Chapter Text
Wonwoo wakes before the light changes.
For a moment, he lies still, orienting himself to the room. The ceiling is unfamiliar at this angle. The curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin band of grey morning. The air is warm in a way it shouldn’t be yet, heavy with another person’s presence. When he shifts his hand slightly, it brushes against fabric, then skin.
Junhui is asleep beside him.
Wonwoo turns his head just enough to look. Junhui lies on his side, facing away, his shoulders relaxed. His breathing is even. One hand is tucked under the pillow, the other resting loosely near his chest. The blanket has slipped, baring the line of his collarbone. His hair curling slightly against the pillowcase.
Wonwoo watches him longer than necessary.
This is not unfamiliar territory, exactly, but it is fragile. He understands that instinctively. Junhui has not pushed him away, but he has also not pulled him closer. The bond, such as it is, exists because Junhui allows it to exist. Wonwoo does not mistake that for permission to move carelessly.
He shifts slowly, easing himself out of bed with deliberate attention to where his weight falls. The floorboard near the door creaks if stepped on too quickly. He avoids it. He takes a step, then pauses, glancing back at the bed.
Junhui stirs slightly as the blanket slips further. Wonwoo steps closer and folds it back over his shoulder, careful not to touch him. Junhui exhales, adjusts his head against the pillow, and settles again. He does not wake.
Wonwoo lets himself breathe.
In the kitchen, the apartment is quiet and orderly. The fridge is stocked the way he asked for it to be. Fresh produce, protein, staples, enough to last several days without thought. He opens it, surveys the contents, closes it again.
He cooks simply. Rice warms in the cooker. Eggs sizzle gently in the pan. He washes and cuts vegetables with methodical care. He is not a confident cook, but he is attentive, and attention has always served him better than skill.
As he plates the food, he listens for movement behind him.
Junhui appears in the doorway without sound, hair rumpled. He leans lightly against the frame, watching Wonwoo for a moment before speaking.
“You didn’t have to prepare food for me,” Junhui says.
Wonwoo turns. “It’s already done.”
Junhui hums softly in acknowledgment. He steps into the kitchen, his movements unguarded in a way that still catches Wonwoo’s attention.
They eat together at the small table. The food is plain, but there is enough of it. Junhui eats without comment, his posture relaxed, shoulders no longer held with the tension Wonwoo remembers too well. Wonwoo notices the way Junhui reaches for the water glass without hesitation.
These are small things. Wonwoo knows better than to mistake them for declarations. Still, he registers each one carefully, filing them away as evidence of something shifting, something easing.
Halfway through the meal, Junhui glances up.
“I can cook for us,” he says. There is a slight pause before the last part. “If you don’t mind.”
Wonwoo feels the words land with unexpected weight. Cooking implies repetition and planning. A future that extends beyond the next meal. Junhui has never cooked for him before, not even when they were together. Back then, Junhui kept his care light, provisional, as if wary of building habits that might be taken for granted.
“I don’t mind,” Wonwoo says.
It is the simplest answer he can give without lying. What he does not say is that the idea has already begun to settle into him, quiet and persistent, that he is imagining mornings shaped around Junhui’s presence without trying to stop himself.
Junhui nods, as if the matter is settled. He does not smile. He does not retract the offer.
They clear the table together. Their movements overlap naturally, once or twice. Junhui reaches for a plate at the same moment Wonwoo does. Their fingers brush briefly. Junhui does not pull away. He adjusts his grip and continues as if nothing has happened.
Wonwoo notices. He notices everything.
When they are done, Junhui rinses his hands at the sink and reaches for his bag.
“We should go soon,” he says.
Wonwoo agrees. He has already adjusted his sense of time around Junhui’s schedule. He accepts this without question. If this arrangement requires patience, then patience is something he can give.
As they move back toward the bedroom to gather their things, Wonwoo watches the way Junhui moves through the space now, less guarded than the night before, less rigid in his careful distance. Junhui does not correct Wonwoo’s proximity when he passes behind him in the narrow hallway. He does not comment when Wonwoo hands him his jacket.
These are not concessions. They are permissions granted quietly, one at a time.
Wonwoo understands the difference.
They leave the apartment together, and Wonwoo is aware of the significance of that fact long before either of them acknowledges it.
Junhui walks without hesitation, shoulders relaxed in a way that would have been unthinkable even a few days ago. The distance between them remains small as they move down the corridor and out into the morning air. Wonwoo stays close enough to feel the bond’s steady pull, subtle but present, like a low current he has learned to monitor rather than resist. This is deliberate. The doctor had been clear: proximity stabilises the symptoms, especially now, while the bond is still recalibrating after years of dormancy.
