Work Text:
Zhang Hao isn’t a stranger to romance.
He knows how to get what he wants without ever having to ask. Flashing a shy smile, acting just cute enough to coax one back, letting his hair fall over his eyes when he laughs, tilting his head just right when he’s confused. He doesn't do it deliberately, not always, but it works when he wants someone to come to him without doing so himself.
ZBU’s student population is large enough that the idea of a campus crush feels too small, almost trivial. But even in the sea of students, Hao knows he stands out—at least a little. Within his department and sometimes beyond, he catches people looking. He hears whispers. Friends asking for his name. Strangers doing a double take as he walks through the park within campus. A few have even gone so far as to propose to him on ZBU’s Freedom Wall. The proposals got so ridiculous that Ricky started keeping a tally of them on their whiteboard in the dorm. And there was also that one time the university publication posted about him after he topped the entrance exam. It went semi-viral, and for a while, people addressed him as the cute boy who ranked first.
Hao acts like it doesn’t boost his ego, but the truth is, it does. Just a little.
Still, none of it really matters in the long run. He’s been through his share of talking stages, little moments of interest that spark and burn out before they even become something indicative of love. Light flirting, the occasional “have you eaten?”, remembering favorite shows. Very Predictable. And tiring. Hao knows how to play the game, but he’s not always in the mood to. The attention, the curiosity, the polite affection, they all wear him down eventually.
It always felt too shallow for him.
Only once did he get close to something resembling a real relationship. That was with Choi Soobin. They were about the same age and started out as friends. Soobin was the one he messaged when he had a craving for Haidilao at midnight, the one he annoyed with bizarre (or, as Soobin put it, “terrifying”) meat combinations. He was the person Hao would rant to about professors assigning reading that felt like piecing together a word salad, the kind where authors tried too hard to sound as if they know more than they actually do. Soobin was also the one he’d ask for feedback when practicing a violin piece for a wedding gig, something on the side to earn a little extra cash.
Soobin was, for a time, the person closest to being “someone” to Hao. But he moved too fast, and Hao hesitated. That was enough to break it. It happened outside a dingy 7/11, under a flickering light, with the humidity clinging to Hao’s skin even under his puffer jacket. Soobin asked what they were. Hao didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say, or maybe he did and chose not to say it. That silence stayed with him. Sometimes, it resurfaces at night, right before he falls asleep, or while watching another BL drama with a drawn-out slow-burn arc and too many emotionally charged scenes in the rain under shared umbrellas (or lack thereof).
Ricky calls him horribly yaoipilled. Hao calls Ricky annoying, though he doesn’t deny it.
God forbid a gay man likes gay media.
He still thinks about that moment: the way Soobin looked at him, hopeful, searching, heart already outstretched, and how Hao pretended not to notice. But he did. He always did. He’d known something was building when Soobin began holding his gaze a little longer than usual, when he started saying “message me when you get home,” when he spoke about the future like Hao would be part of it.
Hao replays that moment often, like a scene from one of his arguably shitty webdramas. Sometimes, not answering is an answer in itself.
After that, Hao threw himself into his studies. Buried himself in notes for his World Music class so hard he ended up acing the midterm. Coincidentally, he shared that class with one of Soobin’s friends, though in a lecture hall with 74 students, he never really learned his name. He remembers the way that guy looked at him: as if he saw something, as if Hao had been stripped bare under the professor’s praise.
Later, Ricky asked how he got over it so fast. Hao shrugged. The truth is, he didn’t. He just didn’t let it consume him.
Getting over what they had was different from getting over Soobin. The latter was the easy part. He’d feel guiltier about it but he didn’t feel like he had much right to grieve when there was never anything to mourn.
Hao and Soobin still follow each other on Instagram. Sometimes Hao gets a heart react from him, usually on something dumb he posted during a boba-tea-fueled 10 p.m. breakdown while “studying” (read: doomscrolling) for his other major subjects (and his one elective). They still talk every now and then—rare, casual check-ins that leave Hao feeling hollow.
Not because he lost a relationship, but because he lost Soobin. And that’s different.
Still, he tells himself it’s fine.
He’s fine. His GPA is one of the highest in his batch. That’s what matters.
He earns good money playing the violin part-time, and he pays his share of the rent even though Ricky insists he doesn’t have to. He knows Ricky can probably pay for both of their rents, but Hao doesn’t like owing people financially. Perhaps a side effect of growing up lower-middle class.
Hao has been alone ever since he set foot in Korea. He’s used to it. It’s not that he doesn’t want companionship—it’s just that loneliness has become comfortable. Maybe even preferable. He’s not sure if it’s because he got used to it, or because he learned to like it.
He bangs his head against his desk, hard enough that the red from his hair mixed with his sweat leaves a faint pink stain across his music sheets. He does it again, just to feel something, anything, other than the ache that lives in his chest, the echo of thoughts he hasn’t said out loud. He stays there, motionless, forehead pressed to the desk cushioned by a layer of paper, until sleep finally drags him under.
That’s how Ricky finds him about an hour later.
He’s still slumped at his desk, dazed and half-asleep, like someone who’s just resurfaced from a long, unproductive spiral of feelings. Hao blinks up at him groggily, trying to gather his bearings after a good session of wallowing. Ricky, in contrast, stands there looking perfectly untouched. Shirt crisply ironed and tucked into his pants with not a drop of paint on him despite being a fine arts major, which feels like a personal attack somehow. Hao squints at him through a mess of hair and paper. “Why are you here?” he asks, leaning back in his chair with a stretch that sends a crack through almost every joint in his body. He lets out a long, dramatic groan. The obnoxious kind he knows Ricky hates.
“First off, are you okay?” Ricky asks, tone cautious. Hao raises an eyebrow, not quite understanding what prompted the concern until Ricky raises one of his own in return and gestures toward the damp, slightly pink-stained music sheet on the desk.
Hao exhales, resigned. He picks up the sheet and slides it into his beat-up accordion folder, which, in typical fashion, he hasn’t organized since the semester started. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says. “Sorry. I was just frustrated about the current state of the economy.”
Ricky stares at him, clearly not buying it but ultimately deciding not to pry.
That’s what Hao appreciates about the younger boy.
Living together with Ricky wasn’t a challenge for Hao, unlike his very first roommate who was clearly used to having his mom do everything for him. Ricky is low maintenance in comparison. He’s fairly quiet. Most days, Hao’s only indication that Ricky’s awake is the soft glow of light spilling from beneath his door. Hao is convinced Ricky sleeps less than he does, which is a huge concern in itself. He’s also surprisingly tidy, which means Hao limits his own mess to the confines of his room just to avoid disappointing him, which he finds mildly embarrassing to admit even to himself.
They ended up living together after Ricky posted about needing a roommate to help split the rent on his questionably large, questionably affordable apartment. Hao had accepted the offer without much thought—it was a decent place, and even though it’s a solid fifteen-minute walk to campus, it’s still a better deal than what the overpriced dorms near the university were offering. It worked out. More than worked out, really. Especially since the younger boy is Chinese. Which means he has someone to talk about his niche Chinese celebrity lore about.
“Can you come with me to Gyuvin’s practice with his dance org tomorrow?” Ricky asks then, his fingers fidgeting with the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. He’s trying to sound casual, but the way his hands won’t stay still gives him away.
“Yeah, sure,” Hao replies after a second passes.
“What?” Ricky blinks.
“What?” Hao repeats, raising an eyebrow and faking a pout. “Why are you so shocked?”
“I don’t know, I thought it’d take more than that to convince you,” Ricky says, his posture straightening slightly now that he’s been disarmed. And to be fair, he’s right. Hao would usually turn down any outing that didn’t involve food or a university event.
“I think I should go out more,” Hao shrugs. Then he glances at Ricky with a sly look. “Why’d Gyuvin ask you anyway?”
There’s a pause, just long enough for realization to dawn. Hao’s lips curl into a grin. “Ooohhh…” he says, dragging it out teasingly. Ricky immediately flushes, swatting at him with a light, harmless smack. Hao, laughing, leans away like he’s dodging a serious attack.
“Please,” Ricky groans, clearly embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just didn’t want to make it weird if I was the only one there who isn’t part of the organization. It’s not like that, seriously. I already told Gyuvin I’d drag you along too, and he seemed genuinely happy.”
Hao’s teasing fades into something softer, more genuine. His smile lingers. “Yeah, alright. I’ll go.”
Truth be told, Hao likes Gyuvin. He doesn’t have many friends within the university. The only person he regularly hangs out with besides Ricky is Taerae, but even then, Taerae has other friends. A group of friends in which Hao’s not a part of. Fake ass bitch.
In recent months, though, he’s started to think of Ricky and Gyuvin as little brothers of sorts. He’s older than both by a bit, and it’s enough of a gap that the dynamic has settled into something familiar. Gyuvin crashes at their apartment so often that Hao honestly wouldn’t be surprised if one day he just announced he was moving in. It’s become a regular scene, Hao wedged on the secondhand couch he got from Karrot between them, all three of them scrolling through Ricky’s TikTok For You page (which, according to Ricky, is the most elite and curated).
He finds himself eating late-night meals with them during exam weeks, the kind of hangouts that spiral into weird unhinged conversations and mutual emotional breakdowns over finals. Sometimes they come to him looking for comfort, advice, or just someone to listen and Hao gives it, with surprising ease. The companionship he’s found with the two of them feels good in a way he never expected. As an only child, this kind of bond was unfamiliar territory. But it’s grown into something he’d never replace.
Standing in front of the practice room, Hao tightens his grip on the strap of his backpack and wishes that he liked Gyuvin just a little less. Maybe then he wouldn’t be here, awkwardly stationed beside Ricky, who looks so composed and unaffected that if Hao didn’t know him better, he might have thought Ricky wasn’t secretly freaking out too. Hao shifts uncomfortably, feeling the weight of stares from students passing through the hallway outside the row of studio rooms. Just as he seriously considers turning around and walking away to escape the mildly terrifying prospect of being perceived, the door swings open, and Gyuvin appears, already grinning like someone who’s just seen his favorite people in the world.
“Hi! Why didn’t you just go in?” Gyuvin asks, breathless and glowing with sweat. His skin glistens under the hallway lights, and Hao watches a single bead slide down the side of Gyuvin’s unfairly small, symmetrical face.
Ricky shoots him a flat look. “Yeah, sure. Let me just walk in there, some stranger whose name they don’t even know. That definitely wouldn’t be awkward at all.”
Gyuvin processes that for a moment, visibly deflating as his expression crumples into something that resembles a kicked puppy. “Anyways,” he recovers quickly as he grabs Hao’s left hand and starts swinging it in exaggerated arcs like a child would. “Hi Hao-hyung! I really wanted you here because I wanted you to see that I’ve been working hard.”
There’s something about Gyuvin’s earnestness that’s hard to resist. Hao finds himself smiling despite the discomfort in his chest, mirroring Gyuvin’s energy with a smaller, quieter kind of affection. “I know,” he says. “You’ll be performing at the fair, right?”
“Yeah!” Gyuvin beams. “Which is why you’re here. I wanted you two to see me perform first before anyone else does.” He pauses, slightly breathless. “Well… anyone else who isn’t part of the org.”
ZBU’s annual university fair usually falls around the last week of February, a suspiciously love-filled event that somehow manages to attract couples in droves despite never actually aligning with Valentine’s Day. Hao’s been to it twice: once alone as a freshman (a mistake), and once last year with Gyuvin and Ricky, which ended up being far better than he expected. He doesn’t fully get the hype on why people flock to overly priced food stalls and walk through LED lights flashing so brightly Hao was sure he was going blind. But he did enjoy staying until midnight that year, shoulder to shoulder with the other two, watching the lineup of live performances. The school’s entertainment budget was surprisingly solid. Hao nearly screamed himself hoarse when NMIXX stepped onstage.
(He still claims he’s the group’s unofficial seventh member, funnily enough, considering they actually used to have seven members.)
Gyuvin leads them into the room, swinging the door open with zero hesitation. Inside, the room is a controlled kind of chaos. Some people are stretching on the floor, others are gathered around a tablet, whom Hao presumes are probably reviewing footage of their performance, and a few are quietly practicing choreography on their own, mouthing counts under their breath. Some of them glance up briefly at the new arrivals, offering the kind of polite, fleeting smiles reserved for strangers who might be important but probably aren’t. No one seems particularly bothered by their presence, and for a moment Hao relaxes a little, content to melt into the background.
“Hi.”
“AH—”
The voice is close, too close, and Hao jumps, letting out a strangled noise that could’ve been a curse if he hadn’t managed to choke it back just in time. He stumbles a little, completely thrown off balance, and probably would’ve gone down if not for the arm that shoots out to steady him. His head whips around, accusatory, as his brows furrowed, prepared to open his mouth to demand why this absolute menace of a person has chosen to scare the living hell out of him. Or maybe they didn’t. Hao has always been easy to scare.
That was the plan, at least until he saw him.
And just like that, all thoughts of indignation vanish. The first thing Hao registers is the face: damp dark hair falling slightly over the stranger’s forehead, the strands just brushing against lashes that are unusually thick and long. Too long, honestly. Camel-like, Hao thinks. Or maybe like a giraffe. Either way, unfair. He’s attractive, undeniably so, in that universally appealing kind of way. Conventionally. And while Hao has seen more than his fair share of good-looking people on campus, this guy somehow knocks the wind out of him. There's nothing outrageous about his features but he leaves Hao blinking, briefly stunned.
The guy looks just as startled as Hao feels. For a second, they just stand there, staring, like they’re both trying to make sense of the weird jolt that passed between them. It makes Hao’s annoyance simmer down with embarrassing speed. Maybe he was more shallow than he liked to think. Or maybe his fight-or-flight response was easily overridden by the presence of a pretty face. Either way, he finds himself frozen, trying, and failing, to pull himself back together.
They must’ve stayed like that for an embarrassingly long moment, as he hears Gyuvin snort, unnaturally loud. The sound is what separates them, and Hao almost mourned the loss of the arm holding his waist. Hao looks at Ricky, who has this unreadable expression on his face. Like he didn’t know whether to be amused, or glare at the guy who was just holding him. The room is noticeably less noisy, but Hao pretends not to notice for the sake of his own sanity.
"Anyway, Hao-hyung, Ricky… this is Sung Hanbin. He’s in charge of this performance," Gyuvin says, his voice lighter than the moment feels. Hao knows in his head that Gyuvin’s trying his best not to laugh at him. Or Hanbin. Or both.
Hanbin smiles at him. It’s a polished smile, the kind that’s been practiced enough to seem effortless. Hao studies it for a second too long. There’s something about it that unsettles him. Not because it’s fake, but because it isn’t. Hanbin smiles like someone who knows exactly what kind of light he casts, and chooses to be generous with it.
"Yes, that’s me. Hello Hao-ssi, Ricky-ssi." Hanbin says. His voice is warm, just like his smile. Pleasant. Inviting, even. The kind of person others naturally fall into step with. Hao can already feel how easily someone like Hanbin takes up space, not by force, but by gravity. Hao hums quietly to himself. That’s probably why he's the one wrangling sweaty college students into something cohesive.
“You don’t have to be so formal.” Hao says.
Hanbin glances at him, “Then… Can I call you hyung?” His voice is tentative, like he’s expecting Hao to say no.
"Hyung?" Hao asks, though it comes out more like a challenge than a question.
"You’re older by about a year."
He opens his mouth, ready to ask how Hanbin could possibly know that, but the other boy is already one step ahead.
"Gyuvin’s talked about you two before. That’s why I agreed when he asked if you could come watch us." Hanbin’s words are simple, but there’s an edge to his tone, just shy of defensive. Like he’s answering a question Hao hasn’t asked yet.
Hao blinks, unsure what to do with that. Why did Hanbin feel the need to explain himself?
