Husband

by orphan_account

Summary:

Jihoon wakes up in the year 2030, inexplicably married to Soonyoung— the one person he can’t stand. They share a quiet home, routine, and a deep, undeniable intimacy Jihoon has no memory of. As he searches for answers— and a way back to the life he once knew— Jihoon is forced to confront the unfamiliar version of himself who chose this path. Yet with each passing day, the reasons begin to make sense.

Notes:

Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about this one. It’s not my favorite, but it turned out better than I expected.

The practice rooms always smelled like stale air and frayed wires, the kind of metallic warmth that made Jihoon’s skin itch by the second hour and gave him headaches by the third. He didn’t mind, most days. It was quiet. Private. Cold enough to keep him awake without needing to blow through another can of gas station espresso.

It was his place— his schedule, his piano, his isolation— and no one ever dared take the key unless they wanted to risk Jihoon’s very specific brand of vengeance. No one except for the one person on campus who somehow never seemed to care who he pissed off.

Kwon Soonyoung had been pushing every single one of Jihoon’s buttons since the first week of sophomore year, when he’d showed up late to Advanced Composition, plopped down three seats over, and started clicking his pen in the middle of a silent score critique. He was one of those people who walked like he was running out of time but talked like he had nothing but. Always bouncing, always loud, always chewing gum or interrupting or tapping his pencil or humming in class.

Jihoon had once tried to explain to Minghao that Soonyoung wasn’t bad at music, just allergic to shutting the fuck up. It hadn’t gone over well.

He was supposed to have the room to himself that night, according to the booking sheet taped outside the door. He was supposed to work through the last two minutes of his composition before it was due in tomorrow’s critique. But when he pushed the door open— his usual bag over one shoulder, fingers already aching from too many hours on the keys— he found Soonyoung sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open sheet music and a synth that absolutely did not belong to this building.

Jihoon stared.

Soonyoung looked up. “Hey.”

There were about ten different reactions Jihoon could’ve chosen. A quiet exit. A call to campus security. A slow, internal breakdown followed by violence. But instead, he just stepped inside and let the door close behind him with a soft click that sounded a lot more polite than he felt. Then he said, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Soonyoung leaned back on his palms, completely unbothered. “Neither is that C minor chord in bar twenty-four, but here we are.”

Jihoon’s eye twitched.

He didn’t ask how Soonyoung knew what he was working on. He didn’t ask how he’d even heard it— he’d been writing that section in complete privacy. He just stepped toward the piano, set his things down, and pulled out his USB like Soonyoung wasn’t there. Like if he ignored him hard enough, the universe would take the hint.

But the universe, as usual, had a shitty sense of humor.

“I think you’re scared to make it messier,” Soonyoung said after a few minutes. He hadn’t moved. “You write like you’re always trying to pass an exam. Like the piece isn’t allowed to breathe.”

Jihoon’s fingers froze on the keys.

And then— because he couldn’t help himself— he turned. “Did I ask for your opinion?”

Soonyoung didn’t flinch. “Nope.”

Jihoon blinked. “So you just give it to people anyway?”

“Only the ones who pretend they don’t want it.”

That made Jihoon stand. “I’ve never pretended anything with you. I’ve told you, very clearly, to shut the hell up. Multiple times.”

“And yet,” Soonyoung said, stretching his arms behind his head, “you always answer when I talk to you.”

Jihoon looked down at the bench beneath him like it might solve all his problems. Like if he kicked it hard enough, maybe he’d wake up in a version of his life where Soonyoung didn’t exist. “I’m going to make this very clear,” he said, voice even, calm, the kind of tone that had made TAs nervous since freshman year. “I don’t like you. I don’t like your opinions. I don’t want to hear your voice unless it’s attached to a mandatory presentation slide. And I will absolutely get this room locked down to faculty only if you make me do this a third time.”

Soonyoung tilted his head, his smile sharper now. “You know, you talk to me like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

It was the kind of line Jihoon would’ve laughed at— if it hadn’t made something crawl under his skin. Instead, he stared at him. Hard. Long enough that even Soonyoung had to glance away, jaw twitching just once before he stood, slow and deliberate. He picked up his synth, grabbed the papers off the ground without folding them properly, and moved to the door without another word.

But right before he left, hand on the knob, he turned back with one last glance over his shoulder.

“I liked your melody last week,” he said. “Even if you’re too uptight to let it breathe.”

Then he walked out.

And Jihoon sat back down, stared at the keys, and realized his hands were shaking.

 

—

 

Jihoon’s head hurt. Not in the usual caffeine-overdose, sleep-deprivation way he was used to. This was something different. A pressure behind his eyes, a sharp hum in his skull, like the world had been tilted five degrees off-center while he wasn’t looking. The last thing he remembered clearly was the low C key sticking a little under his finger. He’d blinked, dropped his hand, and the next moment, everything was wrong.

The air was too warm. The floor wasn’t linoleum. He could hear birds outside, even though it had been midnight. There was no piano. No practice room. Just a bedroom he didn’t recognize— clean, quiet, sunlit— soft light through gauzy curtains and a comforter that didn’t belong to any apartment he’d ever lived in. He sat up slowly, cautiously, every muscle tense like his body knew something before his brain could catch up. His hands were shaking again.

And then a voice from the hallway called out, casual, like it was any other morning.
“Coffee’s on the counter, babe. I made the one you like.”

Jihoon froze.

Footsteps padded in. Jihoon turned.

And there he was.

Soonyoung.

Barefoot. Hair sticking up on one side, a worn T-shirt stretched across his chest. Holding two mugs, one of them already missing a sip. His eyes lit up when he saw Jihoon awake.

“There you are,” he said, walking over like this was the most normal thing in the world. “You scared me for a second. You okay?”

Jihoon didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His heart was beating too loud in his ears.

Soonyoung set the mugs down on the nightstand, leaned over, and kissed the top of Jihoon’s head— soft, quick, like routine.

Jihoon shoved him back instantly, palms flat against Soonyoung’s chest, hard enough to make him stumble.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Jihoon said, voice rough, breath shallow, already on his feet and backing toward the wall. “What the hell is going on.”

Soonyoung’s face went blank with shock for half a second— then something sad settled in behind his eyes. He lifted both hands, palms out, like Jihoon was a frightened animal.

“Okay,” Soonyoung said quietly. “Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I thought— fuck, I thought you were just sleep-dazed. I’m sorry.”

Jihoon didn’t answer. He was too busy scanning the room. There was a framed picture on the dresser—both of them, laughing. A set of keys on the desk. A cat curled up by the window. A closet door left half open with his hoodie hanging beside Soonyoung’s. The edges of panic were starting to close in.

Soonyoung took a slow step closer. “Babe— hey, breathe, okay? Just… slow down. I’m right here.”

Jihoon snapped, “Stop calling me that.”

Soonyoung flinched. “Right. Okay.”

There was silence. Jihoon didn’t sit. Didn’t blink. Just stood frozen, staring at this stranger who looked like someone he hated, but sounded like someone who loved him.

Soonyoung scratched the back of his neck and exhaled. “If this is about the house décor again, I swear to god— fine, you win. You can put the ugly lamp in the living room. I’ll even pretend I like it. Just— can we not do this before breakfast?”

Jihoon felt the floor tilt again. He blinked once. Twice. And then asked, slowly, cautiously, “What did you just say?”

Soonyoung frowned. “What? About the lamp?”

“No.” Jihoon’s mouth was dry. “The house.”

Soonyoung hesitated. “You… you don’t remember?”

Jihoon stared. “Where am I?”

Soonyoung stepped forward, slower this time, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get anymore. His voice dropped low, gentle, but his eyes never left Jihoon’s.

“We just moved in,” he said softly. “Three months ago. After the wedding.”

Jihoon’s brain went completely still.

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

And Soonyoung, still watching him with that awful softness, took one more step forward and said, “Hey. Jihoon. Look at me. I’m right here. It’s just me. You’re safe.”

That was when Jihoon bolted.

He pushed past him, out of the room, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. The hallway was narrow, the walls painted a warm, muted green he would never choose, with photos lining the side— vacations, a cat he didn’t recognize, birthdays. He made it to the kitchen and stopped cold. There were another two coffee mugs on the counter. One said “His”, the other “Still His.” A calendar on the fridge with “Anniversary Dinner” circled in red. A wedding photo clipped beside it with his own face smiling. Laughing.

He braced his hands on the countertop and stared down at the tile.

He didn’t ask the question out loud. He didn’t need to.

Behind him, Soonyoung’s voice came again. Quiet. Careful. Tired.

“I’m not gonna ask what’s going on with you,” he said. “I know you hate it when I push. But if something’s wrong… tell me. Please.”

Jihoon didn’t remember moving, but suddenly he was by the door— barefoot, keys he didn’t recognize clutched in one hand, the other reaching for the knob like that was going to solve anything. The layout of the house made no sense to him. He didn’t know where it was, didn’t know what was waiting outside. But it didn’t matter. All he knew was he had to get out. Out of the kitchen, out of the house, out of this entire fucking situation before his brain caught up and left him spiraling for real.

Behind him, footsteps padded in— cautious, uneven, like the floor might give out if Soonyoung stepped too hard. Jihoon didn’t turn around. He gripped the doorknob like a lifeline, jaw tight, breath shallow. His chest hurt. Not from fear, not even from confusion. From pressure. Like everything around him was pressing in and if he didn’t move right now, he’d break clean down the middle.

“Jihoon,” Soonyoung said softly, voice cracking just slightly on the second syllable. “Wait— please. Just— can you stop for a second?”

Jihoon’s grip tightened. “Why.”

“I don’t know,” Soonyoung whispered. “I don’t fucking know. I just—” His voice caught, and when he spoke again, it was rougher. Thinner. “I didn’t mean to mess anything up. I swear, I don’t know what I did. But I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sorry.”

Jihoon didn’t turn, but he paused. His fingers hovered over the deadbolt. Something about Soonyoung’s voice made him stop— not pity, not sympathy, but something closer to unease. That tone didn’t match the man he knew. It didn’t match anything he’d ever heard come out of Soonyoung’s mouth. And then, beneath the silence, Jihoon heard it: the smallest sound of air hitching. The soft, broken exhale of someone trying not to fall apart.

When he turned, Soonyoung was standing there, barefoot, shoulders curled in like he was trying to take up less space. His eyes were red. His hands were shaking. There were tears already tracking down his cheeks, and he didn’t bother wiping them away. He just looked at Jihoon like something in him had already given up.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter this time. “Even if I don’t know why. Even if you never tell me.”

Jihoon didn’t answer right away. He just stared. The panic had dulled into something flatter now— confused and heavy and slow— and he couldn’t decide if he felt bad for Soonyoung or just incredibly, horribly uncomfortable. He hadn’t come here. He didn’t belong here. But something about the image in front of him— Soonyoung, crying without theatrics, without drama, just… crying— made his chest twist in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge.

