Crimson Fate

by yudozdump

Summary:

Dohoon had been reincarnated countless times, and each time, he alone remembered the lives before. Life after life, the same red thread bound him to Shinyu and Jihoon—inescapable, unbroken, and always ending in tragedy. Tired of the endless cycle, he chose to distance himself in this life, believing that staying away might be the only way to save them all. But fate has never been merciful. Can distance truly change destiny, or is the ending already written?

Will they finally get the ending they deserve?

Notes:

Updates will be slow. Ignore typos and grammatical errors. English is not my first language. Comments are highly appreciated. LMK your thoughts!!

Chapter 1

The red thread of fate—some say it’s an invisible string tied to your pinky finger, connecting you to the person you’re destined to meet, love, or even lose. A symbol of destiny. A bond that cannot be severed. But destiny doesn't always promise happy endings. Sometimes, that thread tangles. Sometimes, it frays. Especially when more than two people are involved.

 

And for Kim Dohoon, his red thread didn’t just stretch across distance—it wrapped around complications.

 

Dohoon was deep in the forest, boots crunching over fallen leaves and sharp twigs, bow slung over his back. The air was crisp with the scent of pine and distant rain. As one of the designated hunters of the Kim clan, he was no stranger to the quiet of the woods or the chase that came with finding food for his people. He’d been tracking a deer all morning—hoofprints, snapped branches, and droppings painting a trail through the forest floor.

 

Then, he saw it. The deer.

 

It had paused near a clearing, lowering its head to sniff at the earth.

 

Dohoon's heart raced. Slowly, he reached for his bow, nocked an arrow, and steadied his breath.

 

But just before he released his shot, a second arrow whizzed from the trees—piercing the deer clean through its side. The animal crumpled instantly.

 

"What the—?!"

 

Dohoon stepped forward, only to see two men emerge from opposite ends of the brush, both armed and both looking far too smug for his liking.

 

“Hey!” he called out, pointing a gloved finger at them. “I saw that deer first!”

 

One of the strangers, the smaller of the two, strode up to the fallen animal with an air of self-satisfaction. “And I shot it,” he replied coolly, brushing his dark bangs from his forehead as he examined the arrow lodged in the deer.

 

Dohoon blinked, completely flabbergasted. “That’s not how this works! You can’t just... swoop in and steal a kill someone else was stalking!”

 

The taller man—broad-shouldered and nearly Dohoon’s height—stepped up beside his friend and folded his arms across his chest. “Look, it’s not about who saw it first. This isn’t a picnic where you call dibs on the last rice ball,” he said with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We hunted it. We got the shot. That makes it ours.”

 

Dohoon’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me? I tracked that thing since dawn! You two just—just parachuted in and stole it like a pair of—of forest bandits!”

 

“You should’ve been faster, then,” the smaller one quipped, lifting the deer’s leg as if testing its weight. “This is how the wild works, grandpa.”

 

“I’m twenty-five!” Dohoon shouted, aghast. “I am not a grandpa!”

 

The taller man laughed—not in a mean-spirited way, but in the kind of chuckle that made Dohoon’s ears burn even hotter. “Relax! It’s just a deer.”

 

“It’s not just a deer!” Dohoon protested, clenching his fists. “It’s food for my clan! You think I’m out here playing tag with woodland creatures for fun?”

 

“Look, we’re not heartless,” said the smaller hunter, tossing Dohoon a sideways glance. “But rules of the hunt apply. First one to make the kill wins. You know that, don’t you?”

 

Dohoon gritted his teeth, clearly fuming. “You both are the worst.”

 

The taller man simply smiled wider, clearly enjoying Dohoon’s growing frustration. “Well... you snooze, you lose,” he said in a singsong tone, then casually grabbed the deer by its hind legs and began dragging it toward their side of the clearing.

 

Dohoon stood there, fists trembling, lips pursed tightly in anger and disbelief. He was this close to tackling one of them.

 

And yet—something strange flickered in the air.

 

Something invisible. A tug on his pinky finger.

 

A thread?

 

No... that had to be his imagination.

 

Right?

 

Their first encounter might have started with arrows and insults, but it didn’t end in the forest that day. As much as Kim Dohoon would’ve liked to never see their smug faces again, fate—or something just as irritating—seemed determined to throw them back together.

 

It began with the fishing.

 

Dohoon often found himself by the riverbank during the early mornings, the sun still stretching its golden limbs over the treetops. The forest was quieter then, except for the gentle rush of the current and the occasional rustle of leaves from the wind. He liked it that way—silent, solitary. Fishing with a spear required patience, and patience was something Dohoon prided himself on, even if it didn't always show.

 

At least, that was the plan... until they started showing up.

 

He had just spotted a silver flash beneath the water’s surface, had lifted his spear to strike—when a familiar voice rang out from behind.

 

“You know, you won’t catch anything if you keep splashing around like a goose on bath day.”

 

Dohoon groaned and didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. That voice—light, amused, and unreasonably smug—could only belong to him.

 

“Jihoon,” Dohoon muttered under his breath, gripping the spear tighter.

 

The smaller man stood on a moss-covered boulder nearby, chin in hand, legs swinging lazily as he observed Dohoon’s fishing efforts like it was some afternoon entertainment.

 

“I’m just saying,” Jihoon continued with a shrug, “a net’s less theatrical and more effective.”

 

Beside him, the taller one emerged from behind a tree, carrying a bundle of something wrapped in cloth—likely food. Shinyu. He was quieter, more observant than his lively counterpart, but no less irritating with that serene little smile he always wore, like he knew something Dohoon didn’t.

 

“Do you want help?” Shinyu asked, crouching near the water’s edge, eyes flicking from the river to Dohoon’s tense expression.

 

Dohoon exhaled sharply through his nose. “No. I don’t need either of you. And I definitely don’t need advice from a guy who probably thinks fish grow on trees.”

 

“That’s ridiculous,” Jihoon said cheerfully. “They grow in bushes.”

 

Dohoon didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch. He turned back to the river, scanning for another glimpse of movement beneath the surface.

 

But when he came back later that day, spear still dry, a woven basket sat at the spot he usually claimed near the rocks.

 

It was filled with fish. Fat, fresh, and cleaned.

 

Two figures stood nearby, arms folded and grins plastered on their smug faces.

 

“Thought you might be hungry,” Shinyu said simply, nudging the basket toward him.

 

“Next time,” Jihoon chimed in, “try using a net. You won’t look so angry by the time the sun sets.”

 

Dohoon stared down at the fish, then back at them. “You think this means I owe you?”

 

“No,” Shinyu said. “Just think of it as... a neighborly gift.”

 

“I didn’t know we were neighbors.”

 

Jihoon smirked. “Neither did we, until we started running into you every few days.”

 

Dohoon wanted to throw the basket at their heads. But the truth was... he was starving.

 

“Thanks,” he muttered begrudgingly, gripping the edge of the basket. “I’ll keep the net thing in mind.”

 

After that, things started to shift.

 

Their meetings became less coincidental and more routine—though no one said it out loud. Dohoon would pretend he was annoyed, rolling his eyes when he saw them by the river or deep in the woods. But somehow, they always managed to tag along.

 

Sometimes Jihoon would talk endlessly while Dohoon hunted, following a few paces behind with his hands behind his head and a bounce in his step.

 

“I once tried to ride a wild boar,” Jihoon said one afternoon, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

 

“That explains a lot,” Dohoon replied dryly.

 

“Hey, it was a tactical decision. I just didn’t expect it to run into a tree. I was thrown. My pride still hasn't recovered.”

 

Shinyu, as always, said little. He'd walk silently beside them, only speaking when he needed to. But when he did, it always felt... deliberate.

 

“Step wide here,” he once said, gently tugging Dohoon’s arm to redirect his path.

 

Dohoon looked down and spotted the coiled remains of a viper right where his foot would’ve landed.

 

“Thanks,” he said after a beat, voice quieter.

 

“No problem,” Shinyu answered, then offered a rare grin. “You’re not the easiest person to save, but someone’s got to do it.”

 

The more time they spent together, the more blurred the lines became. Dohoon never asked them which clan they were from. He didn’t want to know. If he didn’t know, it was easier to ignore what it might mean.

 

Besides, they never asked him much either. Not about the Kim Clan. Not about why he always tensed when someone mentioned territory. Not about why he glanced over his shoulder every time they traveled too far from the main trail.

 

There was a silent agreement between the three of them—don’t ask, don’t tell.

 

But their actions spoke loud enough. Jihoon always brought extra food. Shinyu made sure the fire burned just right at night. And Dohoon, in his own reluctant way, started waiting for them before heading out to hunt.

 

It was strange, forming something like... friendship. Even stranger when you weren’t supposed to trust anyone outside your own clan.

 

If the Kim Clan found out what Dohoon was doing—spending time with two strangers from gods-know-where—things would spiral quickly. The Kim elders didn’t forgive disloyalty. And they definitely didn’t tolerate fraternizing with outsiders.

 

Out there, beyond the safety of the clan, no one was safe.

 

And yet, with Jihoon cracking jokes beside him and Shinyu quietly handing him a flask of tea, Dohoon found himself wondering... what if safety wasn't just about borders and names?

 

What if, somehow, it was about them?

 

Then it happened on a night like any other. The moon hung heavy and full above the trees, a pale sentinel casting silver shadows through the forest canopy. Dohoon was just returning from a solo hunt—his hands empty, body tired, but his spirit oddly content. The quiet moments in the woods, far from the watchful eyes of the elders, had grown familiar. Comforting, even. Especially with the secret companionship of two boys who never seemed to leave him alone. Boys who made him feel like he could breathe. Though that night, the two were not present.

 

He had even smiled to himself earlier that night, thinking about how Jihoon tripped into a bush trying to catch a rabbit, or how Shinyu scolded him softly for eating berries without checking if they were poisonous the other day. Stupid memories. Small moments. But precious.

 

That was before the air changed.

 

A breeze rolled through the forest, and with it came the acrid scent of something foul—thick, choking, unmistakable.

 

Smoke.

 

Dohoon froze. His blood turned cold.

 

He sniffed the air again, praying he was wrong. But the smell wasn’t faint or distant. It was growing. Closer. Stronger.

 

And then—screams.

 

Sharp, panicked. The kind of sound that doesn’t belong in a forest at night. A sound that gripped his chest like a vice.

 

Dohoon dropped everything and ran.

 

His legs moved before his thoughts could catch up, his boots crashing against the dirt and underbrush. Branches clawed at his skin, tearing small wounds on his arms and face, but he didn’t slow down. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

 

His home—the Kim Clan settlement—was burning.

 

He saw it before he reached it. Bright flames licking the night sky. Sparks flying into the dark. The huts that had once been their safe haven now looked like crumbling cages of fire. Ash swirled through the air like falling snow, and the scent of burning wood was now overpowered by something far worse.

 

Blood.

 

It was everywhere.

 

People—his people—staggered through the chaos. Screaming. Crying. Some ran past him, covered in soot and blood, clutching wounds or dragging loved ones behind them. Others... didn’t move at all.

 

They lay still. Their bodies strewn across the dirt like forgotten dolls.

 

Dohoon’s heart pounded in his ears as he sprinted past the chaos. He didn’t have time to help. He couldn’t stop. He only had one place in mind—his family’s hut. The small shelter his father built with worn hands and quiet pride. The place that smelled like dried herbs and warmth. The place that had always been safe.

 

But when he reached it, it wasn’t there anymore.

 

The hut was a skeleton of flame and smoke. And in front of it—

 

“No—”

 

His legs gave out before his voice did. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide, throat too tight to scream. It took his brain too long to make sense of what he was seeing. It refused to accept it. Denied what was already in front of him.

 

His father.

 

His mother.

 

His olded brother.

 

Lying together, as if they’d tried to shield one another. Their blood soaked the earth beneath them. Eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Lifeless.

 

“No—NO—!”

 

Dohoon’s scream ripped from his chest like an animal, raw and broken. He clawed at the dirt, tears falling without restraint, choking on every breath. His whole body shook.

 

The world spun.

 

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move.

 

He didn’t even hear the footsteps behind him.

 

Not at first.

 

He was drowning in grief, in the stench of death and smoke, until something strange pulled at his hand. Not physically. Not quite. But something tugged.

 

His eyes dropped to his pinky finger.

 

A thread.

 

Thin. Crimson. Glowing faintly like it was alive. It pulsed. It pulled.

 

Dohoon blinked through his tears, confusion momentarily cutting through the haze of agony.

 

“No,” he whispered. “Not now. Don’t do this now.”

 

The thread tugged again. A gentle, persistent pull toward something—someone—behind him.

 

But he didn’t move.

 

He couldn’t turn around. His whole body was frozen in fear, in pain, in the crushing realization of what was happening.

 

What if the ones behind me are the ones who did this?

 

What if I die next?

 

And just as that thought echoed in his mind, pain exploded in his back. His body jolted forward. Breath caught in his throat.

 

He didn’t even scream.

 

Another stab. Then another.

 

The world blurred. Everything—his limbs, the dirt beneath him, the smoke above—faded into a gray haze.

 

He turned. Slowly. With what little strength he had left.

 

He needed to see.

 

He had to see.

 

His head lifted—and there, through the haze, he saw two figures.

 

Blurry at first. Shapes in the smoke.

 

Then they sharpened.

 

Two faces.

 

Two faces he knew.

 

Two faces he trusted.

 

Jihoon and Shinyu stood in front of him, weapons lowered, blood splattered on their clothes. Their eyes—wide with horror. Frozen in shock. As if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing either.

 

“Oh.” The word escaped Dohoon’s lips like a sigh. It wasn’t a cry of betrayal. It wasn’t even angry.

 

It was just... empty.

 

One of them said his name. Maybe both. He didn’t know. It sounded far away. Like it was underwater.

 

They were saying something. He could see their mouths moving. Their hands reaching toward him.

 

But all Dohoon could do was stare.

 

Because in that moment, the red thread glowed between them, binding all three.

 

It pulsed once.

 

Then twice.

 

As if fate itself was laughing.

 

Dohoon’s knees buckled again. He dropped forward, face pressing into the dirt. His blood soaking into the soil next to his family’s.

 

And he smiled.

 

A faint, broken smile.

 

Because of all the people in the world...

 

It had to be them.

 

It had to be the two boys who made him laugh when he wasn’t supposed to.

 

The two boys who stood on the other end of his thread.

 

The thread that was supposed to mean destiny.

 

The thread that was supposed to mean love.

 

But tonight, it only meant this.

 

And that was Dohoon's first memory of the red thread.

 

It would not be his last.

 

He had lived too many lives since then. Too many deaths. And with every cycle of rebirth, he always seemed to find them again—Shinyu and Jihoon. They didn’t always look the same. Their faces shifted with the passage of centuries, but the feeling remained. The pull. The familiar ache in his chest the moment their eyes met. The thread always came back, unseen by others but burning against his skin like a scar.

 

In one life, Dohoon was born a humble potter in a quiet seaside town, where storms rolled in like giants and left destruction in their wake. Jihoon was a wandering sailor with salt in his hair and a crooked grin that could make anyone feel like the only person in the room. He arrived with a caravan of traders and charmed the village in days, but it was Dohoon he couldn’t stop looking at. The thread tugged again.

 

Shinyu was different that time—silent, stoic, and bound to the temple just outside the town. He was a monk, sworn to peace, bound by vows of silence, and yet every time Dohoon walked past the temple with fresh clay on his hands, Shinyu would watch him. Not with judgment, but something far more dangerous: longing.

 

That lifetime ended beneath a storm-dark sky. The sea roared. Jihoon’s ship was accused of smuggling weapons for a rebel uprising. Shinyu’s temple burned for sheltering them. Dohoon was caught between two men, two lives, two impossible choices—and when he ran to warn Jihoon of the coming soldiers, it was already too late. The port was a graveyard of fire and metal by the time he arrived.

 

Shinyu tried to save them both, running into the inferno with robes soaked in rain. Dohoon remembered the moment their fingers brushed amid the smoke, the red thread pulling tight between them—and then Shinyu was gone, swallowed by a collapsing pier, Jihoon bleeding out in Dohoon's arms with saltwater and blood mixing beneath his head.

 

Dohoon didn’t cry that time.

 

He screamed instead.

 

In another life, he was reborn into nobility. A scholar’s son, educated in languages and diplomacy, raised to be proper, composed. Jihoon was a scribe assigned to his family’s library—quiet and clever, with ink-stained fingers and an affinity for hiding secrets in poetry. Their bond grew slowly, word by word, stanza by stanza, the red thread weaving them closer through candlelit conversations and shared books under the stars.

 

Shinyu, in that life, was a guard—assigned to Dohoon's protection when political tension with the southern provinces turned into whispered threats and growing danger. He rarely spoke, but his presence was constant, his eyes always on Dohoon, watching from the shadows like a sword waiting to be drawn.

 

One winter night, with snow falling silently outside the study, Jihoon finally touched Dohoon’s hand—soft, unsure, but charged with everything they hadn’t said. The red thread glowed faintly between their skin, and Dohoon thought, maybe this time.

 

But that thread led only to betrayal.

 

Jihoon had been feeding information to the enemy all along—not by choice, but because his family was held hostage, their lives hanging in the balance with every document he smuggled out. When the truth came out, Shinyu was the one who arrested him. Dohoon was the one who sentenced him to death.

 

And when Jihoon was led to the execution ground, he didn’t cry or beg. He simply looked at Dohoon, and said, “I never lied when I said I loved you.”

 

Shinyu carried out the sentence. His hands trembled on the sword hilt.

 

Dohoon died a year later. Poisoned. He never found out who did it. Maybe it was a grieving family member, or someone loyal to Jihoon. He didn’t care.

 

The thread had led him there, too.

 

Then came a life in a war-torn future. Metal cities and artificial air, the world falling apart from a thousand old mistakes. Dohoon was a field medic stationed in the outer districts. Jihoon was a cybernetic courier, bright-eyed and reckless, always finding a way to break into his clinic to leave smuggled medicine. Shinyu was part of the resistance. Cold. Efficient. Dangerous.

 

They shouldn't have met.

 

They should’ve stayed away from each other.

 

But the thread pulled. It always pulled.

 

They kissed in warzones. Made promises they had no power to keep. Swore this time would be different, even as the world around them cracked and burned.

 

It ended in betrayal again. Not theirs, but from the world itself. A government drone struck the shelter they were hiding in. Jihoon was crushed beneath rubble, Shinyu bled out shielding Dohoon, and Dohoon—left half-broken, half-alive—was left to scream their names into the smoke.

 

He had hoped that was the last time.

 

But it never is.

 

The thread always comes back.

 

Now, in this life, Dohoon had remembered too soon. The weight of lifetimes pressed against his ribs with every breath. The red thread hadn’t shown itself yet, not clearly—but he could feel it. That pull. That quiet ache in his pinky finger. That slow-burning knowledge that somewhere—close, too close—Jihoon and Shinyu were alive again.

 

Somewhere, they were walking toward him.

 

And fate was sharpening its blade.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Dohoon's new friend, Choi Youngjae.

Dohoon’s decisions were not made on impulse—they were rooted in memories that stretched far beyond a single lifetime. He drew from every past experience he could recall, piecing together the patterns of how Shinyu and Jihoon tended to move through life. He knew their preferences, their strengths, even the kinds of university programs that would appeal to their personalities and interests. From the way things had always unfolded between them, he was certain they would end up in the same country as him, one way or another. It was simply how fate operated in the tangled web that bound the three of them together, no matter the era or circumstance.

 

There had been a time when Dohoon tried to break away from it all. He had fled the country entirely, thinking distance could sever the invisible threads tying them together. But fate—perverse in its sense of humor—had pulled him back for the most arbitrary reason, as if mocking his attempt to escape. That was when he learned there was no true running away, only evasion. Now, all he could do was keep himself out of their orbit.