But he doesn’t press. He just nods, more out of habit than anything. The motion is small but repetitive, and his hair bobs with each nod, like it’s the only part of him willing to commit to the moment.
"It’s okay, you can."
Hanbin smiles, celebratory. "Break’s almost over. You two can sit over there." He then gestures toward a jarringly colorful bench at the edge of the studio, flanked by scattered bags and strewn hoodies. It looks almost comically out of place in the otherwise utilitarian space. Kind of like how Hao feels right now.
"Thanks," Hao mumbles, already turning to Ricky, who meets his gaze with an unreadable look, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Hao raises an eyebrow, a silent prompt.
But Ricky just shakes his head and follows him without a word.
Gyuvin’s great, fantastic, even. Hao constantly hears how hard dancing is when you’ve got long limbs, but Gyuvin breaks that stereotype with seemingly no effort. Well, that was from the half-minute Hao was watching him.
Now, Hao was just watching Hanbin. Hanbin moves like he knows his entire body, from the tips of his hair to the gunk on his toenails. Okay, maybe not. But Hao digresses. It’s not just skill but also presence. Hao tries to convince himself he’s observing for technical reasons, but there’s more to it, and he knows it.
The fact that his face isn’t hard to look at helps.
Then they pull out a black lace blindfold for Hanbin, and Hao almost shits himself on the spot. Hanbin dances with a vigor so burning that Hao wonders if it was still the same person he was introduced to.
Hao never calls people hot. He reserves that word for people who actually earn it.
But he’ll admit it. Sung Hanbin is hot.
It’s not like he’s not allowed to look, anyways. He can appreciate art when it’s in front of him, given that the word art is literally the name of their department. This is definitely way more artistic than his dancing when there’s a new K-pop girl group comeback for the month.
Hao sees a flash of black in the inner part of Hanbin’s bicep. A tattoo? Hao closes his eyes and breathes in just to regain his bearings. Maybe he’s just a little bit insane if he thought of dragging his mouth across it.
That’s how he passes the time: enraptured by the reflection of Hanbin dancing in the mirror. Hanbin only catches his eyes once the entire time, but that one look is enough to leave Hao wondering if Hanbin knows what he’s thinking about.
When practice ends, Gyuvin bounces toward Ricky and Hao with the energy of a hungry poodle. Hao thinks that’s exactly what he is, especially when the first thing out of Gyuvin’s mouth is, “Wanna eat? It’s with Hanbin-hyung, though. I promised to treat him.”
There’s something about the way Gyuvin’s eyes flick to Ricky first, bright and expectant, that doesn’t escape Hao’s notice. It’s small—blink and you’d miss it—but it’s there, as if Ricky’s answer matters just a little more.
Hao hesitates. The pause is long enough for Gyuvin to notice, and his grin falters slightly. “It’s okay if you don’t want to.” he says gently.
Hao gives him a small smile, grateful for the out. “Then I’ll pass.” he says softly.
“I’ll come, Qubing,” Ricky says without missing a beat. “You were great, by the way.”
That’s all it takes. Gyuvin perks up instantly, posture straightening as his face lights up. “Really?” Gyuvin says, grin widening. “Then I have to hear it from Hao-hyung too.”
Hao rolls his eyes and reaches out to pat Gyuvin’s hair lightly, just enough to make contact, because sweat is still sweat. “You know you’re good. I don’t know why you’re fishing for praise,” he says, trying to sound exasperated but failing to hide the small fondness curling at the edges of his voice. Gyuvin grins wider, satisfied.
Hanbin approaches then, hoodie thrown loosely over his head. His presence feels different up close, a mix of unassuming ease and quiet magnetism that Hao can’t quite get used to. “As third parties, what are your unbiased opinions on the performance?” Hanbin asks, his tone light, teasing in a way that doesn’t feel insincere.
Ricky flashes him two thumbs up. “You could go on stage right now.” he says.
Hanbin laughs, dimples briefly carving into his cheek like whisker marks. Hao finds himself staring, longer than he probably should. If he were a more romantic man—he thinks—he’d say something ridiculous about always trying to make Hanbin laugh just to see that dimple again. But he isn’t that kind of person, or at least, he tells himself he isn’t.
Hanbin looks at him then, expectantly, as if waiting for his opinion. Hao feels the weight of that gaze, and it roots him in place, even as words slip out of him before he has time to think them through.
“It was nice. You were nice. Very… sexy.”
The second the words leave his mouth, Hao feels heat creep up the back of his neck. Very smooth. He swears he’s more articulate than this. Usually. Out of the corner of his eye, Ricky side-eyes him with all the subtlety of a spinning elephant, and Hao pointedly ignores it. Ricky doesn’t know shit. At least, not the things that matter.
Hanbin laughs again, softer this time, and there’s a faint shift in his posture, just enough for Hao to notice. For someone so confident on stage, Hanbin seems genuinely flustered, like he hadn’t expected that kind of compliment at all. “Ah, thank you… That was the goal,” he says humbly, almost awkwardly, and Hao can’t help but find that a little bit endearing.
“Then I’ll head out now. I have violin due tomorrow.”
It’s an inside joke, something Hao only ever says to Ricky and Gyuvin when he wants to excuse himself from plans. A funny way of making his violin practice sound like overdue assignments. But when the words slip out now, directed toward Hanbin of all people, Hao realizes too late what he’s done.
Technically, he isn’t lying. He does have a practical tomorrow, but that isn’t the point.
Hanbin only smiles at him, easy and warm. “Good luck. You’ll do well,” he says, like he means it.
Hao blinks, momentarily thrown. Compliments don’t usually catch him off guard. He’s used to them, almost numb to them. He knows he’s good at what he does. But this feels like belief and not flattery.
“Bye, hyung!” Gyuvin chirps. Ricky gives him a small wave.
“See you.” Hanbin says with that same easy smile, and Hao hums an absent “Mm.” in response before turning to leave. Actually, for the sake of his mental health, he hopes he never sees Hanbin again.
The walk out of the studio feels longer than it should, every step heavy with thoughts he doesn’t quite want to unpack.
Ricky: gyuvin says he’s gay
Hao: what
Hao: ok but i know gyuvin likes men he literally came out to us ?
Ricky: he = sung hanbin
Hao: what do you want me to do with this information
Ricky: 😒
Ricky: you know damn well
Hao: ?
Ricky: whatever mental illness you have
Ricky: i don’t want it
Hao: i have eyes yes
Hao: but that doesn’t mean i’m going to do anything :>
Ricky: yeah okay but that doesn’t mean he won’t idk
Hao: idgaf
Hao: who says he’s into me
Ricky: you’re so annoying
Ricky: why did you not go with us you are going to starve and die
Ricky: ill bring you food
Hao: tyy<3
Hao acts like he wasn’t just blessed by the knowledge of the gods.
He switches back to Instagram, where Hanbin’s profile is still open on his screen. He isn’t a stalker, he tells himself. Ricky’s the chronically online one, not him. He just filtered through Gyuvin’s 142 mutuals until Hanbin’s profile popped up.
Now he’s locked in a silent staring contest with Hanbin’s username.
beeeeen_0613 stares back.
It’s the kind of handle you end up with after every clever variation of your name has already been taken by strangers who had the same problem before you. It’s admittedly kind of dorky.
Hao wonders briefly if it’s creepy to be scrolling through someone’s Instagram while knowing they’re currently out eating with his closest friends. But then he remembers Hanbin’s account is public. And has three thousand followers. Whore.
His feed isn’t meticulously curated, but it still looks effortlessly good. Nice lighting, clean shots, and pictures of himself that somehow don’t look try-hard. Hao’s almost jealous. The only photo on his account with 564 followers is one Gyuvin snapped where he happened to look decent and vaguely candid. Hanbin, on the other hand, looks like someone with an actual social life. The kind of person who updates his Instagram highlights which have a solid black color as the cover.
It’s on his feed that Hao discovers Hanbin has a collarbone tattoo. No wonder he didn’t notice earlier, Hanbin had been wearing a high-collar white T-shirt that completely covered it. What a waste, Hao thinks, staring at the photo longer than he probably should.
He’s always been neutral about tattoos. Never cared much either way. Yay, bodily autonomy, or whatever. But this one? This one drives him just a little insane. Maybe it’s just the person.
He tweaks out over a mirror selfie of Hanbin in a black tank top, stares at it for a second too long, and then snaps his phone shut before burying his face in his sheets. He hopes they suffocate him.
It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s not like Hanbin is interested in him anyways.
God forbid a man has eyes.
Hao’s seated in the corner of the library. It’s full, the way you’d expect it to be when it’s Midterm season. Which he should be studying for. But he’s stuck with a requirement for his Music Analysis course.
The assignment isn’t even that hard, an analysis of how Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot functions in the Pride and Prejudice dance scene. It should be easy. He knows exactly what he wants to say, and yet he’s been staring at the same paragraph for fifteen minutes, doing absolutely nothing.
His head flashes the memory of Hanbin’s grin during practice earlier that week. It annoys him, the way that memory keeps surfacing without permission, like some unwelcome pop-up ad in the middle of his focus. Like no, he does not want to see Hot Russian Girls. He plays for the other team.
Hao needs to get his shit together before he gets his scholarship revoked just because he couldn’t stop thinking about a man.
Movement flickers at the edge of his vision, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. When he glances up, it takes him a second to process what he’s seeing. Hanbin. Of course it’s Hanbin. Because the universe apparently thinks it’s funny to mess with him.
Hanbin looks frustratingly casual, like he wasn’t even trying. He has a water bottle in hand, hair still damp enough that it suggests that he just took a shower. Hoodie, joggers, sneakers. Normal. Boring, even. Except it isn’t. There’s something unfair about that, Hao thinks bitterly. Hao needs to climb him. Or kill him. Or both, in that order.
“Hey.” Hanbin’s voice is soft, low enough not to disturb the other students.
“...Hi.” Hao manages after a beat, trying not to sound caught off guard.
Hanbin gestures to the empty chair across from him, brows slightly raised. “Can I?”
Hao should say no. The library is big, and there are dozens of other tables Hanbin could pick that don’t have him sitting at them. He doesn’t owe this guy his time, his attention, or anything at all actually. They’ve only talked to each other once. But Hao’s mouth betrays him before he can think better of it.
“Go ahead,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. Hao wants to kill himself. Fucking people pleaser.
Hanbin sits, setting his water bottle on the table. His eyes flick briefly to Hao’s laptop, where Darcy and Elizabeth are frozen mid-dance in the paused YouTube clip he’d inserted for reference. “Pride and Prejudice?”
Hao blinks, caught off guard again. “Music analysis. We’re writing about how the score interacts with the scene. Something like that”
Hanbin grins, the dimple appearing like it’s mocking Hao for how quickly his chest tightens. “Good movie.”
Hao doesn’t know how it happens, but they end up talking—more than Hao expects. He finds that Hanbin listens quite earnestly. He asks what Hao finds interesting about film scores, which spirals into a surprisingly earnest discussion about how music shapes the way audiences perceive emotions on screen.
In turn, Hao learns that Hanbin is a psychology major. Something about wanting to help people, he says with a sheepish laugh, like it’s a little cliché but true anyway. It fits, Hao thinks.
Hanbin tells him about a paper he’s writing on emotional regulation, how exhausting it is but also kind of fascinating. He admits he joined the dance organization since he genuinely loved dance. Hao pretends not to care, but he files every detail away.
He also learns Hanbin’s favorite NCT subunit and his birthday. The last one he already knows. It's literally in Hanbin’s Instagram handle—but he keeps that part to himself.
“Don’t you have friends to sit with?” he asks suddenly.
Hanbin just smiles, like he can see right through it but chooses not to push. “They’re busy. You seem like good company.”
Hao should mind. He really, really should. But he doesn’t. Which is exactly the problem.
They end up as Instagram mutuals by the end of the day.
Later, back in his apartment, Hao lies on his bed staring at his phone, Hanbin’s profile now sitting mockingly in his following list. For a split second, he wonders if Hanbin would notice if he soft-blocked him.
He doesn’t do it. Instead, he closes the app and shoves the phone under his pillow.
Hanbin: [a reel of a red panda getting scared, with its hands thrown up in the air]
Hanbin: Looks like you^^
Hao: ???
Hao: how,, ㅋㅋ
Hanbin: It’s red like your hair ~
Hanbin: And cute!
Of course Hanbin has auto-capitalization on. Loser.
Hao sighs, slumping against his chair, phone resting loosely in his hand. Somewhere along the way, he and Hanbin had fallen into this strange little routine of sending each other reels on Instagram. Random memes, dance challenges, sometimes just straight up nonsense. It isn’t anything deep or intentional, but it’s consistent.
He’s normally the type to let a few minutes or even hours pass when someone sends him a message, but something about Hanbin makes him want to reply almost instantly.
He isn’t sure if this is just how Hanbin is with all his friends, or if he’s the only one Hanbin bothers to send things to. The thought lingers a little too long in his head, and before he can stop himself, Hao smacks himself lightly on the cheek. Probably not the latter. It’s easier to remind himself that Hanbin’s just friendly—that he’s like this with everyone. Because if Hao thinks too hard about the possibility that Hanbin might be singling him out, he’s not sure what to do with that information.
Still, there’s no denying that Hao’s screen time on Instagram has increased a bit since that day in the library. He used to open the app purely out of boredom, scrolling mindlessly until something vaguely interesting popped up. Correlation isn’t always causation, sure. But in this case? There’s exactly one factor to blame, and his name is Sung Hanbin.
Hanbin isn’t nonchalant at all. Actually, he’s the exact opposite. He’s too chalant. Too quick to react with the exact responses Hao subconsciously hopes for. There’s no half-hearted replies or delayed messages. Hanbin texts the way he talks: present, like he values the fact that Hao is talking to him. Hao isn’t really used to that kind of attentiveness.
A new notification pops up, pulling him out of his thoughts. Hanbin sent him a reel: a clip from Single’s Inferno, a show that Hao’s been obsessively keeping up with.
A part of Hao’s brain awakens like a sleeper agent. He should be embarrassed on how much his own messages take up his screen, but Hanbin still replies dutifully. He’s too nice for his own good, because personally, Hao would tell himself to shut the fuck up.
Hao: okay but i’ll defend song jia a little bit like
Hao: most luxury items are made in the same factories as non-luxury items ㅋㅋㅋ
Hao: i get the point that being a rich girl is her image but the hate gets to a point
Hao: you need to watch it. like ill even watch with you that’s how invested i am
Hanbin: Are you serious? Because i’m actually up for it
Hao: yeah! ^^
Hanbin: Maybe let’s plan it after the founding fair
Hao: ofc ofc
Hanbin: You’re going right?
Hao: yaaa
Hao: cheering on gyuvinnie ~
Hanbin: Just gyuvin?
Hao: don’t push it ㅋㅋㅋ
Hao: maybe even you if i feel like it
Hanbin: I’ll see you then ~ ^^
After that, their conversation drifts—first to other reality TV shows, then Hanbin gets into this tangent about why people get so attached to contestants they’ve never met. Hanbin talks about parasocial relationships and social validation like it’s second nature.
Hao scrolls through their chat for a moment after the conversation dies down, lingering on Hanbin’s messages in a way that feels mildly pathetic. He can feel the creeping regret of having basically promised to spend one-on-one time with him. It’s dangerous. It’s too much, too fast. Hanbin is attentive, warm, easy to talk to—and Hao hates that he doesn’t hate it.
It’s fine, he tells himself, tossing his phone face down on the table like it’s burning him. It doesn’t hurt to hang out with an attractive guy. Nothing will happen. Nothing has to happen.
He thinks—no, he knows—he has a crush on Sung Hanbin.