He let go of the doorknob.

“Fine,” Jihoon said, voice low and even. “I’ll stay.”

Soonyoung blinked up at him, confused for half a second, like he didn’t quite believe it.

“But don’t come near me,” Jihoon added, stepping back from the door, arms crossing tightly over his chest. “Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me unless I ask. Stay exactly where you are.”

Soonyoung nodded. Fast. Wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt like he was embarrassed he hadn’t already done it.

Jihoon stepped further into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, not looking at him again.

They stood on opposite sides of the kitchen like strangers waiting for a storm to pass— Jihoon against the counter near the fridge, arms crossed and spine straight like he needed the posture to keep himself from unraveling, and Soonyoung by the hallway, blinking too often like he hadn’t cried in years and didn’t remember how to deal with the afterburn.

There was a silence hanging between them that didn’t feel temporary. It felt suspended— like if either of them said the wrong thing, the whole ceiling would fall in.

Jihoon didn’t want to speak. Not really. But the questions were already crawling up his throat, bitter and hot, choking him from the inside out. He needed to understand— needed facts, needed a timeline, needed to know where the fuck he was and how far off the rails reality had gone. Because this wasn’t a dream. He knew what dreams felt like. This was too clear. Too physical. He could feel the grain of the countertop beneath his fingertips. He could smell the citrus dish soap in the sink. He could still feel the warmth where Soonyoung had kissed his head.

So he cleared his throat and asked, without moving, “Where are we.”

Soonyoung’s eyes flicked up at the sound. “What?”

“This house,” Jihoon said, slower now, more clipped, like he was reading from a list. “Where is it. What city.”

Soonyoung hesitated, brow furrowing like he didn’t understand why that was the question that mattered most.

“Just outside Daegu,” he answered. “Same neighborhood your cousin lives in. We moved here in—”

“When the hell did we get married,” Jihoon snapped.

Soonyoung blinked. “What?”

“I said when,” Jihoon repeated, louder this time. “When did that happen? Where was it? Who was there? What the fuck do you mean wedding, Soonyoung?”

There was a pause. A shift in the air.

Soonyoung looked down, then back up. “Last spring,” he said, voice quiet again. “It was small. You said you didn’t want a big thing.”

Jihoon felt something behind his ribs contract.

He wasn’t done.

“How long have we—” he stopped, then corrected himself. “How long have you thought we’ve been together?”

Soonyoung didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. Just answered.

“Since 2026,” he said. “Officially.”

Jihoon’s breath caught. That was a year after their second semester. A year after the version of Soonyoung he knew— too loud, too smug, too unbearable— had last irritated him in class.

He reached for the last piece.

“What year is it,” he said.

Soonyoung tilted his head slightly, like he didn’t know how Jihoon didn’t already know.

Then, quietly, “…2030.”

The number landed like a brick. Jihoon’s stomach twisted. His fingers curled tighter around his arms. The panic wasn’t loud this time— it was quiet and deep and full-bodied, like cold water filling his lungs one breath at a time. Five years. He’d lost five fucking years. Or skipped them. Or hallucinated them. He didn’t know. His heart was racing too fast for him to keep count, and he could already feel the sweat building under his shirt.

Soonyoung saw it— saw the exact moment Jihoon’s chest rose too sharply, saw the tremble hit his shoulders, saw the way his fingers dug into his own biceps like he needed to hold himself still or else he’d run.

Without thinking, Soonyoung stepped forward— just one big, fast step, hands half-reaching, like he was going to grab Jihoon’s arms and tell him to breathe. But then he stopped. Froze. Remembered.

Jihoon had told him not to come close.

Soonyoung dropped his hands, just let them fall limply to his sides, and stepped back like he was the one who’d been burned.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, eyes still wet, voice breaking again. “Fuck— I’m sorry. I forgot.”

Jihoon didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He just slid down the side of the counter slowly, hands pressed to his knees, and tried to breathe through it without making a sound.

The tile was cool beneath him, and Jihoon pressed the side of his hand against it like that would anchor him, like something solid under his palm could stop the spin that had taken over his head. He didn’t cry. He wasn’t wired for it, not in moments like this. He just breathed— short, shallow, uneven—his forehead tipping forward until it hovered just over his knees. His body wasn’t reacting right, like his limbs didn’t belong to him anymore, like this timeline didn’t either.

Soonyoung didn’t say anything else. He stood where he was, arms limp, mouth parted like there were words caught somewhere in his throat but none of them were allowed out. The silence between them wasn’t the awkward kind. It was the heavy kind— the kind that filled the space between furniture, between breaths, between years. Jihoon hated that it didn’t feel unfamiliar. Hated that this silence felt worn-in. Lived-in. Shared.

He glanced up once, just to check if Soonyoung was still standing there— and he was, still looking like he’d just been hit, still red around the eyes. He hadn’t moved a single inch. His jaw was tense. His hands were clasped behind his back now like he didn’t trust himself not to reach out again. That made Jihoon’s chest clench tighter.

“Stop staring,” Jihoon muttered, voice rough from the back of his throat.

Soonyoung blinked, like he hadn’t realized he was doing it.

“Sorry,” he said again, softer this time, but he didn’t look away.

Jihoon shut his eyes, just for a moment. He could feel the tension riding every nerve in his body like an aftershock. He could still hear the numbers ringing in his head. 2030. Married. Moved in together. Five years of something he didn’t remember living. Five years of love or chaos or both, just gone. He’d never even touched Soonyoung outside of shoving him away in a practice room— and now apparently he’d touched him enough to wear a ring, to share a house, to pick out furniture he didn’t remember buying.

He sat there for another full minute before forcing himself to speak.

“I need… space.”

Soonyoung nodded, almost too quickly. “Yeah. Okay. Of course.”

Jihoon opened his eyes and looked at him again. Not for long. Just long enough to say one more thing.

“Just… stay out of this room for a while.”

Soonyoung didn’t argue. He didn’t say he wanted to stay. He didn’t beg or bargain or crack a joke.

He just nodded again, turned slowly, and walked out.

Jihoon waited until he could no longer hear footsteps. Waited until the faint shuffle of Soonyoung’s exit faded into the distance, and only then did he stand— slow, cautious, like movement might wake something else he wasn’t ready to face. The house was too still. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel natural. It was the silence of a home paused mid-breath. And Jihoon, for all his irritation with Soonyoung’s voice, had never felt more unsettled by his absence.

The kitchen looked normal at first glance. A little cluttered— the two mugs still sitting where they’d been abandoned. a set of keys by the sink. A phone that wasn’t his. The calendar still pinned to the fridge with little stickers stuck next to names— Mingyu – 8th, Kwan – 14th, JH – arrange cake. His initials. Like a code he never agreed to be part of.

He left the kitchen. Walked into the hallway with slower steps this time, pausing every few feet to check his surroundings. There was a bathroom that smelled like eucalyptus and a medicine cabinet that made his stomach twist. Inside, there was allergy medicine he actually needed. Razor cartridges for a brand he used. A bottle of muscle cream he distinctly remembered buying last month— except he hadn’t. Not here. Not in this house. Not in this time.

In the next room, he found what looked like a shared office. Two desks. One cluttered, one impossibly clean. The cluttered one had an open laptop still playing some old jazz playlist on low volume. The cleaner desk had three stacks of sheet music, all neatly labeled with his name written on the corners in his own handwriting. He picked one up and scanned the notes. He didn’t recognize the song. But it sounded like him. His style. His progression logic. His little patterns. A kind of grief bloomed in his throat.

He found a photo on the wall, framed simply— him and Soonyoung. It wasn’t posed. Jihoon was mid-laugh, and Soonyoung was pressing his mouth against Jihoon’s shoulder like he was saying something just for him to hear. The kind of intimacy that couldn’t be faked. Jihoon stared at it for too long, heart heavy and confused, then put it face-down on the desk and turned away.

He kept moving.

There was a guest room with folded sheets. A linen closet. A tiny room full of books— some dog-eared, some borrowed from a local library he didn’t know existed. The cat, curled on a windowsill, blinked at him with bored judgment but didn’t move. Jihoon didn’t touch it. He was too afraid that if he reached out, it would confirm all of this was real through something simple, like warmth.

Eventually, he circled back toward the front door.

This time he opened it.

The sunlight hit him hard. Bright and real. There was a small front porch, two chairs, one with a blanket folded over the back. The street outside looked ordinary— trees lining the sidewalk, a few parked cars, the low buzz of morning traffic somewhere distant. He stepped outside. Down the porch steps. Stopped on the path. Took a breath.

Everything smelled like real life.

The pavement was warm. The breeze lifted his shirt slightly. A dog barked a few houses down.

He looked up.

No seams in the sky. No pixelation. No break in the illusion.

Jihoon turned and looked back at the house. The windows reflected the sky, and in one of them— just barely— he saw the shape of a person sitting on the hallway floor. Back to the wall. Knees pulled up. Not moving. Just… there.

It was Soonyoung.

Keeping his promise.

Jihoon stood there for a long time.

Then, eventually, he stepped back inside and quietly closed the door.

The hallway was still quiet when Jihoon stepped back inside. The door shut behind him with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have, and for a second, he just stood there— barefoot, arms loose at his sides, eyes tracing the shadow in the distance where Soonyoung sat. The light from the front window didn’t reach him. His head was bowed low, knees pulled in, spine hunched like someone trying to disappear into drywall. Jihoon didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t want to startle him. He didn’t want to comfort him either. He just… needed to understand.

He stepped forward slowly, each step deliberate. Not soft, not quiet. He wanted Soonyoung to hear them. He wanted him to know he was coming, to be prepared, to not mistake movement for permission. When he reached the hallway’s edge, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and exhaled once through his nose. Soonyoung didn’t look up immediately. But Jihoon could see his hands tighten slightly where they rested on his knees, like he was bracing for whatever came next.

“I have more questions,” Jihoon said flatly, voice even.

Soonyoung lifted his head. Eyes still red, face still tense. “Okay.”

“I’m not asking about your feelings,” Jihoon added. “Don’t give me any of that.”

Soonyoung nodded. “I won’t.”

Jihoon studied him for another moment, then looked away— eyes drifting to the opposite wall like it was safer to speak while not being watched. “How long have you said we lived in this house?”

“Since the end of may,” Soonyoung said. “We signed the lease in March. You hated the bathroom tile, but you said the light in the music room made up for it.”

That hit Jihoon like a faint kick in the stomach. He didn’t let it show.

“What do I do on weekends.”

Soonyoung hesitated— just for half a second. “You try to avoid people. You write. You rearrange the same two drawers. You clean even when it’s already clean.”

Jihoon’s jaw tightened slightly.