 

And if that failed—if the inevitable happened and he crossed paths with them—then his only safeguard would be distance of a different kind. No relationships. No friendships. No reason for their lives to intertwine.

 

A sigh escaped him as his gaze settled on what would be his home for the next few years. The small, modest house sat quietly at the edge of the countryside, its familiar charm softened by the overgrown garden and the fading paint. It had been passed down to his mother by his grandparents, a humble inheritance that carried the weight of family history.

 

His parents had not been pleased when he announced his intention to attend college out here. They insisted the city offered more opportunities, more prestigious programs, more doors to open. But Dohoon couldn’t tell them the real reason—the truth would sound like madness. He couldn’t say that in other lives, he had seen his own death, or theirs, again and again. That fate had a cruel streak, and that it seemed determined to destroy them the moment they found each other. That maybe, if he stayed far enough away, the cycle might finally break. And that based on what he knew of Shinyu and Jihoon, their paths in this lifetime would almost certainly take them toward the city, where the rhythm of urban life suited them best.

 

So instead, he gave them a different answer. He told them he was tired of the noise, the rush, the suffocating sameness of city streets. That he wanted open skies and fresh air, something the countryside could give him. His parents had exchanged concerned looks, the kind that silently questioned whether there was something deeper he wasn’t saying. But in the end, they let it go, accepting his choice with reluctant trust.

 

After settling into the small countryside house, Dohoon began unpacking the few belongings he had brought with him. The quiet hum of the night seeped through the thin walls, the chirping of crickets replacing the constant buzz of traffic he had known in the city. Once his clothes were neatly folded away and his desk cleared, he reached for a folder sitting at the corner. Inside were the documents he would need for his first day of college tomorrow—proof of enrollment, identification forms, schedules, and, sitting on top, the printed program he had chosen.

 

He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped when his eyes landed on the bold letters.

 

Baking and Pastry Arts.

 

He read the words out loud in a mock-serious tone, almost as if announcing a grand title to an invisible audience. “Well… I’m pretty sure neither of them will be signing up for this.” His voice carried a trace of relief, though the humor was mostly for himself.

 

Letting the papers fall to rest on his stomach, Dohoon dropped onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, springs faintly creaking as he lay back, staring at the plain white ceiling. The printed sheet still rested loosely in his hand, a small reminder of the path he had chosen—one he hoped would be far enough from theirs. Slowly, his eyelids grew heavy, but before they closed entirely, his chest tightened with a thought he could not silence.

 

“Please… let this be a good run this time. Let us live,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, almost a plea. The words weren’t meant for anyone in particular, yet they hung in the still air as though someone might hear. He was tired—tired of bleeding out in someone else’s arms, tired of watching them die in his. If stepping out of their story was the only way to change the ending, then so be it. He would gladly become a nameless figure in their lives, just to see them live freely and happily, even from a distance.

 

That night, exhaustion claimed him quickly. His breathing fell into a steady rhythm as sleep pulled him under, though his mind wandered into something strange. In the dream, he felt the gentle tug of his pinky being pulled—not by the familiar, unbreakable red string of fate he had always known, but by another pinky. The sensation was delicate, almost hesitant, and yet undeniable. The red string was nowhere to be seen, but the pull remained, firm enough to make his heart stir. He couldn’t tell who it came from, or whether it was meant to draw him closer or lead him somewhere entirely different.

 

Dohoon’s first year in college drifted by in a quiet, almost uneventful rhythm—exactly as he had hoped. If he was being honest, maybe he had even wished for this kind of stillness. In all his previous lives, the moment he turned eighteen, it was almost a guarantee: before he could even blow out the candles on his nineteenth birthday cake, he’d run into Shinyu or Jihoon. Sometimes both. It never mattered where he hid, or how careful he was—fate always found a way to throw them together.

 

But this time… nothing. Not even a glimpse of them across a busy street. Not a voice in a crowd that sounded familiar. Not even their shadows. It was the longest he had gone without a single trace of them, and to him, that was a victory worth quietly celebrating. Still, he didn’t dare let his guard down.

 

He had entered college at nineteen on purpose, shaving a year off the usual timeline fate seemed to prefer. A small, subtle rebellion. Let’s see fate try to work on a deadline for once, he had thought. Now, with his twentieth birthday just around the corner, the only person he’d managed to grow even remotely close to was the library assistant—a boy named Choi Youngjae.

 

The moment Dohoon stepped through the library’s narrow glass door that afternoon, he was greeted with a flat, unimpressed voice.

 

“You’re here again,” Youngjae said without looking up from the desk, his tone as dry as the paperbacks behind him.

 

The library itself was tiny, tucked away at the far end of campus like an afterthought. Students rarely came here unless they had to; the book selection was modest at best, and most preferred the sprawling city library. But for Dohoon, this place had its own charm. It was quiet, tucked away from curious eyes, and most importantly, it was where he could reliably find Youngjae—someone who, for reasons unknown, he enjoyed pestering.

 

Dohoon placed a hand dramatically over his heart, his expression one of exaggerated betrayal. “Ouch. That cuts deep. I know you like my company.”

 

Youngjae’s eyes flicked up, unimpressed. “Dream on.”

 

But then his gaze darted briefly around the empty space, checking the corners and aisles as if to make sure no one else was around. Once certain they were alone, he subtly lifted one hand above the desk, palm open in silent request.

 

Dohoon’s grin spread instantly. “See? I knew you liked my company.” He was already laughing as he pulled a chair closer, scraping the floor slightly before settling into the seat across from Youngjae.

 

“I like your pastries,” Youngjae corrected with a sniff, though the faintest curl of a smile betrayed him. “Not your company. There’s a difference.”

 

Dohoon, unfazed, reached into his bag and produced a small box tied with twine. “Lucky for you, I baked during class today.” He slid it across the desk, revealing a fresh batch of chocolate crinkle cookies, still faintly warm through the paper lining.

 

Youngjae’s eyes softened for just a moment, though his tone remained cool.

 

“…Touche,” Dohoon murmured in reply, though he was smiling all the while.

 

After that little exchange, they both slipped into a comfortable lull. The faint hum of the library’s old ceiling fan filled the room, joined by the quiet clacking of laptop keys. Dohoon was buried in his assignment, eyes flicking between his screen and the notes he’d scribbled earlier, while Youngjae busied himself with whatever mysterious tasks a library assistant handled. Dohoon had never asked—and honestly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to ruin the vague mystique of it all.

 

But silence could be tricky for Dohoon. If it lingered too long, it began pressing in on him, like a weight that demanded to be lifted. And in his world, there was only one sure-fire way to do that: bother the person sitting across from him.

 

“Choi Youngjae,” he said suddenly, leaning forward slightly.

 

Without looking up, Youngjae responded with a flat, “What?”

 

“When are you going to accept my request to take you out on a date?” Dohoon asked, shutting his laptop with a soft click. His eyes sparkled with mischief, knowing exactly how this question would land.

 

Youngjae froze mid-typing, his fingers hovering over the keys. Slowly, he turned to stare at Dohoon with an expression that could only be described as utter disgust. The sheer intensity of it made Dohoon burst out laughing.

 

“Dohoon,” Youngjae began, tone dry and deliberate, “you have people lining up for you. Both male and female. And you decided to aim for me—someone who has openly admitted to being on the A-spectrum?” His brows knitted, the corners of his mouth tightening in disbelief.

 

Dohoon, still grinning, rested his chin in his hand. “I did my research. Google says it just means you feel little to no romantic attraction… which means there’s still a chance.” He even added a small, hopeful pout for good measure.

 

Youngjae arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And you think you are that chance?” A pause, then a faint smirk. “Love the confidence, but no. Not you, sadly.”

 

The pout deepened, his voice softening into something almost whiny. “Don’t you want to experience those romantic scenarios you read in your novels? Or the ones you watch in all those dramas you like?”

 

Youngjae didn’t even blink. “It’s all stressful. I prefer watching from a distance.”

 

Dohoon’s grin sharpened instantly. “Ah, so you’re into voyeurism, I see—”

 

The sentence was cut off with a sharp smack to the top of his head, courtesy of Youngjae’s hand.

 

Dohoon yelped dramatically, rubbing the spot as if a fatal injury had been inflicted, while Youngjae shook his head in exasperation.

 

If anyone asked, Dohoon wouldn’t hesitate—he’d say he would absolutely date Youngjae. The boy was pretty in a way that made people do a double take, intelligent enough to keep up with Dohoon’s dry humor, and just tsundere enough that every rare flash of softness felt like a reward. But when Dohoon had casually asked him out once—half teasing, half serious—Youngjae had shut it down without a shred of hesitation.

 

Youngjae, in his perfectly blunt fashion, had told him that yes, he found Dohoon physically attractive, but no, he didn’t date. The very concept was repulsive to him—being tied down, needing to accommodate someone else’s needs, having to compromise. He painted a very clear picture: a quiet, secluded home somewhere far away, pets lounging in sunbeams, and no other humans in sight. Dying alone didn’t scare him; in fact, it sounded blissful.

 

That answer had been enough for Dohoon to drop the idea completely. He accepted the friendship Youngjae was willing to offer—and, honestly, it was a good deal. Their interactions were easy, comfortable, and just the right amount of ridiculous. They’d greet each other whenever they crossed paths—whether in the hallways or outside campus—and sometimes they’d hang out, watching movies and mercilessly criticizing characters who failed to run when the creepy music started playing. They’d binge romcom dramas and unanimously agree, without fail, that the second lead deserved better.

 

Their conversations weren’t always deep, but they were never dull. Dohoon found himself looking forward to them in a way that was purely platonic… or at least, he told himself it was.

 

One night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, Dohoon wondered idly if Youngjae had ever been part of his past lifetimes. He doubted it—he usually remembered the faces that left an impact, and Youngjae had never appeared in those memories. His mind always circled back to the same two people—his soulmates, Shinyu and Jihoon. The thought was enough to make him roll over and bury himself in his blankets, chasing sleep before his mind went somewhere darker.

 

And so, without warning, his twentieth birthday came and went—still no trace of Shinyu or Jihoon.

 

“You’re stupid. You didn’t even tell me your birthday already passed!” Youngjae scolded one afternoon as they made their way through the second year. They had ended up in the same building thanks to a shared prerequisite class, which Dohoon was fairly certain he would sleep through.

 

“It was in January,” Dohoon replied with a shrug. “I don’t really celebrate. I slept.”

 

“Still? I could’ve—”

 

“Are you about to offer me a late birthday present?” Dohoon interrupted, tilting his head with mock innocence, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his real motive.

 

Youngjae, for once, seemed to consider it. “…I’ll see. Wait—that reminds me. Did your red thread show up? I got none.”

 

In this lifetime, the appearance of a red thread was rare. It would reveal itself to a small percentage of people once they turned eighteen, and there was a much higher chance that you’d see nothing at all.

 

“I got none too,” Dohoon said. It was the first time he’d admitted it aloud, and though he tried to keep his tone neutral, a tiny ache settled in his chest. He had spent countless lifetimes wanting to cut the cursed thing, but now that it was absent, he couldn’t help but feel… empty.

 

“Oh? Not disappointed? I’ve seen you read those red thread books before,” Youngjae said, eyeing him curiously. “I thought you’d be thrilled if yours appeared.”

 

“Nah,” Dohoon chuckled, shaking his head. “If anything, I’ve been researching ways to cut it.” He paused as they stopped outside their classroom. “Soulmates sound romantic in theory, but in reality? It’s suffocating. Pressuring.”

 

Youngjae hummed in agreement, pushing open the door.

 

For a while, things were perfect. No red thread. No Shinyu. No Jihoon. Dohoon let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—fate had given up its cruel game, finally letting them live separately. It was the life he wanted.

 

But that illusion shattered in an instant.

 

Halfway through a lecture, while scribbling notes in his notebook, Dohoon felt it—a faint tug on his pinky. At first, he ignored it, assuming it was a muscle twitch. Then it happened again. And again. The sensation was too deliberate to be random.

 

The classroom door creaked open, and the professor’s voice immediately cut through the room, sharp and disapproving.

 

“Late. On the first day of class, no less,” he scolded, arms crossing as he fixed a stern glare at the newcomers. “Take your seats quickly, and pray I’m in a forgiving mood today.”

 

Dohoon’s head began to turn, but he was interrupted by Youngjae’s quiet gasp beside him. His eyes dropped to his own hand. The tug was back—insistent this time—and when he looked down, a thin red thread shimmered faintly against his skin. His stomach dropped.

 

The air in the room seemed to tighten as he slowly lifted his gaze to the late arrivals standing at the door.

 

Two pairs of eyes were already locked on him, but before Dohoon could even let his mind spiral into all the worst-case scenarios, Youngjae’s elbow jabbed lightly into his side. He leaned in, voice dropping into an excited half-whisper that carried the same energy as someone spilling scandalous campus gossip.

 

“It’s them! Remember when I told you I saw a male student kiss another male student on the head while they were sleeping in the library? It’s them!”

 

Dohoon’s grip on his pen tightened until it nearly snapped. His vision tunneled on the faint red thread pulling at his pinky, the sensation tugging again and again, sharper now, like it knew exactly how to drag him back into a nightmare he’d been trying to outrun.

 

“Dohoon?” Youngjae’s voice cut in, casual and unbothered, completely unaware that the man next to him was seconds away from short-circuiting.

 

“Y-yeah. Library… kiss… sure. Great,” Dohoon muttered, forcing his gaze back to his notebook as if he could will the whole situation out of existence.

 

But the thread was relentless. And when the two late arrivals began walking down the aisle toward the empty seats, their gazes didn’t flicker, didn’t waver—just stayed pinned on him, step after step.

 

“Why is that taller guy looking at us like that? I know he asked me not to tell, but I only told you about this,” Youngjae muttered, his tone somewhere between conspiratorial and smug, as if he were holding the juiciest secret in the building.

 

Dohoon’s pulse spiked, though not for the reason Youngjae thought. He couldn’t even bring himself to correct him—that the stares had nothing to do with Youngjae’s whispered gossip and everything to do with the invisible red thread currently tying itself like a noose around Dohoon’s peace of mind.

 

“Just—just ignore them,” Dohoon managed, forcing his gaze down to his notes. His handwriting, once neat, now looked like the frantic scribbles of someone trying to pass a note to the Grim Reaper.

 

Youngjae, unbothered, kept watching as the two newcomers moved toward their seats. His eyes narrowed like a detective piecing together clues in a k-drama. “Do you think they’re together?” he asked, curiosity dripping from every word.

 

Dohoon didn’t look up, but his grip on the pen tightened. God, I hope so. If Shinyu and Jihoon were already dating, maybe—just maybe—they’d be too wrapped up in each other to even notice him. He could be nothing more than a blurry background character in their story, someone they’d pass in the hallway without a second glance.

 

But with the way the red thread pulsed against his pinky, tugging like a stubborn child demanding attention, Dohoon already knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

 

Notes:

took me some time to post this.
I GOT HELLA DISTRACTED. sawrry.
next chapter, we'll switch to shinyu and/or jihoon's pov.

Chapter 3

Summary:

Jihoon never expected a quiet countryside boy like Shinyu to turn his world upside down, yet somehow their days together began to feel like something he couldn’t imagine losing. What unsettled him most, however, were the dreams he kept having—dreams that mirrored Shinyu’s own, filled with the two of them and a third figure, always ending in tragedy.

It wasn’t that Jihoon didn’t want to see his grandma in the countryside. He adored her, really—her warm hugs, the way she always remembered his favorite snacks, and the way she called him “our Jihoonie” like he was still five. The problem was something else entirely: Jihoon had no idea how he was supposed to survive living away from the city.

 

He was, after all, a boy born and raised among the noise of buses and the glow of neon signs. His sneakers were used to paved sidewalks, not muddy fields. His evenings belonged to dance studios with mirrored walls, not quiet porches where only the sound of crickets kept you company. And yet, one evening, as he sat at the dinner table with his family, his parents gave him a request that made his chopsticks pause halfway to his mouth.

 

“Jihoon-ah,” his mom began carefully, reaching across the table as if bracing him for impact. “It’s not permanent.”

 

His sister, sitting across from him, wore the same guilty expression as their mother, as if they had rehearsed it together beforehand. Jihoon narrowed his eyes at both of them, already suspicious.

 

“We just… can’t leave the city right now,” his mom continued. “Work won’t allow it. But your grandma isn’t feeling well. She needs someone with her for a while. And we thought…” She trailed off, squeezing Jihoon’s hand gently.

 

Before he could protest, his sister quickly jumped in, her voice too cheerful to be natural. “Hey, don’t look so glum. Your favorite little cousins will be there! Hanjin and Kyungmin, remember? They’ll love having you around!”

 

At the mention of the two, Jihoon’s shoulders relaxed just a bit. He did have a soft spot for those cousins—one always clung to him like a puppy, and the other made him laugh with her odd little observations about the world. But still…

 

“A year, Jihoonie. That’s all.” His mom leaned forward, as though willing him to understand. “Just until we can save up enough to hire a helper. Then you’ll be free to come back. Please?”

 

Jihoon’s mind buzzed with excuses. He wanted to say yes immediately—because it was Grandma, and because saying no felt impossible—but then reality barged in. “What about my school?” he blurted. His voice came out more desperate than he expected.

 

He was in his last year of high school. Graduation was just within reach, something he’d worked so hard for. Not to mention his dance classes, the highlight of his weeks. How could he just… pause everything?

 

But his mom smiled, as though she had been expecting this. “Don’t worry. You can still study there. The town’s small, so the school should be close to your grandma’s house. It won’t be the same as your dance classes here, I know, but… you’ll manage. You’re strong, Jihoonie.”

 

Han Jihoon was, in fact, someone with too much love to give. And when it came to his grandma, his heart softened instantly. Even if it meant sacrificing his classes, even if it meant trading city lights for fireflies, he found himself nodding. It wasn’t forever, after all. Just one year. He could endure one year.

 

Or so he thought.

 

Because when that year passed, and Jihoon stood in his graduation gown with his diploma in hand, he looked at his mother with bright, certain eyes. “Don’t hire a helper,” he told her firmly. “Save the money. I’ll take care of Grandma.”

 

His mother and father blinked at him, stunned, before relief washed over his mother's face. She hugged him tightly, unable to hide her gratitude. She didn’t quite understand why he wanted to stay, but she didn’t question it either.

 

Maybe Jihoon just loved his grandma that much. Maybe, against all odds, the countryside had begun to grow on him.

 

Or maybe…

 

“Jihoon! Earth to Han Jihoon. Hello?”

 

The sound of a voice jolted him out of his thoughts, pulling him away from the gentle swirl of memories of when he was in high school.

 

Shin Junghwan. That was his name, though most people in town called him Shinyu. Born and raised in the countryside, he had that quiet sort of presence that seemed to blend in with the fields and orchards. When Jihoon first stumbled across him, though, he didn’t immediately think ‘country boy’.

 

Jihoon had been wandering around the little town one lazy afternoon, trying to soak in this new rhythm of life. The people around him moved so differently compared to the city—farmers bent low over rice paddies, sleeves rolled up, voices carrying easily through the open air. He paused here and there, waving awkwardly at grandmas tending to rows of vegetables, bowing back to farmers who greeted him kindly. And then, in the middle of all this, his eyes landed on someone who stood out.

 

A tall boy with broad shoulders was reaching up into the branches of an apple tree, plucking the bright fruits and lowering them gently into a wooden box. There was an ease in the way he moved, a steady confidence that came from years of practice. Jihoon leaned against the fence for a moment, curious. He thought maybe the boy was just like him—a city kid thrown into the countryside against his will. But the way he laughed when he handed the full box to the older man beside him (later Jihoon would learn that was his father) made it clear he belonged there.

