not touching. Not yet. “Tell me. However much or little you want to say.”

The vulnerability in his tone makes Seungmin’s throat tighten.

“It's like...” Seungmin’s voice cracks. He tries again. “Imagine living your whole life colorblind. Not the red-green weak or blue-yellow weak kind of thing, but, like, completely colorblind. And everyone talks about how beautiful the sunset is, how vibrant the flowers are. You nod along, memorize the names of colors, learn which combinations are supposed to go together. But you’ll never know.” He presses his damp palms flat against the counter. “Then one day, someone gives you magic glasses that let you see. And suddenly—” His breath shudders. “Suddenly you understand why people write poetry about scarlet and gold.”

Hyunjin makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine how you feel.”

“Come on,” Seungmin mutters, forcing a dry laugh, “I haven’t become a sociopath.”

Hyunjin lets out a small laugh, breathy and close now, but there’s no humor in it. Just sadness. Compassion, maybe. “Have you never wanted to hold someone’s hand?” he asks softly. “Hug them? Kiss them?”

“I’m not in a position to choose or want anything, Hyunjin.”

The words taste bitter. But Hyunjin’s fingers finally, finally brush Seungmin’s wrist — just the lightest contact, but it sends electricity crackling up Seungmin’s arm.

“Is that what this is?” Hyunjin whispers. “Your first sunset?”

Seungmin turns. The kitchen light catches the flecks of amber in Hyunjin’s eyes. There’s a faint mole just below his left eye that Seungmin has never noticed before.

“Yes,” he breathes.

Hyunjin’s hands come up to frame his face, thumbs sweeping over the high curve of his cheekbones. His palms are slightly calloused from dance, warm and solid and real.

“Can I kiss you?”

Seungmin freezes.

He doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t know how to breathe. His body feels suspended between disbelief and longing, his chest tight, his mind reeling from the impossible tenderness in the question. His heart hammers against his ribs, loud enough that he’s certain Hyunjin can hear it. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust his voice not to break. But he thinks — maybe — he nods. Just slightly. Just enough.

Hyunjin moves like a slow tide.

First, his fingertips brush Seungmin’s jaw, feather-light, giving him every chance to pull away. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, searching Seungmin’s face for permission. Seungmin has never been touched like this — reverent, intentional, like he’s something precious.

Seungmin doesn’t pull away. He exhales shakily, leaning into the touch without meaning to.

And then Hyunjin leans in and kisses him.

The world narrows instantly, all noise dropping out except for the roar of Seungmin’s heart pounding in his ears. The first touch of their lips is softer than he imagined. Hyunjin’s lips are soft, unhurried. Hyunjin tastes like mint, his mouth warm and yielding. There is nothing greedy in the kiss — only patience, care, reverence.

It is nothing like he imagined. It is so much more.

Every nerve in Seungmin’s body lights up, but not with pain, with something far more dangerous: pleasure, need, want. Hyunjin’s hand slips behind his neck, cradling him as though he’s something breakable. His other hand slides to Seungmin’s waist, holding him without restraint but with a kind of reverence that makes Seungmin feel dizzy.

His own hands finally move — hesitant at first — one settling on Hyunjin’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through the fabric. The other curls at his shoulder. His fingers twitch, unsure of what to do with the flood of sensation, with the freedom to touch, to feel, to receive touch in return.

Seungmin makes a quiet, desperate sound when Hyunjin’s tongue traces the seam of his lips, his fingers twisting in the fabric of Hyunjin’s shirt. He feels the tremble of his own breath break against Hyunjin’s mouth and the slight shiver that crawls up the length of his spine as the kiss deepens, still slow, still gentle.

Hyunjin smiles against his mouth. “Easy,” he murmurs, but his own breathing is uneven. He walks Seungmin backward until the edge of the counter digs into the small of his back, one hand sliding into his hair while the other grips his hip.

Seungmin has spent years building walls, fortifying himself against the mere possibility of touch. Now, with Hyunjin’s body pressed along the length of his, those walls crumble like sandcastles before the tide. He arches into the contact, his skin alight with sensation — the scrape of Hyunjin’s teeth on his lower lip, the hot slide of his tongue, the way his fingers tighten possessively in Seungmin’s hair.

When they finally break apart, Hyunjin rests his forehead against Seungmin’s, their breaths mingling.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice rough.

Seungmin can only nod, dazed. His lips feel swollen, his pulse rabbiting in his throat. The front of Hyunjin’s shirt is wrinkled where Seungmin gripped it too tightly.

Hyunjin brushes a thumb over Seungmin’s kiss-reddened mouth. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’ve kind of been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you glaring at me over your coffee mug.”

Seungmin huffs a laugh, but it catches in his chest when Hyunjin leans in to kiss him again.

(Maybe it’s only his imagination, just his wishful thinking, but somewhere between the kisses — the soft, aching ones that leave him breathless and half-drunk on the feel of Hyunjin’s mouth — Seungmin thinks he hears him whisper, “I’ll give you every sunset. Every damn one, if you’ll let me.”

He doesn’t want to believe it. Not because it isn’t beautiful, or because he doesn’t want it — God, he does, more than he knows how to name — but because he’s too far gone to trust his own senses, too overwhelmed by the press of Hyunjin’s hands and the warmth blooming in his chest. His mind feels fogged, dream-thick, and he doesn’t know if the words are real or just something his heart invented to match the way this moment feels: impossible and golden and too good to last.)

 

***

 

The morning arrives gently, almost tenderly, as if it, too, knows something has changed. Pale light spills across the floorboards in a quiet hush, illuminating the faint textures of fabric and dust in the air. Seungmin lies still beneath the blanket, not quite asleep, not quite ready to face the world. He’s awake in the way that feels like drifting — untethered, suspended between the warmth of memory and the dull ache of its absence.

He sits up slowly, the sheets slipping down to his waist. His mouth still tastes faintly of champagne and mint, his skin humming with the ghost of Hyunjin’s touch. He lifts a hand to his lips, tracing the swell of the lower one, half-expecting to find it bruised. It isn’t, of course — the kiss had been gentle, reverent — but the memory of it lingers like a brand.

He had dreamt of this once. Of being touched, not in theory or fleeting accident, but truly, wholly. Of someone reaching for him with care. Of a kiss that didn’t leave pain behind. But this — this had not been a dream. Hyunjin had kissed him. Had touched him with slow, certain hands. And for the first time in Seungmin’s life, he hadn’t felt like a broken thing pretending at normalcy.

He had only felt the heat of a body close to his. The press of lips that lingered. The softness of breath against his cheek and the quiet gasp he had swallowed into Hyunjin’s mouth. He remembers it all now with an aching clarity — how Hyunjin’s hand had cradled the back of his neck, how their chests had nearly touched, how Seungmin’s fingers had curled into cotton and skin like he was clinging to something fragile, something precious.

There’s no panic this time. No shame. Just... quiet awe. He feels it settle in his chest like a fragile weight, the kind that makes breathing feel too shallow and too much at once. It happened. It was real. And yet, the silence that follows it feels surreal, as if the world has returned to its routine while his inner life stands still, irrevocably altered.

When he finally emerges from his room, the apartment feels both painfully ordinary and subtly transformed. The kettle is humming faintly in the kitchen. San is curled in a patch of sunlight near the window. And Hyunjin is there, already dressed, hair damp and pushed back, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he moves around the counter with easy familiarity.

He glances up when Seungmin enters, a faint smile blooming across his face — warm, easy, unassuming. “Morning,” he says, like it’s any other day.

And Seungmin, with his heart lodged somewhere between his ribs and throat, nods. “Morning,” he echoes, and the word tastes strange in his mouth — like it belongs to a new language he’s still learning how to speak.

 

They don’t talk about it, and time becomes soft again.

Days pass, unremarkable on the surface. They return to the rhythm of work, of polite distance, of lives running in parallel lines. Hyunjin leaves early, Seungmin works late. They remain, in every visible sense, simply roommates.

But the axis has shifted.

Quiet but unmistakable, like the slow turn of the tide beneath the surface. It ripples in the space between them, in the softness of their exchanges, in the way Hyunjin’s gaze sometimes lingers a second longer than necessary. They move around each other with the same care as always — but now, the silence feels charged, the stillness full of what could be.

It begins in the quiet moments. The late-night returns when Hyunjin slips in tired, and Seungmin is still at the table, reading something he isn’t really absorbing. Their conversations drift, soft and unhurried — about nothing important. About a strange dream. A childhood memory. A passing comment about the neighbor’s dog. A song that won’t leave Hyunjin’s head. Seungmin listens, chin propped in his hand, letting his eyes drift lazily over Hyunjin’s face, his lips, the curve of his throat.

Sometimes Hyunjin mirrors him.

And then, one night, the words aren’t enough.

Hyunjin reaches out, his fingers skimming Seungmin’s wrist. A question. Seungmin answers by turning his hand over, threading their fingers together. Hyunjin’s breath catches. He leans in slowly, giving Seungmin every chance to pull away. He doesn’t.

Their second kiss is nothing like the first. It’s even slower, deeper. Hyunjin’s mouth is warm, his hands careful as they slide up Seungmin’s arms, over his shoulders, into his hair. Seungmin shudders, his own hands finding purchase on Hyunjin’s waist, pulling him closer.