“What do I hate the most about being touched.”

This time Soonyoung didn’t blink. “When it’s unexpected. Even if it’s not bad. It just throws you off.”

Jihoon’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

He looked down at the floor between them.

Then said quietly, “And when I’m upset?”

Soonyoung looked at him for a long time. Not intensely. Not dramatically. Just looked.

“You disappear,” he said. “Not physically. You’re still in the room. You just go quiet in this way that feels like… like you’re walking backward inside your own head.”

He didn’t say more. Didn’t embellish. Didn’t smile.

Jihoon didn’t speak either.

He just stayed there, leaning against the wall, caught between wanting to interrogate and wanting to run again, and hating how close Soonyoung had gotten to the truth.

 

—

 

It was evening by the time Jihoon came out of the room. The sun had dipped low enough that the hallway was full of long shadows, the kind that made the corners of the house feel unfamiliar again. He didn’t know what made him step out. Restlessness, maybe. Curiosity. The need to stop pacing in a room full of furniture that wasn’t his.

He walked slowly, barefoot on the tile, hands in the sleeves of a hoodie that didn’t fit quite right. He found Soonyoung sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the muted television screen that was playing something neither of them were watching.

Jihoon didn’t sit right away. He hovered near the doorway, then moved to stand just behind the armrest, eyes narrowed. His voice, when it came, was low and flat.

“How did it happen.”

Soonyoung glanced over. “What?”

Jihoon tilted his head slightly. “Us. How did this happen.”

There was a pause. Then Soonyoung sat up a little straighter, like he’d been waiting for that question all day.

“You came to my show,” he said. “That winter showcase— the one I choreographed for Jun’s class. You didn’t say much, just stood in the back and left early. But two days later, I found a note in my locker with your handwriting. It just said: You weren’t terrible. I didn’t hate it.”

Jihoon blinked.

Soonyoung smiled faintly. “I didn’t throw it out.”

He turned back to the TV, eyes unfocused.

“After that we started fighting less,” he continued, voice calmer now, like he was just stating facts. “You asked to run a project together. I thought you were joking. You didn’t smile. We worked every day for two weeks. You didn’t yell at me once.”

Jihoon leaned a little against the couch arm, still watching him. “And then?”

“You kissed me,” Soonyoung said. “End of finals week. You were drunk. I wasn’t. You apologized five times the next morning and told me to forget it ever happened.”

Jihoon was still. “And you didn’t.”

“No,” Soonyoung said. “I didn’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t sharp either. Jihoon’s eyes stayed fixed on Soonyoung’s profile— older, tired, gentler than the boy he remembered. Someone who clearly remembered every beat of a history Jihoon hadn’t lived. He stood there for another full minute, then finally broke the stillness with a low breath.

“Okay,” Jihoon said. “This is going to sound insane. But I need you to not talk. Not yet.”

Soonyoung didn’t move.

Jihoon pulled away from the couch and began pacing— just a little, just enough to keep his thoughts moving.

“I’m not from here,” he said. “Not here here, I mean. Not this version of it. I’m not married. I don’t remember ever dating you. In my head, I’m still twenty-three and you’re still that guy who hums during critique and drives me insane. I was in the practice room last night. Or, I guess, five years ago. I fell asleep, or blacked out, or something— and when I woke up, I was here. In this house. With you.”

He stopped pacing. Looked at him.

“I don’t remember any of it. The wedding. The house. Us.”

Soonyoung didn’t respond right away. He was just watching Jihoon now— eyes wide but not disbelieving, mouth parted like he was processing word by word.

Jihoon kept going.

“I know how that sounds. I know. But I swear to god I’m telling the truth. I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t know if I’m stuck. But this—” he gestured around them, vague and exhausted. “This isn’t mine. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t build it. I don’t even like you.”

Soonyoung’s mouth twitched.

Jihoon softened just a fraction. “Or I didn’t.”

He exhaled, dragged a hand through his hair, and sat slowly on the edge of the coffee table across from Soonyoung— still not touching, still cautious, but there.

“So if you know something— anything— I need you to tell me.”

Soonyoung was quiet for a long time.

And then, slowly, he said, “I think… I believe you.”

The room stayed still after that. Jihoon didn’t move. Neither did Soonyoung. The TV continued playing muted footage of a cooking show no one was watching, but the silence between them carried more weight than anything happening onscreen. Jihoon’s hands were folded in his lap, fingers tight, knuckles white. He didn’t look away from Soonyoung, but he didn’t push for answers either. If Soonyoung was going to speak, he’d do it on his own.

And he did— softly, after a minute. Like someone choosing words carefully, not because he was lying, but because the truth was sharp in his mouth.

“You liked sleeping on the couch more than the bed,” Soonyoung said, still looking past Jihoon, not at him. “Not always. But during deadlines. You said it made you feel like time was passing slower.”

Jihoon said nothing.

Soonyoung went on. “You name things in your head that you pretend not to care about. Plants, file folders, any cat that isn’t ours.”

Jihoon’s throat tightened, but he still didn’t move.

“You keep a playlist of demos on your phone that you never let anyone hear,” Soonyoung said. “But you play them while you clean. Like background noise. Like proof you made something.”

That one hit harder than he wanted it to.

Jihoon didn’t interrupt, but he dropped his gaze— first time that night he’d done that.

Soonyoung finally looked at him.

“I don’t know how to explain any of this,” he said, voice low, eyes tired. “I don’t know how you ended up here, like this. But the version of you I know— he’s quiet, but not cruel. He’s guarded, but not gone. He likes routines. Cold coffee. He hums when he’s folding laundry and glares at the toaster when it’s too slow.”

A pause.

“And he loved me. A lot.”

Jihoon’s chest pulled tight, and he looked away again, jaw clenched.

“I’m not him,” he said flatly.

“I know,” Soonyoung replied. “But I didn’t fall in love with all those years. I fell in love with you.”

Jihoon didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The words felt too close, too pointed, and he didn’t know what the hell to do with them. He stood up instead, walked a slow circle behind the coffee table, and pretended like he was just thinking. But really, he was checking his heartbeat. It was still too fast.

After a long stretch of silence, he said without looking back at Soonyoung, “Do I lie to you?”

Soonyoung didn’t miss a beat. “No.”

“Do I hurt you?”

“Not on purpose.”

“And you love me.”

Soonyoung nodded. “Still do.”

Jihoon stopped walking.

There was something about hearing it that way— so casual, so direct— that landed wrong in his chest. Not like a punch. More like pressure. Like something had been set down inside him without asking first.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to look over his shoulder.

 

Jihoon waited until Soonyoung went upstairs before moving. He listened for the creak of the stairs, the sound of water running, the dull thump of a door closing. Then he crossed the living room, careful not to step too loud, and sat in front of the small desk pushed against the far wall. There was a laptop resting there— his, apparently— and he opened it without hesitation. No password prompt. No barrier. Just a half-charged screen lighting up to a wallpaper he didn’t recognize and a row of open tabs that did.

The email was the first thing he checked. His inbox was full but organized— client threads, university contacts, some freelance responses that read exactly like the ones he used to send himself as practice in college. It was all written in his tone. His style. The shorthand he used when he trusted someone. He scrolled through a few drafts— half-written lectures, chord breakdowns, a shopping list labeled “for Seokmin’s stupid brunch thing.” The voice in all of it was his.

Next he checked the calendar. Appointments. Grocery days. “Anniversary dinner” marked three times and crossed out twice. There was a recurring event every Thursday labeled “HOON time— no work no excuses,” and Jihoon stared at it for a long moment, unsure if it made him want to laugh or throw up. Then came the voicemail tab. One message. From someone named Cheol. A warm voice, low and slow, congratulating them again on the move, then casually asking if Jihoon ever fixed the bridge in the last section of his demo. There was no explanation. No hint of anything out of place.

This wasn’t a fake life. It wasn’t a joke. Every page he opened was more detail. More history. More of him. And Soonyoung.

And all of it felt like stepping into a story he’d never read, where somehow he was still the main character.

Around nine, he finally stepped away from the desk. The house had gone quiet again. He found himself standing in the hallway, unsure where to go. He didn’t want to go back into the office. He didn’t want to sit on the couch where he and Soonyoung had shared the kind of conversation that left bruises under the skin.

So he stood in the middle of the hallway until Soonyoung reappeared.

He came down the stairs slowly, wearing a different shirt now— looser, older, familiar in a way Jihoon couldn’t place. His hair was slightly damp. He looked like he hadn’t spoken since the last thing Jihoon said to him.

They stood a few feet apart. Not close. Not even facing directly.

Soonyoung’s voice came out steady.

“Do you want me to make up the guest room?”

Jihoon didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Soonyoung nodded once, then turned and walked toward it without saying anything else.

Jihoon didn’t follow.

He stood in the hallway for another few minutes, staring at the spot where Soonyoung had been, and listened to the muffled sounds of sheets being pulled, a door opening, something being folded neatly.

He didn’t go to sleep that night.

 

—

 

The morning was quiet in the way Jihoon used to crave. No creaking stairs. No over-sugared coffee being stirred two rooms over. No voice calling out from the kitchen like they were on their second decade of mornings together. Just sun bleeding through pale curtains, the cat curled at the door, and the unmistakable stillness of being alone.

Soonyoung was gone.

There was a note, of course. A yellow square on the hallway table, taped just above the edge where Jihoon had rested his hand last night. “Didn’t want to wake you. Be back by lunch. The cat had breakfast already. Don’t let her lie to you.”
His handwriting was too familiar. Sloppy, tilted, just like Jihoon remembered from college. Except this version didn’t belong to a classmate. This belonged to someone who left notes because he didn’t want Jihoon to feel abandoned. Jihoon stared at it for a full minute before crumpling it lightly in his fist and tossing it into the trash under the sink.

He didn’t know what he was looking for when he picked up his phone. Not at first. Maybe answers. Maybe escape. Maybe a message from the real world— his world. But the second he opened his gallery, that hope died a fast, quiet death.

There were videos.

Hundreds of them.

Most were labeled with nothing but date stamps. No organization, no titles. But the thumbnails told the story— frames frozen mid-laughter, dim bar lighting, familiar faces of friends he hadn’t seen since graduation. A blurry clip of Jeonghan holding up a sparkler. Seungkwan yelling at someone off camera. Jun in a cowboy hat. The context was gone.

And then there were the ones of him and Soonyoung.

He clicked the first out of instinct.

The screen lit up with motion— Soonyoung in a hoodie, leaning across a table, pushing a piece of cake into Jihoon’s mouth while Jihoon tried to swat him away. Both of them laughing. Real laughter. Loud, full-bodied, the kind that shook shoulders and crinkled eyes. Jihoon watched his own face on the screen, stunned by how unrecognizably happy he looked.