The thought lodges itself in Hao’s mind the moment the music dies down and the cheers swell around him. It’s not dramatic, not a lightning bolt of realization, just a quiet, inevitable truth that settles heavy in his chest. So heavy that Hao can barely breathe due to the realization. The stage lights blaze, painting Hanbin and the rest of his group in red as they take their bow. Hanbin, dressed head to toe in black, lets out a smile that could ruin Hao’s life without even trying.
Hao claps along with everyone else, but his palms feel damp, his breath shallow. He can’t tell if it’s because of the heat pressing in from the crowd or the fact that his brain hasn’t yet recovered from the way Hanbin moved onstage.
The dancers file offstage one by one, swallowed up by the crowd. The emcee’s voice echoes throughout the field as Gyuvin bounds over to them with the kind of energy that shouldn’t exist after a performance that intense. “Hyung!” he calls out, weaving through people with the coordination of someone who’s too used to being tall in a crowd. His hair sticks to his forehead, sweat dripping down his temples, but he still looks unbearably cheerful.
“Did you see me?”
“Hard to miss when you’re 6'2.” Hao mutters, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“You were great.” Ricky says, calm and sincere as ever, handing him a cup of mango juice they grabbed from a stall while waiting a few minutes ago. Gyuvin lights up at that, grabbing the slightly soggy cup out of Ricky’s hands, gulping it down so fast that Hao was almost worried he’d cough it back up.
Hanbin appears a moment later, towel slung casually around his neck, hoodie half-zipped like he just threw it on. The confidence from the stage hasn’t quite left him, but there’s a looseness to his posture now, as though the performance had melted something sharp off of him. “Hey,” he says, voice warm, sticky as it permeates Hao’s skin, “Thanks for coming.”
Ricky nods, polite. Hao doesn’t say anything. His throat feels too dry for words anyway.
“We’re gonna grab food while we watch the rest of the program,” Gyuvin says quickly “You guys wanna come?”
“I’ll go.” Hao answers.
There’s not much else for him to do anyways. It’s not like he has anything else planned tonight. And really, if he spent extra time making sure his eyeliner was perfect and his aegyosal glitter caught the light just right, he might as well put the effort to use. It’s definitely not because of one person in particular.
They find a table tucked away near one of the fair’s quieter food stalls, the kind with flimsy green plastic chairs and foldable tables that wobble at the slightest touch. The air is thick with the smell of meat, warm and greasy in a way that clings to everything. It’s not the most comfortable setting.
There’s a faint stickiness to the air, and Hao can feel the thin layer of grease settling on his skin. His skin will probably break out because of it, but none of it really matters. Not when there’s food in front of him, at least.
Hanbin returns with a tray, setting it down carefully. Hao reaches out automatically for a piece of meat, but Hanbin is quicker, breaking it apart, dipping it in sauce, and placing it neatly onto Hao’s flimsy paper plate. “This one’s good with the sauce. Try it.”
It’s such a small gesture, casual and unthinking, but it knocks Hao slightly off balance. He eats it anyway, trying not to read too much into it, though the approving nod he gives Hanbin feels strangely significant. Hanbin grins in response and Hao feels something in his chest twist.
Gyuvin and Ricky are too busy sharing a plate of tteokbokki to notice anything else, leaning in close as they argue over whether it’s actually spicy. Gyuvin insists it’s mild; Ricky calmly disagrees, his deadpan delivery only making Gyuvin argue harder.
“Do you always come to the fair?” Hanbin asks, voice light, like it’s just small talk. But his eyes stay on Hao, steady and attentive, as though he actually cares about the answer.
“Came last year with those two.” Hao replies after a beat, gesturing to the younger two. His fingers trace the condensation dripping down his metal cup, chill biting at his fingertips, grounding him in a way that almost feels necessary. “Food’s better than cup noodles.”
“Better prices as well.” He adds sarcastically.
Hanbin laughs softly, a quiet, warm sound that slips through the noise of the fair, like it was meant for Hao alone.
Their conversation drifts easily. Hanbin confesses that he nearly lost a fight with his colored contacts earlier that day, and Hao talks about the five different tanghulu stalls he’s counted while walking around. The talk drifts further—to the artists on the setlist for tonight to professors who assign too much work, and eventually, more personal ground. It catches Hao off guard, the way they so easily fall into a rhythm that feels natural. It’s like talking to a mirror. There’s something about his presence that makes Hao want to lower his guard without meaning to.
Once the table is clear, Gyuvin catches sight of a stall selling plushies and, with the determination of someone who refuses to leave empty-handed, decides he has to win one. Ricky lets himself be dragged away, laughing quietly as Gyuvin’s long strides pull him through the crowd.
And suddenly, it’s just Hao and Hanbin.
“You’re chattier than I thought you’d be.” Hanbin says eventually, his tone soft, not teasing, just curious.
Hao glances at him, feigning indignation, though there’s a faint tug of a smile on his lips. “What, am I not allowed to talk?” The words come out with more of a pout than he intends.
Hanbin’s eyes widen comically, his expression so sincere it almost makes Hao laugh. “No, I didn’t mean it like that… It’s nice.” Hanbin says, a small smile pulling at his mouth as though he’s choosing each word carefully.
“You just always look like you’re holding something back.” Hanbin murmurs after a moment, studying him the way someone studies a puzzle they’re still figuring out how to solve.
Hao exhales, a small, humorless laugh leaving him before he can stop it. “Maybe I am.”
Hanbin doesn’t push. He just nods, accepting that answer like it’s enough and somehow, that makes it worse.
For a while, they just sit there in silence, surrounded by the hum of the fair as they mindlessly watch the program and make occasional comments. Slowly, the noise feels muted, like the edges of the world have blurred, leaving only Hanbin sitting beside him, warm and steady and unbearably close without ever moving.
Eventually, Hao glances at the stage and sighs. “I don’t think Gyuvin and Ricky will come back any time soon. I’ll head back, I think.”
“Are you sure?” Hanbin asks, his brow knitting slightly.
“Yeah,” Hao says, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’ll just send them a text.”
“I’ll walk you.”
Hanbin falls into step beside him without waiting for a response, close enough that their shoulders almost brush with every other step. He doesn’t say anything, and somehow that feels worse because Hao keeps catching himself wanting him to. The walk back isn’t cinematic. It’s loud and a bit crowded. The foot traffic makes Hao dizzy as he follows the line of people leaving the fair, but Hanbin’s presence feels steady beside him, like an anchor Hao hadn’t realized he’d been drifting without.
When they reach the edge of campus, Hanbin stops. “Text me when you get home,” he says simply.
The words hit harder than they should. Hao’s heard them before—from Soobin, back when those words meant something entirely different. His hands shake before he notices. And then it hits him: Hao doesn’t even have his number.
Hanbin just waits, patient. Hao unlocks his phone and hands it over. Hanbin types, saves, smiles.
There’s no big moment. Just a quiet, “Goodnight.”
But somehow, that’s enough.
Somewhere between that day in the library and this stupid fair, he’s fallen headfirst into something he can’t take back.
Holy fuck. He really does have a crush on Sung Hanbin.
Hao really shouldn’t be spending this much time with Hanbin, no matter what his heart keeps insisting. At some point—Hao isn’t sure exactly when—Hanbin became a constant in his life, an easy presence that slipped into his days without fanfare. They’ve been texting almost every day since Hao gave Hanbin his number, their conversations sometimes stretching late into the night and looping back to inside jokes that no one else would understand. Hao tells himself not to overthink it, to just enjoy Hanbin’s company for what it is, but he can’t help indulging in the quiet thrill of Hanbin’s constant presence anyway.
Hanbin keeps his promise to watch Single’s Inferno with Hao. They agreed to meet at Hanbin’s apartment. It’s partly because Hanbin has no roommates, but also partly because Hao feels weird about having people over in his shared space, even though he knows Ricky wouldn’t care. He’s also more concerned about Ricky questioning him. He’s nosier than what his appearance suggests.
Hanbin insists on picking him up despite Hao’s protests that he could just walk, so Hao finds himself standing outside his apartment, trying to look less awkward by scrolling aimlessly through Twitter.
(He refuses to call it X. He’ll happily keep deadnaming the site until the day it shuts down.)
He’s halfway through quote‑retweeting a ridiculous pannchoa article when a car pulls up in front of him. The window rolls down to reveal Hanbin leaning toward the passenger seat.
“Hi, hyung! Hope I wasn’t too late.” Hanbin says, voice bright. Hao thinks he looks a bit like a puppy seeing his owner.
“I’m upset. You're two minutes late.” Hao teases as he slides into the passenger seat, even though Hanbin is actually right on time. He just likes being a brat.
Hanbin huffs out a laugh. “Guess I’ll try harder next time.”
Hao bites back the urge to ask when there’ll be a next time.
He hasn’t been in many cars since coming to Korea. Most of his transportation is either walking or taking the bus, except for the times Ricky drives him somewhere—though being Ricky’s passenger princess usually involves praying silently that they’ll make it to their destination in one piece. Still, even Hao can tell Hanbin’s a good driver. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his lap except when making a full turn—he drives smoothly, with a kind of quiet ease that comes from being an experienced driver.
Hanbin’s apartment is only a five‑minute drive from Hao’s, and Hao is quietly impressed when they step inside. The place is neat, well‑kept, lived‑in without feeling messy. It’s the kind of space that makes Hao wonder, not for the first time, if Hanbin just naturally has his life together.
“This is really nice.” Hao says, hovering awkwardly near the door. Hanbin slips off his shoes and pads around in socks. He looks at Hanbin’s feet weirdly. Too weirdly, because Hanbin takes notice.
Hanbin glances at him. “What?”
“Ah, sorry. In China, we wear slippers inside, and I live with Ricky, so I got used to it.”
“You’re good, make yourself at home.” Hanbin chuckles lightly, disappearing briefly to grab snacks before joining Hao on the couch.
At one point, Song Ji‑a appears on screen, effortlessly calm as the other contestants fawn over her.
“Is she always like that?” Hanbin asks, eyes still on the screen.
“Yeah.” Hao replies. “She doesn’t really have to do anything to get people to like her.”
Hanbin laughs softly. “You’ve mentioned. So just like you?”
The comment lands warmer than it should, threaded with something like sincerity. Hao feels his first instinct—to deflect, to tell Hanbin he’s wrong—catch on his tongue. People liking him have never felt that simple. It’s always been a matter of adjusting, softening edges, knowing exactly how much of himself to put forward.
Instead, he hums as if agreeing. “Who wouldn’t like me?” he says, the joke fitting neatly into place. The grin comes easily, even as a part of him wonders if Hanbin would still say that if he knew the whole picture.
Hao worries that he’s talking too much—that his opinions are too long or too boring—but Hanbin listens with an attentiveness that makes Hao feel lighter without understanding why. Hanbin nods along, adding his own comments when he can, and it’s easy. Nice, even.
Nice enough that Hao forgets himself, speaking more than he usually does, the kind of talking too much he knows he’ll overthink later when lying in bed alone.
He quickly looks back at the screen, pretending to focus on the episode as he picks up his drink. “This tastes like instant coffee.”
“That’s because it is coffee.” Hanbin says, a small grin tugging at his mouth.
Hao flips the carton in his hand, reading the Chinese text on the side. “It literally says chocolate milk.”
“It’s coffee. Look at the picture.”
“It’s chocolate milk.”
Hanbin takes it from him without asking, sipping like he’s trying to prove a point. “It’s like a chocolate latte, but with an extra shot.”
Hao exhales, feigning defeat. “Fine. It’s coffee.” The word comes out like he’s conceding something bigger than the drink.
Hanbin hums, clearly pleased, and hands it back. Hao takes a sip, letting the sweetness settle on his tongue.
Between episodes, Hanbin opens some snacks and casually offers them to Hao. He doesn’t just hold the bag out—he breaks pieces in half, presses something into Hao’s hand, or holds it up until Hao leans forward to take it. Maybe Hanbin was a mother bird in his past life and this is his way of caring for his young.
The space between them shrinks slowly, until Hao notices their elbows brushing. At first, every accidental touch makes him tense: the bump of Hanbin’s knee, the faint press of their shoulders. The longer they sit there, the more impossible it becomes to pull away.
Eventually, Hanbin shifts so their thighs are fully touching, casual and thoughtless, but the contact makes Hao’s heart stutter. Hanbin doesn’t seem to think anything of it, but Hao—who has never been good at this kind of easy closeness—feels dizzy with how natural it feels.
He inches closer without meaning to, his body betraying him. Hanbin doesn’t comment. He simply adjusts slightly to make room, like Hao’s presence at his side is something he’s grown used to.
It’s such a simple thing, but Hao feels the weight of it acutely. He can’t remember the last time he let anyone this close.
As the night wears on, that unfamiliar sense of safety creeps in again, warm and disarming, settling into him before he can stop it. It unsettles him more than he wants to admit, because he has no idea what to do with a kind of closeness that doesn’t ask for anything but makes Hao want to give something back.
The apartment is quiet except for the rapid clicking of Yujin’s Nintendo Switch. He’s perched on a stool borrowed from their so‑called kitchen—if a stove and an electric kettle even count as one—completely absorbed in his game, shoulders slightly hunched, lips pursed in concentration. Tutoring Yujin is never as tiring as Hao once thought it would be. The younger boy listens well and catches on quickly, the kind of student who nods along with every explanation and actually remembers things without having to be reminded too many times.
Hao is confident Yujin will get into ZBU despite his mother’s constant worries, because even if Yujin sometimes looks like the type to get distracted, he’s bright and curious in ways that make teaching him strangely rewarding. Hao doesn’t really mind the extra time spent.
Over time, Hao has begun to think of Yujin as a little brother, though he’s never said it out loud. Hao likes to think that Yujin seems to feel the same; he hangs around Hao and Ricky’s apartment so often after tutoring that Hao sometimes jokes to himself that he might as well have given birth to him. It’s not unusual for Yujin to stay even after the lessons are done, perched on that same kitchen stool or sprawled out on the floor with his Switch while Hao finishes up his own work. It makes the apartment feel a little fuller. Then again, maybe Yujin just likes avoiding chores at home. Whatever the reason, Hao doesn’t really mind.
A knock sounds on the door, sharp enough to draw Hao’s attention away from his thoughts. “Hyung.” Taerae says as he steps inside without waiting for an invitation, a paper bag dangling casually from his hand. “Called it. Knew you’d still be here.”
Hao looks up, surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”
Taerae lifts the bag like a trophy, as if the explanation is obvious. “Brought dumplings. Gave up on my essay for now, and your air‑con is way better than my university-mandated AC‑less dorm room. I figured that Yujin’s still mooching off you.”
“Hyung!” Yujin glances up from his Switch, face brightening at the sight of him. “You brought food for me too?”
Taerae grins, walking past Hao and immediately ruffling Yujin’s hair in greeting. “Of course I did. The baby needs to eat too.”
“I’m not a baby,” Yujin mutters, though he doesn’t move away from Taerae’s hand, still playing his game with one hand while swatting weakly at Taerae with the other.
“All I’m hearing is googoo gaga.” Taerae teases, already unpacking the containers onto the table. “Come on, you’ll get sick if you don’t eat properly.”
Yujin obediently pauses his game, setting the Switch carefully on his lap before scooting closer to the table. He sits cross‑legged on the floor, eyes lighting up at the smell of the dumplings. Taerae places a container in front of him before handing another to Hao, who accepts it with a quiet thanks.
“So.” Taerae says casually as he snaps his chopsticks apart and digs into his own food, “Are you talking to anybody right now?”
Hao freezes mid‑bite, chopsticks hovering just inches from his mouth. “What?”
Yujin snickers quietly, his gaze darting up from his dumplings, clearly more invested in their conversation than in his game now.
“I always sit next to you in our classes, yeah?” Taerae continues, voice deliberately casual but eyes glinting with curiosity. “Your screen brightness isn’t exactly subtle. I can probably see your texts from three rows back.”