There’s no urgency, no desperation — just the slow, sweet exploration of skin and breath and touch. Hyunjin’s lips trail along Seungmin’s jaw, down the column of his throat, his teeth scraping lightly over the pulse point. Seungmin gasps, his fingers tightening in Hyunjin’s shirt.

“Okay?” Hyunjin murmurs against his skin.

Seungmin nods, dazed.

Hyunjin smiles, then kisses him again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against Seungmin’s in a rhythm that makes his toes curl. His hands roam Seungmin’s body with a reverence that borders on worship, mapping every dip and plane like he’s committing them to memory.

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect.

When they finally pull apart, breathless and flushed, Hyunjin rests his forehead against Seungmin’s, his thumb tracing idle circles on the inside of his wrist.

“Stay,” he whispers.

Seungmin does.

 

A kiss always begins with a glance. With the brush of a shoulder in the hallway. With a moment too long between one sentence and the next.

And then they’re close again. Breathing the same quiet breath. Lips meeting with slow, reverent weight. Hyunjin always moves gently — his mouth coaxing, patient, as if he’s still asking permission. And Seungmin, trembling and open and undone, gives it again and again. Fingers trailing over ribs, slipping under collars, brushing knuckles along cheeks and wrists. Hyunjin’s hands always warm, Seungmin’s always trembling. Sometimes their kisses are long and unhurried, sometimes breathless, a little desperate, like they’re afraid the night won’t last long enough.

And still — they don’t speak of it the next day. But they don’t need to.

Not when Hyunjin’s hand lingers on Seungmin’s hip a little longer each time. Not when Seungmin’s fingers trace the sharp edge of Hyunjin’s jaw, memorizing it like scripture. Not when the hush between them is filled with breath and warmth and the steady rise of something they both understand, even if they don’t dare name it yet.

At first, Seungmin doesn’t know what to do with the way Hyunjin looks at him.

It’s not just the kisses — though those are enough to unravel him, slow and deep and intentional, like Hyunjin is savoring every second. It’s the way Hyunjin’s gaze lingers on him when he thinks Seungmin isn’t paying attention. The way his fingers brush Seungmin’s wrist when he passes him a cup of coffee, the way his thumb traces idle circles on the back of Seungmin’s hand during late-night conversations on the couch.

Small things. Quiet things.

Seungmin isn’t used to being wanted. Not like this — not without conditions, not without hesitation.

It terrifies him.

The first time Hyunjin kisses him without warning — just a soft press of lips against Seungmin’s temple as he walks by — Seungmin freezes. His breath catches, his fingers tightening around the book in his lap.

Hyunjin pauses, his hand resting lightly on Seungmin’s shoulder. “Too much?”

Seungmin shakes his head, but his pulse is rabbiting in his throat. “No. Just… new.”

Hyunjin smiles, warm and understanding, and kisses him again — this time on the corner of his mouth, lingering just long enough for Seungmin to feel the heat of his breath. “We’ll go slow.”

And they do.

Hyunjin touches him like he’s something precious — like he’s afraid Seungmin might break, but also like he can’t bear not to. His hands are careful, deliberate, mapping Seungmin’s body with a reverence that leaves him breathless.

Seungmin learns the weight of Hyunjin’s palm against the small of his back. The way his lips feel against the sensitive skin behind Seungmin’s ear. The sound he makes when Seungmin finally — finally — gathers the courage to slide his hands under Hyunjin’s shirt, his fingertips tracing the ridges of his abs.

Sometimes they kiss until the room is quiet with nothing but their breathing. Until Hyunjin’s hand has slipped beneath Seungmin’s shirt, resting not on bare skin but just above it — warm, grounding. And Seungmin doesn’t stop him. He just stays very still, his eyes closed, as if memorizing the feeling before it disappears.

But it doesn’t disappear.

It returns.

Again and again.

In the hush of midnight when Seungmin forgets to turn away. In the brush of a nose against his collarbone. In the way Hyunjin pulls him close and presses kisses along his jaw like he’s been waiting all day just to do it.

One night, Hyunjin tugs Seungmin into his lap on the couch, his hands settling on Seungmin’s hips like they belong there. Seungmin tenses for a moment, his fingers gripping Hyunjin’s shoulders — but then Hyunjin kisses him, slow and sweet, and something inside him unfurls.

He melts into the touch, his body molding against Hyunjin’s, his lips parting eagerly under Hyunjin’s. His hands slide into Hyunjin’s hair, tugging gently, and the noise Hyunjin makes — low and rough — sends a thrill down Seungmin’s spine. All he can think about is Hyunjin. The way his mouth feels against Seungmin’s throat. The way his hands roam Seungmin’s body like he’s memorizing every inch. The way he whispers Seungmin’s name like it’s the only word he knows.

Seungmin lets go.

He arches into Hyunjin’s touch, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His fingers clutch at Hyunjin’s shirt, pulling him closer, closer—

“Hyunjin,” he breathes, the name spilling from his lips like a secret.

Hyunjin kisses him again.

Later, when Hyunjin curls beside him on the couch and tucks Seungmin into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Seungmin rests his head against Hyunjin’s chest and listens to the steady beat of his heart. One hand rests at Seungmin’s waist, the other strokes lazy patterns across his spine.

And for the first time in his life, Seungmin understands the difference between being touched and being held.

 

It’s late — later than either of them intended to be awake.

The apartment is quiet in the way only night can make it: not silent but softened. The hum of the refrigerator becomes a lullaby. The wind outside brushes the window panes like fingertips trailing along glass. In the living room, the floor lamp casts a gentle gold wash across the furniture, turning even the ordinary into something tender.

Seungmin is curled into the corner of the couch, legs folded beneath him, an old knit throw draped loosely over his shoulders. A book rests face-down on the coffee table. His tea has gone cold. Beside him, Hyunjin sits with one leg tucked up, the other stretched out, his head tilted slightly toward Seungmin, like he’s listening to something only Seungmin can say.

Seungmin feels the heaviness in his body, the slow pull of exhaustion that wraps around his limbs like water. His eyelids flutter. His head dips once, then jerks back up.

Hyunjin laughs quietly, almost to himself.

“You should go to bed,” he murmurs, voice warm and low.

Seungmin hums but doesn’t move.

The truth is — he doesn’t want to. He’s too comfortable, too drowsy, too wrapped in the safety of Hyunjin’s nearness to extract himself. The air between them feels sacred, charged with something fragile and golden, and he’s terrified that if he stands up, it’ll break.

Hyunjin doesn’t press. He only shifts, adjusts the blanket over Seungmin’s shoulder, his knuckles brushing gently against Seungmin’s neck as he tucks it into place.

That one touch makes Seungmin shiver — not from cold. He lets his eyes close, just for a moment. Just long enough to forget he meant to leave.

He doesn’t remember when Hyunjin moved closer.

When he opens his eyes again — slowly, lazily — Hyunjin is beside him. Not on the other end of the couch, but right there. His shoulder against Seungmin’s. His thigh warm where it brushes Seungmin’s leg through the blanket. His head has tilted to the side, resting softly on the back of the couch. Eyes closed. Breathing even. Asleep.

The sight is so intimate, so unguarded, that Seungmin forgets how to breathe.

Hyunjin looks beautiful like this. His lips slightly parted, lashes dark against his cheekbones, the curve of his neck pale and exposed where his collar has slipped. There’s a faint flush to his skin from sleep or heat, and the scent of him — clean, warm, familiar — wraps around Seungmin like something he was never supposed to have.

He shifts slightly, barely a breath of movement, and Hyunjin stirs. Eyes blinking open slowly. Unfocused at first. Then, without thinking, without hesitation, he leans in and lets his head drop to Seungmin’s shoulder. “Is this okay?” he mumbles, the words barely shaped.

Seungmin’s heart lodges in his throat. He doesn’t answer out loud, only lets his head rest against Hyunjin’s in return. Hyunjin’s breath slows again.

Seungmin closes his eyes.

They don’t mean to fall asleep like that.

But they do.

The world outside recedes until there’s only the warmth between them. A shared blanket. A hand resting softly, thoughtlessly, on Seungmin’s knee. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Hyunjin’s chest.

 

When he wakes, morning light is just beginning to gather at the edges of the blinds. His neck is stiff, his back sore from the angle, but none of it matters — because Hyunjin is still there. Still pressed to his side. Still sleeping with his mouth tucked into the fabric of Seungmin’s sleeve, like he never wanted to be anywhere else.

And at that moment, Seungmin doesn’t think about what it means.

 

***

 

The world outside is soaked in rain. Not the kind that falls in sheets, but a steady, rhythmic patter that wraps around the city like a lullaby. The apartment is dim, lit only by the golden glow of a single lamp in the corner of the living room. San is curled on the windowsill, asleep and twitching softly in some kitten dream. Everything else is still.

They’re on the couch again, not talking. They don’t need to. The quiet between them breathes with its own rhythm, deep and slow. The television plays some forgotten movie, the volume low, the flickering light casting shadows across Hyunjin’s face. His hand rests against Seungmin’s knee, his fingers moving in idle, soothing circles. Seungmin’s head is tilted toward him, shoulder brushing shoulder, the heat of their proximity no longer startling but steady.