He played the next. A shakier video. Him curled up on a couch, Soonyoung behind him with his chin hooked over Jihoon’s shoulder, murmuring nonsense into his neck while Jihoon told him to shut up. Then a kiss to the temple. Then another. Then Jihoon turning to face him with the kind of look people don’t fake.

Another— shorter, older. Them sitting at a beach at night, Soonyoung yelling about how cold the water was while Jihoon filmed and muttered, “Then stop going in, dumbass.”

Jihoon swallowed. His thumb hovered over the next file.

He tapped it.

This one was… different.

The lighting was low. The footage opened mid-giggle, the kind that only happened after too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Soonyoung’s voice filled the speakers, slurred and full of teeth, “Baaaaabe— look at your stupid face, say hi to the camera—” before the frame turned toward Jihoon, flushed and half-smiling in a way that looked tired and soft all at once.

“Stop filming,” Jihoon said in the video, trying to push the camera away with one lazy hand.

“Nooooooo,” Soonyoung laughed, his face crashing into Jihoon’s with a noisy kiss to his cheek. Then another. Then one on his jaw. Jihoon laughed again—genuine, full-body, trying to dodge it. But then Soonyoung grabbed his face, tilted his head, and kissed him on the mouth.

It wasn’t quick.

It deepened fast. Messy. Open-mouthed. Jihoon let out a low noise on camera, hand gripping the front of Soonyoung’s hoodie, and the camera shook violently before crashing to the floor. The video cut to black mid-breath.

Jihoon locked the phone immediately.

His hands were trembling.

He stood up too fast, walked a tight circle near the window, ran a hand through his hair and muttered something under his breath he didn’t mean to say out loud. This was too much. Too detailed. Too intimate. He didn’t know this version of himself. But he couldn’t deny it was real. The way he touched Soonyoung in those clips. The way he looked at him. That wasn’t acting. That wasn’t temporary. That was someone who loved.

And then, stupidly, he opened one more.

A party. Loud voices. Music in the background. Someone filming from far away— maybe Seokmin, judging by the shaky zoom. Jihoon and Soonyoung were on a couch in the corner of the room, pressed close, Jihoon straddling Soonyoung’s lap, both of them completely lost in the kiss. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was messy. Heated. Hungry. Jihoon could see his own hand curling around the back of Soonyoung’s neck, pulling him in harder. See Soonyoung’s fingers pushing under the hem of Jihoon’s shirt like he didn’t care who was watching.

The camera swung away after someone yelled, “Oh my god, get a room,” and the recording ended.

Jihoon didn’t realize he’d sunk to the floor until he felt the cold of it against his knees.

 

It was nearly dark by the time Jihoon left the guest room. The door creaked slightly when he opened it, and he froze out of habit, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. But there was no sound from the hallway. No footsteps rushing to meet him. Just the quiet thrum of a TV somewhere in the house and the low clink of a glass being set down.

He followed the sound like instinct, bare feet silent on the wood floor, until he reached the living room. Soonyoung was there— half-sprawled on the couch, hair damp from a shower, wearing the same hoodie Jihoon had seen folded on the bedroom chair earlier. His head was tilted back against the cushion, eyes half-lidded, face slack with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from a single bad day, but from weeks stacked on top of each other. The TV was on, volume low, some familiar title screen flickering across the screen.

Jihoon stood there for a second too long, unsure if he should interrupt, unsure if he even counted as an interruption. Then, without speaking, he moved around the edge of the room and sat on the far side of the couch. Not close. But not across the room either.

Soonyoung glanced over. He didn’t say anything. He just nodded once, barely perceptible, like he was acknowledging Jihoon’s presence without pressing on it. That alone made Jihoon exhale in something close to relief.

The show started.

And Jihoon frowned.

“This is still airing?” he asked, eyes narrowing as he watched the opening montage play. “This was on back in 2025.”

Soonyoung’s mouth quirked slightly. “Still going. Season nine.”

Jihoon blinked at the screen, surprised. “I used to really like this.”

“You still do,” Soonyoung said, not looking at him. “We watch it almost every night. When we can. One episode before bed. It’s kind of a thing.”

Jihoon didn’t know how to respond to that. So he didn’t. He just kept watching.

The episode was good. Familiar enough to feel grounding, new enough to keep his focus. The jokes landed, and somewhere around the second act, Jihoon laughed. Not a lot. Just once. Quietly. But it caught him off guard. He glanced sideways, unsure if Soonyoung had noticed.

He had.

But he didn’t say anything about it.

When the credits rolled, the room felt softer than before.

Soonyoung sat up a little, rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand, and asked, “You want takeout?”

Jihoon looked over, surprised by the question.

“I can make something,” Soonyoung added quickly, voice careful. “I just thought, maybe— if you wanted—”

“Takeout’s fine,” Jihoon said, cutting him off gently.

Soonyoung nodded once. Then, hesitating just a little, “Sushi okay?”

Jihoon paused, then nodded too.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Sushi’s good.”

The food arrived twenty minutes later in a brown paper bag that smelled like soy and vinegar, the kind of comfort scent Jihoon hadn’t realized he still remembered. He didn’t hover in the hallway this time. He sat at the kitchen table without needing to be asked. Soonyoung set the bag between them and opened the containers one by one, arranging things into some order like it was muscle memory— soy sauce here, wasabi never in the middle, chopsticks still wrapped in their paper sleeves. Jihoon didn’t offer to help. Soonyoung didn’t ask.

They ate mostly in silence. The only sounds were the clink of wooden chopsticks against plastic, the occasional swallow, the soft hum of the fridge. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t tense either. Just… quiet. Like two people filling a space they both used to know how to move in.

Jihoon picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, chewed slowly, then reached for a napkin without looking up.

Mid-bite, he said, “What was I like?”

Soonyoung paused, fingers hovering over the rice.

Jihoon clarified. “Before this. Before I… stopped being him.”

Soonyoung looked at him for a moment—really looked. Not to read him, not to weigh the consequences, but to see if Jihoon actually wanted the answer. When Jihoon didn’t retract the question, Soonyoung sat back slightly and nodded to himself once.

“You didn’t talk much when you were tired,” he said, eyes down on his own tray. “You just sat in the corner and let the room move around you. But you always noticed everything. Like how I left cabinet doors open. Or when I was upset but pretending not to be. You never said anything. Just… put a glass of water near me or took the trash out without being asked.”

Jihoon stayed still, barely chewing now.

Soonyoung continued, voice softer. “You liked when things had their place. You hated when people interrupted your thoughts. You weren’t warm, but you weren’t cold. You were just— precise. About people. About your space. About your time.”

A pause.

“You hated the word soulmate,” Soonyoung added. “Said it was lazy writing. But you also made me tea when I couldn’t sleep and played piano when you thought I wasn’t listening.”

Jihoon didn’t answer. He just stared at his tray, lips pressed together, mind louder than the room.

After a moment, he stood and brought his empty tray to the sink.

He rinsed it without speaking, placed it upside down in the rack, and left the kitchen without another word.

That night, he walked toward the guest room like usual.

But just before opening the door, he paused.

The hallway was dark, quiet, lit only by the sliver of light still leaking under the door at the end— the bedroom.

Jihoon didn’t knock.

He didn’t say anything.

But he stood there, unmoving, long enough to hear the soft shuffle of Soonyoung turning over in bed.

And then, finally, Jihoon went back to his room.

 

—

 

Jihoon had never been the type to keep a diary, but by the fourth morning of waking up in this version of his life, he found himself typing short bullet points into the notes app on his phone. Times. Patterns. People who’d called. Things he touched that felt familiar, but shouldn’t have. The list wasn’t long, but it grew daily— stacked between a running log of calendar events and a folder of videos he still hadn’t watched again. This wasn’t denial. It was control. His way of holding on to whatever thread of logic was still intact.

But with every day that passed, something else was shifting.

Soonyoung was fading.

Not in a dramatic way. Not with tears or long speeches or anything loud. It was quieter than that— he moved slower, slept longer, forgot his coffee one morning and didn’t even realize until Jihoon pointed it out. His eyes always looked tired, even when he smiled. He didn’t talk unless Jihoon initiated. And when he thought Jihoon wasn’t in the room, he stared at walls like he was waiting for someone who might not come back.

Jihoon wasn’t cruel. He noticed. And he didn’t blame him.

After all, Soonyoung had lost someone too.

Not in death, but in absence. The version of Jihoon who’d kissed him on beach trips and pulled him into dark corners at parties… he was gone. And Jihoon could see it now— Soonyoung was mourning. He just didn’t know how to say it out loud.

A full week passed.

Seven days exactly.

And that night, they ended up on the couch again.

It wasn’t planned. Jihoon had walked into the living room out of restlessness, and Soonyoung was already there, a bottle of wine cracked open, one glass half-full in his hand. He didn’t offer another glass, but Jihoon sat anyway— Not far. But not touching. The space between them could fit a cushion and a half, if either of them was trying.

Jihoon poured himself a small glass, sipped once, twice, then let it sit. Soonyoung drank slower than usual, but with purpose. His cheeks flushed faint pink after thirty minutes. His eyes softened. He wasn’t drunk, but he was tipping in that direction— loosened, quieter.

An hour passed.

The show they were watching ended, but neither of them moved to change the channel. Jihoon’s wineglass sat nearly full on the coffee table, untouched for the last forty minutes. Soonyoung had leaned back into the couch, one arm draped lazily across the backrest, legs stretched out like he didn’t know how to hold himself anymore. Jihoon noticed, quietly, that he was closer now. Not touching. But close enough to feel.

Then Soonyoung spoke.

“You hated our first date,” he said, lips pulled into a faint, crooked smile. “You were so stiff. Wouldn’t let me pay. Barely made eye contact unless you were correcting the waiter.”

Jihoon blinked, but didn’t interrupt.

“But when I walked you home,” Soonyoung continued, eyes distant now, “you asked me if I really liked the piece you played in workshop that week. You said it like you didn’t care what I’d say— but you did. You always did.”

Jihoon’s throat felt tight, but he said nothing.

Soonyoung took another sip of wine, slower this time. His hand was resting on the cushion now, dangerously close to Jihoon’s leg.

“And the night before the wedding,” he said, voice softer now, almost more to himself than to Jihoon, “you were the one who brought it up. Kids. You said not right away. But not too far off either. You said it like you were testing the words in your mouth, like you weren’t sure if you’d meant them your whole life or just in that moment.”

He laughed, just once— tired, quiet.

“And I said I wanted that too. Not a house full. Just… someone. You and me and someone else. I remember thinking, if we can talk about that without running, maybe we’ll be okay.”

Jihoon stayed very still.

The words didn’t hurt. But they settled. Like weight dropped onto a table that had been empty too long.

And Soonyoung— now fully leaned in, wineglass nearly empty, voice quiet as a sigh— just added, “I hope he still does.”