Hao makes an affronted noise, setting his chopsticks down for a moment. “What happened to privacy?”
Taerae shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I have eyes, and your phone happened to be there. Not my fault you’re basically broadcasting your business to everyone around you.”
Rolling his eyes, Hao shoots back, “Can’t believe you think I’d replace you, jagi. You’re my one and only.”
Taerae pulls a face, making an exaggerated gagging sound. “Gross. Don’t say that with a straight face. Anyway, you’ve seemed… different lately. Distracted.”
Hao frowns down at his food, suddenly finding the dumplings much more interesting than Taerae’s expression. “Plenty to be distracted about. Projects, orchestra…”
“Right,” Taerae says flatly, tone making it clear he doesn’t buy Hao’s excuse for a second. “Just saying. If you ever need to talk, I’m here. You know that, right?”
Hao doesn’t reply immediately. His gaze drifts to Yujin, who’s happily munching on dumplings while switching his game back on, clearly only half‑listening to what they’re saying. Taerae has always been like this, never prying too much but never letting him spiral alone either. After Soobin, it was Taerae who quietly picked up the pieces Hao couldn’t carry himself, who stayed without asking for details, without asking for thanks.
“I’m fine.” Hao says at last, his voice softer than he expects. “It's not like that anyways, he’s a friend. I guess.”
Yujin looks up from his Switch, cheeks stuffed with food as he speaks with the bluntness of someone far too young to care about timing. “Hao‑hyung, is it the guy from Gyuvin‑hyung’s dance thing?”
Hao immediately chokes on his drink, coughing hard enough to turn red while Taerae bursts out laughing so hard he nearly drops his chopsticks.
“Han Yujin!” Hao sputters, eyes wide, face burning.
“What?” Yujin blinks innocently, genuinely confused by their reactions, still holding his chopsticks mid‑air.
Taerae’s grin only widens, his eyes sparkling like he’s just uncovered the truth he was looking for. “Got it. Say no more.”
It isn’t a secret that Hao likes studying. He’s always been the type to throw himself into work, the kind of person who thrives on structure. It’s easier that way—keeping busy gives him something to hold onto, something that feels solid in a world that rarely does. The library has become his second home, a place where time stretches endlessly. He can sit for hours at the same table, the quiet murmur of voices and the occasional rustle of pages serving as his background noise.
That’s how Hanbin finds him one late afternoon: hunched over a messy spread of notes, pen between his teeth as he squinted at a particularly dense passage of text.
“Does that pen taste good?”
Hao startles at the voice, jerking his head up to see Hanbin sliding into the chair across from him.
“AH!” Hao flushes as the people in the library turn back to look at where the sound came from. “What the hell?”
“You scare so easily.” Hanbin teases lightly, a grin tugging at his lips. Two iced coffees are balanced carefully in his hands.
“What are you—” Hao starts, still blinking away the haze of concentration.
“Studying. Obviously.” Hanbin nudges one of the cups across the table, tone light and casual. “Here. Something to keep your mouth busy so you don’t accidentally swallow your pen.”
Hao stares at the drink for a second, unsure what to do with it. Slowly, he takes it, fingers brushing briefly against Hanbin’s. “You didn’t have to.”
“Thought you could use it.” Hanbin replies with a small shrug, as though it’s no big deal.
Hao takes a tentative sip. The coffee is strong and bitter, nothing like the watery vending machine stuff. It tastes expensive, clearly from that café on campus that actually grinds its beans fresh. The sharpness of the flavor cuts through his exhaustion, loosening something in his chest despite himself.
“Mm… it’s good.” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” Hanbin says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Asked for an extra shot.”
Hao hums in acknowledgment, setting the cup down carefully. “I like my coffee bitter. Makes life feel a little less bitter in comparison.” He tries to make it sound like an offhand remark, but the fact that Hanbin remembers how he likes his coffee is harder to ignore than he wants it to be.
Hanbin tilts his head, studying him with an unreadable expression. “I bet I can make it better, though.”
Hao raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“So little faith in me, hyung.”
“Oh. you’re serious.”
Hanbin’s grin deepens, easy and shameless. “Yes. I have a license and everything.”
“Well, I’m not opposed to trying it.”
“Then I’ll do my best for hyung.” he says, the whisker dimples making a brief appearance before fading again.
True to his word, Hanbin studies as well, though every now and then he breaks the silence with some quiet remarks. Hao tries to stay focused, but he keeps catching himself smiling at Hanbin’s comments—mundane things that somehow feel lighter when Hanbin says them.
At one point, Hanbin glances up. “Why do you always have one sleeve rolled up?”
Hao looks down at his arm like he’s only noticing it now. “Oh. It’s because I play violin. My right arm moves a lot when I play, so I roll my sleeve up. I’ve been doing it for so long that it’s just become a…” He pauses, searching for the right Korean word.
“Habit?” Hanbin offers.
“Yeah. Feels weird if my sleeve’s down when I’m concentrating on something.”
Hanbin nods, gaze lingering on Hao for a moment longer than necessary—soft in a way that makes Hao duck his head back toward his notes.
By the time Hao starts packing up, the light outside has dimmed into the deepening blue of early evening. He’s stiff from sitting so long, the ache in his shoulders reminding him how still he’s been. Hanbin stands too, stretching lazily like the hours never mattered.
“I’ll walk you back.” Hanbin says casually, grabbing his bag.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” Hanbin’s smile is small and unassuming, but warm enough to make Hao forget what he was about to say. “I want to.”
Hao doesn’t argue. He lets Hanbin fall into step beside him, their pace slow and unhurried. Hanbin walks like he has nowhere else to be, like staying beside Hao is simply where he belongs.
It happens on an ordinary afternoon. Ordinary in every way except for how it leaves Hao feeling like the ground has shifted beneath his feet. The hallway is loud with the usual post-class chatter, groups forming as plans for lunch are made. Hao isn’t really listening to any of it. He should probably worry about his own lunch, but he’s too broke to even consider eating out. Maybe he should add cheese to his buldak just to feel a little bit fancy.
He’s mid‑thought, thumb swiping across his phone screen as he scrolls mindlessly, when a voice cuts through the noise.
“Hao-ssi, right?”
He stops walking and looks up, brows furrowing slightly. The voice belongs to someone vaguely familiar, though it takes Hao a second to place the face.
Matthew. Hanbin’s best friend. The same Matthew who’s appeared more than once in Hanbin’s stories, the one who floods Hanbin’s Instagram comment with the most diabolical replies.
(He’s who Hao learnt the phrase “start diggin’ in yo butt twin” from.)
Matthew’s presence is louder online, but in person he has this bright, effortless warmth that feels even more disarming. He’s cute, Hao can admit that much. The kind of person who probably makes friends within five minutes of meeting someone.
Matthew smiles easily, like he knows people tend to like him right away. “You’re Hanbin’s friend, yeah? I’ve seen you around.”
Hao nods, his grip tightening slightly on the strap of his bag. He isn’t sure what expression to wear. Something neutral, probably, though he feels oddly exposed under Matthew’s gaze. “Yeah… we’ve been hanging out.”
“Hanbin talks about you sometimes,” Matthew says casually, like it’s nothing, as though the words aren’t a small shock to Hao’s system. “Said you’re funnier than you look.”
Hao lets out a weak laugh, unsure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or an insult. “Oh… he said that?”
“Yeah,” Matthew’s grin widens a little, as if amused by Hao’s reaction. “We’re grabbing lunch in a bit. You wanna come?”
Before Hao can come up with an excuse, before he can politely decline, Hanbin appears beside Matthew, bright and familiar in a way that makes Hao’s stomach twist. His face lights up the second his eyes land on Hao, warm and open. “Hey! You’re still here.”
Something inside Hao pulls taut. It’s the look on Hanbin’s face, the way his smile softens just a little more when it’s directed at him. It feels like a quiet acknowledgement, one Hao has always thought of as theirs alone. But Matthew is standing right there, watching silently, and Hao realizes, maybe for the first time, that it’s not just between them anymore.
The thought hits him with startling force: whatever this is, this thing that’s grown between him and Hanbin in their quiet space, it isn’t invisible. Someone else can see it. It’s not just Taerae and Yujin, he wonders how much more people are aware that there might be something between them. He doesn’t even know if there is even something in the first place.
It feels like something fragile and private has been cracked open, suddenly out in the open for others to witness, and Hao doesn’t know what to do with that.
Fear curls tight in his chest.
He mutters some excuse about having to be somewhere. He doesn’t even remember what words leave his mouth and walks away quickly, not daring to look back. He can feel Hanbin’s confused gaze on his back, heavy and questioning, as if Hanbin doesn’t quite understand what just happened.
A few minutes later, his phone vibrates.
Hanbin: You okay hyung?
Hao stares at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard as his thoughts spiral. There are a hundred things he could say. That he’s fine. That he’s tired. That he’s scared, though he doesn’t know how to put it into words without admitting too much. In the end, he types out the safest thing he can manage.
Hao: yeahh, just tired ㅜㅜ
Hao: sorry binnie
The reply comes quickly.
Hanbin: It's okay!
Hanbin: Hope you cheer up soon ~
Hao locks his phone without replying. It’s a lie, of course, but the truth feels impossible to say out loud.
Hao sits on the couch with his laptop open, pretending to work on an assignment that’s been sitting untouched for the last hour. His phone is facedown beside him, but every few minutes, he flips it over to glance at the screen. The last message in his conversation with Hanbin is from two days ago.
Hanbin: Good luck hyung! You got this :)
He scrolls up, reading over their previous messages. There’s Hanbin sending a picture of his half‑finished meal at the cafeteria.
Hanbin: Looks sad
Hao: better than what I can make at least
Hanbin: ㅋㅋㅋ
He opens the text box, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The cursor blinks at him, patient, expectant.
But he doesn’t type anything.
Instead, he locks his phone again and sets it down, screen‑first, trying to convince himself that if Hanbin really wanted to talk to him, Hanbin would text first.
Just then, Ricky walks in, hair still damp from a shower, and collapses onto the other end of the couch. He takes one look at Hao, how stiffly he’s sitting and how his phone keeps mysteriously flipping over every few seconds, and raises an eyebrow.
“You’re waiting for him to text while you’re ghosting him?” Ricky asks flatly.
Hao jerks his head up. “I’m not—what? No.”
Ricky snorts. “Zhang Hao, don’t lie.”
“I’m just… busy,” Hao mutters, glancing back at his laptop screen as if that proves his point.
“Busy doing what?” Ricky leans over, peering at Hao’s screen. “Refreshing the same Google Doc for half an hour?”
“Shut up.” Hao says, but it lacks bite.
Ricky just stares at him knowingly and picks up his iPad, dropping the subject. For now.
Hao gives up on pretending to focus and clicks over to his email inbox. A new email catches his attention. It's from his professor. Which is unusual. Most of their communication happens through Google Classroom or Canvas, and she rarely reaches out unless he contacts her first. He clicks it open, and the moment he reads the first line, his heart nearly stops.
I hope you’re doing well. I’m reaching out because I noticed that your midyear requirement for MUSC 325: Contemporary Music Studies has not been submitted—
Hao stops reading. The words are enough. He has never missed a requirement in his life—has always carried that diligence like a second skin. It’s literally in his reputation. Missing one isn’t just uncharacteristic; it feels like something cracking.
Hao sinks into the couch, slumping forward. “Shit,” He mutters under his breath.
Ricky glances up from his iPad, worried. “What is it?”
“I missed a deadline,” Hao says hollowly. “The annotated listening journal.”
The admission is heavier than it should be, and he can feel the heat of tears rising before he’s even decided to cry. Ricky sets his iPad aside and pulls him in without asking.
“I don’t miss deadlines,” Hao says, more to himself than to Ricky.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Ricky says gently. “Your professors know how hard you work. One slip-up isn’t going to ruin you.”
“It’s not just the assignment,” Hao says, voice thin but climbing. “It’s—everything. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. Hanbin and I aren’t even… like that, and still—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, like he can’t quite believe he’s admitting this out loud.
They sit there in silence for a while, Hao’s breathing uneven but gradually steadying. The embarrassment starts creeping in once the worst of it passes, but Ricky doesn’t look away, and that makes it a little easier to bear.
When his sobs quiet down, Ricky hoists him up, and Hao lets him. He doesn’t have the energy to protest.
“I’ll treat you to dinner. You can email your prof about the assignment and explain, then maybe you can talk to Hanbin-hyung.” Ricky makes a face like he knows more than he lets on. “You really need to talk to him.”
“I hate that you’re making sense right now,” Hao pouts. “Okay. Haidilao?”
“I’ll ask Gyuvin.”
Inviting Gyuvin meant Hanbin and Matthew came along too. They’d all been hanging out at Hanbin’s apartment before Ricky extended the invitation.
Hao was nervous about occupying the same space as Hanbin, especially after his breakdown, but he admits it’s nice being around people like this. He’s even started to like Matthew, whose cheerful energy is infectious and whose clumsy Korean somehow makes everything he says sound endearing.
Beside him, Hanbin lifts a slice of wagyu from the pot and drops it carefully into Matthew’s bowl. Matthew lights up, grinning like he’s just been handed treasure.
“Hyung, you’re the best.” Matthew says, and Hanbin’s laugh is warm enough to draw a glance from Hao without him meaning to.
He stirs the soup absentmindedly, watching Hanbin lean in slightly when Gyuvin talks, checking the food before passing it over. Something about it feels familiar, so familiar that Hao’s chest tightens without warning.
It’s only when Hanbin does the same thing for Gyuvin a few minutes later, sliding extra meat onto his plate without comment, that the thought slips in, uninvited: oh. It’s not just him.
The idea doesn’t land all at once. It lingers at the edges instead, brushing against him each time Hanbin smiles or tilts his head to listen, until it starts to feel heavier than it should. He tells himself it’s nothing, but his grip on the ladle shifts, restless.
Because if he treats everyone like that… then maybe nothing between them had been as singular as Hao thought. Maybe the warmth, the attention, the steady hand on his shoulder, it wasn’t for him, not really. Just part of who Hanbin was.
Hanbin nudges at him with an elbow. “Are you okay? Your eyes are a bit puffy.”
Hao’s chest clenches at his concern. He feels the guilt eat him up.
“I’m just… really tired.” The admission from Hao came out rawer than he intended to—he feels pathetic.
“Hey.” he says gently. “Look at me for a second?”
Hao hesitates, then meets his eyes.
Hanbin’s gaze is steady, words quiet enough for only them to hear. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I just want you to know I’ve noticed. You’ve been a little… off lately. And I didn’t know if you needed space or if I did something wrong.”
Hao’s throat tightens. He tries to shake his head, but Hanbin cuts him off with a small wave of his hand.
“I’m not asking for an explanation.” He says. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it by yourself. I’m here, okay? Even when you’re tired like this.”
Then, quieter, “Especially then.”
Hao blinks fast. His vision is starting to blur again, and the heat behind his eyes feels unbearable.
Hanbin places a hand on Hao’s thigh, firm and grounding, and leans in just slightly, like he’s shielding the space between them from the noise and steam and laughter around the table. “I care about you. Not because you’re always composed or nice to be around or good at school or whatever. Just because you’re you. That’s enough.”
Hao doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t trust his voice not to crack.
But something in him—the part that had been coiled tight for weeks—unwinds just a little.
“Thank you.” he says finally. Quiet and hoarse.
Hanbin squeezes his leg once more before pulling back, giving him room. “Anytime.”
And just like that, the moment folds itself neatly into the rest of the night. Hanbin returns to helping Matthew rescue overcooked noodles, and Gyuvin offers Hao a fishball with a dramatic flourish. Ricky side-eyes them all, muttering something about children.
Hao stirs the soup again, this time with a little less tension in his shoulders.
It still aches. He still doesn’t know exactly where he stands. But Hanbin’s words are there now, tucked somewhere safe. They don’t fix everything. But they help.