Junhui seems aware of it too. He does not comment on the closeness. He does not flinch from it.
Outside, the campus-bound streets are already filling. Junhui breathes in deeply as they walk, as if testing his lungs, his balance, his sense of orientation. Wonwoo watches for the signs he has learned to recognise: the slight tightening around the eyes, the way Junhui’s fingers curl when the pressure becomes too much. None of it appears. Junhui’s steps remain even.
They are halfway across the main path when someone calls out.
“Junhui!”
Junhui turns immediately, his expression brightening. “Oh—hey!”
A female student approaches them, smiling broadly, hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, notebook tucked under one arm. She slows when she reaches them, glancing between Junhui and Wonwoo with open interest.
“I thought that was you,” she says to Junhui. “Are you going to History and Society? Apparently Professor Han moved the room again.”
Junhui exhales softly. “It’s Building C, third floor. Seminar room.”
She groans. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Then her gaze shifts fully to Wonwoo. The recognition comes with a brief pause, the kind that follows reputation catching up to reality.
“Oh,” she says, smiling politely. “You’re Jeon Wonwoo, right?”
Wonwoo inclines his head. “Yes.”
She laughs lightly. “I’m Minseo. I’m in the same department as Junhui,” she adds, glancing back at Junhui.
“Nice to meet you,” Wonwoo says. She grins in return.
“See you inside?” she says, already stepping backward.
“In a minute,” Junhui replies.
She waves once more and disappears into the crowd, still glancing over her shoulder as if confirming what she has seen.
Junhui resumes walking, the ease in his posture intact. Wonwoo notices that he does not increase the distance between them. If anything, he drifts a fraction closer, as though anchoring himself without thinking about it.
They walk a little farther before Junhui speaks again, more thoughtfully.
“I think it’ll be okay today,” he says. “Just a few hours.”
Wonwoo understands what he means without needing clarification. “If it’s not, you leave.”
Junhui nods. “I will.”
“And you call me,” Wonwoo adds, his tone calm but firm. “If you feel unwell. Dizzy. Disconnected. Anything.”
Junhui looks at him. Not defensively. Just attentive. “I have your number,” he says. “I know.”
“Good.”
They reach the steps leading to Junhui’s building. Junhui stops there, adjusting the strap of his bag, grounding himself in the familiar motion. Students pass around them, some glancing, some lingering, some clearly pretending not to stare.
“You don’t have class today?” Junhui asks.
“No,” Wonwoo replies. “I’ll be in the library. I have some readings I need to get through.”
Junhui considers that for a moment. “Alright. I’ll message you after.”
Wonwoo nods. “Take your time.”
Junhui hesitates, just briefly, then turns toward the building. He doesn’t rush inside. He walks at an unhurried pace, as if trusting that Wonwoo will remain exactly where he said he would be.
Wonwoo watches until Junhui disappears from sight.
Only then does he turn toward the library, carrying with him the quiet awareness that this morning is not a return to normal, but a test. One they are both taking seriously, even if they refuse to say so aloud.
The library is quiet in the way it always is at this hour. Wonwoo takes his usual seat by the window on the second floor, the one with a clear view of the courtyard below. He sets his bag down, pulls out the book he had marked for today’s reading, and opens it to the page he flagged last night.
He reads carefully. Slowly. He underlines a paragraph, then another, though he knows he will have to return to them later. His attention drifts because it refuses to stay isolated from everything else that has already begun rearranging itself around Junhui.
He closes the book after a while and leans back in his chair.
Keeping Junhui close is not just a matter of proximity. Wonwoo understands that with the same clarity he understands the mechanics of the bond itself. Physical closeness stabilises Junhui’s condition, yes, but it cannot be the only thing holding them together. Not when the bond has reawakened after years of being left half-formed, unresolved, sustained by something far more fragile than intention.
They will have to talk.
Not in the careful half-sentences they have been using to coexist so far. They will have to talk about the past, properly, about the things that were left unsaid because silence once seemed like the safer option. There are reasons Wonwoo never gave Junhui, reasons he kept to himself because naming them would have implicated more than just the two of them.
He knows now that was a mistake.
Being with Wonwoo has never meant only being with him. It means his family, their expectations, their scrutiny, the world they inhabit so easily and so completely. It means being seen, evaluated, folded into a structure that does not forgive deviation kindly. Wonwoo had known that even then. It was the reason why he told himself leaving Junhui was an act of protection rather than fear.