For a moment, Jihoon wasn’t sure why he turned.

Maybe it was the way Soonyoung’s voice shook at the end of his sentence, like he’d finally run out of whatever was holding him together. Maybe it was the way he said “I hope he still does” like a quiet apology to a version of Jihoon that wasn’t sitting in front of him. Or maybe it was just instinct— deep and stupid and human— that made Jihoon shift sideways on the couch and meet his eyes for the first time all evening.

They stared at each other. Just that. For a few seconds that stretched longer than they should’ve. Jihoon could see the pink flush in Soonyoung’s cheeks, the shine on his lower lip, the tension in his throat like he was swallowing something back. Soonyoung didn’t look away. He looked at him— like he’d been doing it all week, only this time Jihoon let him.

Before Jihoon could speak— before he could even process the weight of the moment— Soonyoung surged forward and kissed him.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of Jihoon’s face, fingers cold against his jaw, and then lips pressed fast, warm, desperate. Not asking. Not cautious. It was messy from the first second, too much teeth, too much need, breath exchanged in uneven bursts as Soonyoung tilted closer, mouth moving against Jihoon’s like he’d been holding this in for months.

Jihoon froze for half a second, then gasped softly between kisses, murmuring, “Soonyoung—”

That was all it took.

Soonyoung flinched hard, pulling back like he’d touched something sharp. The hand dropped. His body shifted away, and his mouth parted in a panicked exhale.

“Shit,” he breathed. “I’m sorry— I didn’t mean— fuck— I didn’t mean to— Jihoon, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes were wide and glassy now, too bright in the low light of the living room. One tear slipped out before he could stop it, streaking down his cheek as his voice broke again. “I just— I thought— for a second— you felt like him— like you, but I shouldn’t have— god, I’m sorry.”

Jihoon didn’t know what to say.

He’d been kissed before— badly, awkwardly, accidentally— but nothing like that. Nothing with so much behind it that wasn’t about the kiss. It hadn’t been desire. It had been memory. Grief. A mistake made by someone who was still waiting for the person they loved to come back.

Jihoon swallowed hard, then wiped his bottom lip with the edge of his thumb.

“It’s fine,” he said after a long pause. His voice wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t sharp either. “I get it.”

Soonyoung shook his head once, like he didn’t believe him.

Jihoon turned toward him more fully now, knees facing Soonyoung’s, voice low.

“You miss him,” he said. “I understand.”

Soonyoung closed his eyes.

“And I’m sorry too,” Jihoon added.

Soonyoung opened them again— wet and aching— and met his gaze. Jihoon didn’t look away.

One tear slipped from Jihoon’s eye, unannounced, unwelcome. It ran down his cheek in silence, warm and sharp against his skin. He didn’t wipe it.

He didn’t know if what happened next was right. Didn’t know if it would make things worse or better. He just knew that it felt real, and that was more than anything else had in days.

So he leaned in.

This time, the kiss came from him. Quick. Quiet. But deep.

Soonyoung didn’t hesitate. He kissed him back like he was breathing him in, both arms pulling Jihoon forward until Jihoon landed half over him, knees brushing the cushions, their bodies flush and clumsy.

Soonyoung’s hands found Jihoon’s waist. One slid up his back, pressing gently, like anchoring him there. Like if he let go, Jihoon might disappear again.

The kiss didn’t stop— it deepened. Jihoon’s hand found the side of Soonyoung’s neck, fingers curling lightly, and the angle tilted until the air between them was gone. It wasn’t hesitant anymore. It wasn’t shy. It was instinct, muscle memory, something inside Jihoon responding to something he didn’t remember ever wanting.

Before he could stop himself, Jihoon shifted forward— legs sliding across the cushion, knees on either side of Soonyoung’s thighs. His body settled over him, lap to lap, hands braced on Soonyoung’s shoulders as his mouth kept moving against his. Soonyoung made a sound in the back of his throat, a small, breathy noise that was too close to want, and Jihoon felt hands tighten on his hips.

And then, just as fast, Jihoon froze.

Reality slammed in behind his ribs like a warning shot.

He pulled back immediately, mouth parted, breath shaky. His hands dropped from Soonyoung’s shoulders like they’d been burned.

“I should…” Jihoon whispered, voice rough. “I should probably go to sleep.”

Soonyoung didn’t move. He didn’t say anything either. He just let his hands fall away from Jihoon’s waist and looked down, gaze fixed on the space between them like it had never been filled at all. The pink in his cheeks had faded. There was something hollow sitting behind his eyes now, something that said ‘I shouldn’t have hoped.’

Jihoon slid off his lap and stood, slow and awkward, like he couldn’t quite figure out how to hold his body anymore.

Soonyoung still didn’t look up.

Jihoon walked away.

The guest room was colder than usual when he stepped inside. The sheets were folded back the way he’d left them that morning, the pillow still carrying the dent from his head. He shut the door quietly, not because he was trying to hide anything, but because he didn’t want to hear the silence in the hallway behind him.

He sat on the edge of the bed and breathed out— hard.

“Wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said under his breath, pressing his palm flat to his chest. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His voice was low, almost a whisper, like he was confessing to himself.

‘ It feels…’ He thought. ‘It feels illegal, But it also felt comfortable, comfortable. And familiar. But not— but not really. Not all the way.’

He laid down, arms above his head, eyes on the ceiling.

The ceiling didn’t answer.

Jihoon closed his eyes.

And with those words still circling in his chest, he finally fell asleep.

 

—

 

The morning came in slow and colorless, like the light outside wasn’t ready to commit. Jihoon woke up with his face half-buried in the pillow, the shape of Soonyoung’s hands still faintly imprinted on his waist if he thought about it too long. He didn’t think about it. He got up. He brushed his teeth. He walked into the kitchen and found Soonyoung standing at the counter, drinking coffee like any other morning.

Neither of them said anything at first.

Soonyoung looked up only briefly— just long enough to nod— and then went back to whatever he was reading on his phone. Jihoon poured himself a glass of water. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. Not quite. It felt more like standing in a space you’ve already rearranged a dozen times and realizing you’re still not sure where anything belongs.

They went about their morning routine like they’d done it for years. Jihoon grabbed toast. Soonyoung made sure the cat had food. Nothing was said. And maybe that made it easier.

It wasn’t until the dishes were rinsed and Jihoon had gone to sit at the table again, scrolling through his phone like he had somewhere to be, that Soonyoung finally spoke.

“So,” he said, not looking up. “We promised my parents we’d visit tomorrow.”

Jihoon blinked, then glanced at him. “What?”

Soonyoung rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been planned for a few weeks. Just lunch. They wanted to see us.” He hesitated. “But I can cancel. If that’s too much.”

There was a pause. Jihoon stared at the glass in his hand.

Then, after a few seconds, he said, “It’s fine. We can go.”

Soonyoung nodded once. “Okay.”

Nothing more was said.

The rest of the day passed the same way— quiet, normal, nothing pointed. Jihoon stayed in the office for most of it, flipping through old projects he didn’t remember finishing. Soonyoung worked on something in the living room, headphones in, barely making a sound. They didn’t share lunch. They didn’t circle each other like they had the first week. The closeness had been replaced with something else now— something quieter, something that waited.

That night, Jihoon walked into the living room and saw Soonyoung on the couch, curled into the farthest corner, the TV on but playing something forgettable. They didn’t sit together. Jihoon stood in the doorway for a moment, like he was considering it.

Then he turned and walked to the guest room without a word.

He shut the door behind him.

 

—

 

The drive was long, quiet, and gray. Jihoon stared out the window most of the time, watching the buildings thin out into bare trees and low hills, hands folded in his lap like a student on his way to something he hadn’t studied for. Soonyoung drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely over the gear shift, his thumb tapping once every few seconds to the rhythm of whatever soft playlist was playing in the background. They didn’t talk much. There wasn’t much to say.

But somewhere past the turnoff for the highway, Soonyoung glanced over and said, without looking directly at Jihoon, “They haven’t seen us in person since the move. Just… heads-up, they’re probably gonna be extra.”

Jihoon nodded once. “Okay.”

The word sounded flat, even to him.

When they pulled into the narrow driveway, Jihoon’s stomach tightened. The house was small, well-kept, the kind with flower pots on the porch and wind chimes that moved even when there wasn’t any wind. As they stepped out of the car, Soonyoung’s fingers brushed Jihoon’s lightly —just for a second, just long enough to feel intentional.

Jihoon didn’t flinch. But he didn’t return the touch either.

The door opened before they even knocked.

“Look who finally showed up,” Soonyoung’s mother said, grinning as she pulled her son into a hug that was a little too tight, a little too long. Then she turned to Jihoon, eyes warm and familiar. “You look thinner. You letting him forget to eat again?”

Jihoon smiled, automatic. “He’s been behaving.”

It came out smoother than expected. Like he’d said it before. Like it belonged to someone who’d actually meant it.

Soonyoung stayed closer than usual the entire visit.

In the kitchen, he stood beside Jihoon instead of across from him. On the patio, he reached for Jihoon’s drink to refill it before he could ask. When his father asked about the “new house projects,” Soonyoung answered for both of them, slipping in a quiet “right, babe?” without thinking, like it was second nature. Jihoon only nodded, keeping his expression soft, neutral, quiet.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. But it wasn’t easy.

The hardest part came when Soonyoung’s mom pulled out a photo frame from the hallway shelf.

“You should take a new one together for this spot,” she said, holding it out. “This was from the wedding, right before the vows.”

Jihoon took it without thinking. And there he was— frozen in time. Smiling. Bright-eyed. Shoulders relaxed, body leaning in toward Soonyoung like the whole world had narrowed down to one moment.

He stared at it longer than he meant to.

“God,” she laughed, “you two were so stupidly in love that day.”

Jihoon handed the frame back and murmured, “Yeah.”

The ride home was quieter than the one before it.

Jihoon kept his face turned toward the window the whole way, but he could feel the space between them differently now. Tighter. Heavy. Full of things they weren’t saying.

When they parked outside the house, Soonyoung reached for the keys, paused, and then said, voice barely audible, “Sorry if that was too much.”

Jihoon opened his door.

But before stepping out, he said, “You did what you had to.”

And then walked inside first.

 

It was the night after the visit to Soonyoung’s parents that Jihoon made the decision. He didn’t say it out loud, didn’t write it down, didn’t even finish the sentence in his own head. But something about seeing himself in that photo— smiling like he belonged there, like he’d chosen all of it—settled in his chest the wrong way. The closeness. The weight of Soonyoung’s hand on his lower back. The familiar rhythm of walking through a life he didn’t remember building. It all felt… dangerous.

So he pulled back.