Hyunjin turns to him without warning, eyes soft, lips already parted like he might speak — but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in and kisses Seungmin, gentle and familiar. But something is different this time. It’s in the way his fingers slide up from Seungmin’s knee, tracing the inside of his thigh with the lightest pressure. It’s in the way his lips linger just a moment longer, in the way his breath catches when Seungmin responds, not hesitantly but with want.

The kiss deepens gradually. It’s unhurried, deliberate. Hyunjin’s hand moves higher, skimming the hem of Seungmin’s shirt. His palm finds warm skin, and this time Seungmin doesn’t still or pull away. He leans into it.

His own hands move, unsure at first, but certain in their desire. He palms the line of Hyunjin’s jaw, slides down the slope of his neck, over the fabric of his shirt. The texture of cotton gives way to the undeniable heat beneath it. It feels like touching sunlight.

They pull apart just far enough to breathe, but their foreheads stay pressed together. Seungmin’s eyes are wide, pupils dilated, his cheeks flushed not just with shyness but anticipation.

Hyunjin’s voice is low, rough around the edges. “Is this okay?”

Seungmin nods, then realizes he’s trembling. “Yes,” he whispers, and the word surprises him with how true it sounds. “I want to.”

“What do you want, Seungmin?” Hyunjin whispers.

Seungmin leans in, his lips brushing Hyunjin’s ear. “All of you,” he breathes.

Hyunjin stills. Then, he captures Seungmin’s mouth in a kiss that is anything but gentle. It’s hot, desperate, his tongue sliding against Seungmin’s with a hunger that makes his toes curl. His hands grip Seungmin’s waist, pulling him closer until Seungmin is straddling his lap, their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh.

Seungmin gasps into the kiss, his fingers tangling in Hyunjin’s hair.

Hyunjin’s hands slide under Seungmin’s shirt, his palms warm against the bare skin of his back. He kisses him again, deep and slow yet again, as he stands, lifting Seungmin with him effortlessly. Seungmin wraps his legs around Hyunjin’s waist, his arms around his shoulders, clinging to him as Hyunjin carries him down the hall.

The bedroom is bathed in moonlight, the sheets cool against Seungmin’s back as Hyunjin lays him down. He hovers over him, his eyes dark with want, his breath uneven.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rough.

Seungmin reaches up, cupping Hyunjin’s face in his hands. “Yes.”

Hyunjin doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t rush. Every button he unfastens is a question, every inch of skin revealed is an answer. He touches Seungmin like something sacred, his hands gentle but certain, his mouth trailing heat down the column of Seungmin’s throat, pausing to kiss the hollow just above his collarbone.

Seungmin gasps at the sensation — sharp, startling, but good. So good. His skin burns in a way he never imagined it could. Not from pain, but from presence. From being felt, being known. Every nerve responds like it’s being discovered for the first time.

Clothes are shed slowly. Not discarded, not forgotten. Every piece is treated like a layer of protection that Seungmin is learning to live without. He doesn’t hide. Not from Hyunjin. Not tonight. Yet, he tries not to be self-conscious, but he does scoot a bit further up the bed, lifting his legs up and bending his knees. Hyunjin is quick to press his legs back down, revealing him again. His gaze roaming over Seungmin’s body like he’s committing it to memory.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice reverent.

Seungmin flushes, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He’s never been naked in front of anyone like this, never been so exposed. But the way Hyunjin looks at him — like he’s something precious, something to be cherished — makes the fear fade.

Hyunjin’s hands are everywhere, mapping every inch of him, his mouth following in their wake. He kisses the hollow of Seungmin’s throat, the curve of his collarbone, he presses feather-light kisses against Seungmin’s abdomen, the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. And suddenly Seungmin realizes where this is going. He writhes beneath him, his fingers clutching at the sheets, his breath coming in broken gasps.

Hyunjin’s mouth wraps around the head of his cock and Seungmin grips the sheets beneath him, legs involuntarily spreading wider. He mutters a quiet fuck under his breath, slapping a hand over his mouth immediately. Hyunjin takes in more, and more, and Seungmin can’t focus on anything but the wet warmth between his legs, Hyunjin’s mouth enveloping him completely.

He can feel Hyunjin’s breath at the base of his cock and it shakes him to his core, his hands covering his face entirely as a few quiet whines slip past his lips. Hyunjin starts bobbing his head, sucking him terribly slow, mouth tight around him as his tongue laps at Seungmin’s shaft in time to some strange beat existing only in his head.

“Hyunjin,” Seungmin breathes, and it’s quiet, but the room is so still, he knows Hyunjin hears him.

Hyunjin lifts his head, his lips swollen, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Yes?”

“Hyunjin— please—” Seungmin reaches for him, pulling him up, their bodies aligning perfectly. He can feel the hard line of Hyunjin’s still clothed arousal against his own. It’s overwhelming on a whole different level. The fabric of his home clothes, usually soft to touch, now feels like something from an entirely different universe. Seungmin’s torn between pushing him away for that and pulling him closer. He wants to ask. Wants to say you, too or please, or anything at all — but the words get lost somewhere in his throat, too fragile, too raw. So instead, he just looks at him, a little too long, a little too open.

Hyunjin holds his gaze.

And then, slowly, without saying a word, he pulls away, just a bit, and begins to undress. It’s not rushed. Just deliberate. As if he’s answering something Seungmin didn’t need to say out loud. His shirt is the first to go, lifted over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the lean stretch of muscle, the warm gold of his skin. He doesn’t look away, either. When the last of his clothing falls away, Hyunjin leans in to kiss him once more, pressing his fingers into Seungmin’s thigh.

Skin against skin, warm and alive. Every inch of contact feels like light bursting behind his eyelids, like static under his skin, like the sun pressed too close to the horizon. Hyunjin is all heat and quiet strength. Their chests touch — the steady drum of Hyunjin’s heartbeat against the wild stammer of his own — and Seungmin has to bite down on a gasp, eyes wide and startled.

His body doesn’t know what to do with this. With safe. With wanted. With bare.

He’s never been this close to another human being, never felt another person without a layer of fabric or fear between them. And now, wrapped in Hyunjin’s warmth, he doesn’t know where to put the ache swelling in his chest — soft, unfamiliar, dizzying.

“This might feel… a bit uncomfortable,” Hyunjin warns him, but Seungmin isn’t sure he can fully comprehend that; so he just nods. He just wants to be close to Hyunjin. Closer than they already are. His palms slide slowly over Hyunjin’s chest and stomach, and a gentle roll of his hips drags a ragged groan from Hyunjin. He stutters, “Tell me— if it gets too much.”

Hyunjin stretches and opens one of the drawers of his nightstand, fishing around until he grabs a bottle of lube and rips a condom from a pack, placing them on the bed. Seungmin isn’t sure it’s possible, but he flushes even deeper red.

Hyunjin presses a lube coated finger against his entrance, making him gasp quietly. He breathes in as Hyunjin pushes his finger in up to his first knuckle, breathes out when it’s fully inside him. He tips his head back and sighs into the air. It is a weird sensation, not something he would imagine; but it’s not bad. It’s a good type of pain, he decides.

The build up is slow, initial discomfort melts into quiet pleasure. It starts as a wave of sparks in his chest and spreads outwards like something scorching hot. Hyunjin adds a second digit, and a third, and Seungmin starts trembling. He grips tightly at the curve between Hyunjin’s neck and his shoulder.  

Hyunjin takes his fingers out slowly, careful; always so careful.

Hyunjin kisses him, slow and deep, as he presses inside. Seungmin arches, a moan spilling from his lips at the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of it. Hyunjin stills, his forehead pressed against Seungmin’s, his breath ragged.

“Okay?” he whispers.

Seungmin nods, his fingers digging into Hyunjin’s back. “You can — ah — move.”

Hyunjin does.

His thrusts are steady at first, strong, but cautious. Seungmin exhales, revels in the sensation, hands gripping at Hyunjin’s shoulders hard enough to leave marks, but Hyunjin doesn’t seem to mind.

Seungmin clings to him, his legs wrapped around Hyunjin’s waist, his mouth open against Hyunjin’s shoulder as pleasure builds, hot and coiled, in the pit of his stomach.

“Look at me,” Hyunjin murmurs, his voice rough with need.

Seungmin opens his eyes, meeting Hyunjin’s gaze. The friction is heady, but it’s not what undoes Seungmin — it’s the way Hyunjin looks at him, eyes half-lidded, filled with something deeper than lust.

When Hyunjin hits the spot inside him, he lets his forehead fall and press against Hyunjin’s shoulder, a chain of sinful groans escaping him. When Hyunjin slides a hand down the length of his back and holds him, Seungmin exhales a sound he didn’t know he was capable of making. A whimper. A cry. Something soft and broken and whole.

They melt into each other, mouths almost pressing but not kissing — just breathing against and into each other, swallowing each other’s sounds. Seungmin moves in time to Hyunjin’s thrusts, and eventually the pressure building inside him becomes too much, so he sighs something — a plea or Hyunjin’s name, which at this point feels the same — and Hyunjin slips his hand between them to stroke him.

When Seungmin comes it almost startles him; he spills over his and Hyunjin’s stomachs with a moan, clenching tightly around Hyunjin cock as his hips thrust and continue to meet the other’s movements, now hard and inconsistent. He feels Hyunjin climax inside him just a moments later, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Seungmin’s throat, as he rides out his orgasm.  