And maybe, for now, that’s enough.
The morning after the dinner, the campus feels too bright. His alarm blares at 7:00 AM and he’s never really been good at waking up. He begrudgingly goes to his classes, not willing to give up his perfect attendance. He’s still tired. Not just from the lack of sleep, but from everything else.
On the way to his building, he turns the corner, and there’s Hanbin.
Standing outside a classroom, laughing at something Matthew just said. Hanbin’s head is tipped back, eyes crinkled, the kind of laugh that used to make Hao feel warmer just watching. Now, he feels off-balance.
Matthew nudges Hanbin playfully. Hanbin swats him away, but his eyes linger on the hallway then land on Hao.
Their eyes meet.
Hanbin’s smile softens. He lifts his hand in a small wave. It’s not overly different from how he usually greets Hao. Just normal.
Hao lifts a hand back. Just a second too late. His throat feels dry.
Matthew sees this and also waves at him enthusiastically. Hao feels his lips twitch up a little at the action.
He walks past them to his classroom then picks a seat a few rows back. Far enough to avoid drawing attention, but close enough to read the board. He’s early. The professor is still setting up, so he pulls out his phone for the first time today.
Hanbin: How are you now?
Hao stares at the timestamp. It’s from yesterday. He must’ve missed it when he was getting ready for bed. Or maybe he’d seen it but he didn’t reply.
He doesn’t open it yet, using him being in class as an excuse. It’s not because he’s particularly upset or anything, but he doesn’t know what to say to Hanbin.
Hao locks his phone and slides it into his bag. There’s a dull ache building in his chest, but he keeps his expression steady.
He’ll answer later, maybe.
Or maybe he won’t.
It’s been a week since they last really talked.
Talking as in really talking. Not just greeting each other or casually addressing each other in group chats. They’ve created one of Matthew, Gyuvin, Ricky, Hanbin, and him ever since going out to dinner. They’re very noisy in that group chat, forcing Hao to mute it just so that he could have a semblance of peace when he studies.
Hao doesn’t know how many times he typed a message to Hanbin then deleted it. He doesn’t really know what he wants to say. He doesn’t know what he wants to hear from Hanbin either.
It’s easy for Hao to lose himself in autopilot with the drag of classes. He’s a student after all. Ricky tries to check in once, but Hao brushes him off. Matthew asks if he’s coming to game night, but Hao says he has a paper due. Even Gyuvin, usually so persistent, stops asking after Hao keeps ducking out of plans.
Even after his tutoring session with Yujin: the younger boy gives him a weird look after finishing their session, but doesn’t say anything in typical Yujin fashion.
Each silence feels earned.
After Yujin leaves, Hao just lies on his bed in the dark, phone face-down on the floor. He considers getting up to get his violin, then he hears a knock.
Ricky isn’t in the apartment right now and it’s past midnight, so he wraps himself in his emotional support duvet, then gets up then opens the door.
It’s Hanbin, handsome as ever. It’s been a while since Hao has seen him up close, so he lets himself stare just a little bit longer.
He looks like someone who debated showing up for hours until he finally caved in.
“Can I come in?” Hanbin asks, voice low.
Hao hesitates, long enough for both of them to feel it, then nods and steps aside.
The room is dim, lit by a small lamp that Hao forgot to turn off. Hanbin just stands near the door, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“I don’t want to stay long. It’s just that… something’s been bothering me.”
Hao waits.
“I think I hurt you,” Hanbin says.
Hao’s heart stutters. Because Hanbin says it like he’s genuinely upset over the prospect of hurting Hao.
“I didn’t mean to.” Hanbin continues. “But I think I did anyway.”
The silence that follows is tense. Hao shifts, hugging the duvet that he carried with him when he answered the door to his chest. He thinks of the messages he didn’t send, and the ache of wanting more than he should have
“No, it’s genuinely not you. I… maybe I just got too attached. To you.” Hao tries to laugh, but it’s brittle. “You’re kind to everyone. I knew that. I just—”
“You’re not just everyone to me.” Hanbin interrupts.
Hao wills himself to look at Hanbin’s eyes.
Hanbin’s gaze is steady. Not once did his eyes stray from Hao’s face.
“I care about you, Hao. Not just in a friendly way. But in a terrifying way that eats me up that scares even myself. The kind that makes me notice when you’re pulling away, even though you don’t say anything.”
Hao feels a part of himself break.
“I don’t know how to say it right.” Hanbin continues. “I think about you a lot. I notice things about you without trying. I worry more than I should. I just want to be near you.”
Hao exhales, shaky. The feelings aren’t new, but hearing them reflected back like this—he doesn’t know what to do with that clarity.
“I thought it was just me. You make me a little bit stupid, you know?” Hao whispers.
Hanbim hums, cupping Hao’s face in his hands as tears start falling out his eyes. “You’re so smart, of course you have to have a few flaws.”
Hao glares half-heartedly. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re cute.”
Hao makes a small sound, drops the duvet wrapped around him, and reaches up to pull Hanbin’s hands from his face. But when their hands lower, neither lets go. Hanbin adjusts their grip until they’re properly holding each other.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” He murmurs.
“Me neither.” Hanbin replies, smiling.
They stay like that for a moment, just holding each other’s hands.
“Relationships have always scared me,” Hao admits, the vulnerability between them making words spill out his mouth. “It always feels like I’m giving something away… like I’ll lose a part of myself.”
“It’s okay,” Hanbin says softly. “We don’t have to be anything right now.”
Hao nods, eyes downcast. “I don’t even know what I’d call this.”
Hanbin smiles faintly. “We don’t have to call it anything. We can just be us.”
The silence stretches, but it doesn’t feel as lonely anymore.
“I just—” Hao starts, then falters. “I want to be close to you. That’s all I know.”
Hanbin exhales like he’s been holding that breath for a while. “That’s all I’ve wanted too.”
They sit there, still holding each other’s hands, as if grounding themselves in the fact that neither one is going anywhere.
Hao finally looks at him, eyes searching. “You’re okay with that?”
Hanbin nods, gently swinging their hands. “As long as I get to be here with you.”
A small, real smile breaks across Hao’s face. “Then… stay.”
“As long as I can,” Hanbin says, like a promise.
He then pulls their joined hands toward him, causing Hao to stumble into his space. Then, with no hesitation, Hanbin wraps him in a hug, face tucked into Hao’s neck.
They stay like that for a while. Just two boys figuring it out in the quiet.
Then Hanbin breaks the silence. “You smell good, gege.”
Hao freezes. “Where’d you learn that?”
Hanbin pulls away just enough to grin at him. “I talked to Ricky. That’s why I’m here. He told me to call you that too because it’d make you happy.”
Hao laughs through the remnants of his tears, cupping Hanbin’s face. “Don’t call anyone else that, okay?”
Hanbin nods, all serious despite the smile on his lips. “Okay.”
“I’m serious. Gege is a very jealous man.”
“Okay.” Hanbin’s grin doesn’t fade. “Only if you let me take you on a date.”
And in that little word, in that little space, they make something just theirs.
Hao feels happy. Happier than he’s been for a while. Hanbin’s presence in his life doesn’t feel intrusive, but welcome. He fills in the gap in Hao’s life so casually, and has turned into a form of support for him. Hao keeps Hanbin’s schedule in a little widget on his phone so that he knows when he can invite the younger out or just crash in his place.
Sometimes, he doesn’t even act on it. He just glances at it mid-lecture, or while waiting in line at the cafeteria, comforted by the thought that Hanbin is in his laboratory class or finishing up practice. It’s strange, the way someone else’s existence can start to feel like your own. Not something all-consuming, but just present.
Their relationship isn’t loud or dramatic. Nothing much has changed on the surface but something subtle has definitely shifted. They’re less guarded with their affection, more willing to let down the walls that used to keep their feelings hidden or half-formed. Small touches linger a little longer, smiles come easier, and they don’t have to make excuses just to see each other.
Hanbin: Hyung
Hanbin: Are you free tom?
Hao: yesyes^^
Hao: why
Hanbin: I need to take you out on a proper date
Hao: proper???
Hanbin: I promised you, remember?
Hao: i thought we'd already been going on dates…
Hanbin: ?
Hanbin: Oh
Hanbin: Doesn’t count ~
Hanbin: I want to do this properly
Hao: h
Hao: what do you have planned?
Hanbin: Dinner?
Hanbin: Then let’s walk around for a bit
Hao: can we hotpot
Hanbin: hmmm
Hanbin: whatever gege wants :)
Hao: hanbin-ah.
Hanbin: ㅎㅎ
Hanbin: I’ll pick you up
Hanbin: Don’t worry about paying either
Hao: i won’t say no to free food!
Hanbin: Technically it won’t be free
Hanbin: If your payment is looking pretty for me 🙂
Hao: bartering in the 21st century?
Hao: i’m always pretty anyways so this is a net win
Hao: is 6 good for you?
Hanbin: Thats good for me
Hanbin: Then i’ll see you
Hao: hehe
Hao: okkkk
That’s how Hao finds himself waiting outside his apartment for the second time—this time for something that’s been called a date out loud.
He’s wearing a denim jacket over a fitted black shirt and jeans, an outfit that passed Ricky’s brutally high standards. It took him nearly an hour to get ready, mostly because he kept second-guessing everything. He tried to fix his eyeliner only to discover his usual one had dried up, so he ended up doing his makeup in Ricky’s room with his eyeliner as he played Love and Deepspace on his iPad.
Hao doesn’t understand how Ricky has the confidence to romance 3D fictional men on such a massive screen, but then again, Ricky is Ricky.
He feels a pang of nervousness when Hanbin’s car pulls up. It’s not the same jittery, dread-laced feeling he gets before an exam. The type that he downs a full bottle of water and regrets it halfway through because he has to pee but can’t leave mid-exam. This is different. Anticipatory, maybe.
As Hao settles into the passenger seat, he reaches for the seatbelt—only to be stopped by Hanbin’s voice.
“Wait.”
Hao blinks, confused, and then Hanbin leans over the console. The sudden closeness gives Hao whiplash. He catches a whiff of Hanbin’s cologne, something warm and subtle and infuriatingly good. Hanbin takes the seatbelt and buckles Hao in with a quiet click. Hao stares straight ahead, pretending to be unfazed. He is not, in fact, unfazed.
Then Hanbin reaches into the backseat and pulls out a small bouquet wrapped in brown craft paper, white daisies, simple and sweet. He holds them out and says, “I got you flowers. Do you like flowers? I’ve never asked.”
Hao stares at the bouquet longer than he should. It’s not the first time he’s received flowers, but it’s the first time he’s received them like this. With another person’s eyes watching his face with that unguarded affection.
“Hm…” Hao finally murmurs, taking the bouquet carefully, “I don’t know. But I can start liking them now.”
Hanbin’s smile stretches, slow and pleased. “Good. You deserve pretty things.”
Hao rolls his eyes to hide the way his heart stutters. He places the flowers gently on his lap, grounding himself with the delicate weight.
To fill the silence (and partly to distract himself), Hao connects his phone to Hanbin’s speakers and plays his playlist, a chaotic mix of girl group songs, everything from emotional ballads to shameless dance tracks. Usually, he curates playlists based on mood or company, but today? Today he’s testing Hanbin.
“You really didn’t have to get me flowers, you know,” Hao says, glancing sideways.
“You always say that I don’t have to do things for you,” Hanbin replies, eyes still on the road.
“Because you really don’t.” Hao replies, although it lacks any heat.
Hanbin shifts gears smoothly, eyes focused on the road. “I know I don’t. But I want to. Isn’t that reason enough?”
Hao leans his head back against the seat, turning slightly to look out the window, though he’s not really seeing anything. The flowers are still on his lap, and he absently brushes a finger over the paper wrapping.
It’s nice. It’s so simple and unassuming, but it’s nice—the way Hanbin acts like it’s natural to show up, to give something, to want.
“It’s still weird,” Hao murmurs after a beat. “Being wanted like this.”
Hanbin doesn’t immediately respond. For a while, all Hao hears is the sound of the engine and the chorus of the song.
Then, softly, Habin says, “You make it sound like you’re hard to want.”
Hao’s chest tightens, caught off guard by the sincerity of his reply to his off-hand comment. He takes his eyes off the street and turns to look at Hanbin, who’s still focused on the road, but there’s something tense in his jaw, like he’s holding back from saying more.
It’s quiet between them for a long time after that. It isn’t an awkward quiet. A silence that Hao wants to break. It feels full, like Hao feels something in him settling.
They hit a stoplight. Hanbin glances at him, then down to Hao’s hand resting lightly against his thigh. He reaches over and takes it.
Hanbin’s grip is light, a bit like he feels as if Hao is something fragile. His hand is warm, a bit damp—which Hao should find gross but truthfully, it’s a bit endearing.
Hao feels his fingers twitch a bit in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. In contrast, he adjusts their hands so that he can hold Hanbin’s hand firmly.
Hanbin doesn’t look at him when the light turns green. He just keeps driving, his thumb brushing through Hao’s knuckles like it’s something he’s always done.
Hao doesn’t want to know if he wasn’t the first one Hanbin has done this to.
He lets himself smile a little, ignoring the pang in his chest.
They find themselves walking along the Han River after eating hotpot, the air sharp enough to bite and cherry blossoms in full bloom. The wind skates across the water and cuts through Hao’s denim like it’s nothing, needling into his skin until he feels the chill down to his bones. He shivers without meaning to, the whiplash from hotpot steam to open air making his body protest.
He’s only been here once before, on his first night in Korea. Back then, the river had been a stranger: wide, unknowable, the kind of presence that didn’t care if you stared at it or turned away. He’d stood here wondering if he had just made the stupidest decision of his life. Everyone back in China had thought he’d taken leave of his senses—walking away from the kind of future his Gaokao score could buy him, the kind you could measure in square footage and promotions.
But he’d never done things he didn’t think he could survive. Survival, however, was not the same thing as living.
The difference between then and now is almost small enough to miss, except it’s walking beside him, close enough that their steps keep brushing in sync.
He’s always running cold, and as another gust of wind sweeps past, and his shoulders go up as he shivers. Hanbin stops at the motion.
“Have this,” Hanbin says, already midway pulling his hoodie over his head.
Hao frowns at this. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’ll live. I run warm anyways,” then Hanbin steps closer, holding out his hoodie until Hao takes it.
Hao slips off his denim jacket, pulls the hoodie on, then layers the jacket over it. The warmth is immediate, not just from the fabric but from the fact that it’s his. Not his in ownership, but in the sense of being given.
Back then, the river had offered him nothing; now, someone was offering him warmth without asking anything in return. It’s an easy thing to slip into, and yet it doesn’t feel easy at all. The hoodie is warm in a way that feels borrowed—which it is, to be fair—but it’s like he’s wearing something he wasn’t supposed to have but can’t give back.
Hanbin laughs softly. “You’re all bundled up. Like a little ball.”
Hao pouts in response, walking ahead.
Hanbin catches up to his steps, laughing, as the sound of the river unfolds into the city noise.
After a while, Hanbin asks, “Are you still nervous?”
“A bit.” Hao admits, his hands curling into the too-long sleeves.
“Don’t worry, I’m also nervous.”
That draws Hao’s gaze. “You don’t look like it.”
Hanbin’s smile is faint, almost shy. “When you’re a performer, you learn how to mask it. I’m sure you know the feeling, hyung.”
Hao hums at this. “You must be a better performer than I am, then.”
“That’s not true. Hyung is a talented performer. I think I’m just really good at reading people.”
“You’ve seen me perform before?”
Hanbin smiles in lieu of an answer—faintly, almost shy.
“I’m not answering that.” Hanbin teases, very clearly hiding something. Hao makes a note in his head to interrogate Hanbin about this at a later time.
After a moment, Hanbin admits, “I’m nervous because I want this to go well.”