 

Still, Jihoon couldn’t stop staring. Because while his hands worked like someone born to the soil, his face… his face looked more like it belonged on the cover of a magazine than under the summer sun.

 

That curiosity lingered with Jihoon until the day he stepped into his new school. The town’s high school was small—everyone seemed to know everyone else. And that’s when he spotted him again, sitting quietly in the classroom. The same tall boy, now in uniform, trying to shrink into the background while whispers traveled from desk to desk, most of them seemingly adoring the boy's looks. Shinyu, that’s him, according to the whispers around him.

 

Jihoon didn’t hesitate.

 

“Hey!” he called, a little louder than he intended. The boy startled, eyes snapping up, almost dropping the pencil in his hand.

 

Jihoon smiled brightly, sliding closer. “I’m new here. Han Jihoon. I saw you at the farm last week!”

 

The boy blinked at him. Once. Twice. His ears, Jihoon noticed with delight, began to tint a deep shade of red. Shinyu shifted in his seat, glancing left and right as if to make sure Jihoon wasn’t actually talking to someone else. Only when their eyes met again did he stammer, “I—I…”

 

Jihoon leaned in, undeterred. “Shinyu, right? Heard your name floating around. Pretty popular guy.” His grin turned teasing. “Figures. You’re quite the pretty boy.”

 

That did it—the red in Shinyu’s ears spread all the way down to his neck. Jihoon had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

 

“I’m not popular,” Shinyu mumbled, barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on his desk. After a small pause, he added awkwardly, “And… uh… welcome?”

 

Jihoon tilted his head, then burst into a grin. He slid into the empty seat right beside Shinyu, ignoring the curious stares from their classmates.

 

“So,” Jihoon began, resting his chin in his hand, “what do you do when you’re not in school? Anything fun to do around here?”

 

Shinyu shook his head quickly, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “I help my dad whenever I’m free.”

 

Jihoon nodded thoughtfully, as if that was the most normal answer in the world. “Okay… favorite plant then?”

 

At first, he thought the boy would brush the question off the same way. But something shifted. Shinyu’s eyes softened, and then, almost like a spark catching fire, they lit up.

 

“Strawberries,” he said, the word carrying more warmth than anything he had said so far. “I… I have a small patch in the back. Been growing them since I was little. They’re delicate, but if you take care of them right…” His words tumbled out, his hands starting to gesture as though he couldn’t contain his excitement.

 

Jihoon leaned closer, watching the shy boy transform before his eyes. His heart gave a little squeeze at how cute it was.

 

He found himself staring more at Shinyu’s face than at the words spilling from his lips. It wasn’t the strawberry talk itself—though admittedly, the way Shinyu described watering schedules and soil conditions with such earnestness was kind of impressive—it was the way his whole demeanor shifted.

 

Just minutes ago, the boy could barely string together a proper sentence. Now, his hands were moving as he spoke, as though his passion was too big to stay contained inside him. His voice, still soft, carried a certain rhythm that reminded Jihoon of warm afternoons and gentle breezes.

 

He almost didn’t realize he was smiling until Shinyu suddenly stopped, blinking nervously. “Sorry. I… I talk too much when it’s about that stuff.” His fingers fidgeted with his pencil, and his ears flushed red again.

 

Jihoon shook his head quickly, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated ease. “No, no. Don’t be sorry. I like it.” He meant it too, though he decided not to add that part where he also liked watching the little crinkle of Shinyu’s nose when he got excited.

 

Shinyu ducked his head, muttering something Jihoon couldn’t quite catch, and the classroom noise filled the silence again. Still, Jihoon felt oddly… light. It was rare for him to feel this kind of curiosity about someone—not just about what they liked, but about what else made their eyes light up like that.

 

From that day onward, Jihoon started gravitating toward Shinyu without even realizing it. During breaks, he would plop into the seat beside him, chatting away while Shinyu listened with quiet patience. Sometimes, he’d catch Shinyu sneaking glances at him, then quickly looking away when their eyes met. And sometimes, when Shinyu thought no one was paying attention, Jihoon would notice the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

They weren’t friends in the loud, obvious way. Their bond grew quietly, like how seeds sprout beneath the soil before anyone notices the green.

 

One afternoon, Jihoon convinced Shinyu to walk home together. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The dirt road stretched long before them, lined with fields that shimmered in the late light. Jihoon kicked at a pebble while talking about life in the city—the neon lights, the crowded trains, the street food stalls open until dawn.

 

Shinyu listened intently, his steps steady and unhurried. “It sounds… busy,” he said after a while, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

 

“It is,” Jihoon admitted. “Sometimes too busy. But it’s exciting, you know? There’s always something happening.” He tilted his head toward Shinyu, grinning. “Though honestly, I didn’t expect to find anything exciting here.”

 

Shinyu glanced at him then, just for a moment, before quickly turning his eyes back to the road. His ears betrayed him again, glowing red beneath his dark hair. Jihoon pretended not to notice, but inside, something warm curled in his chest.

 

As they reached the fork in the road where they had to part ways, Jihoon found himself reluctant to say goodbye. He lingered, rocking back and forth on his heels, searching for something—anything—to stretch the moment a little longer.

 

“Hey,” he said finally, with a little laugh to mask his nervousness. “Maybe one day you can show me those strawberries of yours. I’ve never seen a strawberry patch up close.”

 

Shinyu hesitated, lips parting as though unsure how to respond. Then, with a small nod, he said softly, “Okay.”

 

It wasn’t much. Just a single word. But Jihoon walked the rest of the way home with a smile that wouldn’t leave his face.

 

Six months had passed since Jihoon first called out to the shy boy in class. Time, he realized, had a funny way of smoothing over distance between people. Somewhere between shared lunches, group projects, and walks home beneath the fading light, Jihoon had stopped thinking of Shinyu as the “quiet country boy” and started thinking of him simply as Shinyu.

 

And he wasn’t all that quiet anymore.

 

Jihoon discovered, to his delight, that once Shinyu grew comfortable with someone, the silence cracked open like a shell, revealing something unexpected inside. He wasn’t loud in the way Jihoon was—no sharp bursts of laughter across the classroom or booming voice that carried down hallways—but Shinyu could chatter when he wanted to. He’d go on and on about the best planting seasons, or how certain bugs were secretly more helpful than harmful, or even how Jihoon was using his chopsticks wrong.

 

“No, like this. You’re going to drop your food at this rate—here, let me show you.”

 

It was the kind of noisiness that felt warm, like a steady hum in the background. Jihoon often caught himself smiling at it, listening to the way Shinyu’s voice softened when he spoke about his family. He learned that Shinyu had two older sisters, both working in the city. That left him as the only son at home, living with just his mom and dad, helping out more than most kids his age would ever have to.

 

“Don’t you get tired?” Jihoon had asked once, after Shinyu listed all the chores he helped with on weekends.

 

Shinyu just shrugged, the corners of his lips quirking up. “Not really. It’s… normal.”

 

And Jihoon, watching the boy’s profile against the glow of a late afternoon sun, realized that “normal” for Shinyu had become something Jihoon wanted to know more about.

 

Which was how, on one breezy Saturday, Jihoon finally found himself standing in front of Shinyu’s strawberry patch.

 

It wasn’t anything grand—just a modest section behind the house, fenced off neatly, rows of strawberry plants lining the soil in tidy green stripes. But to Shinyu, it might as well have been a treasure chest. He crouched down immediately, brushing the leaves aside to show Jihoon the tiny white blossoms and the faint blush of ripening fruit.

 

“See? These ones will be ready soon,” Shinyu said, his voice carrying a pride that made Jihoon’s chest squeeze. “Strawberries are stubborn sometimes. Too much water and they sulk, too little and they shrivel. But when they turn out right, it feels worth it.”

 

Jihoon bent down beside him, the earthy scent of the soil filling his nose. He reached out, careful not to touch the fruit, just observing the delicate way the strawberries clung to the plant. “They look… fragile,” he murmured.

 

“They are,” Shinyu agreed, glancing sideways at him. “But they’re stronger than you think.”

 

For a moment, Jihoon almost forgot he was talking about strawberries. There was something in Shinyu’s gaze, steady and gentle, that made the world around them blur at the edges. Jihoon had to look away first, pretending to inspect the nearest plant, though his ears felt a little too warm.

 

They stayed like that for a while—Shinyu showing him how to check the soil, explaining how the blossoms would turn into fruit, even laughing as he scolded Jihoon for nearly stepping too close to a delicate sprout. The laughter startled Jihoon at first—it was unrestrained, boyish, so different from the quiet version of Shinyu he’d met six months ago.

 

And Jihoon realized then that he liked this version better. The one who laughed freely, who babbled about plants without fear of being boring, who let his guard down enough to reveal more than just polite nods and whispered welcomes.

 

When the sun dipped lower, casting the patch in a golden haze, Jihoon leaned back on his hands and looked at Shinyu, who was still fussing with a plant, carefully moving its leaves.

 

“You really like this, huh?” Jihoon said softly, almost more to himself than to Shinyu.

 

Shinyu glanced up, smiling in that quiet way of his. “Yeah. I do.”

 

Jihoon didn’t say anything after that. He didn’t need to. The warmth of the moment wrapped around them like a blanket, and in the soft glow of the countryside evening, Jihoon thought—just maybe—that this place wasn’t so hard to survive after all.

 

Since that afternoon at the strawberry patch, Jihoon found himself at Shinyu’s house more often than he ever expected. What started as a casual visit had somehow turned into routine. Some days, he’d help water the plants, mostly clumsy but always eager. Other days, he’d sit in the shade while Shinyu worked beside him, listening to the boy talk about whatever was on his mind.

 

And Shinyu talked a lot more now.

 

It surprised Jihoon how noisy he could be when the shyness melted away. He’d ramble about silly arguments he had with his dad over planting methods, or share stories of when his sisters used to tease him before they left for the city. He’d even complain, in that low grumbly voice, about classmates who didn’t return books to the library on time.

 

“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be this chatty,” Jihoon teased one afternoon, leaning against the fence as Shinyu tugged at weeds.

 

Shinyu shot him a look, though his lips twitched. “I’m not chatty. I just… talk to you.”

 

Jihoon felt something flutter in his chest at the simple honesty of that. He pretended to brush dirt from his pants so Shinyu wouldn’t notice the small smile tugging at his face.

 

It was during one of those ordinary afternoons, when the cicadas hummed lazily in the trees and the air smelled faintly of strawberries, that Jihoon found himself blurting out a question that had been sitting at the back of his mind for a while.

 

“Hey, Shinyu,” Jihoon began, his voice casual though his fingers toyed with the edge of the fence. “When you turned eighteen, did the red string of fate show up?”

 

Shinyu blinked, taken aback. He sat up straighter, brushing dirt from his hands. “My… red string?”

 

“Yeah.” Jihoon lifted his pinky, wiggling it slightly. “You know, the whole ‘it’ll appear on your eighteenth birthday’ thing to some. Connecting you to your destined person, or whatever. Didn’t it happen?”

 

A faint crease formed between Shinyu’s brows. He glanced down at his own hand, flexing his pinky almost unconsciously. “No. Nothing showed up.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

 

Jihoon let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Same here. I woke up that morning, half curious and half terrified, but… nothing. I thought maybe it was just me.”

 

Shinyu tilted his head. “You were nervous too?”

 

“Of course I was,” Jihoon admitted, chuckling. “It’s like this big, dramatic promise everyone keeps talking about your whole life, and then—bam—you wake up and… nothing. I spent the whole day staring at my finger, thinking maybe I was just too blind to see it.”

 

The corners of Shinyu’s mouth lifted into a small smile. “I thought the same thing. I even asked my mom if she saw anything. She just laughed at me and said it's not for everyone.”

 

Their eyes met then, and for a brief moment, Jihoon felt the air thicken between them—not heavy, just… charged. Like the pause between one note of music and the next. He quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the strawberry plants instead.

 

“Well,” Jihoon said lightly, though his voice was softer than usual, “guess we’re part of the “not everyone”.”

 

“Guess so,” Shinyu echoed, his gaze lingering on Jihoon a little longer than necessary before he bent back down to the plants.

 

The conversation drifted to other things after that—harvest schedules, school gossip, even Jihoon’s terrible handwriting—but the thought of the missing strings lingered in the quiet corners of Jihoon’s mind. He couldn’t explain why, but somehow… it didn’t bother him as much anymore.

 

The first time Jihoon brought Shinyu to his grandmother’s house, the air smelled of dried herbs and simmering soup. His grandma had insisted on cooking something simple that morning despite Jihoon’s protests. She always said the act of cooking made her feel useful, even when her body moved slower than it used to.

 

Shinyu lingered nervously by the doorway, his hands clasped in front of him like a child about to meet a teacher. Jihoon had to tug lightly at his wrist, whispering, “Relax. She doesn’t bite,” before guiding him inside.

 

“Grandma, this is Shin Junghwan. Or… Shinyu, like everyone calls him.”

 

The old woman turned her head from where she sat by the low table, her eyes lighting up immediately. “Ah, so this is the boy Jihoonie keeps talking about.”

 

Jihoon’s ears went hot. “Grandma!” he hissed, though his grandma only chuckled into her sleeve.

 

Shinyu bowed low, his voice soft but steady. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

 

“Sit, sit.” She patted the cushion beside her, her wrinkled hands steady despite the tremor in her joints. “Don’t just stand there, you’ll wear out the floor.”

 

Shinyu obeyed quickly, folding his long legs beneath him. Jihoon sat nearby, watching as his grandma reached over to place a hand on Shinyu’s arm. “So polite. And tall! You must be a great help to your parents.”

 

Shinyu’s ears flushed pink, a sight Jihoon had grown fond of. “I do what I can. My dad… well, there’s always work to be done.”

 

“That’s good,” Grandma said approvingly, her gaze sharp but kind. “A boy who doesn’t mind working hard will always be dependable.” She glanced at Jihoon then, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Not like some people I know, who used to complain about carrying even one basket of laundry.”

 

“Grandma!” Jihoon groaned, burying his face in his hands. Shinyu laughed quietly beside him, the sound like a bell ringing in a quiet room.

 

They spent the afternoon together, the three of them, in a way that felt oddly natural. Shinyu helped refill Grandma’s teacup without being asked, and she quizzed him about his sisters, about the town gossip, about his favorite food. Jihoon watched the exchange with a strange tightness in his chest, realizing how easily Shinyu fit into the small space that was his grandmother’s world.

 

At one point, Grandma leaned back with a sigh, her eyes crinkling. “You know, Jihoonie, I like this friend of yours. He’s gentle.”

 

Jihoon caught Shinyu’s eye and they both laughed, embarrassed but happy.

 

Eventually, Shinyu excused himself, saying his father needed him back at the farm before evening. He bowed politely once more to Grandma, promised to visit again if she would allow it, and gave Jihoon a small wave before slipping out the door.

 

The house felt quieter after he left, the fading sound of cicadas outside filling the space where his voice had been. Jihoon began clearing the teacups, but his grandmother’s voice stopped him.

 

“Jihoonie. Sit down for a moment.”

 

He hesitated, then obeyed, folding himself onto the cushion where Shinyu had sat earlier. His grandmother’s eyes studied him closely, the same way they used to when he was younger and tried to hide his scraped knees.

 

“You like that boy,” she said gently, no trace of teasing this time. Just calm certainty.

 

Jihoon opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. He stared at his hands in his lap, his face warming. “Grandma…”

 

“It’s written all over you,” she continued softly. “The way you look at him. The way your voice changes when you talk about him. A grandmother notices these things.”

 

Jihoon stayed quiet, chewing on his lower lip. He wanted to argue, but deep down he knew she was right. Shinyu’s laughter had lodged itself in his chest, his quiet chatter had filled the quiet parts of Jihoon’s days. It wasn’t just friendship anymore, though he didn’t know how to name it aloud.

 

His grandma reached out, laying her cool hand over his. “I’m happy, Jihoonie. Happy that you found someone who makes your heart warm.”

 

But then, her expression turned thoughtful, the lines on her forehead deepening. “Still, I worry for you. You’ll graduate soon. And when that day comes, you’ll return to the city, won’t you? Your life is there, your future is there. What will happen then, when you have to leave this countryside behind?”

 

Jihoon’s chest tightened. He had thought of it, of course. Sometimes late at night when the house was too quiet, he imagined what it would be like to walk these roads without Shinyu by his side. The thought left a hollow ache that he quickly shoved away.

 

“I don’t know,” Jihoon admitted finally, his voice low. “I really… don’t know.”

 

His grandmother gave his hand a squeeze. “Then think about it, Jihoonie. Think carefully. Because hearts are tender things. Yours, his… both. I don’t want either of you hurting more than necessary.”

 

Jihoon nodded slowly, though his gaze remained fixed on the floor. His grandma said nothing more, only gave his hand one last gentle pat before rising to tidy up the table.

 

And Jihoon, sitting there in the quiet house that smelled faintly of strawberries and tea, felt the weight of her words settle deep inside him.

 

---

 

Jihoon hadn’t realized when it started to happen. Maybe it was the day Shinyu showed up at his grandma’s gate with a basket of fresh eggs and a shy smile, saying, “Dad told me to share these,” even though Jihoon knew full well that Shinyu could have left them at the door and gone straight home. Or maybe it was the morning Shinyu dragged him out of bed before sunrise just to watch the fog roll across the rice fields, laughing at how Jihoon stumbled sleepily through the dirt path like a zombie.

 

Whatever the reason, little by little, Jihoon found himself being pulled into Shinyu’s everyday rhythm.

 

“Hold this steady,” Shinyu said one afternoon, thrusting a wooden crate into Jihoon’s arms. They were out in the orchard, the cicadas shrilling in the summer heat.

 

Jihoon blinked at the weight of the box. “What’s in this thing? Rocks?”

 

“Apples,” Shinyu replied simply, already climbing the ladder leaned against a tree.

 

Jihoon craned his neck, watching the boy’s long limbs stretch easily as he plucked fruit from the branches. “Why am I the box holder? Shouldn’t I get the glamorous job of apple picker?”

 

Shinyu shot him a look from above, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll drop them.”

 

“I will not—”

 

“You almost tripped over your own shoelace five minutes ago.”

 

Jihoon scowled, hugging the box closer to his chest. “That was one time.”

 

Shinyu chuckled, the sound floating down through the branches. “You’d bruise all the apples before they even got to market.”

 

“Fine,” Jihoon muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. He pretended to be offended, but the truth was he liked hearing Shinyu laugh at him.

 

When the box grew too heavy, Shinyu climbed down and easily took it from his arms, carrying it as though it weighed nothing. Jihoon followed, panting dramatically. “I swear you’re trying to make me the weak city boy stereotype.”

 

Shinyu grinned, that rare, full grin that made Jihoon’s stomach twist unexpectedly. “I don’t have to try.”

 

Jihoon nearly tripped over a root just then, which only made Shinyu laugh harder.

 

Later that evening, after helping Shinyu’s mom prepare vegetables for dinner, Jihoon sat cross-legged on the porch while Shinyu fiddled with something small in his hands.

 

“What’s that?” Jihoon leaned closer, squinting.

 

Shinyu held up a tiny woven charm made of dried grass. “A grasshopper. My sisters taught me how to make them when we were kids.”

 

Jihoon tilted his head, watching the clumsy little figure take shape between Shinyu’s fingers. “That looks… absolutely terrifying.”

 

Shinyu scoffed. “It’s not supposed to be terrifying. It’s cute.”

 

“Cute is a generous word.” Jihoon leaned back with a grin. “If you gave that thing to a real grasshopper, it would probably sue you for defamation.”