But protection, he has learned, is meaningless if it leaves someone alone to bear the consequences.
He thinks of his uncle’s mate.
She had been radiant once. A confident woman. The kind of woman who carried herself as if the world would make room for her because it ought to. Wonwoo remembers her laughter from when he was younger, the way she used to meet his eyes and speak to him directly, never condescending, never distracted. Even in middle school, he had understood admiration when he felt it.
The last time he saw her, years later, she had looked smaller. Not physically, but as if something essential had been drained from her. Her eyes had been sharp with something like resentment, her beauty edged with a bitterness that had nothing to do with age. The bond removal surgery had freed her, everyone said. Given her her independence back.
What it had really done was hollow her out.
Wonwoo had been too young to articulate it then, but he had known pain when he saw it. He knows now what it costs to sever something that was never meant to be cut away.
Junhui deserves better than that. Better than resentment. Better than a future shaped by loss disguised as freedom.
And yet.
Wonwoo presses his fingers lightly against the edge of the desk, grounding himself. Staying with him means asking Junhui to exist within a world that may never fully accept him. It means asking him to endure attention, speculation, the quiet cruelty of high society dressed as concern. Wonwoo cannot pretend otherwise. If Junhui were to resent that one day, if the weight of it were to corrode what is bright and open in him, Wonwoo would have no one to blame but himself.
Still, staying is the only way forward now. The bond has made that unmistakably clear. Severing their relationship did not spare Junhui. Distance did not weaken it. Against all probability, it endured.
Half-bonds do not survive years of separation without intention. They persist only when both parties continue to hold on, consciously or not. Wonwoo knows what he carried. He has never truly let go of Junhui, even when he refused to name what that meant.
What he did not expect, what unsettles him even now, is the realisation that Junhui must have done the same.
The thought sits heavily in his chest.
He exhales slowly and straightens, reopening his book. He forces himself to read another section, to underline another passage, to exist within the familiar structure of academic work. It steadies him enough to think clearly again.
He will stay with Junhui, as long as Junhui allows it. That much is settled.
That means confronting his family, eventually. Not recklessly. Not yet. There is an order to these things, and Wonwoo has never believed in reversing it. He will not drag Junhui into that world before they have spoken honestly to each other. Junhui deserves to know what being with Wonwoo entails before he is asked to endure it.
For now, though, Wonwoo accepts the balance Junhui has set. Ask if you need to. Do not expect answers. Respect what is withheld.
He tells himself he can live with that.
Even as he admits, quietly, that not knowing is already beginning to gnaw at him.
Still, this is the arrangement that keeps Junhui safe. This is the version of staying that Junhui can tolerate. Wonwoo will not destabilise it by demanding more than Junhui has offered.
Isn’t that what matters most?
That he gets to keep Junhui.
Wonwoo closes the book again, this time marking the page with deliberate care. Outside the window, students cross the courtyard in loose clusters, voices drifting upward. Somewhere across campus, Junhui is in a classroom, testing the distance between them, trusting that Wonwoo will remain exactly where he said he would be.
Wonwoo checks his phone. No messages yet.
He sets it face down on the table and waits.
Junhui calls just after noon.
Wonwoo has been rereading the same paragraph for the third time when his phone vibrates against the table. He checks the screen, then answers immediately.
“I’m done,” Junhui says. There’s background noise behind his voice. “I’m outside the building.”
“Wait there,” Wonwoo replies. “I’ll find you.”
He is already packing his bag as he speaks.
It takes him less than ten minutes to reach the humanities building. He spots Junhui easily, standing near the steps with his phone in hand, shoulders slightly slumped now that the effort of concentrating through class is over. He looks tired, but steadier than he had been in the morning.
Junhui sees him and lifts his head. He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t smile. He simply straightens and falls into step beside Wonwoo as if that has always been the plan.
“Did it go alright?” Wonwoo asks as they start walking.
Junhui nods. “Yeah. I left halfway through the discussion, but the lecture part was fine.”
“You should’ve left earlier if you needed to.”
Junhui shrugs. “I wanted to try.”
Wonwoo lets that stand. Trying matters. So does knowing when to stop.
They head toward the row of small restaurants just off campus, the ones tucked between convenience stores and stationery shops. Without discussion, Junhui slows near a familiar signboard, the characters faded from years of sun exposure.
They step inside.
The restaurant is narrow, tables packed close together, the smell of oil and spice clinging to the air. It is louder than the library had been, louder than the apartment this morning, but Junhui does not tense. He slides into the booth opposite Wonwoo, sets his bag down at his feet, and reaches for the menu without hesitation.