When Hyunjin finally collapses, boneless and breathless, on top of him — Seungmin can’t move. Not because he’s sore, though he is, in places he didn’t know could ache like that. Not because Hyunjin’s weight is too much, though he’s heavy in the most grounding way. But because something inside Seungmin has unraveled completely, melted into the mattress beneath him, and he doesn’t have the will to gather it back up.

He’s never felt like this before. Hollowed out and overflowing at once. Like every nerve in his body has been rewired, soothed and ignited all at the same time. His skin is hypersensitive and tender, but not with pain — with the strange, slow-blooming knowledge that he is here, alive, held, and nothing has gone wrong.

Hyunjin lets out a soft, wrecked laugh against his shoulder. “Shit. Didn’t mean to crush you,” he murmurs, but makes no move to pull away.

“Don’t,” Seungmin says, hoarse and serious. His arms curl tighter around Hyunjin’s back, fingers splayed across the slight tremble of his spine. “Just… stay. For a second.”

A second stretches into more.

Their skin is sticky with sweat and cum, but Seungmin doesn’t care. He’s never let anyone this close, never imagined he could, and now the idea of separating — even by an inch — feels absurd.

Eventually, Hyunjin shifts, lifting himself just enough to press a kiss to Seungmin’s temple, then his jaw. One hand finds the discarded blanket, tugging it over them with a practiced gentleness that makes Seungmin’s throat tighten.

“Hey,” Hyunjin whispers, brushing damp hair away from Seungmin’s eyes. “You okay?”

Seungmin nods, too wrung out to answer properly. He thinks okay doesn’t cover it. He thinks if he opens his mouth now, he might say something dangerous.

Hyunjin kisses his cheek again, feather-light. “Back in a sec,” he murmurs.

There’s the soft shuffle of him getting up, the quiet clink of water poured into a glass, the rustle of tissues or a towel. Seungmin lies there, boneless, still sinking deeper into the warmth where Hyunjin’s body had been.

When Hyunjin returns, he wipes Seungmin down with gentle hands, careful not to ask for anything, not even words. Seungmin watches him through half-lidded eyes, a stunned sort of ache curling in his chest. Like tenderness is a new language he’s only just started learning — and Hyunjin is fluent.

After, they curl around each other beneath the covers, nothing between them but breath.

Seungmin doesn’t know what tomorrow will be, or the day after that. But for now — for this suspended moment where his body is quiet and his heart is loud — he doesn’t want to move.

 

***

 

Morning finds them still wrapped around each other, limbs tangled beneath a single blanket, the rhythm of sleep not yet fully broken. The light seeps in slowly through the curtains, pale and golden, the kind of morning that carries the hush of something possible only in between the seasons. Outside, the city is quiet — the streets damp with last night’s rain, the air still clinging to the scent of wet earth and the sound of distant traffic.

Seungmin stirs first. Not abruptly. Not with the startle of someone caught where they shouldn’t be. He wakes slowly, as if his body knows it is safe here. As if it doesn’t want to leave the warmth wrapped around him.

Hyunjin’s arm is draped over his waist, fingers curled softly against the bare skin of his stomach. Their legs are still tangled, and Hyunjin’s face is pressed just beneath Seungmin’s collarbone, breath soft and even. There’s a faint line on his cheek from the edge of the pillow, his lips parted slightly in sleep.

For a moment, Seungmin just lies there, barely breathing, letting the realization bloom across his chest: it wasn’t a dream.

The heat in his skin. The slow ache in his thighs. The faint salt of dried sweat at the crook of his elbow. The memory of hands — Hyunjin’s hands — moving over his body like they belonged there.

It had happened. And it had been real. And it had been... good.

Better than good.

It had been slow and careful and tender in a way Seungmin never imagined anything physical could be. There had been no pain — well, not the kind he’s used to — no awkward misstep that soured the moment. Just warmth, and presence, and the kind of closeness that felt like something long denied finally being given — not taken.

And now, in the golden hush of morning, it’s still here.

Seungmin shifts slightly, careful not to wake him. But the movement is enough — Hyunjin stirs with a quiet breath, his brow twitching faintly before his eyes blink open, still heavy with sleep. For a second, they simply look at each other. No panic. No question. No sharp intake of breath like something’s been broken.

Just a look. Quiet. Real.

Hyunjin blinks again, then smiles — small, lazy, soft.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still hoarse with sleep.

Seungmin’s heart flutters in his chest, but he manages to answer without stumbling. “Morning.”

Hyunjin’s arm tightens slightly around his waist, not possessive, but grounding. “How do you feel?”

The question is simple, but it lands in Seungmin’s chest with the weight of something much larger. How does he feel? He searches his body for tension and finds none. He searches his chest for guilt, for shame, for the instinct to retreat — and finds only quiet.

“I feel...” He pauses, eyes drifting over Hyunjin’s face. “... good.”

Hyunjin smiles again, wider now, eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. He leans in, kisses Seungmin’s shoulder, then rests his forehead there.

“Me too,” he whispers.

They stay like that for a while — long enough for the light to brighten, for the city to stir back to life. Neither of them moves. There is no rush, no script to follow. The silence between them is soft-edged, filled with something unnamed but undeniable. But then, Hyunjin leans in, pressing a kiss to Seungmin’s forehead. “Hungry?”

Seungmin nods.

Hyunjin smiles and kisses him again — slow, lingering — before untangling himself from the sheets. He stretches, the muscles of his back flexing in the pale morning light, and Seungmin allows himself to look, to admire, without shame.

Hyunjin catches him staring and grins, tossing a pillow at him. “Stop that. You’ll make me blush.”

Seungmin huffs a laugh, catching the pillow and hugging it to his chest. He watches as Hyunjin pulls on a pair of sweatpants, the fabric riding low on his hips, and pads out of the room toward the kitchen.

The scent of coffee soon drifts down the hall, mingling with the sound of Hyunjin humming under his breath. Seungmin closes his eyes, breathing it in.

 

***

 

It happens more than once.

More than twice.

More than Seungmin ever expected it to, honestly. And not just the sex — though there’s that, too, in all its quiet intensity, all the ways it’s begun to unravel the tightly wound silence he’s carried for years. But it’s everything around it that startles him most. The softness. The rhythm. The slow, inevitable folding of their lives into each other.

Their nights have settled into something like a pattern now — not rigid, not planned, but known. Familiar in a way that makes Seungmin ache a little, though he can’t say why. They cook together sometimes, or sit in the soft hush of the living room, Hyunjin’s music playing low while Seungmin reads with his knees tucked under him on the couch. They argue occasionally about what to watch. Hyunjin cheats at board games, Seungmin pretends not to notice. And then, always, somehow, the evening narrows — gravity tilting them toward the same room instead of two, tangled blankets, breath shared between lips and skin, touches growing bolder, slower, deeper. Sometimes, there’s conversation between them. Sometimes only the creaking of the floorboards beneath their weight, the echo of soft sighs in the dark. And sometimes, on slower mornings when neither of them has an early call, they stay wrapped around each other longer than reason allows — lazy, half-asleep, whispering things that don’t need remembering.

He never thought he’d want this. Not like this. The heat, the skin, the aching vulnerability of it. But Hyunjin doesn’t ask him to be anything other than what he is. He doesn’t flinch from Seungmin’s silences, doesn’t question the way he sometimes needs to pull back just to breathe. Instead, he gives him space and then fills it, gently, with laughter or music or the weight of his hand on Seungmin’s knee.

Sometimes, Seungmin lies awake long after Hyunjin has drifted off, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest in the dark. He traces the edge of his own rib cage with his fingertips and thinks, How is this my life? How is this my body, lying here, not hurting?

He doesn’t have answers. Just mornings that feel like dreams, and nights that undo him slowly, lovingly, until he no longer remembers what it felt like to sleep alone.

And all of it is good. More than good. It’s warm, and steady, and — on the surface — simple.

But the simplicity is deceiving.

Because as much as Seungmin has learned to surrender his body, to let go of fear and finally receive affection like it was meant for him, the rest of him is still catching up. He spends his afternoons untangling something in his chest that keeps tightening, a winding pressure like a spring too long coiled. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t know where to place this ache that builds in the hollow of his chest every time Hyunjin leaves for the studio, every time he sits alone on the couch with San curled against his hip, every time the front door closes and he’s left with only the memory of touch.

At first, he thinks this is just the price of novelty. That it will settle eventually. That he’ll get used to the distance, the hours apart.

The nights are still warm.

Hyunjin’s hands still find him in the dark, tracing the ridges of his spine, the dip of his waist, the sensitive skin behind his knees. His mouth still lingers on Seungmin’s throat, his breath still hitches when Seungmin tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls. The mornings are still soft — sleep-mussed sheets, shared showers, Hyunjin’s laughter echoing through the apartment as he burns toast and pretends it’s edible.

But now, there is a fissure.

Because one afternoon, he stumbles across the article.

He isn’t looking for anything. He’s scrolling aimlessly while lunch cools untouched beside him, and it’s just a headline — “How Physical Compatibility Has Redefined Intimacy in Modern Society.”

At first, he thinks it’s some half-baked lifestyle piece. But he clicks it anyway.

The article outlines new social patterns, the shifting trends of how people connect after decades of genetic divergence and protein-index sorting. How touch has become transactional. Clinical. How many people, upon finding someone whose skin doesn’t hurt them, have settled not for romance, but for arrangement. Physical intimacy without entanglement. Comfort without commitment.