Hao doesn’t need to think about it. “It already is.”
They keep walking. The river keeps pace with them, scattering the city’s light into restless fragments. Hanbin’s hand brushes Hao’s once, then twice, until on the third time Hao catches it, threading their fingers together. Hanbin’s palm is warm, and slowly, Hao feels the cold leave his own hands.
It’s different from earlier in the car—less tentative, more certain, like they’re both starting to believe in the shape of this thing between them. He squeezes, and Hanbin squeezes back. The red in Hanbin’s cheeks has nothing to do with the wind.
Later, they find themselves sitting on a bench, chatting about whatever as they watch the water. Their hands don’t separate even like this, not even once.
Hao rests his head on Hanbin’s shoulder, although it's a bit awkward since they’re about the same height. Hao doesn’t let this stop him though—if there’s a will, there’s a way. Hanbin rests his head on his, sneaking his hand under his hoodie, holding his waist with only a shirt as a barrier.
“I don’t want this to end yet.” Hao murmurs.
“It doesn’t have to.” Hanbin says, “Come back to mine. You still haven’t tried my coffee.”
“Coffee at night?”
“We’re college students.” Hanbin counters.
Hao’s resounding laugh shakes through both of their bodies.
In Hanbin’s place, Hao settles himself on a tall stool beside the cramped kitchen counter—tall enough that his feet don’t even touch the ground. His feet are clad in cute little cat paw slippers. Hao teased Hanbin if he got them for him after his last visit, but the younger didn’t answer, the flush on his face answering for him.
Hao thinks it’s cute how easily he can coax a blush out of the younger one.
He’s long ditched his denim jacket, leaving only Hanbin’s hoodie on as he watches the younger prance around the kitchen.
“Owning a coffee machine as a college student… you’re kind of loaded.” Hao teases.
Hanbin laughs, shaking head. “No, not really. It’s just an old one from my mom’s cafe.”
Hao leans forward on his elbows, eyes following the way Hanbin measures out coffee grounds with quiet precision. There’s something about watching him like this—in his element—that makes Hao want to keep the view for himself, away from other people. He knows he can’t, so he settles for memorizing it instead.
“Too bad this doesn’t have a grinder.” Hanbin says absentmindedly, as he tamps the coffee with practiced movements.
“Why? Does it taste better?”
“Yes, a lot more flavor. Spoils less easily as well.” Hanbin answers easily.
While the dark liquid streams into two mismatched mugs, Hanbin retrieves milk from the fridge, steams it until foam blooms at the top, then pours the espresso and milk with practiced ease—one mug turning an almost absurdly pale beige, the other a warm brown. Hao doesn’t need to guess which one is his.
When Hanbin slides the mug toward him, their fingers brush in the handoff.
“Be careful.” Hanbin warns.
The warmth seeps into Hao’s palms, grounding him. He takes a sip, and a smear of foam lingers at the corner of his mouth. Hanbin notices before Hao does—reaching forward without a second thought, brushing his thumb against Hao’s lip to wipe it away.
Hanbin doesn’t pull away from where it’s placed on Hao’s jaw, thumb brushing against his cheek. They stare at each other like that, and Hao feels the surge of electricity between them.
“You really do know what you’re doing.” Hao says, voice breathy.
Hanbin doesn’t answer right away. His gaze dips for the briefest moment, as if weighing something.
“Mhm… and you don’t know what you do to me.” he says at last, barely above a whisper.
Hao’s brows furrow, “What?”
“You’re in my hoodie…” Hanbin’s voice drops, deeper than it was a moment ago. Hao has to look up at him in his position, his gaze looking intimidating as he looms over Hao. “In my space…” His hands rest on Hao’s waist—light at first, then firmer.
Hao’s breath catches. The room suddenly feels warmer as Hanbin’s hands anchor him, deliberate, but not pushing, as if waiting for permission.
Hao tilts his head slightly, testing Hanbin’s waters. “And if I stay in your space?” he murmurs.
Hanbin swallows, and Hao watches the movement of his throat as he does. He feels Hanbin’s fingers curl just a fraction tighter at Hao’s sides. A darker part of Hao wishes he’d hold tighter so that it’d bruise. “Then I don’t think I’ll be able to let you go.”
The words settle heavy between them. Hao’s subconscious wants to take it as a threat, but this time, he takes it as a truth.
He doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans forward by a breath—close enough to see the subtle rise and fall of Hanbin’s chest, the tattoo of the sun, moon, and stars squarely in view.
Hanbin’s thumbs trace slow, absent circles at Hao’s hips, his eyes searching Hao’s for any sign to stop.
Hao doesn’t give him one.
“I really want to kiss you right now.”
“Go ahead,” Hao hums absentmindedly. “I’ll give you the privilege of giving me my first.”
Hanbin’s hands still, and Hao can feel the sudden sharpness in his breath.
“Are you sure?” Hanbin asks, his voice softer now—sweet, almost hesitant. Hao thinks it’s endearing, how eager he is to take from him.
Hao thinks it’s strange, how something that should feel monumental—the giving away of his first kiss—doesn’t send him into the kind of panic he’s always imagined. The idea of being known that deeply felt like handing over a weapon. And yet, here, with Hanbin’s careful hands and his earnest eyes, it doesn’t feel like losing ground.
A part of him whispers that he might regret this later. Not because Hanbin isn’t worth it, but because Hao has seen how easily warmth can turn cold, how quickly intimacy can sour into something that leaves you hollow. He knows that once you give something away, you can’t take it back. And maybe, months from now, the thought of this night will ache in a way he can’t soothe.
But he nods anyway. Because for now, the weight of possible regret is lighter than the one of wanting.
Hanbin hesitates for a beat before gently cupping his jaw, tilting his head. Their lips slot together gently. It’s loud and chaste, ending too quickly as Hanbin pulls away.
“Was that okay?” Hanbin asks, putting his hand behind Hao’s head, fingers threading lightly to his hair. In response, Hao’s grip on Hanbin’s shirt tightens as he struggles to make an affirmative sound, still reeling from the contact of their lips.
With this, Hanbin leans in again, and this kiss is different. Hao feels the other suck on his bottom lip—coaxing a whimper out of his mouth. His eyes slide shut as they continue to kiss.
They kiss with open mouths, the sound of spit echoing throughout the small space they’re in. Hao feels his toes curl at the sensation, the same time that Hanbin slides his hand under his hoodie—past his shirt—and runs his hands down Hao’s sides. If it wasn’t already obvious that Hanbin’s hands longed to belong on Hao’s waist, it is now.
Hao feels Hanbin grows more unrestrained, turning their kisses messy. Hanbin’s merciless in the way that he barely pulls away from Hao before diving back in, barely giving Hao time to respond. Hao gives into instinct, letting go of Hanbin’s shirt and throwing his arms over Hanbin’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Their bodies bump into each other, both warm like they’re melding into one.
When they finally part, Hao’s breathless. He feels undone, wrecked, and they’ve barely done anything. His cheeks burn; he’s so warm he half-expects to melt into a puddle on the floor. Even if he did, he’d be the happiest puddle alive.
Hanbin peppers his cheeks with quick, unsteady kisses as he catches his breath, looking just as wrecked. A flicker of pride sparks in Hao. The thought that he did that.
“You’re so noisy…” Hanbin murmurs, pressing a damp kiss to Hao’s forehead, then his nose, then the mole under his eye. Hao would normally be grossed out, but right now he can’t bring himself to care.
“Stick out your tongue.” Hanbin orders, and Hao, in a daze, promptly follows.
Hanbin closes his mouth over Hao’s tongue, sucking it in his mouth, moving back and forth as if he’s sucking something else. Hao’s head grows faint at the thought, letting out a moan. He really is noisy—but it’s entirely Hanbin’s fault.
Their next kiss is mostly tongue—Hao would be worried about reciprocating properly if his head wasn’t spinning so much to the point that he’s rendered stupid. He lets Hanbin ravish his mouth, tongue licking in his mouth like he’s trying to memorize it. His tongue traces along the roof of his mouth and through the rows of his teeth.
There’s a trail of spit as they finally part, and Hao’s lips instinctively chase the other’s, only to be stopped by a hand on his chest. He lets out a disappointed sound in response.
Hanbin drops his head into the crook of Hao’s neck, inhaling deeply. The warm rush of his breath and the tickle of his hair make Hao shiver. Hanbin’s lips find his neck, pressing light kisses that leave Hao clinging tighter.
“We need to stop here, or else I’ll be tempted to go further, gege.” Hanbin murmurs against his skin.
The implication makes Hao’s breath stutter, his fingers curling into Hanbin’s shirt. It takes every ounce of restraint not to urge him on. If just making out feels like this, he’s not sure he wants to imagine what further would do to him.
He threads a hand into Hanbin’s hair as they calm, staying tangled in the cramped space, soaking in the heat of each other.
Hao’s heart skips when he realizes—this is the most selfish Hanbin’s ever been with him.
The worst part? He’s not opposed to letting him take more.
Ricky: hello it's like 3 am r u still alive?
Ricky: is hanbin-hyung actually a crazy murderer and i have to like fly ur body back to china
Ricky: or i’d have to get u cremated i think idk how it works
Ricky: nvm i just checked your location
Ricky: have fun ㅋㅋ
Ricky: whore
Ricky: slut
Ricky: harlot
Hao: you could’ve had the decency to slutshame me to my face?
Ricky: that implies that there is decency to be found in slutshaming
Ricky: did you guys do smth…
Hao: it isn’t like that!!!
Hao: ok maybe it was a little bit like that
Ricky: ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ
Hao’s life over the latter half of the semester is governed by recital preparations and the checklist taped to the inside of his violin case—a wrinkled, annotated paper that has begun to feel like a verdict as much as a guide.
The recital hall booking has become its own Sisyphean trial. The secretary is only in her office three afternoons a week, and somehow, every time Hao turns up during those hours, she’s on break. If he wasn’t on scholarship, he’d be planning to burn the university down.
Now, with his back pressed against the wall of the practice room, sheet music spilling over his lap, his bow arm throbbing with the dull ache of overuse, Hao feels himself teetering between determination and exhaustion. His eyes glaze over the notes until they blur into meaningless shapes.
He lets his head fall back and keeps his eyes closed until the soft creak of the door announces someone’s arrival. When he looks up, Hanbin is peeking in, with an affectionate glint in his eyes.
“Boba?” Hanbin lifts a plastic bag, its sides slick and translucent from the condensation of the cold drinks.
Hao’s arms lift automatically, fingers curling into grabby hands.
The cup is shockingly cold against Hao’s stiff, practice-warmed fingers. He bites the straw open and takes the first sip. The sigh that escapes him at the taste is of relief—he hadn’t realized how dehydrated he was after immersing himself in practice.
As much as Hanbin likes to tease him for having “questionable taste” when it comes to durian, he never forgets to get it for him anyway.
“You look dead,” Hanbin observes, dropping down beside him until their shoulders meet. His scent lingers between them—this time it’s Tam Dao by Diptyque. Hao remembers asking about it once, telling Hanbin that he liked how it smelled.
“I’ve been running through the same piece for hours,” Hao says, idly tapping the straw against his lip. “And I still haven’t booked the recital hall. If I don’t get a slot, I’m screwed.”
“You’ll get one,” Hanbin says, calm and certain, as though the matter is already settled. “You’re too stubborn not to.”
Hao lets out a short laugh, but it falters quickly. His gaze drops to the bottom of the cup, where the tapioca pearls swirl in lazy spirals. “What if I blow the actual recital next?”
Hanbin tilts his head. “Hyung.”
Hao doesn’t look up. His eyes fix instead on the frayed thread at the cuff of Hanbin’s hoodie, one small loop unraveling. “It’s not just the recital. I keep thinking… this thing between us—”
“This thing.” Hanbin echoes, and there’s something in his tone that makes Hao’s throat tighten.
“Yeah.” Hao murmurs. “You said you were fine with it, but… are you really?”
Silence. The kind that stretches and makes Hao wish he could pluck the words back out of the air before they land.
Then Hanbin reaches over, takes the cup from Hao, and—without asking—sips from the straw. He makes a face, lips curling in mild disgust at the durian flavor, and Hao can’t help but laugh despite himself.
When Hanbin hands it back, his gaze is steady. “I’m here, aren’t I? Bothering you in your practice room, buying you boba, watching you stress over something you’re going to pull off anyway. I’m not here because I’m bored, gege. I’m here because I want to be.”
The words settle into Hao’s chest like warm tea, the heat creeping outward until his pulse feels too loud.
“You’re sure that’s enough for you?” His voice comes out smaller than he intended, but it’s the closest he can get to the truth.
Hanbin leans back, stretching his legs in front of him, his shoulder still pressed against Hao’s. “If you’re asking whether I’m waiting for you to call me your boyfriend or whatever, no. I’m not keeping score. I just want to be where you are.”
Something in Hao loosens, just a fraction, but enough for him to breathe a little deeper. “…Okay.”
Hanbin bumps their knees lightly, his grin sudden and easy. “Good. Now finish your drink.”
He pulls a spiral-bound notebook from his bag and flips it open—psychology notes, neat and color-coded.
Oh. Hao’s heart skips a beat. He’s planning to stay with him.
Hao leans sideways, mock-demanding, “Give me a kiss first.”
Hanbin doesn’t even pretend to hesitate.
Hao finds himself seated on the benches outside the Department of Art’s offices, right outside the secretary’s door. There’s a cluster of tired-looking students beside him—some faces familiar from his major, some strangers with the same expression of resigned suffering. It’s a small comfort, knowing the bureaucratic misery is a shared one.
He scrolls absently through TikTok, thumb flicking up on videos he isn’t really watching. Instagram Reels have grown stale; now TikTok is on its way there too. The muffled shuffle of footsteps makes him glance up—just enough to register the polished leather shoes, dark slacks, and the face.
The man standing in front of him is devastatingly handsome in that deliberate, curated way that feels almost unreal. One side of his hair is slicked back, but not too perfectly—strands fall just so across his forehead, like the kind of detail a stylist would plan. He has the sharp jawline and easy poise of someone who could be a model, an actor—maybe both. He’d do well as a BL actor. Specifically.
“Zhang Hao-ssi, right?” The drawl is unhurried, confident, like he already knows the answer.
Hao blinks, nodding, unsure why this stranger is looking for him.
“I’m Yujin’s older brother.”
“Oh!” The realization blooms in Hao’s chest. “Jiwoong-ssi? He’s mentioned you once.”
“Can I sit here?” Jiwoong asks, gesturing to the space beside Hao.
Hao promptly nods. Jiwoong takes the seat beside him with a smoothness that suggests he’d already decided to, regardless of Hao’s answer.
“Yujin’s been more motivated lately,” Jiwoong says, his tone conversational, but with an undercurrent Hao can’t quite read. “I was worried about him—he didn’t seem all that interested in getting into ZBU at first. But when he talks about you, it’s always positive.”
Hao feels something like heat creep up behind his ears. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”
Jiwoong smiles, but there’s something studying in his gaze, like he’s measuring Hao against the stories he’s heard. “You’ve got that effect on people, I think. Making them feel like they can do more.”
Hao’s instinct is to deflect, to laugh, but instead he finds himself staring down at his hands, still loosely cradling his phone. The compliment feels disproportionate, almost misplaced. He thinks of his own half-checked recital checklist, the unbooked hall, the way every week lately has felt like treading water. “I don’t think I’m doing anything special,” he says. “I’m just his tutor.”
“You’re not just his tutor, and you know that.” Jiwoong replies.
The words settle somewhere heavy in Hao’s chest.
The secretary’s door opens, calling a name that isn’t his. Students shuffle forward; the air conditioner bleeding through the hallway from the open door.
“I hear you’ve got your junior recital coming up,” Jiwoong says after a moment.