For a moment, the scene overlays itself with memory.
There was a time when meals like this had felt stolen. Wonwoo remembers choosing Junhui over obligations he could not quite explain away, slipping into places like this between practice sessions, rehearsed excuses waiting on his tongue. Back then, Junhui had laughed freely, leaning across the table to steal bites from Wonwoo’s plate, touching his wrist absentmindedly as he talked.
Wonwoo keeps his gaze on Junhui now, careful not to let the past distort what is in front of him.
Junhui orders quickly. Familiar dishes. Nothing indulgent. When the food arrives, he eats with quiet focus, eyes lowered, movements economical. He does not reach across the table. He does not comment on the taste beyond a soft acknowledgment when the server checks in.
Wonwoo eats as well, though his attention keeps returning to Junhui, to the way he seems to be measuring himself with each bite, gauging how much energy he has left. This closeness is allowed, but it is contained. Junhui keeps it that way.
As Junhui lifts his chopsticks again, his sleeve shifts, pulled back just enough to reveal the inside of his wrist.
Wonwoo sees it immediately.
A string of numbers tattooed to Junhui’s skin, fine-lined and precise.
170922
The date settles into Wonwoo’s awareness without explanation. He does not reach for Junhui’s hand. He does not ask what it means. He commits it to memory instead, the way he does with things that matter but are not yet his to touch.
Junhui notices Wonwoo’s gaze a second later and adjusts his sleeve back into place. The movement is unremarkable, practiced. He does not look up.
Wonwoo looks away.
They finish their meal in silence that is not uncomfortable, but not easy either. When Junhui sets his chopsticks down, he exhales softly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.
“I’m okay,” he says, as if answering a question Wonwoo hasn’t asked.
Wonwoo nods. “Good.”
Outside, the afternoon light has sharpened, the campus busy again with students moving between classes. They step back into the flow together, Junhui close enough that Wonwoo can feel the bond steady and present, neither strained nor dormant.
It is enough, for now.
But as they walk, the numbers remain with Wonwoo, quiet and insistent, a marker of something Junhui carries alone.
He does not ask.
They return to the apartment quietly.
Junhui drops his bag by the door and toes his shoes off without bending down properly, as if the effort costs more than it should. He does not head for the bedroom. Instead, he moves toward the living room and sinks onto the sofa, leaning back with his eyes half closed, one hand resting loosely against his thigh.
Wonwoo watches him from the doorway.
The half day apart has left its mark. Wonwoo can see it in the way Junhui’s shoulders slope forward, in the slight delay before he exhales fully, as if his body has been holding itself upright on borrowed time. Being among people, being seen, maintaining coherence without the bond close enough to steady him. It has taken more than Junhui would admit.
Wonwoo sets his bag down and joins him, sitting carefully at the other end of the sofa. He does not crowd him. He leaves the space open, available.
They sit like that for a moment, the quiet stretching comfortably but thin.
“Do you need me to touch you?” Wonwoo asks.
The question is direct. He does not move as he waits for the answer.
Junhui opens his eyes. He looks at Wonwoo, then away again, his jaw tightening slightly before he nods.
Wonwoo shifts closer.
Their shoulders touch first, the contact light but unmistakable. Junhui exhales, the sound almost inaudible, and allows his weight to lean fractionally toward Wonwoo’s side. Wonwoo waits another beat, then reaches for Junhui’s hand.
He takes it slowly, palm to palm, giving Junhui time to pull away if he chooses to. Junhui doesn’t. His fingers remain loose, pliant, the tension in them easing as Wonwoo’s grip settles.
It is Junhui’s left hand.
Wonwoo notices the tattoo again immediately. The numbers sit stark against his skin, more prominent now in the soft afternoon light. Without lifting Junhui’s hand, without changing his grip, Wonwoo turns it gently, his thumb brushing the inside of Junhui’s wrist.
He traces the ink lightly, once.
Junhui startles.
His fingers twitch, reflex sharp enough to be felt. He tries to pull his hand back, breath catching, but Wonwoo’s hold tightens just enough to stop him, not restraining, simply steady.
Junhui freezes.
Wonwoo keeps his voice low. “Is this another thing that I can ask,” he says, “but you won’t answer?”
Junhui does not look at him. His gaze is fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused. The seconds stretch. Wonwoo does not press. He does not loosen his hold either.
Finally, Junhui hums. A single sound, quiet and resigned, vibrating faintly between them.