He scrolls. Skims. Digests.

It’s logical. Clean. Convenient.

It makes sense.

And for years, Seungmin had thought — if he had thought about it at all — that this was normal. This was probably what would happen, if it ever happened for him at all. But now, as he sits there staring blankly at the words, something inside him begins to fracture.

Because this — what he has with Hyunjin — has never been discussed. Never defined. They fall into each other in the dark, again and again, and it feels too fragile to question, too sacred to risk cracking open with labels.

But now… he doesn’t understand. What if Hyunjin is like the people in the article? What if this — this gentle, careful thing between them — is just convenience?

The thought coils through his chest like cold water.

Of course, Hyunjin had been kind from the start. Attentive. Patient. But maybe that had come from curiosity — he’d never known someone with Seungmin’s index before. Maybe at first it had been a strange, beautiful exception.

But now? Now Seungmin doesn’t know. Because the truth — the ugly, biting truth — is that Hyunjin could have anyone. He is warm, magnetic, effortlessly charming. He lives in a world of artists and dancers, the kind of world where physicality is currency. And he doesn’t seem like someone constrained by anything — least of all attention.

Seungmin, on the other hand, still startles when someone brushes his sleeve in the grocery store. Still forgets, sometimes, that he’s allowed to be touched at all.

What if this is charity?

What if Hyunjin is here because he pities him?

Or worse — because he feels responsible?

It creeps into Seungmin’s mind when he least expects it. He watches Hyunjin laugh with his friends over video call, bright and effortless, and wonders if he’s ever mentioned Seungmin at all. He listens to Hyunjin hum in the shower and imagines him doing the same for someone else — someone easier, someone normal.

Because they don’t talk about what they are. They’ve never needed to. But now, Seungmin is beginning to wonder if he’s the only one wondering. Because for him, every night with Hyunjin feels like more than skin. Something like hunger buried so long it forgot how to speak — now rising, slow and trembling, in the space where fear used to live. But what if, for Hyunjin, it’s just comfort?

What if Seungmin mistook gentleness for something else?

He wants to ask. Desperately.

But he’s afraid that the answer might be kind — and still not what he needs to hear.

 

The feeling builds slowly, like steam behind glass. At first, Seungmin doesn’t even notice it — just a tightness in his chest when Hyunjin disappears for longer than usual, a strange weight in his stomach when he hears a phone conversation from the other room, Hyunjin’s voice lowered but clear.

“…Yeah. I’m still looking. Something not too far from the line. Preferably furnished…”

He doesn’t mean to listen. The door is cracked. He’s not eavesdropping — he’s just existing too close to someone who never really belonged to him in the first place.

And that’s the root of it, isn’t it?

Hyunjin never belonged to him.

He came into Seungmin’s life like a warm wind sneaking through a cracked window — easy, unassuming, bringing light and change before Seungmin even realized what he’d opened himself up to. And now, with a few words exchanged with a stranger on the phone, Seungmin can already feel him beginning to drift away.

He’s not moving out tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But someday. Soon. And Seungmin doesn’t know what happens after that. And he is terrified to find out.

 

He tries to bury it.

Tries to go back to how it was — easy laughter over takeout containers, quiet evenings pressed together under blankets, the slow discovery of how bodies move and hearts soften when given time. But it’s different now. The questions won’t leave him alone. They whisper into the corners of every kiss, every shared breath. He finds himself counting the seconds Hyunjin stays close, trying to measure the weight of each touch, trying to decode every sigh, every smile.

Seungmin had never looked for intimacy. All his life, he thought of it as a foreign language he might never learn; it was always something abstract, something meant for other people. A beautiful thing, sure, but distant, like a painting behind glass.

But now the glass is shattered.

Now Hyunjin kisses him like it’s easy, like it’s natural, like Seungmin’s mouth is a place he’s allowed to be. He touches him like he’s memorizing him, like he’s trying to press the shape of Seungmin’s body into his palms so he won’t forget.

And every kiss, every brush of fingers, every murmured “You okay?” in the dark feels like it means something.

So Seungmin tells himself: don’t let it matter. Seungmin wants Hyunjin’s closeness not to matter. He wants to pretend this is just physical; he wants it to be light, fleeting, meaningless. Because if it means something, then Hyunjin leaving will hurt.

But then Hyunjin will do something stupid — like laugh into his neck when Seungmin squirms under his hands, or press a kiss to his temple while half-asleep, or whisper “You’re so fucking beautiful” like it’s a secret just for them — and Seungmin’s chest will ache with something too big to name.

He doesn’t know how to exist in this space between “This is nothing” and “This is everything.”

Because it does matter.

It matters when Hyunjin looks at him across the table like nothing else exists. It matters when his hands slide under Seungmin’s shirt and his mouth finds that spot just below his ear and Seungmin forgets how to breathe. It matters when he wakes up to the smell of Hyunjin’s shampoo on his pillow and realizes his own body is already moving toward the empty space beside him.

Hyunjin makes him feel things he’s never felt before.

Not just arousal. Not just desire.

But the quiet, terrifying yearning to be kept.

***

 

Hyunjin leaves on a Wednesday morning (some international dance competition with his crew), duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie drawn up to his ears from under a jacket, sleepy and smiling and too beautiful for the early hour. He kisses Seungmin goodbye at the door — not deeply, not theatrically, just a soft press of lips to temple, fingers squeezing briefly at Seungmin’s side.

“I’ll be back in three days,” he says, like it’s nothing.

Seungmin nods, says, “Good luck,” and watches him go.

It’s not the first time Hyunjin’s been away. There have been other days and nights apart — when Seungmin visited his parents, when Hyunjin traveled for work, or stayed out late rehearsing. They’ve done distance before, and Seungmin had always managed. Quietly, methodically. He knew how to keep himself busy. Knew how to wait.

But this time, it feels different. Sharper. Like a splinter beneath the skin, small but impossible to ignore.

Seungmin closes the apartment door and leans against it, the hallway too quiet now without Hyunjin’s voice echoing in it.

There’s no tension between them. No last argument, no misunderstanding to sour the space between their bodies. But something in Seungmin shifts as soon as the silence returns to the apartment. It’s subtle, quiet, a soft click deep inside, like something fragile and mechanical has finally turned over — and begun to move in another direction.

He tries to follow his routine before going to work. But it’s all thin, mechanical. His body moves through the motions, but his chest feels like it’s been left slightly ajar, something warm bleeding out slowly.

By late afternoon, it becomes unbearable. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. It’s not like Hyunjin won’t text. He’s already sent two selfies and a picture of his iced Americano, captioned craving your stupid tea lol. But it’s not the distance on the screen that bothers Seungmin. It’s the other kind — the kind that feels like gravity has shifted in his absence. Like something inside him is slipping.

In the evening he curls up on the couch with a blanket and stares at the corner where Hyunjin usually drops his backpack. His throat feels too tight to speak, even to himself. There’s no logical reason to be this undone. It’s just a few days. Just space. Just time.

So why does it feel like a loss?

His fingers hover over his phone for a long time. He opens and closes Minho’s contact twice before typing, finally, without thinking too hard:

◁ i don’t know what to do.

It takes less than a minute for the reply to come in.

▶ tomorrow, 11 am

Seungmin locks the phone and stares at the ceiling. He tells himself it’s nothing. That he’s just tired. That things will feel normal again when Hyunjin walks back through that door and flops dramatically onto the couch like he always does, limbs everywhere, smile wide.

But for now, he lies still, hollowed out in ways he doesn’t understand, and waits for morning.

 

Minho’s office always feels too bright at first. The light filters in through wide glass windows, softened by pale curtains but still clinical in its reach — no shadows to hide in, no soft corners to disappear into. The walls are the same muted cream as always. The couch is the same faint blue, just firm enough to make sure you don’t sink too deep.

Seungmin sits with his hands folded in his lap.

Minho watches him quietly from across the space, pen poised over a notepad he’s rarely needed to use for him. His expression is unreadable, calm in that practiced way Seungmin sometimes resents. But today he needs it. Today he doesn’t want a friend.

He needs a witness.

Seungmin clears his throat. Doesn’t look up.

“I thought it would feel like freedom,” he says slowly, like dragging words from somewhere underwater. “Letting someone in like that. I thought it would feel like... I don’t know. Like I’d opened a door I’ve been trying to unlock for years, and finally walked through it.”

Minho doesn’t answer, doesn’t fill the silence, and Seungmin is grateful. He hates it when people try to soothe things before they’re even fully spoken.

“It didn’t feel like that,” he says. “It felt like... I stepped out of myself. And now I don’t know how to get back in.”

Seungmin stares at the framed degrees on the wall, the neat rows of psychology textbooks, the way the sunlight glares off the glass coffee table between them.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admits, voice flat. “I don’t know what I am in it.”

Minho watches him, fingers steepled under his chin. “Do you want to be something in it?”

“I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know what’s mine — what’s real — and what’s just... the relief of not being alone, being broken.”

Minho sets his pen down, finally. “You’re not broken, Seungmin,” he says quietly. “But even if you were — he didn’t fix you. You let him in. That choice was yours.”

“I’m scared that I want something from him that he never promised. That he never even meant to offer.”