Quietly. Carefully. Without saying anything, he let the space between them stretch. He stopped sitting on the couch at night. Stopped standing too long in the kitchen when Soonyoung was there. Stopped looking when Soonyoung walked into the room with that tired, aching kind of smile— the one that said ‘I’ll take whatever version of you you’re willing to give.’

He told himself it was safer this way. That he didn’t belong here. That Soonyoung was in love with someone who wasn’t him. That this version of Jihoon— the real one, the one from 2025— wasn’t capable of loving Soonyoung. Not then. Maybe not ever. But there was still something inside him— low and stubborn and constant— that whispered, ‘But it’s still him. It’s still you. It’s still you and Soonyoung. No matter when.’

Three weeks passed.

And the guilt only got heavier.

So one night, with both of them standing in the kitchen but not looking at each other, Jihoon finally said it.

“I think I should move out.”

Soonyoung looked up fast. “What?”

“Just for a while,” Jihoon said, clearing his throat. “Not permanently. I just… I think I should stay somewhere else. A hotel or something. It’s not about you. I just don’t want to make things more awkward than they already are.”

Soonyoung blinked like the words didn’t make sense at first. Then he nodded, slowly, like his body was responding before his mind could catch up. His mouth opened. Closed. Then finally, quietly:

“Okay.”

But then his voice cracked— just once. And he tried again.

“I mean… yeah. I get it. I know you don’t love me. Not yet.”

Jihoon’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“But I do,” Soonyoung said, almost like a whisper. “I still do. I always did. And even if you’re not him yet, I am. I remember it. All of it. And I keep thinking— if you could just remember, even a little— then maybe I wouldn’t feel like I’m the only one hurting.”

His hands were shaking now. His shoulders followed a second later.

“I miss you,” he said, louder this time. “I miss you so fucking much.”

He didn’t sit down. He just dropped— legs folding under him like his body gave up before his mind did, hitting the floor with a sound that made Jihoon’s chest tighten in reflex. Soonyoung curled slightly forward, hands over his face, like if he stayed small enough, the grief might pass him by this time.

And before Jihoon knew what he was doing, he was on the floor too.

One hand threaded gently into Soonyoung’s hair, the other cupped his cheek, thumb brushing away tears that wouldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon whispered, voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t even notice his own tears until they dripped onto Soonyoung’s wrist.

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon said again, his voice lower this time, close to breaking. “I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for, but I’m sorry.”

His hand stayed in Soonyoung’s hair, the other still curled against the curve of his face, catching the tears that wouldn’t stop. Soonyoung didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just sat there, breathing too quietly, like if he made a sound, everything might fall apart again.

“I was trying to keep my distance,” Jihoon went on, eyes unfocused now, staring somewhere past the wall. “I thought maybe it would be easier. Less confusing. I kept telling myself— he’s not yours. And you’re not his. You’re just… stuck. And he’s just someone who loved a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.”

He let out a humorless breath— half a laugh, half a sigh. “It’s fucking ironic, right?” he said, more to the silence than to Soonyoung. “In our timeline, I can’t stand you. I sit as far away as possible in class. I call you annoying. I pretend not to hear when you say hi. And now— here— it’s like…”

He swallowed hard.

“Like you’re my whole world or something.”

Soonyoung shifted, just barely, but didn’t meet his eyes.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Jihoon whispered, voice cracking now. “And I know you didn’t either. But I don’t know what to do with all this. The house. The photos. The way you look at me like I’m everything and I don’t even remember what we had for breakfast yesterday.”

He dropped his hand from Soonyoung’s face, let it fall limp in his lap.

“It’s too much. I need space.”

He looked up, finally, into eyes that were still red-rimmed, swollen from too many apologies neither of them had the words for.

“I still think I should stay in a hotel for a while,” Jihoon said. “Just for a few days. Clear my head.”

Soonyoung nodded.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to argue. He just got up from the floor slowly, body heavy, like it hurt to move. His arms hung useless at his sides. For a second, Jihoon thought maybe he’d say something—anything.

But he didn’t.

He turned away.

And Jihoon stayed there, still kneeling, still staring at the empty space where Soonyoung had been.

A moment later, he heard the soft sound of a door closing down the hall.

A single, barely audible click.

And then nothing.

 

—

 

Jihoon checked into the hotel the next morning with a single bag and a vague lie about renovations. The woman at the front desk barely looked at him. Room key. Elevator. Fifteenth floor. It smelled like bleach and carpet glue. The air conditioner clicked too loudly. He stood in the middle of the room for almost ten minutes before finally sitting down on the edge of the bed.

That first night, he felt… unsettled.

Not sad. Not guilty. Just off. The silence felt wrong. Not because it was quiet— he liked quiet— but because it was unfamiliar. No cat pacing in the hallway. No soft music from the living room. No footsteps brushing the kitchen tile at night, no low voice asking if he wanted tea before bed.

By the second day, that feeling didn’t fade. It deepened.

He worked through most of it— pacing, reading, opening his phone and then putting it back down. There were no new texts from Soonyoung. No calls. Just the quiet. Jihoon went for walks and tried to convince himself that space was good. He even wrote a few bars of music in the notepad app on his phone. But everything felt off key. Off balance.

By the fourth night, he wasn’t sure what the point of it all was.

He wasn’t sleeping better. He wasn’t thinking more clearly. If anything, the absence of Soonyoung made him more aware of him—like everything Jihoon wasn’t doing with him was being silently tallied in the back of his mind.

He didn’t go back.

But he stopped trying to convince himself it had been the right choice.

Two weeks passed.

Then, one night— just as he was about to fall asleep— his phone buzzed.

It wasn’t a message. It was a voice message.

From Soonyoung.

Jihoon stared at it for a long moment. Thumb hovering over the screen. He had no idea what would be in it. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to hear it. But he hit play anyway.

The voice was soft. A little tired. A little hoarse, like he’d been talking all day and saved this for the very end.

“Hey.”

A breath. Then “You don’t have to respond. I just needed to say something.”

Another pause.

“I miss you. Not just you-you, like the married version or the soft version or whatever version you think I loved. I miss you. The way you look when you’re thinking too hard. The way you try to hide it when something makes you laugh. The way you say ‘fine’ when you’re not, but I always know anyway.”

Jihoon swallowed. The voice in his ears kept going.

“I know this isn’t easy. And I know you’re not there yet. But I am. And I’m not gonna pretend I’m not just because it’s inconvenient for you right now.”

There was a pause. A deep breath.

“You’re gonna love me. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But you will. Because you already did. And I believe in you more than anyone ever did— even you.”

The message ended.

Jihoon stared at the phone.

He just sat there, heart heavy, breathing slow, and realized that something had changed.

He didn’t know what to call it yet. Couldn’t define it. Couldn’t explain why it made his chest feel tight and warm and aching all at once.

But he knew this much for sure—

He didn’t hate Soonyoung.

Not anymore.

Not this version of him at least.

Jihoon didn’t respond to the voice message.

He didn’t type anything out. Didn’t record anything in return. He just stared at the screen for a long time after it ended, thumb hovering over the play button, listening to his own breathing like it might offer answers. Then he put the phone face-down on the bed and laid back, eyes open in the dark. He didn’t sleep for hours.

The next morning was gray.

Not raining. Just overcast, like the weather couldn’t decide whether to cry or not. Jihoon sat in the hotel room with a tea bag steeping in lukewarm water, watching condensation run down the window. He didn’t pack much—just the essentials. His phone, his wallet, a few set of clothes, and the shoes by the door. That’s all he took with him when he left.

He didn’t text first.

Didn’t say “I’m coming back.”

He just went.

The house looked the same. Like it hadn’t missed him at all. But when he stepped inside with his spare key, the stillness felt different. Not cold, not distant. Just paused— like a breath being held. The cat wasn’t around. The lights were off. Jihoon moved quietly through the space, not touching much, not looking too closely. He dropped his bag by the stairs and made his way into the kitchen.

The tea cabinet was still organized the way he remembered.

The green tea— his favorite— sat on the second shelf behind the honey jar. His fingers brushed it once before he pulled it down, made himself a cup, and leaned against the counter, letting the steam fog up his glasses.

He didn’t mean to stay long. He didn’t plan anything past the front door.

But somehow, when he walked into the living room and sat on the couch, it felt like a decision.

He fed the cat when it finally wandered in.

He set the tea down on a coaster.

He didn’t turn on the TV.

Just sat there— still, quiet, breathing.

When the front door opened an hour later, Jihoon didn’t move.

Soonyoung froze in the doorway, still in his work jacket, fingers stiff on the strap of his bag. He looked tired. Not the dramatic kind of tired— just worn down in a way that meant he hadn’t expected to see anyone waiting for him today. Especially not Jihoon. Especially not like this.

Jihoon looked up slowly. Met his eyes. Said nothing at first.

Then, finally, voice low but steady:

“I’m not ready.”

Soonyoung blinked. Took a step inside.

Jihoon didn’t stop him.

“I’m not there yet,” Jihoon added, quieter now. “Not like you are.”

He looked down at his hands, thumb running over the seam of his sleeve.

“But I’m trying.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was full. Thick with everything they couldn’t say yet, but maybe— eventually— would.

Soonyoung let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Okay,” he said softly.

They both went to their own rooms with soonyoung murmuring something right before jihoon could enter his room.

“I put fresh sheets in there a few days ago. Just in case.” Jihoon didn’t ask what just in case meant. He took the blanket off the back of the couch and followed the hallway in silence.

The room was too quiet.

He laid there for hours, eyes open in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it might suddenly explain something. The sheets were soft, the mattress fine. It wasn’t uncomfortable. But it wasn’t right either. His chest felt tight, not in pain, just… off rhythm. Like something important was happening and he wasn’t supposed to be this far away from it.

By two in the morning, Jihoon gave up.

He didn’t grab his phone. Didn’t put on slippers. He just got up and padded quietly out of the guest room, barefoot and a little dazed, like someone walking in a dream.

He didn’t think. He just walked.

When he pushed open the bedroom door— their bedroom door— he expected to find it empty. Maybe a made bed. Maybe something that would make him feel stupid for hoping.

But Soonyoung was there.

Sitting up. On his side of the bed. Knees pulled up slightly, blanket draped loosely over his lap. He looked peaceful. Still. Like he’d been that way for hours, maybe even dozing off like that— never once sleeping on the other side, not even once in weeks.

Jihoon didn’t say anything.

He walked in slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark, and without asking, without a word, he crawled under the blanket and lay down on his side. The spot was cold at first. The pillow didn’t smell like him. But when he turned his face toward Soonyoung’s back, it felt more like home than anything he’d touched since this all started.

His eyes stayed open for a few minutes, staring at the slope of Soonyoung’s shoulders. At the way the fabric of his sleep shirt rose and fell with each breath.

And then, silently, a single tear slipped down Jihoon’s cheek.