Wonwoo nods once. “Okay.”
He releases Junhui’s wrist but keeps their hands together, their fingers still touching. Junhui does not pull away this time. He leans more fully against Wonwoo’s shoulder, eyes closing again, the tension in his body settling into something heavier, more honest.
They sit like that for several moments, the bond steadying, the silence doing work neither of them names.
Then Wonwoo speaks again.
“Will you listen to me, instead?”
Junhui’s eyes open. He turns his head just enough to acknowledge the question.
“Yes,” he says.
Wonwoo inhales slowly.
Wonwoo does not let go of Junhui’s hand when he begins to speak. He keeps his thumb resting lightly against Junhui’s palm, a quiet point of contact, enough to anchor them both.
“There’s something I should tell you,” he says. “About my family.”
Junhui shifts slightly, settling in. He doesn’t look at Wonwoo, but he doesn’t pull away either. He listens.
“My uncle met the woman he loved when he was younger than I am now,” Wonwoo continues. “She wasn’t part of our world. She didn’t grow up the way we did. She was bright. Confident. The kind of person who took up space without asking for permission.”
He pauses, the image still vivid.
“He brought her home once. Not formally. Just to introduce her. She was polite, but not small. She laughed easily. She asked questions. I remember thinking she was… alive in a way that felt rare in our house.”
Wonwoo’s voice remains even, but there is something careful about it now, as if he is placing each memory down gently.
“My family didn’t reject her,” he says. “They wouldn’t. That’s not how they work. They were cordial. Attentive. They made room for her at the table.”
He exhales softly.
“But they didn’t accept her either.”
Junhui’s fingers curl slightly against Wonwoo’s.
“My family isn’t really a family,” Wonwoo goes on. “Not in the way most people mean it. It’s more like an extended web of corporations. Everyone is connected. Everyone is loyal. Feelings aren’t discussed, but obligations are absolute. They’re old money. They have their hands in everything. Finance. Healthcare. Real estate. Media. Politics. But they’re all very lowkey.”
He glances down at their joined hands.
“They don’t open up easily. And they don’t forgive easily either. They can be… cutthroat. It’s necessary, in the world they operate in. Outsiders don’t fit into that space without being reshaped by it.”
There is a brief silence before he adds, more quietly, “It’s stifling. Even for me.”
Junhui shifts again, his shoulder pressing more firmly against Wonwoo’s.
“My uncle was born into it,” Wonwoo says. “Just like I was. He loved her anyway. And she loved him. They bonded.”
Wonwoo swallows.
“It lasted three years.”
Junhui’s breathing slows. Wonwoo looks at Junhui then, just briefly. He lets the silence settle before continuing.
“Four years ago, when my mother made it known that she was aware I had been seeing someone,” Wonwoo says, “she mentioned my uncle in the same conversation.”
Junhui’s head lifts slightly at that.
“She didn’t threaten me,” Wonwoo adds. “She didn’t need to. She just… reminded me of what happens when someone like us makes choices without considering the world we belong to.”
He tightens his grip on Junhui’s hand, not enough to hurt, just enough to be sure he is still there.
“I didn’t want that to happen to us,” he says. “I thought leaving you would prevent it.”
His voice drops, not breaking, but exposed now.
“I was wrong.”
He falls quiet after that, the weight of what he has said settling between them.
Wonwoo does not rush to fill the silence. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but steadier, as if the act of naming things has settled something in him.
“My uncle used to be… expansive,” he says. “He laughed loudly. He argued for sport. He used to take me out to eat on weekends when my parents were busy and let me order whatever I wanted, then told me not to tell anyone.”
Junhui’s mouth curves faintly at that, almost involuntarily.
“After the bond was severed,” Wonwoo continues, “he started sleeping less. Or too much. It alternated. Some days he couldn’t focus long enough to finish a sentence. Other days he was so sharp it felt like being cut just standing near him.”
Wonwoo’s thumb moves once, absent, against Junhui’s palm.
“He had panic responses that didn’t make sense to anyone else. Crowded rooms. Sudden noises. Smells that reminded him of his ex-wife. He used to stop mid-conversation sometimes, like he’d forgotten where he was. Like his body was looking for something that wasn’t there anymore.”
He exhales slowly.
“The doctors called it post-severance adjustment. As if adjustment implies improvement.”
Junhui’s fingers tighten slightly.
“He learned how to function,” Wonwoo says. “He learned what to say, when to leave, how to manage it. But he lost something. Not just the bond. His curiosity. His ease. The way he used to look forward to things.”