Minho leans back slightly in his chair. He steeples his fingers, gaze steady, unreadable.

“You’re not wrong to want clarity.”

Seungmin looks down. His voice drops with him. “But I don’t want to ask. Because I think… I think if I hear him say it’s just physical, I’ll lose something. Not just him. But— something I didn’t know I had.”

Minho nods slowly. “Seungmin. You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to be afraid of wanting them, too.”

After a pause, Minho’s voice softens. “What you’re feeling is real. That ache, tension, fear. But you don’t have to sit in it and do nothing. You always have options, Seungmin.”

The words are meant to empower.

But Seungmin hears something else.

He hears: there are other people.

He hears: you can choose differently.

He hears: this doesn’t have to hurt.

 

***

 

That night, the quiet of the apartment is unbearable. Seungmin paces for hours, drinks cold tea from a chipped mug, stares at the glow of unread notifications on his phone. He tells himself he’s being rational. That this is proactive. That he’s not running from what he feels — but merely trying to understand it by holding it up beside something else.

So he does it.

He books the appointment.

 

The Anomaly Registration Center is like every sterile place Seungmin has avoided most of his life. It’s all white walls and waiting rooms, brochures printed in four languages, receptionists trained to keep their smiles neutral. He doesn’t know what he expected — something more high-tech, maybe. Something stranger.

He doesn’t want to be here either way. He tells himself this is about control, about options. About not putting all of his needs into one pair of hands that might not reach back.

The woman at the desk is polite, efficient. She doesn’t ask why he’s here after all this time. Doesn’t ask why his hands are shaking as he fills out the forms.

“You’re fortunate,” she just says with a neutral kind of warmth. “This person’s extroversion index is exceptionally high”.

Seungmin murmurs a soft thank you as she hands him a sheet of paper.

Lee Felix. Twenty-seven. E87. Registered in the voluntary support program for contact-sensitive individuals. He has a brief profile. A photo. A gentle smile.

The words sit neatly on the page. No emotion. No meaning.

But Seungmin stands there for a long time, reading the name again and again.

And for some reason, the paper in his hand feels heavier than it should.

 

Hyunjin comes home in the early afternoon. The rain has followed him back from the city — it hangs in his hair in tiny beads and darkens the hem of his coat. He smells like fresh water and airport coffee and the faintest trace of stage sweat, the kind Seungmin has come to associate with late-night rehearsals and early morning flights. His duffel bag thuds softly on the floor. His body follows suit, a familiar presence sliding into their shared quiet like he never left.

“Hey,” Seungmin murmurs from the kitchen, glancing up from where he’s making tea. There’s a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth, something unconscious, something that wants to bloom just at the sight of him. “You’re early.”

Hyunjin hums. “I missed you,” he says, and it sounds too easy, too light — the way someone throws a jacket over a chair without thinking.

They move around each other without speaking much — Seungmin pulls a second mug from the cabinet, Hyunjin slips his arms around his waist from behind just long enough to press a kiss to his nape, then disappears to change. It’s calm. Comfortable. So familiar now that it almost feels permanent.

Seungmin leaves his phone on the kitchen table.

He doesn’t think about it.

He doesn’t remember that the last thing on the screen was the text from Lee Felix, confirming the meeting tomorrow afternoon.

▶ Sure! I’m free after 2. Looking forward to meeting you, Seungmin :)

There’s a soft sound behind him — a breath, a pause, the faint click of a phone being placed back down. He turns his head, but Hyunjin’s face is unreadable.

Too smooth.

Too still.

Something curls wrong in Seungmin’s stomach, but he tells himself it’s nothing.

Hyunjin slides into the chair across from him. His fingers tap once against the wood grain. Then again. A rhythm that never finishes.

“So,” he says, not looking up. “Meeting someone?”

Seungmin blinks. “What?”

“The text,” Hyunjin says lightly. His voice is casual, but his mouth is pressed too tight, and his fingers won’t stop moving. “Didn’t mean to look, sorry.”

“Oh,” Seungmin says, and immediately feels the shift, the way the weight in the air doubles. He fumbles, suddenly too aware of everything — of the distance between them, of the message Hyunjin wasn’t meant to see, of what it might have looked like.

“It’s nothing,” he says, too fast. “Minho just... he thought it might be good for me. Meeting people. You know — therapeutically. It’s not about—”

You.

It’s not about you. He doesn’t dare to finish, doesn’t want to lie.

Hyunjin goes quiet. He nods once, eyes still on the table. “Right,” he says, voice flat now. “Therapy.”

There’s something in that word. Something dull and scraped raw, like he’s trying not to feel anything at all.

Seungmin looks at him — really looks — and still, somehow, doesn’t see it.

Doesn’t see the way Hyunjin’s shoulders have tensed beneath his sweatshirt. Doesn’t see the line of his jaw, locked too tight. Doesn’t see the look that flickered across his face when he read the message — that startled kind of betrayal, like something he thought was safe had been stolen when he wasn’t looking.

He just takes another sip of tea, shrugs.

“I’ll cancel it, if it bothers you.”

And that, somehow, makes it worse.

Hyunjin huffs a dry laugh — humorless, tight — and stands. “No,” he says. “Why would you? It’s not like we— I mean, you don’t owe me anything.”

He turns away before Seungmin can answer, retreating into the bedroom with a quiet that feels like a slammed door.

Seungmin stays in the kitchen.

 

***

 

They sit across from each other in a café tucked into a quiet corner of the city — with tea that smells like cardamom and citrus, chairs that creak under shifting weight, and a playlist full of acoustic guitars; glass windows fogged from the warmth inside. Seungmin holds a mug in both hands even though it’s too hot, letting it burn against his palms, needing to feel something.

Felix smiles at him across the table. “So... it’s okay, right? Me sitting this close?”

Seungmin blinks. Nods. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Felix says, lips quirking. “Always weird asking that.”

Seungmin’s mouth twitches in what might be a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admits. “I mean, the Center. Meeting someone like this.”

Felix shrugs gently. “Most people haven’t.”

 

Felix is warm. Friendly in a way that’s easy to fall into. Open in a way Seungmin recognizes but doesn’t know how to mirror. The kind of person who listens with his whole body, nods slowly, thoughtfully, and replies without judgment. There’s nothing about him that pushes or pulls. He’s just… calm. Gentle. His voice is smooth, low, unhurried. The kind of voice that could lull you into believing that everything will be alright.

Felix talks. Seungmin listens.

They’re both anomalies, both rated as touch-compatible.

By all accounts, this should feel like relief.

And it does. On the surface.

Felix’s presence doesn’t hurt. There’s no sting when their hands brush, no burn of skin-on-skin rejection. If Seungmin concentrated, he could reach across the table right now, touch the back of Felix’s hand, and his body wouldn’t recoil.

But the absence of pain isn’t the same as comfort.

Because every time Felix laughs, Seungmin hears the echo of Hyunjin’s laugh behind it. Every time Felix reaches for his drink or gestures with his hands, there’s something in Seungmin that waits for a movement that never comes — something leaner, sharper, full of quiet, magnetic gravity. He keeps comparing the curve of Felix’s mouth to Hyunjin’s. Keeps waiting for a warmth that isn’t there. He knows it isn’t fair.

He knows it isn’t Felix’s fault.

He’s perfect.

But he’s wrong.

Because no — it doesn’t hurt. That part is true. Felix’s presence is gentle on his nervous system, his touch light and safe. It’s smooth, almost imperceptible — like nothing at all.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Because it feels like nothing.

No electricity. No shift in gravity. No sharp, unexpected warmth blooming beneath the skin.

Not like Hyunjin.

Hyunjin, who doesn’t even have to touch him to make his breath catch. Who walks into a room and somehow makes it feel like it’s Seungmin’s body that has to rearrange itself around him. Hyunjin, who always forgets to finish his coffee, who hums when he’s washing his hair, who leaves the cabinet doors open and dances like no one’s watching even when someone is.

Hyunjin, who shouldn’t mean this much.

But he does.

And somewhere in the middle of Felix telling him about a trip he once took to Jeju Island, with the rain coming down in soft slants outside and the tea cooling in Seungmin’s hands, the realization hits him like a punch to the gut — sudden, terrifying, absolute.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He’s in love.

He’s in love with Hwang Hyunjin.

Not just interested. Not just drawn to him.

But in love.

The kind that ruins other people. The kind that makes the whole world turn strange when that one person is missing from it. The kind that rewrites what you thought intimacy was supposed to feel like. The kind that—hurts, now, because it’s too late to say it out loud.

Because it’s not even about the touch anymore. It’s the way Hyunjin moves through a room and Seungmin turns toward him without thinking. The way he exists — ridiculous and radiant and unbearably real — in every corner of Seungmin’s life. It’s how everything feels slightly off now, out of alignment, when they’re apart. Like being handed someone else’s heartbeat and told to live with it.

His stomach folds in on itself. His breath catches in his throat. Everything inside him is too tight.

He forces a smile when Felix looks at him. Says the right things. Keeps nodding. But he’s not really there anymore.

He doesn’t know what to do with this truth.

It’s too heavy, too fragile. A paper lantern full of flame.

 

When they part — on polite terms, with no promises — Felix offers a smile that’s somehow both understanding and kind.

“It was good to meet you,” he says. “Really. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The fact is — he already has. But what he wants is already slipping through his fingers.