 

Shinyu tried to hide his laugh, shoulders shaking. “Shut up.” He flicked the finished figure lightly at Jihoon, who caught it with exaggerated care, as though it were priceless.

 

“Wow, my very own monster bug. Thanks, Shinyu. I’ll treasure it forever.” Jihoon tucked it dramatically into his pocket, making Shinyu roll his eyes.

 

It was moments like this—ridiculous, ordinary moments—that chipped away at Jihoon’s careful distance. He told himself he was just being a good friend, just making the most of his time here. But the truth was, every day seemed to weave Shinyu deeper into his routine. Every laugh, every shared chore, every quiet walk home left threads tangled around Jihoon’s heart, pulling him closer without him realizing until it was too late.

 

One night, as they walked back from the fields, the sky above them spilled over with stars, brighter than Jihoon had ever seen in the city. Shinyu pointed out constellations, his finger tracing lines in the air. Jihoon, who had never cared for stargazing before, found himself hanging on to every word.

 

“See that one? That’s Vega,” Shinyu explained, his voice soft, almost reverent. “My sisters and I used to make up stories about her. They said she was a princess who fell in love with someone she could only see once a year.”

 

Jihoon tilted his head, studying Shinyu’s profile illuminated by starlight. “Sounds kind of lonely.”

 

“Maybe,” Shinyu said, lowering his hand. “But also… maybe that made their one meeting feel more special.”

 

Jihoon didn’t answer right away. He only watched as Shinyu’s gaze lingered on the sky, his expression unguarded in a way that made Jihoon’s chest tighten.

 

He wanted to say something—anything—to bridge the silence. But instead, he kicked at the dirt path and muttered, “You and your dramatic star stories.”

 

Shinyu laughed quietly, bumping Jihoon’s shoulder with his own. “You asked.”

 

And Jihoon, despite the ache curling in his chest, couldn’t stop smiling.

 

Jihoon’s grandma had always been sharp-eyed, even as her health kept her seated more often than standing. Nothing slipped past her—not the way Jihoon tried to hide extra snacks in his room, not the nights he returned home a little later than usual, and certainly not the way his footsteps seemed to carry a lighter rhythm these days.

 

One evening, as Jihoon came back from yet another day spent at the orchard with Shinyu, he found his grandmother waiting by the porch. She was wrapped in her shawl, rocking slowly on the old wooden chair that creaked with each sway.

 

“You’re late again,” she said, her voice calm but knowing.

 

Jihoon scratched at his cheek sheepishly. “We were finishing up some chores at Shinyu’s farm. I didn’t notice the time.”

 

His grandma’s lips curved into a smile, faint but teasing. “Lately, you never notice the time when you’re with that boy.”

 

Jihoon groaned, dropping his school bag by the door. “Grandma, not you too.”

 

But she only chuckled, patting the seat beside her. Jihoon obeyed, plopping down with a sigh as the night air wrapped around them. Fireflies blinked lazily in the fields beyond, and the scent of damp earth still clung to Jihoon’s clothes.

 

“You really like that boy, huh?” she said after a while, her tone softer now. “I see it every time you come home. You look tired, yes, but also… happier. Livelier. Like you’ve found something here you didn’t expect.”

 

Jihoon didn’t deny it. He rested his chin on his hand, staring out at the darkened road. “He’s… different. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not just that he’s nice, or that he helps out all the time. He makes everything feel lighter. Even chores. Even long, boring days.” He laughed under his breath, remembering Shinyu’s dramatic scolding about stepping too close to the strawberry plants. “I didn’t think I’d actually enjoy living here, but…” His voice trailed off.

 

“But now you can’t imagine it without him,” Grandma finished gently.

 

Jihoon turned to her, startled. She smiled knowingly, though her eyes carried a trace of worry. “Jihoonie, you forget I’ve lived a long time. I know what it looks like when someone becomes the center of your days.”

 

Jihoon swallowed, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. She was right. Every morning, his first thought was what excuse he could make to see Shinyu. Every night, he replayed their conversations until sleep pulled him under. The farm, the fields, even the tiny town—none of it felt dull anymore because Shinyu was threaded through it all.

 

But that thought collided with another one that had been gnawing at him. Graduation was only a few weeks away. After that, the expectation was clear: he would return to the city. Back to neon lights, crowded streets, and his old life.

 

Jihoon leaned back, staring up at the night sky. “Grandma… what happens when I leave?”

 

The question slipped out before he could stop it. His voice was quiet, but heavy.

 

His grandmother sighed, her gaze drifting to the horizon. “That’s what I’ve been worried about, Jihoonie. You’ve built something here, something soft and precious. But the city is waiting for you, and so is your future. You can’t be in both places at once.”

 

Jihoon felt his chest tighten, the weight of her words pressing down. He had thought about it often these past weeks—on the walk home from school, in the middle of laughing with Shinyu, even when standing in the strawberry patch watching the fruit ripen under the sun. The closer graduation crept, the heavier the thought became.

 

He didn’t answer his grandmother right away. Instead, he watched as a firefly floated past, its light flickering before disappearing into the tall grass. His heart ached in a way he couldn’t name, torn between two worlds that seemed impossible to stitch together.

 

His grandma gave his hand a gentle squeeze, her voice kind but steady. “You still have time to think. Don’t rush. But don’t ignore it either. Whatever choice you make, make sure it’s one your heart can live with.”

 

Jihoon nodded faintly, though his throat felt tight. He leaned his head against her shoulder, and she stroked his hair like she used to when he was a boy. For a little while, they sat together in the quiet night, Jihoon’s thoughts swirling restlessly.

 

And even though he didn’t say it aloud, he already knew—his time was running out.

 

The weeks before graduation seemed to blur together, every day ticking down faster than Jihoon wanted. He found himself lingering longer at the orchard, inventing reasons to stay past sundown, his schoolbooks often left forgotten at the edge of the fence while Shinyu worked beside him.

 

One late afternoon, the two of them were sitting under the shade of a tree at the edge of the strawberry patch. The air was still warm, but the sky had begun to soften into hues of peach and lavender. Jihoon stretched out on the grass, folding his arms behind his head, while Shinyu sat cross-legged nearby, carefully sorting through a small basket of strawberries they had picked.

 

“You’re so serious about those,” Jihoon teased, watching how Shinyu inspected each berry like it was a priceless gem. “It’s just fruit, you know.”

 

Shinyu raised an eyebrow without looking up. “They’re not just fruit. These are the ones my mom will use for jam. If I bring her bruised strawberries, she’ll scold me all week.”

 

Jihoon laughed, rolling onto his side to face him. “You’d survive. I think you secretly like getting scolded. Gives you an excuse to pout.”

 

Shinyu’s ears reddened, and he flicked a small, imperfect berry at Jihoon. It bounced off Jihoon’s shirt before rolling into the grass. “You talk too much.”

 

“And yet, you keep listening,” Jihoon said, grinning.

 

Shinyu muttered something under his breath but didn’t deny it. Jihoon propped his chin on his hand, studying the boy in front of him. Six months ago, he would have never imagined Shinyu like this—relaxed, chattering, occasionally even playful. The quiet, shy boy he’d first met in school had blossomed into someone brighter, noisier, and endlessly endearing.

 

“What are you staring at?” Shinyu asked, finally glancing up. His cheeks were already tinged pink, as if he had guessed the answer.

 

Jihoon smirked, leaning closer. “Just thinking how different you are now. You used to barely say a word to me, remember?”

 

Shinyu ducked his head, fiddling with a leaf attached to one of the strawberries. “That’s because you’re loud. And you kept teasing me.”

 

“Correction,” Jihoon said, grinning wider. “I still tease you. But now you tease back. That’s progress.”

 

Shinyu rolled his eyes, though Jihoon caught the corner of his lips twitching upward. The moment stretched, comfortable and warm, filled only with the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of cicadas.

 

After a while, Jihoon flopped onto his back again, eyes tracing the thin streaks of clouds above them. “You ever think about… what’s next?”

 

Shinyu tilted his head. “Next?”

 

“Yeah. After school. After…” Jihoon trailed off, the word graduation sticking in his throat. He forced a smile. “Like, do you ever wonder what you’ll be doing a few years from now?”

 

Shinyu was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Not really. I guess… I’ll still be here. Helping my parents. Taking care of the farm. Maybe trying new crops. Nothing exciting.”

 

“Nothing exciting?” Jihoon repeated, turning to look at him. “You make strawberries sound like the most dramatic thing in the world. If that’s not exciting, I don’t know what is.”

 

That earned him a small laugh from Shinyu, soft and genuine. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

Jihoon grinned, satisfied, then let the quiet settle again. It wasn’t awkward—it never was with Shinyu. There was a kind of peace in their silences, as if the world didn’t need to rush them.

 

Finally, Shinyu set the basket aside and leaned back against the tree. His shoulder brushed Jihoon’s arm, light but steady. “What about you?” he asked. “What do you think is next for you?”

 

Jihoon froze, caught off guard. He wanted to say the city, dance classes, university—all the things he was supposed to return to. But the words tangled up in his throat. Because when he thought of next, all he could picture was this—the orchard, the fading sunset, the boy beside him.

 

So instead, he laughed softly and shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Guess I’ll figure it out.”

 

Shinyu didn’t press. He just nodded, like that answer was enough. Their shoulders still touched, and Jihoon found himself wishing he could pause time right there, in that perfect in-between of endings and beginnings.

 

Graduation crept closer like a tide Jihoon couldn’t stop. Every day at school felt shorter, and every evening at the farm felt heavier with the knowledge that he wouldn’t have many left. The townsfolk had started asking him what his plans were—whether he’d be staying or returning to the city—but Jihoon always dodged their questions with a smile. It was easier than admitting he didn’t have an answer.

 

Shinyu, however, seemed less weighed down by the ticking clock. If anything, he had started surprising Jihoon more these days, showing sides of himself Jihoon hadn’t expected.

 

It started small—like the afternoon Shinyu handed Jihoon a basket full of strawberries. Jihoon reached for it without thinking, but Shinyu didn’t let go right away. Instead, he leaned in just enough that Jihoon could see the playful glint in his eyes.

 

“You always pick the smallest ones,” Shinyu said, his voice calm but teasing. “What, afraid the big ones will bite back?”

 

Jihoon blinked, momentarily thrown. “I—I wasn’t— They just looked… sweeter.”

 

“Mm,” Shinyu hummed, finally letting go of the basket, though his fingers brushed against Jihoon’s on purpose. “Next time, I’ll show you which ones are actually the sweetest.”

 

Jihoon’s ears burned. He told himself Shinyu was only talking about strawberries, but the smug curve of his lips suggested otherwise.

 

Another time, when Jihoon was fixing his hair after a particularly windy walk to the farm, Shinyu leaned over without hesitation and smoothed down a stray strand himself.

 

“There,” Shinyu said simply, his touch lingering just a little too long.

 

Jihoon swatted his hand away, trying to mask the way his pulse quickened. “You could’ve just told me!”

 

Shinyu only chuckled, low and warm. “But this way’s more effective.”

 

Jihoon pretended to glare, but his face betrayed him. He could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks.

 

The boldness didn’t stop there. As graduation week approached, they found themselves spending more late afternoons together, usually with Jihoon sprawled on the grass and Shinyu beside him. One evening, Jihoon was scribbling notes in a workbook while Shinyu leaned back against a tree, watching him.

 

“You really study a lot,” Shinyu commented.

 

“I have to. We're graduating, remember?” Jihoon said without looking up.

 

Shinyu tilted his head. “You’ll be fine. You’re smart.”

 

The words were so direct that Jihoon froze mid-scribble, the tip of his pen hovering uselessly over the page. He glanced up, startled. “Did you just… compliment me?”

 

Shinyu smiled, slow and knowing. “You don’t think I notice things?”

 

Jihoon’s throat went dry. “No, I just—You usually insult me first before saying anything nice.”

 

“Guess I’m changing,” Shinyu replied, his tone casual but his gaze steady. “You’re not the only one who grows, Jihoon.”

 

Jihoon stared at him, completely flustered, before dropping his eyes back to his notes, scribbling nonsense just to hide his expression. His heart thumped so loudly he was sure Shinyu could hear it.

 

These moments were subtle, fleeting, but each one left Jihoon reeling long after they ended. He wasn’t sure when the balance had shifted—when the quiet, shy boy he first met had learned to turn the tables so easily. But now, Shinyu seemed to know exactly how to catch him off guard, as if he enjoyed watching Jihoon scramble for composure.

 

And Jihoon hated to admit it… but he did enjoy it too.

 

Still, the closer graduation loomed, the harder it was to ignore the reality pressing in. Jihoon could almost hear the countdown in his head—three weeks left, then two, then one. Each day at school felt like a rehearsal for goodbye. Each visit to the farm carried the weight of what he would have to leave behind.

 

Sometimes, when Shinyu wasn’t looking, Jihoon found himself memorizing the smallest details: the way Shinyu’s laughter curled at the edges, the way his hands were always rough from work but careful when handling fragile things, the way his eyes softened when they landed on him.

 

It made the thought of leaving unbearable.

 

One evening, as the sun bled orange across the horizon, Jihoon found himself blurting it out.

 

“Shinyu… do you ever wonder what it’ll be like when I’m gone?”

 

The question hung heavy in the air, heavier than the silence that followed.

 

Shinyu didn’t answer right away. He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, looking thoughtful in a way that made Jihoon’s chest ache.

 

Finally, he said quietly, “I don’t like thinking about it.”

 

Jihoon’s heart squeezed. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Because neither of them knew how to bridge the gap between now and what came next.

 

Graduation day arrived, but Jihoon hadn’t slept a single wink. Not one. He’d tossed and turned through the night, staring up at the ceiling of his grandma’s house, the shadows shifting with every passing hour. The noise of his family filling the house after arriving the evening before didn’t help, nor did the nervous energy of knowing they would all be watching him walk across that stage. But that wasn’t the real reason.

 

The real reason lay heavy in his chest, refusing to let him breathe easily. His decision. The one he’d been rehearsing over and over in his head, but still couldn’t figure out how to say aloud.

 

He wasn’t worried about his grandma; she already knew. He wasn’t worried about Shinyu either; somehow, Shinyu always seemed to understand without words. What kept him awake was the thought of telling his mother and sister—how their faces might flicker with relief, with gratitude, but also with something else he wasn’t ready to see. Would they question him? Would they believe him when he said he wanted to stay?

 

The day spun forward regardless of his unrest. Laughter, photographs, teachers handing him his certificate, the proud squeeze of his mom’s hand—everything blurred together in a haze. But what cut through all of it, sharp as lightning, was Shinyu.

 

Shinyu, striding up to him with that serious look on his face, as though the celebration around them didn’t exist. “Can we talk after?” he asked, low and certain, as if the answer was already decided. “After you’ve had time with your family. Even if it’s late, I’ll come pick you up.”

 

Jihoon had only nodded, his mind spiraling too fast to form words. Before he could ask what this was about, Shinyu’s sisters had grabbed him, tugging him back into the whirlwind of family photos. But the weight of his gaze lingered with Jihoon long after.

 

Hours later, after Jihoon had stood before his family and told them his decision—told them he would stay behind, that there was no need for a helper—his mother’s eyes had shone with gratitude, his sister had wrapped him in a suffocating hug, and his grandma had winked knowingly from across the room. Relief washed over him, but it was tangled with nerves, because the night wasn’t finished.

 

By the time the house grew quiet again, Jihoon felt as though his heart had climbed up to his throat. His phone buzzed once. On my way, Shinyu’s message read.

 

Jihoon swallowed hard, pulling his hoodie over his head before stepping outside. The air was cool, the kind that nipped at his skin, but not enough to chase away the restless heat in his chest. He had almost talked himself into suggesting they wait until morning, but before he could, Shinyu was already there.

 

“Hey,” Shinyu greeted, his smile as familiar as the stars above them. Nothing seemed unusual about him—except maybe the hour.

 

Jihoon tried for humor, stuffing his hands into his pockets as they started walking side by side. “You’re not about to commit a crime and bury me somewhere, right?”

 

Shinyu’s laugh came easily, warm enough to make Jihoon’s shoulders relax for a moment. But then Shinyu tilted his head thoughtfully. “I actually had a nightmare like that once. That we both committed a crime together. There was a third person too. Someone important, though I don’t remember who. And then… they died. We killed him by accident. I woke up crying.”

 

Jihoon stopped for a second, staring at him. The way Shinyu spoke, calm and almost detached, didn’t match the heaviness of the dream. Jihoon knew it was only a dream, nothing more, but still, the words pressed uncomfortably against his ribs.

 

“…Why would we do something like that?” Jihoon asked finally, his voice softer, almost cautious.

 

Shinyu only shrugged, eyes forward as they passed through the tall rice stalks, their shadows swaying in the moonlight. “Dreams don’t always make sense.”

 

Silence fell between them, not heavy exactly, but charged. Jihoon glanced at him, wanting to say something else, but instead asked, “So… where are you taking me? It’s too late for a walk, you know.”

 

Shinyu’s lips curved, the kind of smile that gave nothing away. “You’ll see.”

 

Jihoon groaned dramatically but kept following. After all this time in the countryside, there were still places unknown to him, corners of this world he hadn’t discovered—places he only reached when Shinyu was the one leading the way. Somehow, he was grateful for that.

 

And then, when they passed beyond the last line of trees, the ground opened up into a sight that made Jihoon stop in his tracks.

 

A field stretched before them, bathed in silver under the moonlight. Flowers swayed gently in the night breeze, their petals glimmering faintly like stars scattered across the earth. It was breathtaking. Jihoon felt something sting behind his eyes, the beauty of it so sudden, so overwhelming, he almost cried.

 

“You…” His voice faltered as he stepped closer, eyes wide. “What the hell? There’s a place like this here?”

 

Shinyu laughed softly at his reaction, the sound threaded with pride. “Yeah. Not many people come here. I figured it could be a good graduation gift for you.”

 

Jihoon spun toward him, still in awe, ready to thank him—but froze when Shinyu’s expression shifted.

 

“…And also a parting gift.”

 

The words sliced through the night air, sharp and unrelenting. Jihoon’s breath caught as he whipped his head to look at him, confusion and dread colliding all at once.

 

“Parting?” Jihoon echoed, his voice unsteady.

 

Shinyu held his gaze, his tone quiet but steady. “You’ll be leaving for the city, right?”

 

When Jihoon didn’t answer right away, Shinyu filled the silence himself. His voice carried a kind of nervous energy, as though he had rehearsed this part but was still terrified of forgetting the words.

 

“You’ll probably go to a university in the city,” he said, his tone light but his eyes carefully avoiding Jihoon’s. “Which makes sense, you know? That’s where you belong. You were born there, raised there. That’s your life. Not this place—with muddy fields, stubborn cows, and my dad yelling at me to carry crates.” He let out a laugh, the sound awkward, and his hand went up to scratch the back of his head. The way he tried to make it sound like a joke only made it heavier. “So I thought… I thought I’d show you something you wouldn’t forget. Something you’d remember even after you’ve gone back. I’d be offended if you forgot this… if you forgot me.”

 

His voice trailed at the end, softening so much Jihoon almost had to lean in to hear it. And only then did he realize he had been holding his breath the whole time. It slipped out of him in a shaky exhale, leaving his chest both lighter and tighter.

 

Jihoon tilted his head, trying to chase away the sudden thrum of emotion with teasing. “That doesn’t mean you had to flirt with me for the past few weeks.”

 

The effect was instant. Shinyu’s ears turned a deep shade of red, almost glowing under the silver moonlight. He quickly looked away, but it was too late—Jihoon caught it. And Jihoon thought, not for the first time, how utterly adorable this tall, broad-shouldered farmer boy could be.