“Yeah,” Hao replies, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice. “If I can even book the hall.”
That earns a quiet laugh. “Processing requirements is a pain, isn’t it? I remember waiting out here for hours when I was in undergrad. It felt like trying to get concert tickets.”
“You went here too?”
“Mhm. Same department, so I know this hallway well.” Jiwoong’s smile becomes smaller, warmer. “You’ll get your slot. People like you always do.”
Hao almost asks what that means, but the secretary calls his name. His pulse jumps; he stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Guess I’ll see you around,” Jiwoong says.
“Yeah.” Hao answers, but it feels incomplete, like there’s a second half he hasn’t figured out yet.
Yujin had always been quiet—so much so that Hao sometimes wondered if the younger boy spoke at all outside of answering direct questions. The revelation of how Yujin saw him lands unexpectedly, like a weight in Hao’s chest that isn’t entirely heavy. It shifts something in the way he’s been holding himself lately. Maybe, beneath the fatigue that had been clinging to him for weeks, there was still a thread of purpose pulling him forward.
Making out with Hanbin—even just once—has somehow liberated Hao when it comes to the physical side of relationships, which is ironic considering they’re not even in a proper one.
He’s in Hanbin’s apartment again, pressed against his couch with the other perched over him. His necklace swings in front of Hao’s face with each breath, hypnotic in its rhythm.
Hao is heaving, catching air after they break apart, and there’s a part of him that resents the human need for oxygen. If it weren’t necessary, he’d rather never part from Hanbin at all.
They’re closer now. So much closer than last time. Hao’s fingers thread into Hanbin’s hair, massaging gently at his scalp as they look at each other. It’s too easy to forget the underlying implications of intimacy when Hanbin leans back in, licking into his mouth with a confidence that sets Hao’s ears burning. His cheeks are already hot, heat only amplified by Hanbin’s proximity.
Hao bites down lightly on Hanbin’s bottom lip, and the quiet moan it earns him sends a shiver straight down his spine.
They kiss like that for a while, languid, until Hanbin shifts their positions so that they’re closer—making their crotches slide against each other.
Hao lets out a fractured whine, the sound swallowed by Hanbin’s mouth. Hanbin doesn’t let him pull away, kissing like it’s survival, like whatever he needs is buried somewhere in Hao and he’s desperate to find it. Hao’s fist knots in the front of Hanbin’s shirt—too tight, maybe—but it’s the only thing keeping him from drifting untethered, from being swept entirely into the pull of him.
When they finally part with a loud, wet, smack, Hao exclaims, “Holy fuck— You’re telling me that’s your dick?”
Hanbin flushes at Hao’s words, unusually shy for the situation they’re in. Like he isn’t hiding a monster of a cock in his pants. Okay, not monstrously huge, but it’s bigger than average. He thinks. He doesn’t really have enough data to make an accurate statistic.
Hanbin’s hips slide against his again, and Hao would be embarrassed on how hard he was if Hanbin wasn’t in the same situation.
They continue like that, grinding against each other, hips chasing the other’s as the arousal between them heightens. Their mouths stay pressed together, kisses growing messier and more open, all heat and breath, the scrape of lips with way less tongue—just the sound of their breathing tangling in the space between them.
When their lips separate, Hao’s eyes open and Hanbin's eyes look cloudy—scary even, like a psycho.
“Gege.” He whispers, voice low and breathless. “Do you want me to touch you?”
It’s almost absurd for him to ask when he can feel how hard Hao is against him.
Hao’s mind is a mess of tangled nerves and restless questions. He’s never been here before—not like this, not with someone he’s still figuring out, someone who’s slipped quietly into the edges of his life without shouting for attention. He hasn’t thought about his virginity before. Virginity is a social construct anyways. Part of him worries about vulnerability, what it means to let someone else see the rawest side of him. He thinks about being vulnerable with Hanbin, and it feels less about exposure but trust.
Hao nods quickly, a little desperate, not trusting his voice to carry the weight of what he’s feeling.
Hanbin’s hand trails down his torso, thumb hooking under the waistband of his underwear. Hao lifts his hips a little, as Hanbin slides his underwear down to reveal his length.
Hao shivers at the cold air—spasming as Hanbin’s fingers graze his shaft. He thumbs at the slit, gathering the precome that’s gathered there when they were grinding on each other like teenagers, slicking up Hao’s cock with it. Hao’s eyes roll back as a response—head jerking as his neck stretches, grinding up on Hanbin’s hand as he starts to stroke him slowly.
The other takes advantage of Hao’s exposed neck, kissing down on the column of his throat. His teeth graze across his skin, clamping down on the flesh where his neck meets his shoulder. He can’t stop the sounds that slip out of his mouth—he feels pathetic like this, pliant in Hanbin’s hold. Like jelly.
When Hanbin removes his hand from Hao’s cock he whines at the loss of contact. Hao stares at Hanbin as the other stares at him, not looking away even once, as he spits on his hand, making a show of his saliva dripping onto it before he reaches down again to wrap around Hao’s cock. Is this guy a fucking pornstar?
Hao’s eyes fall back shut at the contact as Hanbin sets a faster pace, aided by the slickness of his spit. Hao’s body instinctively chases Hanbin’s hand as his hips jerk. If he wasn't loud before he definitely is now, sounds coming out with every breath he takes.
“Wait—Bin, I—” He gasps, breaths coming out in staccato.
He can’t even form a proper sentence since Hanbin twists his hand around the head of Hao’s dick—and all he can do is surrender to instinct and buck his hips into Hanbin’s fist. The slick sounds between them are what fill the room. It’s embarrassing, how wet he is. Hao throws a hand over his mouth as Hanbin thumbs his slit, his grip tight and not even showing signs of slowing nor stopping.
“It’s okay,” Hanbin reassures, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It’s unusually tender for what’s going on right now. Hao feels affection bubble up for this man. “You can come.”
His body tenses, shuddering as his cries are swallowed by Hanbin’s mouth, each kiss muffling the sound. Hanbin’s strokes slow, coaxing the last of it from him until Hao squirms from the sharp pull of oversensitivity.
He collapses bonelessly against the couch, chest heaving, eyes glassy with unshed tears. Hanbin reaches for a tissue from their abandoned takeout, wiping his hand clean with precision before settling back down.
Hanbin shifts closer until he’s resting fully against Hao, head tucked over his chest. The weight feels grounding—solid in a way that makes it hard for Hao to move, even if he wanted to. He can feel every subtle rise and fall of Hanbin’s breath against his ribs, each one anchoring him in the moment.
Almost without thinking, Hao slides his leg between Hanbin’s, easing upward until the faint press draws a quiet, uneven inhale from him. Hao does it again—just enough to feel the reaction—and Hanbin lifts his head this time. Their eyes meet, and the question is there before it’s spoken, suspended in the air between them.
“Can I… use my mouth?” Hao’s voice is low, almost hesitant. The words stumble out unpolished, but his intent is unmistakable.
Hanbin’s brow furrows slightly. “You don’t have to, hyung. This isn’t some… transaction.”
“But I want to.” Hao says it with a certainty that surprises even himself. The phrase feels almost familiar, and then he realizes—it’s one Hanbin has said to him before, again and again. He wants to return it now, not as an obligation, but as something wholly his choice. It’s not just about sex. There’s too much heat in his chest, too much feeling building up for it to be only that.
Hanbin watches him for a long moment, eyes flicking over his face like he’s memorizing every part of it. When he finally nods, it’s almost shy. “Okay.”
He pushes himself up just enough to give Hao space, knees parting slightly in invitation. Then he reaches behind him, grabs a pillow, and places it under Hao. Hao shouldn’t be feeling this much wholesome affection for the man considering the unwholesomeness of what will follow next, but his brain will do whatever it wants to.
Hao wraps a hand around Hanbin’s dick experimentally, unsure. His touch is light, exploring. Hao feels Hanbin lets out an encouraging groan at the warmth.
“I haven’t done this before, so be nice.” Hao says, letting himself feel the weight of it in his hand. Face-to-face with his dick like this, his length looks intimidating—Hao swallows down the nervousness in his throat. He has never done what he couldn’t do, he repeats to himself.
“When have I not been nice to you?” Hanbin says, voice thin like he’s having trouble forming words. Hao feels a sense of pride, basking in how much he seems to affect the other.
Hao hums at that, thumbing at Hanbin’s slit, spreading around the precum gathered on it, watching as the liquid gleams around his head. He kisses down on the length, following a vein, making Hanbin string a hand through his hair. He doesn’t pull, but Hao feels his fingers shaking, trying not to clench down on Hao’s scalp. A part of him is warmed by his consideration—but the other part of him wants him to pull on his hair so hard he can feel the sting.
He really doesn’t mean to edge the younger like this—experimentally feeling around his dick. But it gradually helps him to build up confidence as he runs his tongue flat right under his girth, leaving a wet open-mouthed kiss on the tip as he pulls off, leaving Hanbin’s dick wet with not only precome, but with spit.
Hanbin lets out a shaky breath at that. Hao looks up at the sound, meeting his eyes. Hanbin is looking at him intensely, unblinking. He looks disheveled—undone. Like he’s on the edge of begging.
“Where did you even learn that?” Hanbin asks, still slightly breathless, his brows furrowing. If Hao wasn’t on his knees, he’d drag his thumb through them, smoothing it.
“A side effect of being chronically online,” he says, like there isn’t a whole ass dick looming right in front of him.
Hao doesn’t give the other the ability to ask any further questions, wrapping his lips around the head of his cock and swirling his tongue around the head. Hanbin’s hips buck a little at the sensation, throwing his head back on the couch. Hao lets his spit drip down the corners of his lips, coating his dick with slick then drags his hand down the rest of his length.
He takes him in deeper, sucking as his mouth stretches around his girth. He tries his best to not use his teeth, gagging when he feels the head touch the back of his throat. He feels tears pricking his eyes—and he’s barely even taken half.
When he pulls off, Hanbin runs a hand through Hao’s hair, through the locks that fall over his eyes. “You don’t have to take it all.”
Hao doesn’t respond, diving back in. He’s stubborn like that, always wanting to do his best, especially when it’s hard. Like Hanbin’s dick. Which is very hard.
He starts to bob his head, hollowing out his cheeks as he sucks, the sloppy sound echoing through the room. He breathes deeply through his nose as his tongue drags along the underside, stroking the part that he can’t reach. Hanbin is heavy and warm in his mouth, his taste salty. Hao thinks he can get used to this, with the scent of Hanbin’s musk overtaking his senses.
He almost considers becoming Hanbin’s trophy wife, kissing him when he gets home, sucking him off daily, and cooking him dinner.
Except Hao can’t really cook, so maybe not.
Above him, Hanbin’s hands are pawing at the couch, his moans coming out incoherent. “You’re so warm…” He whimpers.
The hand in Hao’s hair tightens, the sting making Hao moan. Hanbin shivers at this, lightly fucking into Hao’s mouth, clearly close to his release. Hao lets him, trying his best not to gag, but in the process letting his tears fall down on his face. He just stays there, pliant, letting Hanbin fuck his mouth.
“Fuck—Hao— Where do you want it?” Hanbin asks, desperately.
Hao places a hand on Hanbin’s arms, pulling off with a string of spit connecting him to his dick. “On me.”
Hanbin seems to get the idea, taking his own length in his hand and picking up the pace, head lolling as he trembles through his climax, cum shooting in rivulets across Hao’s face. Thankfully, none of it gets into Hao’s eyes, only a little bit catching onto his eyelashes.
He should feel grossed out, but he feels marked. Like a wolf’s territory. Except with cum and not piss.
Maybe he really should be grossed out.
Hanbin heaves, recovering from his orgasm. His eyes meet Hao’s—gaze heavy.
“Is it bad that I really want to take a picture right now?”
Holy fuck.
Hao tilts his head, almost teasing. Coy. “You can.”
Hanbin hurriedly wipes his hand stained with unidentifiable liquid on his shirt, fumbling for his phone.
He places a hand under Hao’s jaw, tilting his head up. Hao stares at the lens, hoping he doesn’t look as disheveled as he feels.
The shutter clicks. Before the sound even fades, Hanbin is pulling out a pack of wet wipes, cleaning Hao’s face with quiet focus. Hao lets him, leaning back on his heels, eyes closed, surrendering to the gentle fussing.
It’s a blur after that. One moment, he’s on the couch; the next, he’s sinking into Hanbin’s bed. He isn’t sure when they moved, only that his mind feels sluggish, emptied out by the afterglow of their… activities. The sheets smell faintly of detergent—warm and clean in a way that makes Hao want to disappear into them forever. Hanbin is the kind of person who notices how things smell, who makes sure his world feels pleasant even in something as ordinary as fresh bedsheets. Hao thinks it’s unfair how even Hanbin’s bed makes him feel taken care of.
“I’m nervous,” Hao admits, the words slipping out without thinking. “For the recital.”
The mood in the room seemed to have unfurled something deep within him, making him prone to spilling more of himself, until there’s no more.
Hanbin tucks him against his chest, one broad hand braced at Hao’s back as though shielding him from something invisible. “It would be weirder if you weren’t. You’ve been doing great. I would know,” he says, voice steady in a way that makes it sound like a fact rather than encouragement.
Hao allows himself to believe in those words.
Hao’s lips twitch in a faint smile against the soft cotton of Hanbin’s shirt. “You’re a bit biased though.” he murmurs, not really accusing, more just stating the obvious.
“Obviously,” Hanbin replies with no shame. His thumb draws slow, idle arcs along Hao’s spine, the kind of touch that makes it hard to keep his thoughts linear.
“What do I do when more people fall in love with you after the recital? I’ve seen the tally of people who’ve asked you out in your apartment.” Hanbin asks, breaking his silence.
Hao laughs, remembering the ridiculous whiteboard propped on the counter of their so-called kitchen. “I should add one more line to the count. I don’t think I’ve put you on there yet.”
Hanbin makes a face. “You’re telling me I’m not on the board?”
“You never actually asked me out,” Hao teases. “You should submit a proper application to get ahead.”
“An application?” Hanbin huffs out a laugh. “What does that even involve?”
“References, credentials, and a heartfelt written essay about why you think you’re qualified.” Hao says, straight-faced.
Hanbin leans in, voice dropping. “I think my qualifications are pretty obvious.”
“Cocky,” Hao mutters, though there’s a faint curl at the corner of his lips.
“Confident,” Hanbin corrects, and then, quieter, “...and maybe a little selfish. I like knowing you’re all mine.”
The words land heavier than they have any right to, humming low in Hao’s chest. He isn’t sure yet how he feels about the idea of belonging to someone—but something in the warmth of Hanbin’s tone makes him want to accept it, if only for now. “That’s right.”
Hao closes his eyes for a moment, letting his admission hand heavy between them. He shifts closer until his forehead rests against Hanbin’s collarbone. Hanbin tightens his hold, keeping him close.
Hao doesn’t really want him to let go.
Hao’s room smells faintly of cologne and hairspray. His violin case lies open on the bed, bow resting neatly in its slot, while the rest of the space is in mild chaos—sheet music scattered across the desk, a water bottle sitting by the window, and garment bags draped over the back of his chair. His room is definitely not made to fit this many people.
“Stand still,” Ricky says, though he’s the one constantly moving. He’s crouched in front of Hao, fussing with the hem of his crisp white dress shirt as if it won’t get rumpled on the way to the recital hall anyway.
“I literally am,” Hao replies, watching his reflection in the small mirror propped in the corner. His hair falls artfully over his forehead, courtesy of Ricky’s careful styling. It takes every ounce of willpower not to run his fingers through it and ruin the work. The nerves aren’t sharp yet, more like a low hum thrumming beneath his skin.
Gyuvin is lounging on Hao’s bed, scrolling through his phone with the ease of someone who clearly doesn’t have a performance in an hour. “Do you want me to record your recital?”