 

By the time he gets home, it’s dark. The apartment is warm, dimly lit — soft lights from the kitchen overhead, the kind Hyunjin always forgets to turn off. The smell of laundry and dinner still lingers faintly in the air. Hyunjin’s on the couch, legs tucked up under him, half-watching something on his tablet.

He looks up when Seungmin comes in.

“Hey,” Hyunjin says, voice careful. Neutral. “You’re back.”

Seungmin nods, unwinding his scarf. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

“How was it?” Hyunjin asks.

The question lands too softly, like a trap padded in velvet.

Seungmin shrugs. “Fine.”

“That’s good,” Hyunjin says, and smiles — but it’s wrong. It’s crooked. It’s a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “So, did it help?”

“Help?”

“Yeah. Being around someone else.”

There’s something brittle under those words. But Seungmin doesn’t catch it — not fully. He’s too caught in the storm of his own confusion to read the weather outside himself.

“I mean,” Hyunjin continues, still too light, still too easy, “it’s good to have other options. If you found someone who—”

“No,” Seungmin cuts in, too fast. “It wasn’t like that.”

But he doesn’t know how to explain what it was like. Doesn’t know how to say: it made everything worse. That Felix’s touch didn’t hurt, but it didn’t feel right either. That the whole time he wanted someone else. That he’s terrified of what that means.

So he just shakes his head and lies — not in words, but in omission.

“Minho was right,” he says. “I should... try to meet people. That’s all.”

Hyunjin nods.

“Of course,” he says. And then quieter: “Makes sense.”

He turns back to the tablet. But his shoulders have curled in. His spine is tight. His fingers clench around the blanket in his lap just a little too hard.

And Seungmin doesn’t see it.

Or — he sees it, but he tells himself a different story. That Hyunjin’s just tired. That he’s relieved. That maybe it’s easier this way, if Hyunjin doesn’t want more.

Because Hyunjin sounds okay.

And that’s the cruelest part.

Because he just realized he’s in love — and the first thing it’s doing is tearing him apart.

 

 ***

 

The days that follow carry a weight Seungmin can’t name.

Nothing has been said — no argument, no confrontation. But there is a change in the air between them, an awkwardness that wasn’t there before, like they’ve suddenly begun speaking slightly different dialects of the same language. Everything still looks the same — Hyunjin still laughs at the television late at night, still brews coffee exactly the way Seungmin likes it, still curls up on the corner of the couch with his feet tucked beneath him — but something invisible has shifted.

It’s quiet, almost imperceptible at first — like the way seasons change in the city. One day the breeze feels different, a little cooler on the skin. One morning, the sun doesn’t rise quite so early. Shadows linger longer. The apartment gets quieter.

Hyunjin doesn’t linger in the kitchen anymore, doesn’t lean across the counter like he used to, close enough that Seungmin could smell mint on his breath, feel the warmth of his skin without being touched.

Now he keeps a little distance. A polite one.

Seungmin notices it, but doesn’t know what to call it.

Because surely it makes sense. Maybe Hyunjin is just stepping back, being respectful. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to go.

And yet—

It doesn’t feel right.

He catches Hyunjin watching him once — just a glance, quick and sharp, like he’s trying to memorize something he’s not allowed to keep. But then Hyunjin blinks and looks away, grabs a towel, mutters something about needing to shower, and disappears into the bathroom before Seungmin can ask anything.

Or worse, one night, Hyunjin brushes past him on the way to the fridge and doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t steady a hand on his back. Doesn’t bump their shoulders the way he always used to, like they were tethered by something that wanted to be felt. And Seungmin tells himself not to read into it — but he still stands frozen by the sink long after Hyunjin’s gone, cold water running over his fingers like proof of absence.

They move around each other like ghosts, polite and quiet, their bodies never quite colliding. Seungmin keeps waiting for the soft graze of fingertips at his back, the press of a hand to his hip, the gentle nudge of noses in the hallway. He waits for their mouths to find each other again in the hush of the living room, for the familiar warmth of Hyunjin’s thigh brushing his as they curl into bed.

But it doesn’t come.

And Seungmin doesn’t understand why.

He tries not to let it hurt. But it does.

He tells himself it’s probably just that maybe Hyunjin is exhausted. Maybe he’s preoccupied with something at work. Or maybe — maybe it’s that Seungmin has ruined the easy rhythm they had, just by wanting too much. Just by feeling something he never asked to feel.

Hyunjin hasn’t touched him since the night he came back. Not in the way he used to.

 

One morning, he finds Hyunjin in the kitchen, already dressed, hair still damp from the shower. He’s sitting at the table with a spoon in one hand and his phone in the other, absently scrolling through something as he eats cereal straight from the box.

Seungmin leans against the doorframe, watching him for a moment, hoping — quietly, stupidly — for a smile. A small hello. Even just eye contact.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look up.

Seungmin clears his throat. “You’re up early.”

Hyunjin hums in acknowledgment. “Yeah. Work.”

That’s it.

Seungmin pours himself a cup of coffee, but his stomach turns as he drinks it. The silence between them is too sharp now, too exposed, and Seungmin can’t shake the feeling that he did something wrong, though he doesn’t know what. He considers asking — Is something bothering you? Did I cross a line? Are we still okay?

But he doesn’t.

Because if the answer is no, he doesn’t know how to survive it.

 

Later that evening, Seungmin walks into the living room just as Hyunjin is picking up his phone from the arm of the couch. His expression shifts quickly, too quickly, from something tense to something neutral, and for a flicker of a second, Seungmin thinks he’s caught him in the middle of a feeling.

But Hyunjin just mutters, “Studio,” and steps into the hallway to take the call.

Seungmin stands there for a moment, staring at the space he left behind, and feels a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. Not tears, not quite — but the ache of something being lost without anyone saying goodbye.

 

One night, curled separately on the couch watching something they’re both not really following, Seungmin says, careful and quiet, “I saw Felix yesterday.”

It’s a lie. He hasn’t seen Felix since that first meeting. Couldn’t bring himself to answer the last message.

Hyunjin’s reaction is too soft. He just nods, staring at the screen. “That’s good.”

 

Once, after dinner, Seungmin reaches out without thinking — just a touch to Hyunjin’s arm, a light press of fingers as he brushes past him at the sink.

Hyunjin flinches.

It’s subtle. Barely more than a breath of recoil. But Seungmin feels it like a slap.

 

Another time, he finds Hyunjin sitting alone on the floor by the balcony window, knees pulled up to his chest, arms draped loosely around them. The lights are off. The city glimmers behind him, and his silhouette is just barely visible in the glow.

Seungmin almost doesn’t say anything.

But eventually, he steps closer and asks, “Aren’t you cold?”

Hyunjin shakes his head, voice low. “Just needed air.”

Seungmin stands there, holding a blanket in his hands, unsure what to do with it.

He wants to drape it over both of them. Sit close. Let their knees touch, let the silence fill in with warmth like it used to.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look up. Doesn’t reach.

So Seungmin places the blanket down beside him and walks away.

He doesn't understand this kind of quiet. This kind that feels like being pushed out of something without the door ever closing. It hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to name.

 

He tries to convince himself that maybe Hyunjin really is okay. That this distance is just an adjustment. That Hyunjin had always known their arrangement wouldn’t last forever and is handling it better than Seungmin is. That this ache he feels — this slow unraveling — is just his own weakness.

He tells himself all these things, over and over. Seungmin tells himself maybe Hyunjin just doesn’t know what to do anymore. That maybe he’s confused, too. That maybe the distance isn’t cruelty, but uncertainty.

 

And misses entirely the pain he’s looking straight at — the way Hyunjin watches him when he thinks Seungmin isn’t looking. The way he lingers in doorways and walks away without saying anything. The way he swallows down every word that sounds too much like I miss you.

Because Seungmin thinks Hyunjin’s letting go.

And Hyunjin thinks Seungmin already has.

 

***

 

It’s unexpected, hearing the door open before six. Seungmin stills in the hallway, the coat hangs loosely from his shoulders, half-buttoned. The keys are cold in his hand, a sharp little anchor to the present, but the moment is already slipping sideways.

Hyunjin’s voice comes from behind him, soft but steady.

“You’re going out?”

Seungmin glances over his shoulder. Hyunjin looks tired, like the day has worn him thinner than usual. His bag slips off his shoulder, landing by the wall with a dull thud.

“Yeah,” Seungmin answers. His voice is neutral, too casual. “Just out for a bit.”

Hyunjin doesn’t ask anything right away. He just stands there, eyes searching Seungmin’s face. Then, quieter, “Are you going to see Felix again?”

Seungmin hesitates. And that’s enough. He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no either. And the silence stretches too long.

Hyunjin lets out a breath. He nods once, jaw flexing, and walks past him, down the hallway toward his room. “Right,” he says, more to himself than to Seungmin. “Have fun.”

The door doesn’t slam. It just clicks softly shut behind him. Somehow that hurts more.

Seungmin stands frozen, fingers still hooked around his keys. He doesn’t know why he can’t say it — that he’s not going to see Felix. That he’s meeting Minho for coffee, nothing more. Maybe because letting Hyunjin assume something else makes things easier. Or maybe because the truth is harder in ways he doesn’t want to face yet.

He hears footsteps again. The door opening.

Hyunjin is back in the hallway, still in his coat. His expression isn’t angry. Just tired. Raw.