Wonwoo looks down at their hands.
“He doesn’t talk about her. He doesn’t talk about the years they were together. He talks about business. About obligations. About what needs to be done.”
There is a pause before he adds, very softly, “He survived. But he never recovered.”
Wonwoo lets that sit before shifting, carefully, to what he has not yet said.
“When I was with you,” he says, “I knew you lived in a different world than I did.”
Junhui stills.
“You laughed easily. You spoke to people without calculating what they could do for you later. You got excited about small things. Food. Music. Classes. People.” Wonwoo’s voice does not waver. “You were… present in a way that felt rare to me.”
His grip on Junhui’s hand tightens, just slightly.
“I didn’t want you to change,” he says. “Not because I wouldn’t love you if you did. I would have. I know that.”
Junhui turns his head now, looking at him fully.
“But the version of you I fell in love with,” Wonwoo continues, “existed in those moments we stole. The spaces where my family wasn’t watching. Where my name didn’t carry weight. Where you didn’t have to be anything but yourself.”
He swallows.
“I was afraid that if you had to adapt to my world, if you had to harden yourself to survive it, you would lose that.” His voice drops. “And I was afraid that if you lost it… you might not like me anymore.”
The admission lands heavily between them.
“I didn’t trust myself enough to believe that you would stay,” Wonwoo says. “Not if staying meant becoming someone you never wanted to be.”
Junhui’s hand shifts in his, not pulling away, but adjusting, their fingers interlacing briefly before settling again.
“I thought leaving would preserve something,” Wonwoo says. “That it would keep you whole.”
His gaze lifts, meeting Junhui’s.
“I didn’t consider that leaving would force you to endure everything alone.”
He stops there. He does not try to soften it. He does not say he was young, or afraid, or doing his best. He has told Junhui what guided his choice. And what it cost.
The room is quiet again. The bond between them hums low and steady, carrying the weight of what has finally been said.
The afternoon light shifts across the living room, the quiet deepening until it feels almost deliberate. Wonwoo stays where he is, their shoulders still touching, his hand resting open between them. He does not try to reclaim Junhui’s wrist. He does not look at the tattoo again. He waits.
When Junhui finally speaks, his voice is calm. It sounds steady in a way that suggests he has already lived with these thoughts for a long time.
“I knew,” he says.
Wonwoo turns his head slightly.
“I knew I was… an escape,” Junhui continues. He exhales softly, as if adjusting to the weight of the word. “Not in a bad way. I don’t mean it like that.”
He shifts on the sofa, drawing one knee up, grounding himself in the familiar posture.
“I knew that when you were with me, you were somewhere else,” Junhui says. “Away from whatever you had to be out there. All of it.”
Wonwoo’s chest tightens.
“I didn’t mind,” Junhui adds. “I was happy that I could be that for you.”
He pauses, then continues, quieter now.
“Back then, my life was… fine. It wasn’t terrible. It just wasn’t very bright either. Not much made me genuinely happy.” He glances down at their hands, still close, not quite touching. “You did.”
The admission lands without drama.
“But I also knew it wouldn’t last,” Junhui says. There is no bitterness in it. Just acceptance. “Nothing ever really does. Not for me.”
Wonwoo stays silent.
“My dad died when I was young,” Junhui goes on. “My mom remarried. We moved. I didn’t understand the language here. I didn’t understand the people. I just… kept going. Things change all the time. Sometimes they get better. Sometimes they don’t. You learn to adjust.”
He lifts his gaze, meeting Wonwoo’s.
“I knew you would leave,” Junhui says simply. “I just didn’t know when.”
Wonwoo feels the words settle heavily, not as accusation, but as fact.
“I never blamed you,” Junhui says. “I still don’t.”
“I don’t think you were wrong to be afraid,” Junhui continues. “Your world is heavy. I could see that even then. I knew what being with you meant, even if I didn’t have all the details.”
He leans back slightly, then lets his shoulder rest against Wonwoo’s again, the contact deliberate now.
“I chose what we had,” Junhui says. “Knowing it might end. Knowing it probably would.”
Wonwoo swallows.
“I don’t regret it,” Junhui adds. “Not even now.”
They sit like that for a while, the bond humming low between them, something warmer settling into the quiet.
“I’m not ready to… go back,” Junhui says eventually. “Not like before.”
“I know,” Wonwoo replies.
“But I’m here,” Junhui continues. “And I’m willing to see what’s possible. Slowly.”
Wonwoo nods. “As slow as you need.”