“Yes, please,” Hao says without looking at him. “I’ll send the video to my parents, so make sure it’s good.”
From the floor, cross-legged beside Hao’s desk, Taerae is carefully taping the corner of a folded music stand case. “Don’t worry, I’ll be the backup camera guy,” he says. “Gyuvin’s got the fancam, I’ve got the wide shot. Between us, your parents are basically getting an authentic K-pop experience.”
The sight of Ricky fussing over him, Gyuvin’s casual (and kind of annoying) commentary, and Taerae’s quiet efficiency warms Hao’s chest. It’s such a contrast from his freshman year, when he sat alone in a cramped dorm room before performances.
Ricky steps back, eyes narrowing critically. “Okay, turn around. Let me fix your collar.”
“You know I could’ve done this myself, right?” Hao says.
“Yes,” Ricky answers, straightening the fabric, “But then you’d look like you did it yourself.”
“Your bowtie’s crooked,” Gyuvin chimes in without looking up.
“It’s really not,” Ricky counters, tugging the fabric into place. “Don’t listen to him.”
“What is there to mess up anyways?” Hao asks.
“Details,” Ricky says gravely. “It’s always the details.”
Hao laughs under his breath, but the sound fades when his gaze drifts back to his reflection. His hands move toward his violin case, fingertips brushing the checklist taped inside the lid. Everything is in order—there’s nothing left to do except walk out there and play—yet the familiar weight of dread still presses against his ribs.
Ricky catches the flicker of distraction. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “You’ll be fine.”
He exhales slowly. “I know.”
From the bed, Gyuvin glances up. “You always get like this before a performance. Then you walk out there and everyone’s like, wow, he’s so handsome! And then we have to fight for seats at your next recital.”
Taerae nods, speaking without looking up from securing the last bit of tape. “He’s not wrong.”
Hao shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth lifts.
A knock breaks the moment before the door creaks open. Hanbin steps inside, balancing a cardboard tray of drinks in one hand.
“Peace offering,” he says, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Peace from what?” Hao asks, though his tone softens at the sight of the cups.
“From the inevitable pre-recital breakdown,” Hanbin says, setting the tray down in the sliver of clear space on Hao’s desk.
He hands Ricky and Gyuvin their drinks, then passes one to Taerae, who gives him a small nod of thanks before returning to his task. Finally, Hanbin crosses to Hao, holding out the last cup. Their fingers brush—just a second too long—and the chill of the iced coffee seeps into Hao’s skin.
“Don’t mention it,” Hanbin says when Hao murmurs his thanks. But he doesn’t move away immediately. His gaze lingers, sweeping over Hao’s perfectly pressed outfit. “You look good.”
Behind them, Gyuvin makes a pointed “ooh” quickly silenced by Ricky’s glare.
Hao clears his throat and takes a sip. When he lowers the straw, Hanbin’s hand lifts halfway, hesitating before gently swiping his thumb across the corner of Hao’s mouth.
Hao knows there’s no foam on his lips this time.
Hanbin’s eyes stay on him, searching, dissecting. It’s an echo of their first kiss they’d shared in Hanbin’s apartment.
The recital hall is dim except for the glow of the stage lights, a pale gold that softens the polished wood and draws all attention to the center. The faint murmur of conversations swells and recedes like the tide, accompanied by the occasional cough, and the rustle of programs.
Backstage, Hao flexes his fingers once, twice. The air conditioner of the hall bites at him, amplifying his nervousness. He smooths his sleeve, the fabric of the suit still crisp from Ricky’s ironing.
“You can do it,” Ricky says, pressing a hand briefly to Hao’s shoulder before slipping into the audience.
The stage manager, his professor, gives a small reassuring nod. Hao smiles at him before stepping out.
The sound of his own shoes against the stage floor feels impossibly loud in the silence. His eyes immediately fly to Hanbin, who smiles at him. Beside him is Matthew, who’s talking to a boy, one with an intimidating frame that Hao doesn’t recognize, in hushed whispers.
Scanning the hall, he catches more familiar faces: Jiwoong in the third row beside Yujin, both sitting with perfect posture; a small knot of his music classmates clustered near the aisle, some already giving him discreet thumbs-ups; even one of his professors, chin resting on her palm, watching intently.
He takes his position. The violin feels almost weightless in his hand until the bow settles against the strings. The hall’s acoustics cradle every tone, sending them drifting into the farthest corners. His bow arm moves without conscious thought, the years of practice guiding each phrase.
When the last note hangs in the air, Hao holds still, breath caught, until it fades completely into silence.
Then the applause breaks—fast, warm, spilling over him in waves. It loosens the tightness in his back and jaw. He bows, stage lights momentarily blotting out the faces, and when his vision clears, his eyes find Hanbin again. That same pride is there—but layered with something quieter.
Backstage, Hanbin is already waiting by the curtains. He doesn’t say anything at first, just presses a bouquet of red roses into Hao’s hands—three times the size of the one from their first date. The wrapping is matte black, the folds sharp, the paper crinkling softly as Hao adjusts his grip.
“You were…” He stops, searching. “…beautiful out there.”
Before Hao can reply, Gyuvin comes barreling towards him, enveloping him in a hug. Ricky and Taerae follow after him, with Ricky looking at him smugly like he knows something.
The samgyupsal restaurant is warm and loud, the air hazy with the smell of grilled meat and garlic. They’ve squeezed around a long table meant for six but currently seating nine, with their bags piled in the corner. The metal grill in the center already sizzles with pork belly, a sheen of oil catching the overhead light.
Hanbin’s in charge of the tongs, meticulously flipping meat as it sizzles. Hao’s long ditched his blazer and bowtie, so he’s just donning his white button-down with a few buttons undone. He’s exhausted, so he just leans against him, barely even touching the grill as he busies himself with the side dishes in between the cuts of meat Hanbin feeds him.
Gyuvin and Ricky are sat right across them, Gyuvin brandishing another pair of tongs although Ricky flips some himself with his chopsticks. They bicker like that as Taerae meticulously arranges his ssam beside them.
On the grill on the other side of the table, Yujin has his chopsticks poised like he’s ready for battle the second a slice of meat is done. Jiwoong, next to him, pours water into everyone’s cups, smiling faintly whenever someone thanks him.
Gunwook—the tall, broad-shouldered boy from the recital—translates some of the menu for Matthew, who keeps nodding then immediately leaning to ask “What’s that again?”
Hao nuzzles against Hanbin for a moment, taking it all in. Hanbin catches his eye again and lifts a ssam in silent offering. Hao blinks, then opens his mouth, letting Hanbin feed it to him, the heat of the ssam coating his mount.
“How are you feeling?” Hanbin asks.
Hao chews on the ssam slowly, humming at the taste of savory meat accompanied by the spice of the kimchi. It’s good, making his chest feel warm.
It’s warm in a way that’s only partly from the food.
“Full,” Hao says, since it’s easier than saying something embarrassingly earnest. Hanbin just raises an eyebrow, not pushing.
He isn’t sure how he’s feeling. The restaurant is a bit packed, so it's loud. Louder than Hao is used to, yet none of it grates. The press of Hanbin against him is nice, grounding, taking up a space that would’ve felt too big. The weight of the past few hours echo through his mind—the applause, the praise from his professor—but also the feeling of being surrounded by people who want to be here with him.
“It’s… nice,” Hao finally says, voice almost lost under the chatter. “Being here. With everyone.”
Hanbin’s gaze softens. He flips another piece of meat and slips it onto Hao’s little bowl without asking. “They’re here for you, you know.”
Hao lets that sit for a moment. He still isn’t sure if he believes it completely, but the thought tastes sweet enough that he doesn’t push it away.
The samgyupsal dinner winds down slowly. Nobody really wanted to admit that they’re full since they paid for the unlimited meat option. There’s a stack of plates on one side, threateningly high, and the last slices of bulgogi hiss faintly on the grill while Hanbin’s tongs rest on the side, like he’s conquered something. Hao’s still leaning against him, stomach uncomfortably full.
Across the table, Yujin is stacking the empty cups into a wobbly tower while Jiwoong watches with patience, hand hovering as though ready to catch the whole thing when it inevitably collapses. When it sways dangerously, Jiwoong reaches out—not to stop Yujin, but to steady the base, letting him keep building. Hao catches the way Jiwoong’s mouth quirks almost imperceptibly, and he can’t help but think about the quiet languages people speak when they know each other deeply.
Eventually, someone checks the time. Conversations taper into softer exchanges as they pick up their bags. The restaurant door swings open to let in the cool night air, and Hao’s shoulders lift instinctively at the chill.
Seeing this, Hanbin drapes Hao’s blazer over him, pressing a quick peck on Hao’s cold nose. Hao flashes him a smile, thankful. Hanbin returns it with a sweet one of his own.
They spill out onto the sidewalk in a loose knot, their momentum slowing now that there’s no immediate destination binding them. Hao thinks he looks a bit ridiculous carrying a humongous bouquet of roses.
Yujin and Jiwoong are the first to peel away, heading towards the parking lot with their hands shoved deep into their coat pockets. Jiwoong gives a small, almost formal wave at the same moment Yujin does, the gesture oddly synchronized, neither of them bothering to say a word.
Matthew and Gunwook are next, Matthew grinning in a way that says he’s already decided to crash at Gunwook’s place. The two vanish into the crowd with easy familiarity.
Taerae lingers only a moment longer, saying something about needing to sleep early for band practice. His goodbye is warm but brief, his guitar case already shifting on his back as he walks away.
That leaves Gyuvin, Ricky, Hanbin, and Hao. Gyuvin immediately throws an arm over Ricky’s shoulders like they’ve been a package deal since birth and announces, “We’re getting ice cream. Who’s in?”
Ricky looks like he might protest, but instead, he just exhales and shakes his head, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s too tired to fight it.
“We’ll pass,” Hao says decisively.
Gyuvin gives them a look—wide-eyed, sly, almost conspiratorial. “Have fun.” he says, sing-song, already dragging Ricky down the street. Ricky glances over his shoulder once, giving Hao a knowing smile, before disappearing into the brightness of the storefronts.
“Let’s go to mine.” Hao says, and it comes out steadier than he feels.
Hanbin falls into step beside him easily, their shoulders bumping every so often, the rhythm of their walk finding its own pace. The city hum fades behind them, replaced by the measured sound of their shoes against pavement and the occasional car passing. Hao can still taste the richness of dinner on his tongue, but it’s mingled now with the faint, dizzy sweetness of anticipation.
Inside his apartment, it’s much colder than he remembered leaving it. The air smells faintly of fabric softener, a scent clinging stubbornly to the folds of blankets and curtains. Hanbin shrugs off his jacket, glancing around in that way he always does—like he’s memorizing the room again, even though he’s been here plenty of times before.
Hao disappears into their scuffed kitchen for a moment, setting the bouquet of roses down, heart thudding almost painfully against his ribs. He tells himself it’s silly to be nervous, that this isn’t some grand spectacle—just a quiet thing he’s been wanting to say for weeks. Still, his fingers fumble slightly as he takes the bouquet from where he’d hidden it earlier, the pale pink petals trembling faintly with the movement.
When he returns, Hanbin is leaning against the arm of the couch, watching him with that half-smile that always makes Hao feel both seen and slightly undone. Hao stops in front of him, bouquet of cherry blossoms in hand.
Hao clears his throat, stepping closer. “Do you remember the first time we went out on a proper date? How we didn’t mean to go at the perfect time and the Han River was full of these?” He offers the flowers forward, his voice gentler than he means it to be. “I thought… if I was going to do this, I should start where we kind of began.”
Hanbin takes the bouquet, his thumb brushing over a petal like he’s afraid it might crumble. His gaze flicks up, meeting Hao’s, and it’s all warmth. Surprisingly, Hao doesn’t feel burnt.
Hao’s lips curve into something almost shy. “I’ve basically serenaded you, you know? That whole performance earlier was more for you than for me.”
Hanbin laughs, though there’s a suspicious gloss in his eyes. “A recital that’s a requirement for you to graduate on time was for me?”
Hao swats at him, and Hanbin doesn’t even bother dodging. “You’re impossible. Yes, it was a requirement, but you think I’d play my best pieces just to check it off?”
Hanbin smirks. “Yes, because that’s how recitals works?”
“You’re so annoying,” Hao fires back, but his voice has softened in a way that undercuts the jab.
Hanbin grins, leaning just close enough that Hao can see the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “I’m annoying, but you still played for me. Sounds like I’m winning.”
Hao snorts. “Winning what, exactly? There’s no competition.”
“There is now,” Hanbin says, voice warm but threaded with a hint of challenge.
Hao narrows his eyes, pretending to think. “Fine. Then I guess I’m winning, since you’re the one sitting here about to cry.”
They go silent as the warmth between them deepens, the teasing fading into something more tender.
“You look like you want to say something.”
Hao hesitates, the words gathering quietly behind his eyes. He thinks about how he’s always kept his feelings wrapped tightly—careful not to get too close, not to get too hopeful. Relationships, in his mind, had always been a balancing act of holding on and letting go, of guarding his heart against disappointment. But now, standing here with Hanbin, everything feels different. It’s not fear that stirs inside him, but a fragile kind of hope.
He breathes in slowly and meets Hanbin’s steady gaze.
“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
The question hangs in the quiet room, more vulnerable than he expected. Hao tries his best to look directly at Hanbin, who has his mouth parted open as he looks at Hao, dazed.
Then Hanbin’s face softens, a gentle smile blooming slowly, lighting his eyes with a warmth that makes Hao’s chest ache.
“Yeah,” Hanbin says quietly, his voice shaky but sure, “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
Relief and joy floods through Hao, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“Wait,” Hanbin says, lightly running, steps padding through Hao’s apartment as he carefully sets down the bouquet on the table, then running back to Hao, pulling him into a hug. Hao giggles as they lean into each other, not rushing, savoring the moment.
“I was fine to wait forever for you. I wouldn’t have minded as long as it was you. At least I had something to wait for.”
Hao swallows, feeling the tightness in his throat loosen, the weight of walls he’d built beginning to crumble.
“You don’t have to wait anymore,” Hao murmurs into his neck, the words slipping out before his mind can second-guess them.
Hanbin’s voice is soft, almost reverent. “In any universe, I would’ve found you. In every universe, I would’ve waited.”
“Hmm…” Hao hums. “You didn’t even wait that long.”
“That’s not true,” Hanbin says. Shyly, he admits, “I’ve liked you for two years.”
Hao detaches from his position on Hanbin’s neck and looks at him, shocked. “What?” Hao’s heart skips a beat, a mix of surprise and something tender swirling inside him. Two years. So much longer than he’d ever imagined.
“Two years…” he repeats, the words tasting unfamiliar but not unwelcome. “And all this time, I didn’t even know.”
Hanbin shrugs, a little sheepish, but his smile is steady. “I wasn’t sure if you even knew I existed. So I stayed quiet, kept my distance. Watching from the sidelines, hoping… maybe someday.”
The vulnerability in Hanbin’s voice catches Hao off guard. He feels the sharp contrast to his own guardedness.
“I was scared, you know,” Hao admits quietly. “Scared that if I let someone in, I’d lose control. Or worse… that they’d leave anyway.”
Hanbin tightens his hold, thumb tracing slow circles on Hao’s back. “You don’t have to be scared with me.”
Hao closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in the quiet steadiness of Hanbin’s presence. It felt like Hanbin was making him a promise, and Hao wants to trust him to keep it.
The room feels warmer now, fuller, as if all the spaces between them had been filled with everything they’d both been too afraid to say. In that soft, lingering embrace, Hao realizes he’s ready to try. Ready to let down his walls, ready to finally be someone’s, and have someone be his.
Hao swallows, his throat tightening, and it’s like some old, weathered knot inside him—one he’d learned to live around—finally loosens.