 

“T-That was… something else,” Shinyu stammered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I… I googled and—”

 

Jihoon’s eyebrows shot up. He couldn’t help it. “What did you google, Shin Junghwan?”

 

Shinyu’s hands flailed a little, as if batting away invisible accusations. “It’s—no, it’s entirely different! I didn’t really—well, I…” His words tripped over each other, tangled and clumsy, but the flush in his face only deepened.

 

“Didn’t what?” Jihoon pressed, enjoying this far too much. His lips twitched, fighting a grin, while his heart pounded like it was trying to break free from his chest.

 

Shinyu finally stopped, pressing his lips together for a moment before he muttered something so small it almost got lost to the breeze. 

 

“I… realized I like you.”

 

Jihoon froze. The words were tiny, whispered, but they still struck him with the force of something seismic. He blinked, certain he’d misheard. 

 

“What?” His voice came out higher, unsteady, though he had definitely heard it. He just wanted—needed—to hear it again.

 

This time, Shinyu looked him straight in the eye, though his ears were still red and his hands were stuffed deep in his pockets as if to anchor himself. His voice wavered, but the words were clear. 

 

“I like you. I figured it out when I thought about you leaving. I didn’t want to admit it because I thought… maybe it was too late. But then I told myself, if I can’t stop you from leaving, I can at least… do something. So I searched how city guys show someone they like them.” He swallowed hard, then looked away in embarrassment. “And Google said I should flirt. So I tried.”

 

For a long moment, Jihoon just stared at him. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because every word seemed to sink into him too quickly, leaving no space for his mind to catch up. He felt an unfamiliar mixture bubbling inside—amusement, wonder, and something so tender it almost hurt.

 

Never in his life did Jihoon imagine he would be on the receiving end of something like this. That someone—someone like Shin Junghwan—would type out clumsy searches on Google just to figure out how to get closer to him. And the realization that it had worked, that all those little moments of Shinyu’s awkward but oddly confident “flirting” were born out of this quiet affection, made Jihoon’s chest swell with something he couldn’t quite name.

 

And then it hit him: he was the one Shinyu had chosen. Out of everyone, Shinyu had stumbled his way through feelings, through uncertainty, only to land here, confessing under the moonlight in a field of flowers. And Jihoon wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or just stand there forever.

 

Jihoon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes fixed on Shinyu’s face as he asked quietly, “What would you do… if I told you I’ll be staying here for uni?”

 

The words hung between them like mist, soft but impossible to ignore. Jihoon watched carefully as Shinyu’s expression shifted—first, the flush of embarrassment still clinging to his ears, then the widening of his eyes, almost disbelieving. And finally, that spark of hope. The kind of hope that made Jihoon’s chest ache.

 

“No way,” Shinyu breathed, the corners of his lips twitching upward as if he wanted to smile but was too afraid of it vanishing if he did.

 

Jihoon raised an eyebrow, though his lips threatened to betray him with a grin. “If I’m staying, are you going to keep flirting with me then?”

 

Shinyu blinked, his surprise folding into something more certain. “Are you really staying?” he asked again, as if Jihoon might laugh and take it back.

 

Jihoon nodded, though he quickly added, “But that doesn’t mean I’m accepting your confession just yet.” His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable heat creeping up his neck, betraying him more than any words could.

 

For a heartbeat, Jihoon wondered if that would dim Shinyu’s expression, but instead, the taller boy moved forward and wrapped him into a hug so sudden and so warm that Jihoon’s breath caught in his throat. The embrace wasn’t tentative—it was grounding, like Shinyu was anchoring him in place, refusing to let him drift away.

 

“I don’t care,” Shinyu murmured into his shoulder, his voice muffled but certain. “I’ll just have to try harder to woo you, then.”

 

Jihoon could feel the steady beat of Shinyu’s heart against his chest, and he hated—no, loved—how his own heart answered like it had been waiting for this rhythm all along. It was ridiculous. It was unfair. Because Jihoon knew the truth he couldn’t say aloud. Shinyu didn’t need to try harder. Jihoon had already been halfway gone, pulled in by every laugh, every awkward smile, every stolen glance under the sun. Even his grandmother had teased him about it, seeing right through him as though Jihoon were a child again with his feelings scribbled all over his face.

 

But still—he couldn’t shake it. That story Shinyu had told him earlier, about the nightmare. The way Shinyu said he cried when he woke. It had lingered like smoke in the back of Jihoon’s mind.

 

And it wasn’t jealousy, not even close. No, what unsettled him was something else entirely. Because the dream Shinyu described… it sounded too familiar. Jihoon had dreamt something like it before. Not once, not twice—but over and over again, in pieces that left him shaken each time he woke. In his dream, it was never just the two of them. There was always another person, someone he could never clearly see, but whose presence felt undeniable.

 

The three of them, bound together by something that felt like love. A love that should have been comforting. But every time, the dream ended the same way—broken, tragic, leaving Jihoon with a hollow ache in his chest.

 

And now, standing in a moonlit field of flowers, with Shinyu’s arms still around him, Jihoon felt the memory of those dreams press heavier against him. He didn’t know what it meant, not really. But it was enough to make him hesitate, even as every part of him wanted to lean closer and never let go.

Notes:

NITHAEP CHAPTER!! 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ bcs i remember y'all requesting for one when i wrote Strays.
I will try my best to update weekly.

Chapter 4

That one subject was nothing but awkward. Painfully awkward. Jihoon wasn’t even pretending to be subtle—his eyes kept darting in Dohoon’s direction like some badly programmed security camera, snapping away whenever someone noticed, only to drift right back like it was magnetic. The red thread had long since disappeared; it had only lingered for a minute or two, glowing faintly before fading. But it had been long enough. Long enough for Shinyu and Jihoon to see exactly who was on the other end of their string. Long enough for Dohoon to want to crawl under his desk and stay there until finals.

 

“He’s pissing me off,” Youngjae muttered, his voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet shuffle of pages and scribbling of notes. He turned his head deliberately, meeting Jihoon’s stare with the kind of bold, confrontational look that screamed try me. Jihoon flinched and immediately looked away, ears pink, like a kid caught stealing extra snacks at the convenience store.

 

Youngjae leaned closer to Dohoon, eyebrows knitting together. 

 

“Are you sure you don’t owe them anything?”

 

Dohoon shook his head quickly, maybe a little too quickly, his eyes fixed on the open book in front of him as if the printed text could somehow protect him. The words on the page blurred, but he wasn’t about to look up. Not when two very specific pairs of eyes could be waiting for him.

 

“Is he your ex then?” Youngjae pressed, lowering his voice to a near-whisper, the kind that carried just enough to make Dohoon want to vanish.

 

Technically—annoyingly, painfully technically—Shinyu and Jihoon were his exes. Just not in the way Youngjae would ever believe.

 

“Nope,” Dohoon muttered, shaking his head again, maybe a little too forceful this time.

 

Youngjae wasn’t satisfied. 

 

“First time meeting him?”

 

The truth was… complicated. More complicated than Dohoon could explain without sounding like he belonged in a padded room. He had met them before. More than once. In lives that weren’t this one, in memories that weren’t supposed to exist anymore. But here, in this classroom, in this life—

 

“Yeah. First time I’ve seen him. Them,” Dohoon said, tripping over the correction. His throat felt dry. If he told Youngjae the truth, his friend would probably laugh, then quietly Google psychiatric help on his phone.

 

Youngjae squinted at him, suspicious. 

 

“Then why the hell—”

 

His voice cracked out too loud, the kind of too loud that stopped pens mid-scratch and froze even the professor’s chalk mid-screech across the board. The whole class turned to look. Shinyu raised a brow. Jihoon smirked, a laugh bubbling out before he could stop himself.

 

The professor adjusted his glasses, unimpressed. 

 

“What is it, Mr. Choi Youngjae? Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

 

Youngjae’s face went red instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch. He waved his hands, bowing his head quickly. 

 

“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

 

Dohoon pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, even as Youngjae buried his face in his notebook, muttering curses under his breath. The heat in the room felt heavier now, not from the summer sun outside, but from the weight of too many stares that kept drifting back—stares that made Dohoon’s skin itch with awareness.

 

And Dohoon… was really, really thankful for Youngjae. If his friend hadn’t been around, Jihoon would’ve already made a move—sidled up to him in the hallway, cornered him during break, maybe even ambushed him with that smug little half-smile of his. Jihoon had been staring so much it was a miracle his neck wasn’t sore, and Dohoon knew from experience that once Jihoon decided to approach someone, escape routes became… limited. Youngjae’s presence was the only thing keeping that from happening.

 

And that was crucial. Because Dohoon had a plan.

 

A brilliant, complicated, definitely-foolproof plan. The grand plan of pretending the red thread between the three of them didn’t exist. To sit quietly on the far sidelines—the very far sidelines—and watch Shinyu and Jihoon’s love story blossom, like some weirdly invested third-party spectator. He’d clap silently from his corner, maybe even shed a tear of joy when they finally figured themselves out.

 

If it kept them all alive this time—if ignoring the thread and playing the background character was what it took to dodge the impending doom—then Dohoon was willing to do it. Whatever it took.

 

“You know,” Youngjae sighed dramatically as he plopped down into his chair in the library, “sometimes I feel like your guard dog. Except instead of biting, I just glare at scary humans until they back off.”

 

Dohoon followed behind, dragging a chair to sit across from him, amusement tugging at his lips. 

 

“Library assistant by day, my cute little puppy by night.”

 

The library was hushed, the kind of quiet that made even turning a page sound like a gunshot. The only noise came from the corner, where someone was typing furiously on a plugged-in laptop, probably racing against a deadline. The stillness made their voices carry just enough that Dohoon had to keep his own low, which only made the teasing worse.

 

“I’m not your dog,” Youngjae huffed, folding his arms with the dignity of someone who knew he’d already lost the argument. Then, grudgingly, “But I guess… glaring at them works. They haven’t tried to come near you yet.”

 

Dohoon bit back a smile. 

 

“Mmhm. My puppy’s doing so well. What a good boy.” He leaned back with mock-serious pride, only to receive a death glare sharp enough to make him laugh.

 

“Say that again and I swear—” Youngjae cut himself off, scowling. “Anyway. I honestly thought it was just that Han Jihoon who had some weird vendetta against you. But no, apparently it’s both of them. Like a tag team of… creeps.” His nose wrinkled.

 

“What if—hear me out—they’re trying to recruit you for their poly relationship?”

 

Dohoon choked back a laugh. Youngjae wasn’t even far off, not really. He was circling the truth without realizing just how close he was getting. Dohoon wanted to tell him, You’re almost there, Youngjae. Almost. Just one more step and you’d land on it. But how could he explain the reality of red threads binding souls together without sounding completely insane? No matter how good Youngjae was at glaring, even he couldn’t protect Dohoon from the look that screamed you’ve lost it.

 

“That’s a stupid idea,” Dohoon said instead, leaning forward on the table. “Didn’t you say you already caught them kissing once?”

 

Youngjae perked up at that, nodding with all the energy of a gossip enjoying his own story. “Yeah. Jihoon was asleep—literally drooling on the table—and Shinyu just leaned down and kissed him. Right here in this library.” He gestured vaguely toward the shelves, as though the books could corroborate his tale. “It was cute. Until they both started staring at you like they were plotting your demise.”

 

Dohoon snorted. Youngjae didn’t often show he cared—at least, not directly. His usual state was somewhere between indifferent and vaguely annoyed. But here he was, glaring at Dohoon’s not-quite-exes and making sure nobody got too close. If Dohoon thought too hard about it, he might even get sentimental.

 

So he didn’t think. He joked instead.

 

“You care about me, Youngjae-yah. Why not just date me instead? We could fend them off together, like a united front.”

 

Youngjae shot him a flat look, one eyebrow twitching. “Let’s not go there.”

 

Dohoon chuckled, but Youngjae didn’t smile back. He just flipped open his notebook with exaggerated seriousness, like burying himself in study notes would erase the very idea. The silence between them grew heavier again, but this time it wasn’t the same comfortable library silence—it was filled with the weight of two pairs of eyes Dohoon could feel even from across the room.

 

And he didn’t need to look up to know whose eyes they were. He had been trying to ignore it for a week now.

 

But of course, fate had never once been on Dohoon’s side. If anything, fate seemed to enjoy tormenting him. No matter how many carefully laid precautions he took, no matter how wide a circle he tried to walk around Jihoon and Shinyu, fate always seemed to shove the three of them back into the same space, like some cosmic prank that never got old.

 

Which was how Dohoon found himself in the exact nightmare scenario he’d been working so hard to avoid: grouped together with the last two people on earth he wanted to talk to in this lifetime.

 

He had tried everything. Everything. Right after class, he even stood in front of their professor’s desk like a man begging for parole. He offered to do the paper by himself, all the research, all the writing, even the citations—hell, he’d throw in formatting if that’s what it took. He could already imagine the sweet bliss of working alone, no red threads, no soulmates, no staring contests across the table. Just him, his laptop, and an unreasonable amount of caffeine.

 

But of course, his professor didn’t even look up. Didn’t even pause.

 

“What people hire nowadays is a team player, Mr. Kim,” the professor said, pen still scratching away at papers. The words fell like an unmovable law, absolute and indifferent. “Plus, this is your chance to befriend someone. You never know when you’ll need a friend’s help.”

 

“I have Youngjae,” Dohoon argued, clinging to the only lifeline he had.

 

“You need to expand your connections, Mr. Kim. I’m not changing my decision. You’ll be working with two of your classmates for the entire semester.”

 

The finality in his tone left no room for negotiation, and just like that, Dohoon trudged out of the room with the heavy slump of a man who’d just lost his last battle.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to befriend Shinyu and Jihoon. He wasn’t cruel. But wanting and being able to were two very different things. He knew what befriending them would mean, where it would lead, how it always ended. And all Dohoon wanted was for the three of them to live this time. To live quietly, peacefully, boringly—alive was good enough. He’d trade grand connections and soulmate strings for something as simple as survival.

 

But fate—

 

“Fate really is funny, huh?” Dohoon muttered bitterly under his breath, the words tasting like defeat.

 

Because the second—the very second—he stepped out of the classroom, closed the door behind him, and thought maybe, just maybe, he’d get five minutes of peace, he was faced with them.

 

On his left. Waiting.

 

Of course.

 

Jihoon leaned against the wall like he owned the hallway, casual but irritatingly smug, while Shinyu stood slightly behind him, quieter, heavier in his silence.

 

“Hey there, soulmate,” Jihoon greeted, his voice dripping with the kind of teasing that made Dohoon’s shoulders stiffen instantly. The word soulmate hung between them like a bomb no one wanted to touch, but Jihoon tossed it out so casually it made Dohoon want to crawl out of his own skin.

 

And Shinyu—Shinyu didn’t even speak. He just stared, eyes steady and unreadable, pinning Dohoon in place like a specimen under glass.

 

And of course—because the universe enjoyed consistency in its cruelty—in every damn lifetime, Dohoon’s heart always betrayed him. Always. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself not to, didn’t matter how many lifetimes they had already stumbled through together, how many endings they had suffered. The moment his eyes landed on Shinyu and Jihoon, his heart stuttered. It skipped like a scratched record, and no amount of self-scolding could steady it.

 

In every lifetime, even when they forgot him—even when their eyes carried no recognition of the things they had endured together—Dohoon’s heart loved them still. Loved them, fiercely and foolishly, like a habit carved into his very soul.

 

Something that would never change. Something he wished, desperately, that it could.

 

“I—” Dohoon started, but his voice cracked off like a bad radio signal. Words deserted him. He had been dodging them so relentlessly, and now here they were, right in front of him, both of them, and his mouth felt like it had dried into sand.

 

Jihoon, unbothered as ever, tilted his head and peered around him as though expecting someone else to show up. 

 

“Your pup’s not around? He’s usually glued to your side, making that scrunched-up face like he’s about to bite us. Kinda funny, actually. He looks too much like an actual puppy. Can’t bring myself to fight a puppy.”

 

Dohoon narrowed his eyes, but not too much—he wasn’t about to give Jihoon the satisfaction. “He’ll kill you if he hears you call him that as well.”

 

“Oh, so you called him pup too?” Jihoon’s grin widened instantly, delighted at the discovery. 

 

“Guess that’s a soulmate thing. Shared vocabulary, right?”

 

And before Dohoon could shut him down, Jihoon thrust out a hand, all charm and confidence.

 

“Han Jihoon. Pleased to meet you officially. Never heard of a three-way red thread before, but hey, guess we’re special?”

 

Dohoon’s gaze dropped to the offered hand. He stared at it, unmoving, the silence stretching long enough for Jihoon’s smile to tighten just slightly around the edges. Then, instead of accepting, Dohoon simply gave a stiff nod, as if acknowledging a stranger on the street.

 

“I don’t… I don’t really believe in soulmates,” he said finally, voice flat, deliberately controlled. “The best I can offer is acquaintances.”

 

The words felt like gravel in his mouth. They weren’t what he wanted to say—God, not even close. A part of him ached to laugh with them, to fold himself into their orbit again. But survival screamed louder, drowning out everything else. He couldn’t risk it. Not this time.

 

“That’s—” Shinyu began, voice deeper, steadier than Jihoon’s. But Dohoon cut him off immediately, slicing the air with his words before Shinyu could finish.

 

“I heard you two are a couple,” Dohoon blurted, sharper than intended. His tone wavered, betraying a little more than he wanted. “I won’t ruin that by… adding myself into the equation. So just—just ignore the soulmate thing.”

 

For a heartbeat, silence. Then, unexpectedly, color bloomed across both their faces. Jihoon’s ears went pink. Shinyu’s jaw flexed as he glanced away. The reaction was so strong it left Dohoon blinking—had he accidentally hit a nerve? Maybe their relationship wasn’t public yet. Maybe people didn’t know. And maybe Dohoon should’ve cared, but at that moment, all he wanted was an exit.

 

He thought about dropping the subject altogether, maybe muttering an excuse and sprinting down the hall. But Shinyu’s voice stopped him.

 

“At least be our friend,” Shinyu said, steady but soft, blinking at Dohoon like the request itself was fragile. “You’ll be stuck with us for the whole semester. If anything… we’ll probably need to meet outside of class.”

 

There was nothing in his tone but sincerity, nothing but an earnest attempt to close the distance. Which only made it harder for Dohoon. He knew how this ended. He knew where this road led. And yet—how could he bring himself to reject them outright when they were looking at him like that?

 

His chest tightened. His heart betrayed him again.

 

“…We’ll see,” Dohoon said, voice neutral, clipped. Not a yes. Not a no. Just the vaguest lifeline he could offer.

 

Jihoon, predictably, latched onto it like it was a promise. His grin returned, twice as bright, as he snatched Dohoon’s phone without waiting for permission. Within seconds, Jihoon was dialing his own number and saving his contact, muttering cheerfully as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

 

“Great. Send us your schedule later, yeah? That way we’ll know when to meet.”

 

The cheer in his voice was almost unbearable. Too much. Too warm. It made Dohoon’s chest ache, made something in him squeeze tight until he wanted to scream.

 

So he said nothing. He only watched them walk away, side by side, until they disappeared into the stream of students heading to their next class. His knuckles felt white against the strap of his bag. His lungs felt too small in his chest.

 

And for the first time in weeks, Dohoon decided to skip his remaining classes. The weight of that single interaction had wrung him out completely, leaving him empty, drained, and raw.

 

---

 

“He looked like he was scared of us,” Jihoon said at last. His voice was flat, like he was trying not to care, but Shinyu knew better. He could hear it—the small quiver of worry that slipped through, too soft for anyone else but him to catch.