Junhui exhales, the sound lighter than it has been all day. He doesn’t smile, not fully, but something in his posture eases, the careful distance between them finally narrowing.
They are not together again.
But they are no longer standing on opposite sides of the past.
For now, that is enough.
–
The days that follow arrive quietly, one after another, each similar enough to feel continuous, different enough that Wonwoo learns to tell them apart by Junhui’s energy alone.
They keep choosing the living room. The sofa becomes their shared axis. Junhui leans there when he’s tired. Wonwoo sits there when he wants to be near without asking for more. Sometimes they read. Sometimes Junhui scrolls through his phone while Wonwoo studies, the soft sound of page turns and notification taps filling the space between them.
Junhui still doesn’t initiate touch.
But he no longer flinches from it either.
Wonwoo notices how Junhui positions himself now. Always close enough that their shoulders brush if either of them shifts. Always angled slightly inward. He notices how Junhui’s breathing evens when Wonwoo’s knee presses lightly against his. How exhaustion settles faster when proximity is maintained.
They test this, quietly.
One afternoon, Wonwoo stays at the dining table to finish reading while Junhui moves to the sofa alone. Ten minutes pass. Junhui’s posture tightens almost imperceptibly. His leg bounces once. He exhales, sets his phone down, and stands.
He doesn’t say anything. He simply returns to the sofa Wonwoo had occupied earlier and waits.
Wonwoo closes his book and joins him without comment.
Another day, Junhui insists on going out again. They went grocery shopping.
The store is crowded. It’s late afternoon. Students, families, too many voices overlapping. Wonwoo stays close without hovering. He watches Junhui’s shoulders, the way he tracks movement in his peripheral vision, the way his hand curls once around the strap of the basket.
Minghao texts halfway through.
Minghao: are you alive
Minghao: dinner tomorrow? same place
Junhui replies in without hesitation.
Wonwoo does not read the message. He only notes how Junhui’s mouth softens when he types.
Back in the apartment, Junhui cooks more than once. The first time is careful. The second is easier. By the third evening, he moves through the kitchen like it’s always been his.
Wonwoo stays nearby every time. Leaning against the counter. Sitting at the table. Watching.
He notices how Junhui tastes food and adjusts seasoning in increments. How he pauses occasionally, pressing two fingers briefly to the counter as if recalibrating. How he eats more when Wonwoo eats first.
They eat together without talking much. Silence no longer needs explanation.
Friends come in and out of these days too.
A late dinner with everyone where Junhui sits naturally beside Minghao, leaning in when Minghao speaks softly, laughing under his breath at something Wonwoo doesn’t hear. Wonwoo notices that Junhui doesn’t disappear into Minghao’s space entirely. He keeps Wonwoo in his line of sight. Always.
Soonyoung checks in with Wonwoo afterward, casual as ever.
“You good?” he asks, not prying, just confirming.
Wonwoo nods. “Yeah.”
Soonyoung accepts that answer without demanding more.
Time stretches.
By the fourth day, Junhui’s exhaustion hits earlier. He curls up on the sofa without comment, knees drawn in, head tilted back against the cushion. Wonwoo sits beside him, close enough that their thighs touch.
Junhui doesn’t ask.
Wonwoo reaches out and lets his fingers rest against Junhui’s wrist, light, steady.
Junhui exhales and lets his eyes close.
This is what it becomes. Just two people learning the shape of shared survival. Wonwoo thinks, dimly, that this is the most dangerous part. Because it feels sustainable.
The nights take longer to settle than the days.
From the first night onward, the bed is no longer a question. It is simply where they sleep. Junhui takes the side closer to the door. Wonwoo takes the other, close enough that their shoulders brush if either of them turns. The distance is small, but deliberate. Neither of them crosses it without reason.
The first few nights, Junhui falls asleep quickly. Wonwoo notices this. The way Junhui’s breathing deepens within minutes, as if his body has been waiting all day for permission to stop holding itself together. He sleeps curled slightly inward, one arm tucked close to his chest, knees drawn up just enough to protect his core.
Wonwoo stays awake longer. He listens to Junhui’s breathing. He tracks the subtle shifts of his weight. He learns how much space Junhui needs to feel secure without feeling crowded.
One night, Junhui turns in his sleep.
It’s slow, unintentional. His shoulder presses lightly against Wonwoo’s chest. He exhales, deeper than before, and stays there.
Wonwoo does not move.
He does not pull Junhui closer, even though his body wants to. He does not shift away either. He lets the contact exist exactly as it is, careful not to assign meaning Junhui has not offered.
In the morning, Junhui wakes first.