He didn’t wipe it.

Didn’t move.

He just closed his eyes and let sleep come, finally, tucked behind the quiet rhythm of someone who never stopped waiting for him.

 

Jihoon woke up to the soft sound of breathing behind him.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the early morning light bleeding through the curtains, pale and silver. His face was half-buried in the pillow, the blanket tangled loosely around his waist. For a moment, he forgot where he was. And then he felt it— the warmth behind him. Soonyoung’s presence. Not touching, not quite. But close. Closer than he thought they would end up.

He didn’t move.

He just stayed there, still, staring at the wall in front of him and trying to organize the thoughts spinning in his head. He didn’t have answers. He barely had questions that made sense anymore. But being here— sharing air, sharing quiet— felt more right than anything he’d done in weeks.

At some point, Soonyoung shifted.

Jihoon heard the blankets move, the slight exhale of someone waking up slowly. Jihoon didn’t know what to do. He could’ve said something, pretended to have just woken up too. But instead, he kept still, unsure if pretending to be asleep was more awkward or more safe.

Soonyoung didn’t speak at first.

Then, softly— almost like he was scared to say it out loud— he murmured, “Thank you.””

Jihoon didn’t answer. Not with words.

But his eyes closed fully this time. He let the tension leave his shoulders. That was the only reply he could offer.

A few seconds later, he felt fingers—soft, hesitant— brush through his hair.

Not playful. Not teasing. Just gentle. Reassuring.

Soonyoung did it slowly, like he’d done it before a thousand times and wasn’t sure if he still had permission. His fingertips barely touched Jihoon’s scalp, more like a whisper than a touch. Jihoon didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop him.

He let it happen.

The brushing continued for another minute, then slowed. Then stopped.

But Soonyoung stayed close, his hand resting just behind Jihoon’s head, not pushing, not asking for anything.

 

They stayed in bed long after the sun rose.

Not talking. Not moving. Just breathing into the stillness between them like it was something delicate that might break if handled wrong. Jihoon didn’t turn over, not at first. He stayed on his side, facing away, fingers curled slightly against the blanket, heart oddly calm in his chest. It wasn’t peace exactly, but it wasn’t panic either.

Eventually— when the light through the curtains had turned warmer and Soonyoung’s breathing had evened out again—Jihoon shifted.

He rolled onto his back first, then turned slowly onto his other side, facing Soonyoung for the first time in what felt like forever. Soonyoung’s eyes were closed, but Jihoon could tell he wasn’t asleep. There was a tension in his face he hadn’t noticed before— like he was trying not to ruin something he barely had.

“You’re awake,” Jihoon said quietly.

Soonyoung opened his eyes. Just barely. “Yeah.”

They didn’t say anything more for a minute.

Then Soonyoung sat up, rubbing a hand over his face and blinking into the morning haze. “Do you want coffee?” he asked, voice low and a little scratchy. “Or tea? I think we have that ginger kind you like. Unless you changed your mind about that too.”

It wasn’t said with bitterness. Just honesty.

Jihoon sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around his waist and letting his feet touch the floor. “Tea’s fine.”

They didn’t talk much as they moved through the kitchen. Jihoon leaned against the counter while the kettle boiled. Soonyoung made toast. They stood side by side, not touching, not looking at each other too much— but something about the rhythm felt familiar. Quiet domesticity. No questions. No pressure.

Later that afternoon, Jihoon followed Soonyoung into the guest room without being asked.

He didn’t say he was ready to move out of it. Didn’t say he was staying, either. He just walked in, stood there for a moment, and then bent down to help fold the extra blankets. Soonyoung didn’t speak, just handed him the pillows one by one until the bed was stripped and bare.

It felt like something final. Or maybe like something beginning.

That night, Jihoon got into bed without hesitation.

Soonyoung joined him twenty minutes later, careful, quiet. He stayed on his side, giving Jihoon space. But at some point in the dark, Jihoon’s hand drifted out— just slightly, just far enough that his wrist touched Soonyoung’s.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did Soonyoung.

 

—

 

The days blurred in a way that didn’t feel alarming anymore.

Jihoon wasn’t sure if it was three days or five since he came back, but he stopped counting. The mornings began with tea, always already made when he stepped into the kitchen. The evenings ended in bed, always with just enough space between them that nothing had to be said. It felt like existing in a rhythm he hadn’t learned, but his body still somehow followed.

They didn’t talk about the bigger things.

No more questions about time, or alternate versions of himself, or what it meant that he missed someone he never remembered loving. But they talked about groceries. About music. About the leftover miso in the fridge that needed to be used or tossed. Jihoon didn’t notice the shift until one night when Soonyoung touched his arm to pass him a towel, and Jihoon didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t much.

But it meant something.

Later that night, Jihoon stayed up after Soonyoung went to bed.

He sat on the living room couch with his phone, scrolling aimlessly at first, trying not to look too long at the photos of the two of them still filling the gallery. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe proof. Maybe closure. Maybe just something that felt like a lifeline.

He didn’t expect to find the voice message.

It was short. Forty-seven seconds long. No title, no date. Just the default file name from some built-in app Jihoon never used.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the play button, then tapped it.

The recording was quiet at first— some shuffling in the background, like whoever was holding the phone was moving around. Then Jihoon heard his own voice.

It was undeniably him. Just a little lower, a little more settled.

“I know I don’t say things the right way,” his voice said, a little rushed, like he wasn’t sure he had the courage to finish, “and I’m always better at writing things down than saying them, but… I hope you know. I hope I told you enough that I love you.”

There was a pause— just long enough to feel intentional.

“And I’m scared. Not of marrying you. Just of not being able to keep being the person you deserve. But I want to. I want to be good to you. I want this life. I want you.”

The recording ended with a shaky breath—Jihoon’s— and the softest laugh.

Like maybe he was crying.

Jihoon stared at the phone for a long time.

It didn’t feel like eavesdropping. It didn’t feel like hearing someone else’s secret.

It felt like something that was his. That had been his. That maybe could be again.

When he finally went to bed, Soonyoung was already asleep, curled slightly toward Jihoon’s side of the bed like he didn’t mean to.

Jihoon didn’t hesitate this time.

He got in carefully, slid under the blanket, and moved close enough that their arms barely brushed.

The bed was warm when Jihoon slipped under the covers.

He hadn’t meant to get this close— just close enough that their arms brushed— but when the back of his hand grazed Soonyoung’s, the other man stirred. Soonyoung blinked slowly, eyes unfocused at first before landing on Jihoon’s face. He didn’t look surprised to see him there. Just tired. Soft.

“Sorry,” Jihoon whispered automatically, voice caught somewhere between panic and embarrassment.

Soonyoung shook his head, barely audible as he murmured, “It’s fine.”

They didn’t speak again.

Not as Jihoon’s eyes searched Soonyoung’s face. Not as their foreheads drifted closer, breath mingling in the small space between them. Their lips hovered close— not kissing, just existing in the same charged air. Jihoon exhaled a shaky breath, lips parting slightly, and his hand moved from the blanket up to Soonyoung’s chest, resting flat over his heartbeat.

Soonyoung’s eyes were closed.

He looked peaceful, like someone who had stopped hoping but hadn’t stopped wanting.

Jihoon stared for a second longer— then closed the gap.

He kissed him carefully at first, lips soft against Soonyoung’s, unsure of what he was doing or why he was doing it, only that it felt right. Soonyoung let out a quiet, surprised sound from the back of his throat, like the kiss had stolen the air from him. His body shifted sideways, angling toward Jihoon without hesitation.

The kiss deepened.

Soonyoung’s hands found Jihoon’s waist, tentative at first, then more certain as he pulled him forward until Jihoon’s body hovered just barely above his. They weren’t fully pressed together yet— but they were close. Too close to mistake it for anything else.

Jihoon’s hand slid upward into Soonyoung’s hair, fingers curling in the strands automatically.

Soonyoung kissed him again, slower this time, like he didn’t want to rush it, like he was scared it might end too soon. Then between breaths, voice low and trembling, he whispered, “Jihoon— are you sure—? I don’t want you to feel like—”

But Jihoon shut him up with another kiss.

Harder this time. Deeper. More like a promise than a question.

It was Soonyoung who gasped first, lips parting in surprise as Jihoon leaned further into him. Then suddenly, with barely a pause between breaths, Soonyoung flipped them—hands bracing Jihoon’s hips as he rolled over gently, settling Jihoon down against the mattress beneath them.

Jihoon’s breath caught in his throat.

Soonyoung hovered just above him, eyes searching, waiting for any sign to stop.

But Jihoon’s hands pulled him in again— and Soonyoung followed without hesitation.

The room was quiet except for their breathing.

Soonyoung kissed him like he was trying to memorize the shape of Jihoon’s mouth, the edge of his jaw, the hollow just beneath his ear. His lips traced a path slowly, deliberately, until he reached Jihoon’s neck— and stayed there. Jihoon shivered beneath him, head tilted back just enough to give him space, fingers still tangled in Soonyoung’s hair like he was holding on for balance.

“I missed you,” Soonyoung murmured against his skin, voice low and a little broken.

The words made Jihoon’s chest tighten.

He didn’t know how to respond— he wasn’t sure he was supposed to— but the sound of them, warm and desperate, made him press his hips up slightly without meaning to. Soonyoung felt it. Jihoon could tell from the way his mouth paused against his throat. Then, slowly, he started to smile— Jihoon could feel it, that grin pulling gently at the skin just under his jaw.

The next sound Jihoon made was a quiet moan— breathy, involuntary.

His hand tightened in Soonyoung’s hair.

Soonyoung’s hand moved lower, sliding across Jihoon’s waist, careful and slow until his fingers brushed the waistband of Jihoon’s shorts. He paused there for a moment, breathing in through his nose like he was trying to hold himself back. Then he hooked a finger under the fabric, tugging gently.

That made Jihoon’s eyes open, just barely.

Soonyoung lifted his head, eyes wide and hesitant as he met Jihoon’s gaze.

“Sorry,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “Can I?”

Jihoon didn’t speak.

He just nodded— once, shaky, eyes soft and mouth slightly open.

That was all Soonyoung needed.

He slid Jihoon’s shorts down slowly, taking his underwear with it, never once breaking eye contact. His hands were steady, careful, like he was unwrapping something fragile. Jihoon’s breath caught in his throat as the air hit his skin, legs parting instinctively without being asked.

Soonyoung moved between them, settling into the space like he belonged there.

Jihoon didn’t realize what was happening until he heard the quiet slide of the drawer opening beside the bed.

Soonyoung reached over him without a word, pulling it open with practiced ease. He grabbed something from inside— a bottle— and before Jihoon could even blink, Soonyoung had already leaned down again, kissing him softly like nothing else in the world mattered. Jihoon’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. There was something terrifying about the momentum, but something calming too, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Soonyoung’s hands moved lower.