 

The red thread hadn’t just tied the two of them together anymore. The moment it shimmered into existence before their eyes—only to reveal a third end—they both froze. The world hadn’t prepared them for that. Who would expect a soulmate connection to turn into some tangled triangle?

 

They had talked about it right away, of course. Sat down and laid everything on the table. They weren’t officially “dating,” not with the labels and grand announcements. But they were exclusive, tethered in a way that was already deeper than words. Their confessions to each other had been enough. For them, it had always been enough.

 

And now, suddenly, there was Dohoon.

 

“Won’t it be lonely if we shut him out?” Jihoon asked, sprawled lazily on Shinyu’s bed, one arm hanging off the edge like he had no bones left. His tone was casual, but his eyes kept flicking toward Shinyu as if he wanted reassurance, or maybe permission.

 

“Why would we even do that?” Shinyu asked, not looking up from the papers he’d been pretending to review at his desk. He tapped the end of his pen against the wood before finally turning in his chair. 

 

“We’re not that cruel.”

 

Jihoon immediately rolled over onto his stomach, chin propped up on his palms, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

 

“So what you’re saying is… you’re open to us being a throuple?”

 

Shinyu blinked at him, deadpan. “That’s not what I said.” He reached out and flicked Jihoon’s forehead with precision, earning a small yelp. “What I’m saying is, we can at least be his friends. Just because the red thread exists doesn’t mean it has to be romantic.”

 

Jihoon rubbed the spot with exaggerated offense. “Ow. Harsh. But fair. Fair.” He nodded thoughtfully, though the grin never really left his face. After a pause, he tilted his head, eyes glinting. “But, if ever—and I’m just saying if—are you open to the whole throuple idea?”

 

Shinyu opened his mouth, then closed it again. For once, he had no neat answer. He looked down at his pen, at the notes he hadn’t been reading, and for a moment the room was filled only with the soft hum of the desk lamp. Luckily, Jihoon broke the silence with a laugh, throwing the tension out the window as quickly as he had brought it in. He launched into some other topic, and Shinyu let himself breathe again.

 

But after today’s run-in with Dohoon, the question wouldn’t leave his chest.

 

He hadn’t even managed to introduce himself properly. Jihoon had filled the silence with his usual cheer, but Shinyu had stood there, rooted, caught between wanting to say something and not knowing how. And Dohoon… Dohoon had looked at them like they were dangerous. Like getting too close would burn him.

 

The memory scraped at him, raw and unsettling.

 

“Do we look intimidating?” Shinyu asked suddenly, his voice quieter than before. His shoulders sagged without him realizing it. The ache in his chest wasn’t subtle, and from the way Jihoon stilled, he knew Jihoon felt it too. Dohoon’s flinch—his retreat—it wasn’t just something they could shrug off as a misunderstanding.

 

And that stung more than either of them expected.

 

For once, Jihoon didn’t answer right away. He blinked up from the bed, watching Shinyu with those sharp, curious eyes that always seemed to catch more than Shinyu wanted to show. Then, slowly, Jihoon rolled onto his side, cheek squishing against the blanket as a lopsided grin spread across his face.

 

“Intimidating? Us? Please. I look like I’d lose a fight with a toddler. And you—” Jihoon pointed at him lazily, “—you’ve got the face of a neighborhood good boy. If anyone’s scary, it’s Dohoon’s puppy bodyguard.”

 

Shinyu almost smiled at that. Almost. But his chest still felt tight.

 

Jihoon, sensing it, exaggerated a shiver. “Maybe it’s not our faces. Maybe it’s just the whole aura thing. You know? Big, bad soulmate vibes. We walk down the hall and people are like, ‘Oh no, here come those two handsome guys bound by destiny.’” He made spooky ghost hands, wiggling his fingers until Shinyu gave him the smallest eye roll.

 

“Stop.”

 

“Or—” Jihoon pushed himself up on his elbows now, leaning forward, grin brightening. “Maybe Dohoon’s just shy. Like… ridiculously shy. Maybe he’s secretly writing poetry about us in a notebook somewhere and we’ll find it in twenty years.”

 

Shinyu couldn’t help it this time—he laughed, quiet and low, shaking his head. Jihoon was ridiculous. Utterly, wonderfully ridiculous. And yet, beneath the joking, Shinyu could still see the worry flickering there, the way Jihoon’s eyes kept darting toward him, checking if he was still carrying that ache.

 

So instead of answering, Shinyu got up from his chair. Jihoon stilled as Shinyu approached, blinking up at him like he didn’t quite understand what was happening. And then, with a soft exhale, Shinyu bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to Jihoon’s forehead.

 

Jihoon froze. Then immediately flopped back dramatically against the bed with a groan, both hands covering his face. “Ugh, unfair! You can’t just forehead-kiss me when I’m trying to be funny. That’s illegal.” His voice was muffled, but Shinyu could see the pink spreading across his ears.

 

Shinyu sat down beside him, letting the silence stretch for a beat. “You overthink as much as I do,” he said quietly. “So stop pretending you don’t care.”

 

Jihoon peeked at him through his fingers, grin returning despite the flush. “Fine. Maybe I care a little.” He lowered his hands and smirked. “But only because you kissed me. You basically unlocked a whole new level of boyfriend perks.”

 

Shinyu rolled his eyes again, but this time he didn’t fight the smile tugging at his lips. For all Jihoon’s jokes, Shinyu knew he was just as tangled in this as he was.

 

And somewhere between the laughter and the ache, the thought of Dohoon lingered, stubborn and unshakable.

Chapter 5

It was getting harder and harder to breathe, as if the air itself had turned heavy and refused to fill his lungs. Each second dragged longer than the last, pressing down on him, suffocating. The edges of the world bled into a blur—shapes dissolving, colors losing their meaning. Even the sounds around him were slipping away, muffled as though he were sinking beneath water. But there was one sound that pierced through it all.

 

Crying.

 

A trembling, broken sob that cut deeper than any wound.

 

Then—something wet against his skin. A droplet, then another, falling one by one onto his cheek. He could feel them. Even through the haze, even through the numbing cold crawling across his body, he felt it.

 

“I told you… I told you not to save me, didn’t I?”

 

The voice trembled as warm hands cupped his face, anchoring him to a reality he could no longer see clearly. His vision refused to sharpen, but that voice—shaky, breaking apart with every word—he knew it. He could almost hear the pain lodged between the syllables.

 

“Why are you like this?”

 

Shinyu’s lips curved faintly, a small, fragile smile. He leaned into the warmth, let his cheek rest against those palms as if they were the only thing holding him together. The warmth was real. That much he could cling to.

 

“Don’t you—don’t you leave me again, please.” The words came as a plea, desperate and raw, trembling more than the hands that held him. “Jihoon… Jihoon will come save us. He’ll come save you. Shinyu, please… just hold on.”

 

Shinyu wanted to answer, wanted to tell them not to cry, not to beg. He forced his eyes open wider, straining against the fog clouding his vision. The effort made his chest flare with pain. He knew why. He remembered the moment—the sharp sting, the way his body jolted when the arrow tore into him. He felt it even now, shifting inside him whenever he coughed, scraping against something deep. And with the cough came the metallic flood of iron across his tongue.

 

Still, through the blur, he caught the faint outline of the face above him. He couldn’t make out the features, not really. But he smiled anyway, as though that fading image were enough. His fingers twitched, heavy as stone, but they moved—searching, reaching until they brushed against the hand pressed against his cheek. He tried to hold it, weak though he was.

 

“I told you…” His voice cracked, faint, but still carrying that fragile promise. “I told you that I will always protect you two, right?”

 

The words slipped from him like a final breath, the kind that trembles at the edge of silence.

 

And then—

 

Darkness.

 

Shinyu’s eyes snapped open. His chest rose with a gasp, dragging air into lungs that weren’t pierced by an arrow, that weren’t drowning in blood. His heart hammered against his ribs, wild and frantic, as the lingering echo of the dream clung to him.

 

But this time, it wasn’t someone else dying in his place.

 

This time, it was him.

 

A nightmare—his nightmare.

 

---

 

“Now, what are you two doing here?”

 

The boy—Youngjae, Shinyu recalled from Jihoon’s casual whisper earlier—stepped forward, planting himself directly in front of Dohoon like some kind of personal bodyguard. Well… more like a body pup. A nagger one. He stood taller than the rest of them, yes, but the way his shoulders squared and his glare sharpened didn’t really scream intimidating. If anything, it looked more like a chihuahua trying to pick a fight with a Great Dane.

 

Shinyu’s eyes slid past him to Dohoon, who wore an expression that could only be described as horrified. His friend’s face said everything—shock, embarrassment, a quiet plea for this moment to be over.

 

“So… I guess you didn’t tell him?” Jihoon’s tone was deliberate, almost sing-song, and Shinyu swore he could hear the smug smile without even turning his head.

 

The effect was immediate. Youngjae’s eyebrows shot down, his frown deepening as he pivoted from glaring at them to glaring at Dohoon.

 

“What did you not tell me, Dohoon?”

 

Poor Dohoon froze, caught mid-breath like a rabbit in front of a hawk. Shinyu could almost feel the panic radiating off him. And of course—of course—Jihoon decided now was the perfect time to throw salt straight into the wound.

 

“Oh, nothing much,” Jihoon said breezily, flashing a grin sharp enough to slice tension in half. “Just that me, Shinyu, and Dohoon are in one research group. Fun, right?”

 

Youngjae’s reaction was so dramatic it could’ve won him an award. His mouth dropped open, his eyes went wide, and the noise that came out of him sounded like a bird getting strangled mid-flight.

 

“What?!” His voice cracked so high it startled even Shinyu. He whipped around to Dohoon, eyes full of betrayal. “I was sick for one day—one single day!”

 

Shinyu felt something stir inside him then, an odd urge rising like reflex. Jihoon could handle himself—usually by throwing gasoline on fires instead of water—but Dohoon looked like he might crumple under Youngjae’s stare. Against his better judgment, Shinyu stepped in, words rushing out before he even thought them through.

 

“It wasn’t his fault,” Shinyu said quickly. “The professor assigned the groups. Dohoon even begged to work alone.”

 

Dohoon’s head jerked toward him, startled by the defense, while Jihoon raised a brow like oh? protecting us now? But Youngjae’s glare swung immediately back to Shinyu, sharp enough to make him regret opening his mouth.

 

Shinyu instinctively took a step back, Jihoon following in exaggerated fashion, both of them raising their hands in surrender as though Youngjae had just pulled a sword on them.

 

“Hey, hey—we’re innocent here,” Jihoon muttered, though the mischievous smirk on his face ruined the plea.

 

Youngjae pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing out so heavily it sounded more like a growl. “I was gone for one day…”

 

Before the situation could explode further, Dohoon grabbed Youngjae’s wrist and tugged him aside, muttering rapidly, his hands flying in agitated gestures. Youngjae allowed himself to be dragged, though his eyes flicked back to Shinyu and Jihoon every few seconds with a mixture of suspicion and exasperation.

 

Jihoon elbowed Shinyu lightly, leaning close with a grin that promised nothing good. “Do you think they’re… you know… together together?”

 

Shinyu tilted his head, watching the way Dohoon clung to Youngjae’s wrist like it was the only thing keeping him steady. The way Youngjae’s shoulders loosened just slightly, even while sighing and side-eyeing them, spoke louder than words.

 

“Maybe?” Shinyu said carefully. “If he’s that protective, maybe he thought we’d steal Dohoon away from him.” He hesitated, the weight of what they were sitting on pressing into his chest. “…Which would totally make sense, considering we’re not just his classmates.”

 

Jihoon’s smirk widened, knowing exactly where Shinyu’s thoughts had gone.

 

Because it wasn’t something they could laugh off.

 

They were Dohoon’s soulmates.

 

To both Shinyu and Jihoon’s surprise, Youngjae didn’t argue further. He simply exhaled, his features softening just enough, before placing a firm hand on Dohoon’s shoulder. There was something unspoken in that small gesture—something protective, reassuring. Then, without a word, Youngjae turned on his heel and walked away, his tall frame disappearing back through the library doors.

 

Shinyu’s eyes followed Dohoon jogging toward them, his sleeves already tugged nervously down until they hid his fingers. That detail caught Shinyu’s attention, the way Dohoon almost tried to vanish into himself even as he closed the distance between them.

 

“Everything settled with your boyfriend?” Jihoon asked casually, jerking his thumb toward Youngjae’s retreating figure, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.

 

Dohoon stopped short, his brows pulling together. “Huh? Youngjae isn’t my boyfriend.” His voice carried no humor. He yanked his sleeves lower, almost to the tips of his fingers, and that tiny defensive gesture made Shinyu’s chest tighten. “He’s just… a nice friend. And honestly, you two didn’t exactly give the best first impression.”

 

That stung, even though Shinyu knew it was true. He thought back to that day in the classroom, the first time all three of them met. The professor’s irritated voice still rang in his memory, calling him and Jihoon out as they strolled in late. They hadn’t cared much at the time—how could they, when the red thread shimmered faintly into existence right before their eyes?

 

He remembered Jihoon’s blatant stare at Dohoon, unfiltered and unashamed, and how the boy had stiffened under the weight of it. Shinyu himself hadn’t done much better, standing there caught between awe and disbelief at the thread’s third end. Yes… Dohoon was right. Their first impression had been less than graceful.

 

“Ah, that.” Shinyu let out a short laugh, though it sounded more nervous than amused. “To be fair, we were… curious about you. Especially Jihoon.” He reached out and clapped Jihoon lightly on the back, trying to soften the atmosphere.

 

Jihoon, of course, didn’t bother pretending to be embarrassed. He scratched the back of his head, his voice steady. “We didn’t expect the thread to show up like that. It’s not something you see every day, you know? And then—to have it split into a third end? I was shocked. I wasn’t staring to be rude. I just… wanted to understand.”

 

“For the record,” Shinyu cut in, his tone firmer as he gestured between himself and Jihoon, “I tried stopping him. I told him he looked like a creep. But he doesn’t listen.” His lips curved faintly, a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s how he is. That’s how we even met, actually. He just… started talking to me one day. Nosy as ever.”

 

The memory flickered—Jihoon approaching him back in their first class, chatting about something as random as seeing Shinyu pick apples near campus. It had been ridiculous, irritating… and somehow the beginning of something that mattered.

 

But Dohoon didn’t seem moved. He simply gave a short nod, his expression unreadable, his body tense as if still weighing whether he should be standing here at all. From Shinyu’s point of view, it was like watching a cat being offered food but refusing to trust the hand that held it.

 

And that… hurt.

 

It hurt because Dohoon wasn’t just anyone. He was their soulmate. The red thread had chosen them, intertwined their lives whether they wanted it or not. Shinyu had thought meeting a soulmate would mean joy, maybe even relief. A moment of belonging. Instead, all he and Jihoon seemed to inspire in Dohoon was distance, a desire to pull away.

 

“So what brought you two here?” Dohoon asked suddenly, his tone clipped. He kept his gaze averted, staring at the ground as if it might offer an escape. “You could’ve just texted me.”

 

The words hung heavily between them, not harsh, but guarded. His avoidance wasn’t lost on Shinyu. Every fidget, every downcast glance, every sleeve tug—it all spoke of something deeper than shyness. Something closer to discomfort.

 

And Shinyu found himself wondering—not for the first time—if Dohoon truly wanted nothing to do with them.

 

Shinyu noticed Jihoon glance at him briefly, his eyes flickering with a question—almost like he was asking, Should I?—before he turned back to Dohoon with a practiced kind of brightness.

 

“We wanted to talk about the research paper,” Jihoon began, his tone cheerful but tiptoeing carefully, the way someone might approach a cat they were afraid would bolt. “Professor told us to pick three movies—one popular, one animated, and one indie. Problem is, I have absolutely no clue what to watch.” He forced a laugh, though it sounded more like a failed attempt to lighten a funeral.

 

Dohoon said nothing for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he were weighing the energy it would take to respond. Finally, he slid his phone from his pocket and began scrolling with the kind of focus reserved for someone desperate to change the subject.

 

“I do have a list,” Dohoon muttered, eyes still glued to the screen. “I can just text you guys the titles and—”

 

He didn’t get to finish.

 

“Isn’t it better if we watch them together?” Jihoon cut in quickly, almost too quickly, his grin stretching wide as he shot Shinyu a look. A pleading one this time.

 

Shinyu, caught completely off guard, swallowed an invisible lump in his throat. He nodded anyway—too hard, too fast, like his neck might snap under the effort. Jihoon’s grin widened with victory, and Shinyu immediately regretted his decision.

 

“Yeah,” Shinyu said, nervous. “Let’s just set a date to meet and watch a movie. We don’t need to cram everything in one sitting—just one film, then we do the review, then move on to the next when we’re free. That way it won’t feel overwhelming.”

 

Shinyu realized too late he was rambling, the words tumbling out without filter. He hadn’t thought it through; it just sounded like a solution, something to bridge the awkwardness.

 

Dohoon finally looked up from his phone, his eyes blinking as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. His silence stretched long enough that Shinyu started to fidget, wondering if he’d just made everything worse.

 

Then Dohoon spoke, deadpan. “I don’t really like third-wheeling other people’s movie dates.”

 

The words hit the air like a dropped bomb.

 

Jihoon’s ears turned crimson almost instantly, his calm demeanor fracturing in real time. He waved his hands frantically, tripping over his own words. “You—you’re not third-wheeling! Definitely not. It’s—it’s just a normal hangout. Between friends. That’s all! No dates involved!”

 

Dohoon tilted his head, unimpressed, and squinted at them both with suspicion. He lifted a finger, pointing directly at them like a judge delivering a verdict. “I don’t trust people who might start making out in the middle of an action scene.”

 

Heat surged up Shinyu’s neck and spread across his face. He didn’t know whether to defend himself, deny the possibility outright, or sink into the ground and never resurface. His mind scrambled, his words jammed in his throat, while beside him Jihoon looked like he’d just been accused of a felony he didn’t know how to disprove.

 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it thrummed, awkward and charged, like a string pulled too tight.

 

It didn’t feel like a victory, not really. Shinyu and Jihoon hadn’t managed to make Dohoon agree to their suggestion, but he hadn’t outright refused either. It was the kind of vague middle ground that left too much open to interpretation. For Jihoon, though, even silence could be read as a probably yes. Shinyu knew better than to argue with that kind of optimism.

 

But then a week passed, and Dohoon hadn’t contacted them once. Not a text. Not a single message. Nothing.

 

By the seventh day, Jihoon was spiraling.

 

Shinyu found himself watching as Jihoon stormed up and down the farm like a restless spirit, muttering and stomping into the soil as though he could wear a path straight into the ground. Meanwhile, Shinyu crouched by the cornfield, running his hands along the stalks, checking for signs of insects or damage. The contrast between Jihoon’s frantic pacing and the steady rhythm of his own work would have been funny—if not for the way tension pressed between his ribs.

 

“I thought he’d contact us,” Jihoon burst out, throwing his arms up as if the sky might hold the answer. “It’s grades we’re talking about. Grades!”

 

Shinyu straightened, brushing dirt from his palms. “Is it really the grades you’re worried about?” His tone was quieter, but pointed. He knew Jihoon well enough. The man wasn’t this dramatic over a letter on paper. He was worried about Dohoon. He had been since day one.

 

Jihoon stopped in his tracks, turning toward him with wide eyes. “Well—yes. Obviously. I mean, of course it’s the grades.” His voice wavered on the last word, betraying him.

 

Shinyu arched a brow, letting the silence stretch, long enough for Jihoon to fidget. Finally, he sighed and added, “Besides, it’s only been a week.”

 

Jihoon groaned, running both hands through his hair until it stood on end. “But what if he already watched the films? What if he wrote the reviews without us? He could just slap our names on it and hand it to the professor.” He blinked at Shinyu, almost horrified by his own thought. “He would do that, wouldn’t he?”