“Don’t go,” he says, quietly.

Seungmin turns to face him fully. “What?”

“Don’t go,” Hyunjin repeats. “Not to Felix. Please.”

Seungmin’s throat goes dry. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Hyunjin swallows, his voice unsteady now. “I know it’s not wrong. I know Minho encouraged you to meet people. And I know Felix is… safe. Compatible. Whatever word makes it sound less like I’m being selfish. But I just—” He shakes his head and looks away, eyes glassy. “I guess I wanted to ask… is there something I’m missing? Something you’re still looking for that I couldn’t give you?”

The words hit Seungmin like a slow collapse. Because it’s not a guilt trip. It’s not anger. Hyunjin sounds like he’s standing outside in the rain, asking to be let in but already preparing to walk away.

“No,” Seungmin says, quietly. “It’s not that.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to lie. I just wanted to be honest about how I feel. Even if it makes me a little pathetic.”

“You’re not,” Seungmin says, quickly. “You’re not pathetic.”

Hyunjin finally meets his gaze again, eyes too open, too vulnerable. “Then why…?” He trails off, shakes his head.

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to be with me...” Seungmin exhales shakily. “Like it was a responsibility you couldn’t get out of. So I thought — maybe if I found someone else, someone with a high index, someone more...” He swallows. “...detached. Then maybe you’d stop feeling obligated.”

Hyunjin stares at him for a long, still moment. And then he laughs.

Not cruelly. Not bitterly.

It’s a disbelieving, heartbroken sound.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, and he runs a hand down his face like trying to smooth away a hundred misunderstood moments. “Is that really what you thought this was?”

“I didn’t know what else to think,” Seungmin says, voice breaking around the edges. “You started acting like it didn’t mean anything. And I—”

“I didn’t know how to act,” Hyunjin cuts in, stepping closer now, voice thick with emotion. “I thought you’d found someone else. I thought— maybe you were over it. Maybe you were tired of me. And I didn’t want to be pathetic and clingy, trying to keep your attention when you’d already moved on.”

Seungmin stares at him, stunned.

“You thought I moved on,” he says, almost a whisper. “From you.”

Hyunjin’s gaze drops. “I don’t have your self-control,” he says softly. “I can’t pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Then why were you looking for a new place?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Hyunjin lets out another soft, incredulous laugh, still not amused.

“Because I don’t even pay rent here. Because this was always supposed to be temporary. You said I could stay until I found something. I just… I didn’t want to overstay, to make you uncomfortable.”

Seungmin’s head lifts slowly.

“I was looking for another place to live,” Hyunjin continues, voice shaking now, “but not because I wanted to leave. Not because of you. And it was never about what I felt. What I’m still feeling.”

Hyunjin steps closer, hesitates. Then he says, almost cautiously, “I told myself I had to wait. That I couldn’t rush you.”

His voice shakes, but he doesn’t look away.

“Your whole life… you’ve been guarded. Alone. Touch hurt. People kept their distance, or you kept yours. And I told myself if I wanted to be close to you, I had to wait for you to come to me. To say things first. I couldn’t ask for more than you were ready to give. I thought… if I just stayed, if I just gave you time, you’d know I meant it.”

Seungmin’s throat tightens. “You did mean it,” he whispers.

“I still do,” Hyunjin says. “But I started to wonder if it wasn’t enough. If maybe you were finding something else in someone like Felix — someone who didn’t have to be careful around you. Someone who made it easier.”

“It’s not about easier,” Seungmin breathes. “I didn’t even want to meet him.”

Hyunjin frowns. “Then why did you?”

“Because I thought it would fix things. That if I could prove I didn’t need you, maybe you’d stop feeling responsible. I didn’t want you to stay out of guilt. I thought… maybe you were only here because you thought I couldn’t be with anyone else.”

Hyunjin stares at him, stunned. Then, softly: “God, Seungmin.” He steps closer again, slower this time, eyes never leaving his. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t think I’d feel this way about you. But I do. I do, and it hurts so much not to say it, to not be allowed to show it. You think I stayed for convenience?” His voice breaks. “I stayed because I didn’t want to leave. Because I’m in love with you.”

Seungmin’s breath stutters. A soft, ragged sound escapes him.

“I’m in love with you too,” he says. And once the words are out, they don’t feel frightening. They feel like air.

Hyunjin reaches for his hand — gently, carefully, the way he always does. And still, it doesn’t hurt.

“It wasn’t an obligation,” Seungmin whispers, finally, voice thick with everything he’s been holding back. “I just… I thought if I told you what I felt, I’d ruin it. That if you didn’t feel the same, you’d start pulling away. But you already were, and I didn’t know why, and it just — hurt.”

“I was pulling away because I thought I’d already lost you,” Hyunjin breathes. “I was so afraid I didn’t have the right to ask you to stay.”

Seungmin steps closer, forehead pressed to Hyunjin’s chest, eyes stinging. “You’ve always had the right.”

Hyunjin’s arms wrap around him instantly, warm and real and grounding.

 

They stay like that for a long time — pressed close in the hush of the hallway, Seungmin breathing into the soft fabric of Hyunjin’s sweater, arms looped tight around his waist like he’s afraid letting go would undo everything. Hyunjin’s hand strokes the nape of his neck slowly, like he’s still trying to memorize the feel of him, still not entirely sure this is real.

And then —

A soft thump.

A scratchy mrrrrow from the kitchen.

They both freeze.

“…Shit,” Seungmin mutters, lifting his head just as San pads into view with his tail high and imperious, clearly indignant at being ignored this long. “I forgot about Minho.”

Hyunjin leans back just enough to blink at him. “Minho?”

Seungmin groans. “I told him I’d meet him tonight. He’s probably waiting.”

Hyunjin squints. “So… not Felix?”

Seungmin lifts his eyes. “It’s not Felix. It never was.”

Something soft and delighted flickers across Hyunjin’s face, and he huffs out a laugh — relieved and a little giddy. “God, I was so jealous of that guy.”

Seungmin exhales and fumbles for his phone. His fingers hover for a second before he types.

◁ can’t come. sorry. something happened

A beat. The reply is immediate.

Seungmin groans and presses his face into Hyunjin’s collarbone. “Minho sends his regards. And also threats.”

Hyunjin grins into his hair. “Tell him I owe him a fruit basket.”

“No,” Seungmin says. “He’ll take it as you asking for my hand in marriage.”

Hyunjin laughs — and it’s full-bodied this time, real and golden, echoing off the hallway walls. San weaves around their legs with an indignant chirp and then disappears back into the kitchen, as if deciding they’re beyond help.

And even then — neither of them moves. Not really. They just stay like that a little longer. Still holding on. Still quiet. Still trying to believe that this, finally, is theirs.

 

***

 

The night is still.

The windows are open, letting in the breath of early winter, crisp and sweet and sharp around the edges. The sounds of the city are distant — softened by distance, by glass, by the slow hush of night. Somewhere, low and quiet, music plays from Hyunjin’s phone on the dresser. Not loud. Just enough to color the silence.

Seungmin is lying in bed beside him, half-draped in the sheets, one arm curled beneath his head, the other resting across Hyunjin’s chest. Their legs are tangled like roots beneath the covers, their skin warm where it touches, where it clings, where it doesn’t need to ask for permission anymore.

They’re not speaking.

There’s no need.

Hyunjin’s hand is moving lazily across Seungmin’s back, a slow, senseless pattern drawn with his fingertips—like he’s writing something that doesn’t need to be read. His thumb catches on the curve of Seungmin’s shoulder blade, presses there for a moment, then slides again. It’s a touch without purpose. And yet, it anchors him.

Seungmin’s eyes are closed. He’s not quite asleep, but he’s close — held between breaths, between the press of one heartbeat and the next.

And maybe it’s because of the music — soft, unobtrusive, yet somehow impossibly accurate — that his mind drifts backward. Not to something specific, but to a feeling. The weight of gloves on his hands. The silence of his old apartment. The hours spent building barriers no one would ever cross. The certainty that no one would ever stay.

He’d thought that space meant safety.

That touch was something to be feared.

But now, in the still hush of this shared room, he understands something else entirely.

And Seungmin opens his eyes.

Hyunjin is looking at him — not smiling, not speaking, just looking. His expression is soft, unrushed, full of the kind of quiet reverence Seungmin once thought was only for other people.

“I used to think I was better off alone,” Seungmin whispers, almost surprised by his own voice.

Hyunjin’s lips curve slightly. “And now?”

Seungmin shifts closer. His cheek rests against Hyunjin’s collarbone, and he breathes in the warmth, the scent, the comfort of him. He doesn’t answer immediately. He lets his hand slide across Hyunjin’s chest, his fingers catching on the fabric of his shirt, the edge of a necklace, the soft pull of breath beneath his palm.

“Now I think I didn’t know anything at all,” he says quietly.

Hyunjin’s arms tighten around him, and for a long moment, that’s all they do — hold each other in the glow of lamplight and half-faded music, the lyrics folding gently into the air like a final note.

Seungmin presses a kiss to Hyunjin’s neck — soft, slow, not meant to lead anywhere.

Just meant to stay.

Because there’s no space between them anymore.

There’s no fear, either.

There’s only this: skin against skin.

Close.

Exactly where they were always meant to be.

 

fin.