He tugged his own pants further down, worked them off as far as he could. Jihoon let out a breath against Soonyoung’s lips, his mind stuttering between instinct and disbelief. He didn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop it. Not when his body felt like it remembered all the things his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

The bottle clicked open— quiet, mechanical.

Jihoon only caught the sound in passing because Soonyoung’s mouth was still on his, kissing him gently, thoroughly, like he was trying to ground them both in this exact moment. Jihoon didn’t see where the bottle went, but he felt Soonyoung shift— just slightly. Felt the heat of his hand, the pause of his breath, the weight of intention in the space between them.

Soonyoung’s hand dropped down, slow and unhurried.

Jihoon could feel it— the slick, the warmth, the carefulness of each touch like Soonyoung wasn’t rushing any of this. He swallowed thickly, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, one hand still tangled in Soonyoung’s hair and the other gripping the edge of the pillow beneath him. His entire body buzzed— not just with arousal, but with the intimacy of being known like this. Touched like this. Trusted like this.

When Soonyoung finally looked up again, his eyes were wide and asking— not just for permission, but for presence.

Jihoon met his gaze, mouth barely open, nodding once without a word.

Soonyoung didn’t speak as he settled between Jihoon’s thighs.

His eyes didn’t wander. They stayed right on Jihoon’s— steady, unreadable, like he was memorizing every flicker of uncertainty across his face. Jihoon felt his breath catch as Soonyoung’s hand slipped down, fingers gliding gently over the most private part of him, slow and deliberate. When he paused at Jihoon’s entrance, fingers just barely circling there, Jihoon exhaled shakily but didn’t look away.

The first finger slid in with steady pressure.

Jihoon tensed, breath locking in his chest as his body adjusted. Soonyoung moved slowly, carefully— drawing back, easing in again, never rushing, never pushing more than Jihoon gave him. The warmth of his palm against Jihoon’s thigh grounded him. Jihoon blinked, his body tightening around the feeling, until the discomfort shifted into something he could breathe through.

A second finger followed— stretching, pressing deeper.

Jihoon gasped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as his body shivered around the intrusion. Soonyoung didn’t stop— he just slowed again, letting Jihoon catch up to the pace, then began to move his fingers in that slow, purposeful rhythm. In and out. Then again. Jihoon felt heat curling in his stomach, soft sounds slipping out of his throat without meaning to.

Soonyoung kissed his knee— just once— then pulled his hand back.

Jihoon opened his eyes again just in time to see him reach down. Soonyoung guided himself gently, the tip of him pressing where his fingers had been seconds before, brushing along Jihoon’s rim with such teasing pressure that Jihoon’s whole body responded— legs shifting, breath catching, lips parting on instinct.

“Soonyoung—” Jihoon said, voice thin and trembling.

It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t quite permission either. Just his name— heavy, desperate, everything Jihoon could give in one breath.

Soonyoung looked at him like that one word broke something open inside him.

But he still didn’t move.

Not until Jihoon reached forward, one hand on Soonyoung’s chest, pulling him just slightly closer.

Jihoon’s whole body tensed when he felt Soonyoung start to push in.

It wasn’t pain— it was pressure. So much pressure his mouth fell open and his eyes squeezed shut without thinking, like he had to hold himself together from the inside out. The breath that left him was shaky, strangled, almost soundless. He barely heard Soonyoung whisper, “You okay?” but he nodded anyway, not trusting his voice to do anything right.

Soonyoung paused only a second longer.

Then he moved again— slow, steady, grounding— until Jihoon felt all of him, deep and warm and full in a way that made his ribs ache. Jihoon let out a breathless sound, his body arching slightly off the mattress from the feeling alone. It was too much and somehow not enough. Every inch of contact felt new and familiar all at once.

Soonyoung kissed him.

Mouth open, gentle at first, but quickly growing messier— needy, driven by the feeling of being completely inside someone he missed even when he was right there. Jihoon kissed back through the sting and the heat and the confusion, every gasp that left him pressed right into Soonyoung’s mouth.

Then Soonyoung pulled back just slightly— only a few inches— and pushed back in.

Jihoon let out a sharp moan, fingers digging into Soonyoung’s shoulders, the movement sparking something deep that made his legs tighten around him instinctively. He was still wearing his shirt. So was Soonyoung. There was something so raw about it— half-clothed, fully vulnerable, no ceremony, just need.

The pace grew quicker.

Their bodies moved in sync like they’d done this a thousand times, like their skin still remembered what their minds couldn’t. Moans escaped from both of them, louder now, less controlled, like the dam had finally broken and they weren’t going to stop until everything spilled out. Jihoon’s head tilted back against the pillow, throat exposed, lips parted, gasping for air between every thrust.

Soonyoung didn’t stop.

The way their bodies moved together was rougher now, more desperate— like they’d both been holding something back and were finally letting it break loose. Jihoon could feel every inch of him, the heat and rhythm and trembling, like they were chasing something neither of them could name. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, tangled in limbs and gasps, but his body responded like it already knew where this ended.

Soonyoung’s hand slid down Jihoon’s thigh, gripping tight as he thrust harder, breath catching every time Jihoon’s back arched off the bed.

Jihoon’s mind blurred with the rhythm, head falling back, mouth open with half-sounds, all air and instinct. He didn’t say Soonyoung’s name, but he thought it— over and over again— like it was the only word left in his head. Every kiss, every moan, every push and pull felt like a memory trying to resurface. Like his body was trying to remind him of something his brain still refused to understand.

They didn’t speak.

There was only sound— skin, breath, the creak of the mattress beneath them, the occasional broken whimper pressed into Soonyoung’s shoulder.

And then it hit— Jihoon’s whole body tightening around the feeling, mouth falling open, fingers clawing at Soonyoung’s shirt as he let go, everything in him spilling out with a sharp cry. Soonyoung followed right after, trembling as he buried his face in Jihoon’s neck, hips stuttering until he finally fell still.

His breath was warm and shaky against Jihoon’s throat.

Neither of them moved.

Soonyoung’s arms stayed around him, his weight heavy but not uncomfortable, their shirts stuck to damp skin and hearts still pounding. Jihoon didn’t say a word. He just let his hand drift into Soonyoung’s hair, fingertips barely brushing the strands like muscle memory.

Eventually, both their breathing slowed.

Soonyoung’s head rested on Jihoon’s shoulder. Jihoon’s arm curled closer around him.

And just like that, they fell asleep.

 

—

 

Jihoon woke up to the sound of birds outside the window.

For a second, he didn’t move. The air felt wrong— too light. The weight that had been pressed into his chest, his arms, his legs… was gone. His hand reached blindly for the warmth beside him, for the soft give of a body that should have still been there. But there was nothing.

Just the flat feel of his twin-sized mattress, the scratchy sheet he hadn’t changed in weeks, and the beige ceiling of his dorm room.

His dorm room.

His heart stuttered. His chest tightened. His whole body tensed like someone had just pulled the floor out from under him. He sat up fast, breath catching painfully in his throat, and looked around, half-expecting it to be some strange new version of the glitch.

But it wasn’t.

It was exactly what it looked like— his old desk, messy with notes and coffee cups. His guitar case in the corner. His laundry bag half-full. The room he’d left behind weeks ago… or five years ago, depending on how you looked at it.

He was back.

Just like that. No goodbye. No warning. Nothing.

Jihoon sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands gripping his hair as he tried to breathe evenly. This was what he’d wanted— what he’d spent every day of the glitch trying to solve. And yet, all he could think about was Soonyoung’s hands in his hair, the sound of his voice half-buried in Jihoon’s neck, the way he’d held him like he’d never let go.

There was a tight, pulsing ache in his chest.

It didn’t go away.

He didn’t go to class that day. Couldn’t.

He stayed in his room, barely moving, barely blinking. He didn’t even text anyone. His phone stayed face-down on the nightstand. He didn’t cry. He didn’t do anything. Just stared at the space in front of him, like if he focused hard enough, he could tear back through time and land right where he’d left off.

But time didn’t work like that.

Not even for him.

The next morning, he finally pulled himself together.

He went to class. Showed up late. Didn’t say much. Didn’t make eye contact with anyone.

And then— just as he was pulling out his notebook and sitting down— he saw him.

Head turned halfway toward the window. That same ridiculous hoodie with the cracked white lettering on the back. Same messy hair. Same unbothered posture.

Kwon Soonyoung.

He turned his head just a little and caught Jihoon’s eye.

Jihoon sat three rows behind him, teeth clenched, already fighting the headache that had been building since he walked into the lecture hall. Remembering Soonyoung talking to someone— too loud, too animated, all hand gestures and bad jokes. He laughed like he didn’t care if the whole room heard. Jihoon knew that laugh too well now.

It was exactly the same in every version of him.

Annoying. Unfiltered. Constant.

But Jihoon couldn’t unhear the way that voice had once whispered against his neck.

He shifted in his seat, flipping his pen between his fingers as if it could help balance something inside him. Because the worst part wasn’t that Soonyoung hadn’t changed— it was that Jihoon had. And now every little thing Soonyoung did scraped against memories that shouldn’t exist, making everything feel just slightly off.

Class went on, Soonyoung being his usual self.

He answered a question too confidently and got it wrong. He knocked over his water bottle and made it worse by trying to clean it with his sleeve. At one point, he turned around to toss a grin toward someone behind him, and Jihoon accidentally made eye contact.

Soonyoung smiled like he always did. Like nothing was different.

Jihoon rolled his eyes and looked away.

But this time, there was no venom in it.

When class ended, Jihoon gathered his things slower than usual. He was still adjusting to being here, to feeling like he didn’t belong in the timeline he used to live in. So when Soonyoung came up beside him and said, “Hey, you look like you saw a ghost or flunked the midterm— what’s up?” it took Jihoon a second to respond.

“None of your business,” Jihoon said automatically, voice flat.

But then— before he could stop himself— he added, “Also, you really need to work on your handwriting. My ears are bleeding just from trying to read your notes.”

Soonyoung blinked. “My… handwriting?”

“You take notes like you’re possessed.”

Soonyoung squinted at him for a second, then laughed. “You’re being weird today.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I hit my head,” Jihoon muttered, shouldering his bag. “Too much exposure to your personality.”

Soonyoung made an offended noise, fake and dramatic. “Wow. You wound me. And here I thought we were finally bonding.”

Jihoon didn’t answer. He just walked off down the hallway, a breath caught in his throat.

But he smiled. Just a little. Not because Soonyoung was different.

But because maybe— just maybe— he was starting to like him anyway.

Notes:

Did y’all miss me? Yeah, didn’t think so.
I was just out here surviving WW3. Don’t ask where I live. You don’t wanna know 🧎🏻‍♀️