 

Shinyu’s mouth opened, then closed again. He wanted to be firm, reassuring. Instead, the words came out slower, laced with doubt. “…He won’t do that.”

 

But even as he said it, his chest tightened. Dohoon was smart enough. Efficient enough. Detached enough. He could do it. And maybe that was the problem—he was capable of cutting them out completely if he wanted to.

 

Jihoon dragged a hand down his face, muffling a groan into his palm. “Should we contact him?” he asked suddenly, his eyes darting back to Shinyu as if demanding an answer.

 

The question lingered between them, heavier than it should’ve been. It wasn’t just about grades anymore, and they both knew it. Contacting Dohoon meant pushing past the wall he’d built around himself, and neither of them had figured out how thick it was yet.

 

Shinyu looked back over the field, at the endless rows of corn shifting under the wind, and thought that maybe they were stalling—not because it was too soon, but because they were afraid of what reaching out might reveal.

 

They still couldn’t read Dohoon. Not even a little.

 

---

 

“What’s your plan with the two creeps?”

 

Dohoon didn’t even need to ask who Youngjae meant. It had been over a week since Shinyu and Jihoon cornered him with that whole “movie night” suggestion, and the moment it happened, Dohoon had bolted straight to Youngjae to unload the entire ordeal. His friend’s reaction had been immediate and brutal: he declared the pair untrustworthy and christened them “the creeps.” The nickname stuck, and Youngjae had used it ever since with zero hesitation.

 

The annoying part? Dohoon kind of agreed with him. It fit. Maybe not in the worst way, but Shinyu and Jihoon had been anything but subtle. They didn’t trail him in the open, but somehow they always hovered—at the edges of hallways, across courtyards, behind bookshelves. Lurking. Watching. Even Youngjae, who prided himself on catching details, had noticed their uncanny knack for appearing just within eyesight.

 

“They haven’t messaged me either,” Dohoon admitted, flipping his phone around so Youngjae could see the barren screen. Not a single text.

 

Youngjae sighed, dragging his hand dramatically down his face as though carrying the weight of Dohoon’s obliviousness. 

 

“Of course they haven’t. Don’t you get it? They’re waiting for your response.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice like a conspiracy theorist unraveling a grand scheme. “Those two are chronic overthinkers. I mean, look at them.” He jerked his chin toward the nearby shelves, where two suspicious silhouettes were peeking through rows of books, pretending to be invisible. 

 

“They’re probably in full meltdown mode. They’re thinking, ‘If we text him again, we’ll be pushy. Pushy equals clingy. Clingy equals disaster. Disaster equals Dohoon hates us forever.’ That’s their brain. Constant calculations. Exhausting.”

 

Dohoon blinked at him. Then blinked again, slowly, like a cat processing whether to bother with the toy dangling in front of it. His gaze drifted back toward the “hidden” duo who were whispering to each other behind the shelves, one of them ducking too late when Dohoon’s eyes landed on them.

 

And in that moment, something tugged faintly at the back of his memory. He remembered—different lives, different places, but always the same rhythm. Shinyu and Jihoon carrying their thoughts like fragile glass, overanalyzing every step they took toward him, while Dohoon’s bluntness sliced through like a hammer. He remembered how much it had hurt them before, without him ever meaning to.

 

“Ah. Right.” His voice came out flat, but there was a weight to it as he looked back down at his phone. His thumb hovered idly over the dark screen, hesitating. “Do you think I should just drop out?”

 

The words weren’t loud, but they hit the air like a thunderclap.

 

From somewhere among the shelves came a sharp gasp, followed by a panicked shout overlapping in two voices: “WHAT?!” Then, almost tripping over itself: “No!”

 

The library’s quiet snapped in half. Heads turned. Pages froze mid-flip.

 

Youngjae didn’t even flinch. With the weariness of someone used to this exact nonsense, he reached over and slammed the service bell on the desk three times in succession, the sharp ring cutting across the room like a warning shot. His glare followed immediately, sharp enough to make even Shinyu and Jihoon freeze mid-squabble.

 

“Shut up,” Youngjae hissed, his voice low but venomous. “Or I swear I’ll kick both of you out of this library myself.”

 

The two shadows behind the shelves stiffened, one of them tripping over a stack of books in their scramble to stand straighter.

 

Dohoon exhaled slowly, watching the scene unfold, and tightened his grip around his phone.

 

“The least you could do was stay quiet inside the library,” Dohoon deadpanned, voice clipped, as Shinyu and Jihoon stepped out from between the rows of dusty shelves like two middle-schoolers caught sneaking snacks into class. The pair stood directly in front of him and, unfortunately, directly in front of a very pissed-looking library assistant whose patience was clearly held together by a single, fraying thread.

 

“You even had the guts to eavesdrop on our conversation.”

 

“Because you haven’t texted us about what you wanted to do!” Jihoon whined, his tone dropping a notch softer as if that would magically make it less offensive to the sanctity of the library’s hush. Spoiler: it didn’t. Youngjae slammed the bell on his desk again, a sharp ding! ricocheting through the reading room like divine punishment. Shinyu cackled, unbothered, as if chaos was oxygen.

 

Dohoon pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it was a miracle his glasses didn’t snap in half. “It’s only been a week. We have the entire semester to watch one film and write about it.” He gestured vaguely with his other hand, as though the entire calendar was laid out in invisible neon above their heads.

 

But his muttered add-on, too low for anyone else to notice, betrayed him: “You’re still overthinkers even in this life…” His voice trailed, and the words were supposed to disappear into the air, but of course Youngjae glanced up from his desk, brow furrowed. Dohoon quickly schooled his face into something that could be interpreted as angry rambling, because the last thing he needed was an interrogation about metaphysical slip-ups.

 

“We’re a clingy bunch,” Jihoon admitted, unashamed, his voice taking on that half-proud, half-sheepish quality Dohoon remembered all too well. “One time I had to go back to the city over the weekend and Shinyu here video called me until we both fell asleep.”

 

Dohoon’s eye twitched. Even here, in this life, Jihoon overshared like it was an Olympic sport. Back then, he used to find it exasperating yet oddly endearing. Now, it just jabbed at him like a thorn he couldn’t pull out. Because he wasn’t one of the subjects anymore. He wasn’t even in the picture.

 

He exhaled a heavy sigh, loud enough to ruffle the awkward air between them. He considered just dropping the entire group project right then and there. It’d be so easy to walk away, claim a solo assignment, and leave the two to their… clinginess. But if he abandoned it, they’d almost definitely spiral into guilty self-blame, and that—unfortunately—went against the whole not causing unnecessary emotional disasters thing he was trying to maintain.

 

“Let’s just do it in one day.” The words dropped from his mouth like a reluctant surrender. His eyes flicked between Shinyu and Jihoon, watching for their reactions like a gambler watching dice roll.

 

“Three movies in one day?” Shinyu blinked as if Dohoon had just suggested a human endurance trial on par with climbing Mount Everest barefoot.

 

“I don’t think my brain can hold the plotlines of three movies and still write coherent reviews,” Jihoon admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with that sheepish grin that had once been a soft spot, but now grated like nails on a chalkboard.

 

Dohoon’s gaze slid over to Youngjae. The assistant didn’t say a word, only shrugged in a way that screamed, Yeah, buddy, you’re on your own here. Then back again to the two chaos gremlins in front of him.

 

He squared his shoulders, leveled them with a look, and asked, slowly this time, as if speaking to children who might bolt at any sudden movement:

 

“When… and where?”

 

It had been two weekends since the little fiasco at the library. In the end, Youngjae’s patience had snapped, and Shinyu and Jihoon were unceremoniously shown the door—Jihoon because he couldn’t keep his voice down no matter how many times he was shushed, and Shinyu because he found every single one of Jihoon’s antics hilarious. Dohoon, for once, had stayed behind in the quiet aftermath, wondering how he always ended up orbiting the chaos those two carried around like it was a second skin.

 

And now, here he was—standing in front of a house he had once promised himself he would never step into.

 

Dohoon gripped the thin plastic handles of the bag in his hand, knuckles whitening. Inside was a neat box of strawberry shortcake, a peace offering he had told himself was for the household, not for Shinyu, not for Jihoon. It wasn’t a bribe for warmth or closeness, but a gesture of respect for the family whose threshold he was about to cross. A family he had once known too well, across more lives than he cared to admit.

 

He exhaled, the kind of sigh that seemed to loosen something tight in his chest and yet made it heavier at the same time. Maybe it was fate again, weaving the three of them back into the same thread no matter how much he resisted. Maybe there was no point in fighting anymore.

 

Before he could even lift his finger to the doorbell, the sliding door eased open with a quiet sound, and standing there was a woman he recognized instantly.

 

“Hey. Good morning. And you are?” Her voice was warm, her smile even warmer, and Dohoon’s throat constricted.

 

Because he had seen this face before. He had seen this same woman weep in different lives, crumble under the unbearable weight of losing a son. He had seen her hold Jihoon and him together in her arms, rocking them through their grief as though she could shoulder all of it alone. Not once had she ever looked at him with blame. Always kindness, always gentleness, even when her own heart had been shattered.

 

And now—she was here, alive, smiling, whole.

 

“I—I’m Shinyu’s classmate,” Dohoon managed, the words trembling with more emotion than he intended. He forced a smile, and for once it wasn’t practiced or polite, it was genuine. “He… asked us to come here for a project.”

 

“Oh! He’s upstairs with Jihoon.” She tilted her head toward the staircase, her expression brightening as though the house itself was lighter for having Shinyu and Jihoon inside it. “You can go right up.”

 

Dohoon held the cake out with both hands, bowing slightly. “I—I brought this for you to share. I’m… sorry for intruding.”

 

Her chuckle was soft, like the sound of wind chimes stirred by a breeze. She accepted the box with both hands, nodding with gratitude before stepping aside to let him in. He bowed once more, a little deeper this time, and then slipped out of his shoes at the door.

 

He didn’t let his gaze linger as he followed the narrow hallway inside. The walls, the framed photographs, the ordinary warmth of the space—he didn’t want to look too closely. He wasn’t ready to see the details of Shinyu’s life laid bare, wasn’t ready for that quiet ache to carve deeper.

 

The stairs creaked faintly beneath his steps as he made his way up to the second floor. He hadn’t asked which room, hadn’t thought to, but some instinct tugged at him, steady and insistent. At the far end, the leftmost door was slightly ajar, just enough to catch the faint spill of light and the muted sounds of volces.

 

Something in him said that’s the one.

 

He swallowed, straightened his shoulders, and walked toward it, each step heavier than the last.

 

When he reached the door and pushed it open just enough, the scene that greeted him stole the air from his lungs.

 

“Oh.”

Notes:

The infamous "Oh."
See you next week!

Chapter 6

The very first thing Jihoon did after stepping inside Shinyu’s room was make a flying leap straight onto his bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, bouncing him slightly, and he let out a small laugh as though he had just accomplished something grand. He wasn’t even sure why he felt so giddy—maybe it was because the weekend had finally arrived, which meant an entire day free to spend with Shinyu. Or maybe it was because Dohoon had finally agreed to their long-delayed project meeting, something Jihoon had been pestering him about for weeks.

 

Honestly, Jihoon couldn’t quite put a finger on the exact reason. All he knew for certain was that he had shown up way, way too early. Fortunately, Shinyu’s mom was already awake and welcomed him in without a fuss. She always did, since Jihoon was practically part of the household at this point. Even Shinyu’s dad had teased earlier, half-serious, that they should just hand Jihoon a duplicate key so no one had to bother letting him in anymore. It wasn’t a stretch—both families knew all about this “phase” between Shinyu and Jihoon, though calling it just courting sometimes felt like an understatement.

 

“Yuya~” Jihoon sang in a playful tune as he reached out to poke the lump on the bed. It had been at least an hour since he arrived, and for that entire hour he had done nothing but fiddle with his phone. Games, scrolling, refreshing—until boredom eventually hit him hard enough to consider another plan: waking the lion. Everyone in the family knew how impossible it was to rouse Shinyu once he was out cold, but somehow, Jihoon always managed to find a way.

 

“Yuya, wake up~ I have a story to tell!” His finger jabbed gently at Shinyu’s back again and again, as though persistence alone would do the trick. Shinyu was turned away from him, arms and legs wrapped tightly around a pillow. The sight made Jihoon’s heart melt—how could someone look that adorable while sleeping so stubbornly?

 

When repeated pokes failed, Jihoon puffed out his cheeks in frustration before crawling forward with determination. He draped himself across Shinyu’s side, clinging onto him like a little koala. His grin widened with mischief, hoping that the combined weight of his body and his endless pestering might finally coax Shinyu out of dreamland.

 

“Wake uuuup!!” Jihoon wriggled exaggeratedly, laughing when he heard a muffled groan beneath him. “Dohoon’s coming in a few hours, and I have so many things to tell you before then!”

 

Shinyu only responded with another groan, eyes still shut tight as if his body had already trained itself to withstand Jihoon’s morning invasions. And yet, somewhere in the haze of half-sleep, there was the faintest twitch of a smile. He had admitted before—sometimes shyly, sometimes almost proud—that he secretly liked it when Jihoon got this clingy. It was warm. Familiar. Something he could never quite resist for long.

 

It took another fifteen minutes of Jihoon stubbornly clinging to Shinyu like a little koala, his arms looped around him and his cheek pressed against the warmth of Shinyu’s back, before the older boy finally stirred. A low, reluctant groan escaped Shinyu, and Jihoon lifted his head, eyes curving into a smile at his small victory.

 

Sometimes he still couldn’t believe this was his life—that someone like Shinyu allowed him to be this close, to be part of his mornings, his family, his world. And then, on top of everything, fate had decided they were soulmates. Jihoon often wondered what he had done in another lifetime to deserve something this precious. Then again, there was Dohoon too. Maybe the universe really was pushing the three of them together, tying their threads so tightly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

 

“Good morning,” Jihoon whispered, soft and full of affection. Shinyu leaned forward, already angling in for a kiss, but Jihoon slipped away with a laugh, pressing his finger lightly against Shinyu’s lips. “Wash up first. You can have that later.”

 

The pout that followed almost made Jihoon cave, but he stayed firm, shooing Shinyu off the bed. Once the door clicked shut, Jihoon let out a small breath and settled back against the pillows, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. That dream again. It had followed him into the morning, lingering like an aftertaste he couldn’t quite shake off.

 

The third figure was still a blur, faceless no matter how hard he tried to remember. But the voice—he knew it was familiar, achingly so, though every time he reached for it, the memory slipped away.

 

The door creaked open minutes later, and Shinyu returned, freshly bathed, hair damp and clinging to his forehead. Drops of water slid down his temple, and Jihoon felt his heart swell at how ordinary yet intimate this moment was.

 

“You’re early,” Shinyu murmured, tugging the hem of his shirt down as he walked back to the bed.

 

Jihoon chuckled, his laughter light and airy. “I couldn’t help it. After an entire week of lectures and pretending I still understand anything, I wanted to look forward to today. To us.” He patted the spot beside him, and Shinyu sat without hesitation.

 

Jihoon reached for the towel draped around Shinyu’s neck and began gently rubbing at his hair, careful with every touch. It was a familiar rhythm by now—one of those small, quiet things they had grown into without ever really discussing it.

 

“I had a dream again,” Jihoon said, his voice softer this time. “It was us. You, me… and the other person.”

 

Shinyu hummed, not prying, simply listening, his shoulder brushing against Jihoon’s with a quiet steadiness that grounded him. They had spoken about these dreams before, about the mysterious trio that always appeared in them. Both had considered the possibility that the third person was Dohoon—after all, they were soulmates—but the blurred face never made sense. Why hide someone they already knew?

 

“In that dream we were so happy. Laughing, being painted like we were worth remembering. But then… it changed.” Jihoon’s hands slowed, though he kept drying Shinyu’s hair, fingers lingering just a little longer on the strands as if grounding himself in the present. “The other person’s family didn’t like me. Didn’t like that I was with you two. They only wanted you, so…” His throat tightened. “So they had me killed.”

 

Jihoon forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It was easier to pretend it was just some ridiculous scenario—royalty, assassins, it all sounded absurd. He didn’t even know anyone remotely important, much less part of a royal family. Still, his chest ached as though it were real. As though he had actually felt Shinyu’s arms around his limp body, trembling, desperate, searching for a doctor who never came. As though he had really heard the other voice breaking with apologies, over and over, while Shinyu cried out that it wasn’t their fault.

 

The smile slipped before Jihoon realized it. He didn’t notice that the towel had stilled completely in his hands, or that his gaze had turned unfocused. What he did notice was the warmth of Shinyu’s hand covering his own, gently prying the towel away and letting it fall to the floor. Then came the embrace—Shinyu wrapping him close, guiding Jihoon’s head against his chest, one hand cupping the back of his neck as though holding him together.

 

“Shhh.” The sound was tender, almost like a lullaby, and Jihoon felt himself tremble against it.

 

It was only then, as he buried his face in Shinyu’s shirt, that he realized tears were already slipping down his cheeks. His voice cracked when he tried to speak, muffled against the fabric.

 

“I—I wasn’t even mad that they ended me in that dream,” Jihoon confessed in a broken whisper. “I was mad because before I passed, the last thing I heard was you shouting at that other person. The one we’re supposed to cherish just as much. And that—” his voice shook, “that hurt more than dying.”

 

“I guess it was the guilt eating me alive before I died,” Jihoon muttered, voice muffled as he pressed his face against Shinyu’s chest. “That I somehow managed to cause a rift between you and him right before I went. Ugh, this is embarrassing. I’m crying over a dream.”

 

His words were dampened by Shinyu’s shirt, but the gentle chuckle that vibrated under Jihoon’s ear made him pause. It wasn’t mocking, not even close. Shinyu’s laugh carried warmth, like the sound of a kettle humming just before it boils—quiet, steady, strangely soothing. Jihoon’s shoulders relaxed despite himself.

 

“They had our faces in those dreams,” Shinyu reminded him, low and even. “It’s normal for us to feel things when it’s us.”

 

Jihoon was about to argue, to brush it off again, but he froze when he felt the press of lips against his hair. His ears instantly burned. Good thing his face was buried where Shinyu couldn’t see how red he’d gotten.

 

“Besides,” Shinyu continued as if nothing happened, “if it really was me in your dream—me and the other person—I think we didn't really care about their family’s disapproval. We wouldn’t fight like that unless you were someone we were willing to sacrifice everything for.” His voice softened, firm but tender. “And anyway, my family adores you, Jihoon. You never need to doubt that.”

 

Jihoon hated how easily that reassurance cracked his chest open. He could picture Shinyu’s parents inviting him over for dinner without a second thought, his sister casually teasing him like he already belonged. They had treated him like family long before he was brave enough to even call what they had “courting.” The thought tugged at a smile, small but sincere, as he swiped at his eyes with the back of his arm.

 

“God, this is so stupid,” he groaned, leaning away from Shinyu’s chest at last. “I hope the dream gives us a happy ending next time.”

 

They shifted into a sitting position side by side, and for a stretch of minutes they didn’t say anything. The quiet wasn’t heavy—it was the sort of silence that comes when you’re so used to each other’s company that no words are needed. Jihoon almost dozed off again when Shinyu’s voice cut through, smooth as ever.

 

“So,” Shinyu drawled, “where’s my good morning kiss?”

 

Jihoon blinked and turned, only to find Shinyu leaning back on one hand, his head tilted just so, watching him with shameless expectation.

 

Jihoon barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

 

Shinyu shrugged, eyes glinting. “You said after I washed up, didn’t you?”

 

“Fine, fine,” Jihoon grumbled, giving in because he always did. He leaned closer, quick as a dart, and planted a chaste kiss on Shinyu’s cheek. “Good morning, Yuya.”

 

For a heartbeat, Shinyu didn’t move. Then the corner of his lips twitched, tugging down into a thin line. Jihoon’s eyes widened. Not again. He knew that look—he’d seen it every time Shinyu deemed something “insufficient.”

 

“Don’t even—” Jihoon shot out quickly, holding a finger up in warning.

 

“I haven’t said anything yet,” Shinyu replied, tone dripping with faux innocence.

 

Jihoon groaned dramatically, then scrambled on his knees across the bed until he loomed over Shinyu, throwing one leg across his so he straddled him without sitting all the way down. His palms came up to cup Shinyu’s cheeks, squishing them mercilessly until his lips puckered.

 

“You know,” Jihoon said, grinning wickedly, “for someone who’s not even my boyfriend yet, you’re demanding.”

 

Shinyu’s eyebrows shot up, even with his cheeks squished. “And whose fault is that?” he challenged, voice distorted but smug.

 

Jihoon rolled his eyes, though his chest gave a nervous flutter. He could say yes right now. He could call him his boyfriend, claim him fully. But every time the thought came, so did the other red thread—the third pull of fate named Dohoon. The dreams that kept resurfacing like stubborn ghosts. The uncertainty he wasn’t ready to break.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jihoon muttered instead, playfully dismissive. He leaned down and pressed their lips together, soft and simple, just skin meeting skin. It was innocent, a quiet sweetness that lingered but didn’t cross into anything dangerous. After all, Dohoon was coming soon. They couldn’t risk… more.

 

Jihoon smiled against Shinyu’s mouth, then pulled back enough to hover, ready to drop a silly kiss on the tip of his nose. But just before he could—

 

A voice cut through the room.

 

“Oh.”

 

Jihoon froze. His whole body snapped rigid.

 

“Oh, shit,” he blurted, scrambling off Shinyu like he’d been burned. His ears, his face, even his neck flushed bright red as he spun toward the intruder.

 

Dohoon stood awkwardly by the door, eyes darting everywhere but at them. His cheeks were as red as Jihoon’s, and Jihoon couldn’t help but find the sight ridiculously, painfully adorable.

 

“I—uhm—I can come back later,” Dohoon stammered, voice cracking halfway through. “You—uh—you do your thing first.”

 

Jihoon opened his mouth, but Shinyu beat him to it. “No! It’s not what it looks like!”

 

The way he said it—so panicked, so defensive—made Jihoon’s composure shatter. He collapsed sideways onto the bed, clutching his stomach as laughter poured out of him, loud and unrestrained. Tears pricked his eyes for a different reason this time.

 

“You—” Jihoon gasped between giggles, pointing weakly at Shinyu. “You sounded like you just got caught cheating, Yuya!”

 

Shinyu groaned, burying his face in his hand, and Jihoon laughed harder, his whole body shaking with it.

 

Jihoon couldn’t stop. The more he tried to calm down, the harder he laughed, his face pressed into the sheets as if that would muffle him. It didn’t. His whole body shook, and every breath was broken into wheezes. “Cheating—” he gasped, pointing at Shinyu with teary eyes. “You sounded like you’re hiding a mistress or something—oh my god—”

 

Shinyu groaned louder this time, dragging his palm down his face in slow, exaggerated despair. “Jihoon, you’re making it worse.”

 

“Worse?!” Jihoon hiccuped, rolling onto his back so he could clutch his stomach properly. “Dohoon probably thinks we’ve been sneaking around behind his back! Oh no—” He laughed so hard he kicked his foot against the mattress like a child throwing a tantrum.

 

Dohoon, still planted awkwardly at the doorway, raised his hands in surrender. “I—seriously, I didn’t see anything, okay? Like, nothing. At all.” His words tumbled out in a rush, his eyes darting to the floor as though staring at his shoes might undo the image burned into his head. “Totally blind. Promise.”

 

Shinyu finally snapped his head toward him, incredulous. “You literally said oh the moment you walked in.”

 

“That was reflex!” Dohoon squeaked, his ears glowing crimson now. He rubbed the back of his neck furiously, still refusing to make direct eye contact with either of them. “It’s not like I meant to… you know… witness whatever… whatever that was.”

 

Jihoon was practically crying at this point, rolling sideways into Shinyu’s lap without thinking, his laughter spilling muffled into Shinyu’s thigh. His voice came out strangled. “Oh my god, this is priceless. You two—this is better than any drama I’ve ever watched.”

 

Shinyu glared down at him but didn’t push him away. Instead, he pinched Jihoon’s side, making him yelp between giggles. “Stop laughing before I actually give Dohoon the wrong idea.”

 

Jihoon wheezed, batting Shinyu’s hand away. “The wrong idea? Yuya, you literally just yelled ‘it’s not what it looks like’ while I was straddling you. What else is he supposed to think?”

 

Dohoon made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying kettle. He stepped back toward the hallway, as though debating whether to bolt. “Seriously, I can just… wait downstairs or something. You guys can—uh—finish…” His voice cracked again, and he winced. “…whatever.”

 

Jihoon sat up then, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, still shaking with leftover laughter. His face was bright red, but his grin was mischievous. “Dohoonie, come on, don’t run away. You walked in at the perfect time. Yuya needed to be humbled.”

 

Shinyu’s head whipped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Humbled?”

 

Jihoon smirked, leaning into Shinyu’s shoulder just to make him squirm. “Yeah. You were getting all smug, demanding kisses like you already own me.”

 

“You like it anyway. You get all whiny when I don’t do anything,” Shinyu shot back, his tone dry but his smirk smug.

 

Jihoon gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Excuse me?! Whiny? I am a dignified individual with self-respect, thank you very much.”

 

Shinyu only arched a brow, not bothering to argue further. That was worse—Jihoon hated when Shinyu thought he’d won.

 

“I really should just come back later,” Dohoon mumbled from the doorway, clearly uncomfortable, already half-turned as if escape was the only reasonable option.

 

Jihoon reacted before his brain could catch up. With all the grace of a brick, he rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a loud thud. Both Shinyu and Dohoon winced at the noise, but Jihoon popped right back up as if nothing had happened. He lunged forward and latched onto Dohoon’s arm like a child refusing to let their parent leave the toy aisle.

 

“Nope!” Jihoon declared, ignoring the throbbing in his hip. “You’re staying right here, mister, because we are doing a movie review.”

 

The three of them ended up huddled around Shinyu's battered laptop, scrolling through their meager library of pirated movies and ancient DVDs. The debate was immediate.

 

“Kimetsu no Yaiba,” Shinyu suggested first, his voice decisive, like it was already settled.

 

Dohoon groaned. “That’s literally still in theaters. What are we supposed to watch, a shaky camcorder recording with people’s heads blocking half the screen? Pass.”

 

“How about Pokémon 2000,” Dohoon countered, straightening like he had just presented the winning option.

 

“Too old,” Shinyu said instantly, waving his hand dismissively.

 

Dohoon looked personally offended. “Too old? Pokémon movies are timeless classics. Timeless! And Lugia's there! Moltres, Zapdos, AND Articuno! And how Snorlax woke up to save every Pokémon from being blown away! Bellossom dancing!”

 

Shinyu and Dohoon descended into a heated back-and-forth—Shinyu mocking Dohoon’s taste, Dohoon defending Pokémon with the passion of a man ready to enter a pokemon battle. Jihoon, meanwhile, tuned them out and began setting things up. By the time the opening notes of Frozen started playing, both arguers snapped their heads toward the screen in unison, their bickering cut short.

 

“We are watching this whether you like it or not!” Jihoon declared triumphantly, plopping himself onto the bed. Without hesitation, he squeezed himself into the empty space on Dohoon’s left.

 

Both Shinyu and Dohoon blinked at him, equally confused by the arrangement.

 

Jihoon leaned closer to Dohoon, voice dropping into faux seriousness. “This is to prevent us from ‘making out,’ Dohoonie.” He jabbed a thumb toward Shinyu, who was forced to sit on Dohoon’s right side like an exiled prince.

 

Dohoon groaned and rolled his eyes, but Jihoon didn’t miss the faint blush creeping up his ears. Shinyu, on the other hand, shot him a look so full of betrayal Jihoon almost burst out laughing again. Almost. Instead, he clung to Dohoon’s arm with exaggerated sweetness, grinning like he had just solved world hunger.

 

The familiar icy blue title filled the screen, snowflakes twirling across the opening credits. Jihoon immediately began humming along, swaying side to side like a kid at a school performance.

 

“Do you wanna build a snowman~” he sang in an exaggerated falsetto, clutching Dohoon’s arm dramatically as though auditioning for the part of Anna herself.

 

Dohoon stiffened, his entire body going rigid. “Y-you don’t have to—uh—cling to me to sing, you know.”

 

“Yes, I do,” Jihoon said without missing a beat, giving him a wicked grin before turning back to the screen.

 

On Dohoon’s other side, Shinyu sat with his arms crossed, slouched against the wall like the grumpiest chaperone in history. His eyes were glued to the laptop, but his pout was unmistakable.

 

Jihoon noticed and, of course, pounced. “Oh nooo,” he whispered theatrically, loud enough for Shinyu to hear. “Yuya’s jealous because he doesn’t get to be my snowman.”

 

“Snowmen melt,” Shinyu replied flatly, finally flicking his gaze toward Jihoon. “Fitting, since you’re already too clingy. You’d stick until I suffocated.”

 

Jihoon gasped, scandalized, and smacked his arm against Dohoon’s chest for support. “Do you hear him? He’s comparing me to melting ice! This is abuse. Emotional abuse!”

 

Dohoon sputtered, caught completely in the crossfire. “Why am I—don’t drag me into this!”

 

But Jihoon was relentless. He tightened his grip on Dohoon’s arm and leaned dramatically into his shoulder. “You’re my witness, Dohoonie. If I freeze to death, it’s because Shinyu here refused to let me be his snowman.”

 

Dohoon made a noise halfway between a sigh and a laugh, but he didn’t push Jihoon away. His ears were glowing red again, though he tried very hard to keep his face neutral, his eyes stubbornly focused on the movie.

 

Shinyu, however, was not letting this go. “Fine,” he muttered, his pout deepening. “Then I’ll be Elsa.”

 

Jihoon perked up instantly. “Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me,” Shinyu said, leaning forward now, his tone challenging. “I’ll be Elsa. Which makes you Anna. The clingy little sister.”

 

Jihoon gasped so loud Dohoon actually flinched. “You did not just sister-zone me!”

 

“I did.” Shinyu smirked, looking smug in the dim glow of the laptop. “And Dohoon can be Kristoff.”

 

Dohoon, who had been trying desperately to stay uninvolved, choked on his own saliva. “What—why me?!”

 

“Because you’re sitting in the middle,” Shinyu said matter-of-factly, as though it were the most obvious reasoning in the world.

 

Jihoon shoved Dohoon lightly, giggling so hard he nearly tipped over. “Dohoonie~ my rugged mountain man!” He fluttered his eyelashes and clasped his hands under his chin, practically bouncing.

 

The movie carried on, Elsa singing her heart out about letting go, snow whirling on the screen. Jihoon hummed along dramatically again, pretending to fling snow into the air. Shinyu sat stiffly, pretending not to care, though Jihoon noticed the way his fingers drummed impatiently against his leg. And Dohoon? He stayed wedged in the middle like the world’s most awkward buffer, resigned to his fate, cheeks faintly pink the entire time.

 

By the time Anna bumped into Kristoff on screen, Jihoon was already leaning so far forward he was practically in Dohoon’s lap. His brain was buzzing with connections that absolutely needed to be said out loud, otherwise he might actually explode.

 

“See?!” Jihoon announced, jabbing a finger toward the laptop like he’d just solved the mystery of the universe. “Soulmates! Anna literally crashes into him in the middle of the night, and boom—destiny. The red thread of fate but make it icy blue.”

 

He felt Dohoon stiffen beside him. When Jihoon turned, the other boy was staring with his usual blank face, though his ears were giving him away. Pink. Bright pink. Jihoon wanted to poke them, just to confirm.

 

“…Jihoon. It’s a Disney movie,” Dohoon said slowly, like Jihoon was the child in the room. “For kids.”

 

Jihoon gasped, hand flying to his chest. “So what? Kids deserve soulmate representation too!”

 

From the other side, Shinyu’s groan cut through, long and suffering. Jihoon whipped his head around to see him with his arms crossed, shoulders hunched like he was allergic to what Jihoon called “fun” at times. Typical Shinyu.

 

“Anna also wanted to marry a guy she met five minutes earlier,” Shinyu said, his tone flat enough to iron clothes. “Your argument is invalid.”

 

Jihoon narrowed his eyes. The betrayal. “How dare you! Anna is just… trusting. Open-hearted. Unlike you, Mister Iwa no kokyu or whatever breathing that is.”

 

Shinyu didn’t even flinch. He just looked at him, calm and cutting, and said, “Better than dying from hypothermia because I followed a stranger into the mountains.”

 

Jihoon threw himself back against Dohoon’s arm with a dramatic wail. “That’s because you are the mountain, Yuya! Cold, unmovable, but somehow comforting when you finally let yourself lean in—”

 

A poke in his side made him yelp. Shinyu’s doing, obviously. “Stop narrating me like I’m a landscape painting.”

 

Jihoon ignored him, tilting his head up toward Dohoon instead. His reward? A very obvious stifled laugh. Dohoon tried to smother it, but Jihoon caught the twitch of his lips.

 

“See? Dohoonie gets it.” Jihoon grinned, victorious. “That laugh means he’s on my side.”

 

Dohoon immediately threw his hands up like Jihoon had accused him of a crime. “I didn’t say that!”

 

“You don’t have to.” Jihoon tightened his hold on Dohoon’s arm, sing-songing. “The red thread has already spoken~”

 

From the corner of his eye, Jihoon saw Shinyu’s glare sharpen. “Jihoon.” Just his name, low and warning, but it only made Jihoon’s grin widen.

 

“What?” Jihoon shot back, smirking. “Gonna freeze me out like Elsa again?”

 

Shinyu’s lips curved, dangerous. “…Maybe I’ll let you slip on the ice this time.”

 

Jihoon giggled, the sound bubbling out before he could stop it. He leaned harder into Dohoon, partly to annoy him more, partly because Dohoon was warm and steady. His head brushed Dohoon’s shoulder, and for a second, Jihoon felt him stiffen—but he didn’t move away. Interesting. Very interesting.

 

Then Olaf appeared, waddling on screen, singing about summer, and Jihoon gasped so loudly both boys flinched. He sat up immediately, pointing like he was in class and had the right answer. “Look! Even the snowman has dreams bigger than himself. This is us. This is literally fate telling us—”

 

“Nope,” Shinyu cut him off without hesitation.

 

“Yes!” Jihoon argued, whipping around to glare. “We’re Olaf! Out of place, but destined to survive together because of—”

 

“Because of sheer dumb luck?” Shinyu deadpanned.

 

Jihoon leaned forward until their foreheads almost touched, grinning like a menace, not minding Dohoon in the middle. “Because of love, Yuya. Say it with me.”

 

Shinyu didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, but Jihoon caught the faintest pink dusting his ears, and the tiniest smile on his face. That was a win in his book.

 

Meanwhile, Dohoon was muttering into his hand, something that sounded suspiciously like, “Why do I even put up with you two…” but Jihoon saw it—the smile he was hiding, small and unsteady, but definitely there.

 

And that made Jihoon’s heart thump, just a little too loud.

 

By the time they were done typing their “movie review”, the laughter had dulled into soft chuckles and half-hearted teasing. Dohoon closed the lid of his laptop with practiced care, sliding it back into his bag as if the act itself marked the end of his role for the day. Jihoon almost wanted to protest—he wasn’t ready for him to leave yet—but before he could say anything, the door creaked open and Shinyu returned, balancing a tray laden with food.

 

“I didn’t know you brought cake.” Shinyu’s words were directed to Dohoon, his tone neutral but curious.

 

Jihoon blinked, realizing only then that of course the cake wasn’t from him. He’d arrived empty-handed as usual, expecting Shinyu’s house to be his second kitchen. Dohoon, though—he was different.

 

“Yeah. It’s for you guys to share,” Dohoon said simply, already hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder. “I’m going home.”

 

The words stung Jihoon more than he wanted to admit. Too final. Too distant. Before Dohoon could take a step, Jihoon’s hand shot out, catching the strap of his bag. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was stubborn enough to halt him.

 

“Eat first before you go,” Jihoon insisted, his grin playful but his eyes sharp with determination. “You must be hungry. I’m starving.”

 

Dohoon’s mouth opened, the shape of refusal already there, but Jihoon cut him off quickly, shaking his head. “No excuses. I won’t take no for an answer. It’s just food. That won’t kill you.”

 

The second the words left his mouth, Jihoon wished he could swallow them back. He noticed it—just the faintest flicker in Dohoon’s expression, a stiffness in his shoulders, like the sentence had brushed against an invisible bruise. Most people would laugh at his dramatics, maybe roll their eyes. Dohoon didn’t. And ever since that dream, Jihoon couldn’t stop seeing signs everywhere, couldn’t stop wondering if there was something more beneath the walls Dohoon kept so carefully built.

 

Shinyu settled down on the floor, crossing his legs easily as if nothing hung in the air. He patted the empty space beside him without a word. Jihoon dropped down instantly, leaning against Shinyu’s shoulder, before glancing back at Dohoon.

 

For a long moment, Dohoon just stood there. Jihoon held his breath, afraid he’d turn away again. But finally, with a soft sigh, Dohoon lowered his bag back to the ground and joined them. Relief tugged at Jihoon’s lips until it broke into a small, triumphant smile.

 

“Ohh, strawberry shortcake,” Jihoon chirped, reaching for the plate and then leaning to poke Shinyu’s cheek with his finger. “Isn’t this your favorite?”

 

Shinyu turned his head sharply, teeth flashing in an attempt to bite the offending finger, but Jihoon yanked it away just in time, laughing until his shoulders shook. The sound, bright and unfiltered, filled the room—yet Jihoon still caught it. That quiet murmur from Dohoon, barely audible, but enough to still him.

 

“I know.”

 

Jihoon’s laughter faltered, though he covered it quickly, turning his attention back to the cake. He didn’t want to press—not here, not yet—but the words curled in his chest, warm and heavy.

 

Later, after Dohoon left with a polite goodbye, Jihoon wasted no time. He dragged Shinyu back to his room, slammed the door shut, and spun on his heel, eyes wide with revelation.

 

“Dohoon’s the person in our dreams!”

 

Shinyu didn’t look surprised. Instead, he chuckled, reaching out to pat Jihoon’s cheek as if soothing a child who had just caught up. “Yeah. I kind of figured it out when we argued earlier. Same stubbornness. Same attitude.”

 

Jihoon’s lips curved into a smile, but the weight in his chest didn’t lift. His expression betrayed him—worry pulling at his brows even as he tried to look excited. “And he’s hiding something, isn’t he?”

 

Shinyu’s gaze softened, reflecting Jihoon’s concern like a mirror. For a long beat, neither spoke, the silence carrying all the unasked questions between them. Finally, Shinyu nodded.

 

“I wonder if that’s why he wanted nothing to do with us.”

 

The thought settled over them, heavy and aching, and Jihoon’s chest tightened with the certainty that their dreams weren’t just dreams anymore.

Notes:

I was so close to making a KNY vs Pokémon argument between yudoz but I might spoil the movie to others. LMAO

Iwa no Kokyu is Stone Breathing. Had to incorporate it because I remember Shinyu copying Gyomei. 😭😭 (aside from Zenitsu)

Anw.. so... They're now starting to put two and two together. Will they do something though?