He lies still for several seconds, as if taking inventory. Then he eases himself away, quietly, efficiently, leaving the bed without comment. Wonwoo watches him go, noting the absence without reaching for it.
This becomes their rhythm.
They sleep together every night. Sometimes Junhui drifts closer. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes his hand ends up resting near Wonwoo’s wrist, close enough that Wonwoo can feel the heat but not the weight.
Wonwoo never initiates.
He waits.
Days pass like this.
Junhui’s exhaustion ebbs and flows. Some mornings he moves easily, already thinking about food, classes, plans. Other days he lingers at the edge of the bed, shoulders heavy, eyes unfocused, the effort of being awake clearly costing him something.
On those days, Wonwoo adjusts everything else around him.
He cooks. He cancels his own plans without comment. He sits where Junhui can see him. He keeps the apartment quiet.
At night, Junhui begins to orient toward him more deliberately. Just turning so that his back rests against Wonwoo’s chest, close enough that Wonwoo can feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing through the thin barrier of clothing.
The first time it happens while Junhui is awake, Wonwoo freezes.
Junhui settles there, spine aligned with Wonwoo’s, head tilted slightly forward. His voice is low, almost careless.
“This is okay,” he says. It’s not a question. A statement.
Wonwoo swallows. “Okay.”
He does not move his arms. He does not pull Junhui closer. He lets Junhui decide how much contact is enough.
Junhui sleeps like that for the rest of the night.
In the morning, he doesn’t pull away immediately.
That is new.
Wonwoo notices everything.
He notices how Junhui’s breathing is steadier now, even during the day. How his appetite returns in small but consistent ways. How the sharp edge of vigilance dulls just enough that Junhui can sit in silence without bracing himself.
He also notices what doesn’t change.
Junhui still doesn’t initiate touch while awake. He doesn’t reach for Wonwoo’s hand unless it’s necessary. He doesn’t lean in unless he’s tired.
Wonwoo accepts this.
By the end of the week, sharing a bed no longer feels like a concession or a treatment plan. It feels… normal. It doesn’t feel safe or permanent. But it’s real.
Wonwoo lies awake one night, Junhui warm against his side, and thinks that this quiet, this restrained closeness, might be the most honest thing they have ever shared.
–
The clinic smells faintly of disinfectant and citrus, the air cool enough that Junhui keeps his jacket on even after they sit. The room is small, utilitarian, a desk pushed against one wall, examination bed folded neatly into the other. Nothing about it invites lingering.
Wonwoo takes the chair closest to Junhui without thinking. Their knees brush when he sits. Junhui doesn’t move away.
The doctor enters a moment later, tablet in hand, expression neutral but attentive. She greets them both, then turns her attention to Junhui first.
“How have you been feeling since we last met?” she asks.
Junhui considers the question carefully. “Better,” he says. “More stable.”
“Any dissociative episodes?”
Junhui shakes his head. “Not since I moved in with him.”
The doctor notes this down and looks at Wonwoo. “And you?”
Wonwoo answers without hesitation. “His sleep has improved. Appetite too. He still fatigues easily, but the recovery time is shorter.”
Junhui glances at him briefly, then looks away again.
The doctor hums softly, scrolling. “And how about you?” she asks Wonwoo more directly. “Have you noticed any changes since the bond reactivated?”
Wonwoo pauses.
“I’m more aware of it,” he says finally. “Of him. Of the bond.”
The doctor looks up, attentive.
“It’s… difficult to separate what’s new from what I was suppressing before,” Wonwoo continues. His voice remains steady, but there is care in how he chooses each word. “In the past, I forced myself not to dwell on thoughts about Junhui. I thought distance was safer.”
Junhui’s posture stills.
“Now that the bond is active again,” Wonwoo says, “I notice things more. Physical proximity affects me. Separation registers faster. But it doesn’t feel distressing. Just… present.”
The doctor nods slowly. “That’s consistent with re-sensitisation after prolonged dormancy. Suppression can blunt awareness, but it doesn’t eliminate the bond’s underlying mechanisms.”
She makes another note, then gestures toward the examination bed. “We’ll do a quick check.”
Junhui follows instructions easily, sleeve pushed up, sensors placed and removed with efficient precision. Wonwoo watches closely, cataloguing every reaction, every breath. Junhui remains steady throughout.
When it’s done, the doctor steps back, folding her arms loosely.
“The bond has stabilised significantly,” she says. “It’s no longer fluctuating the way it was when you first came in. Your vitals are consistent with someone whose bond is active, though still incomplete.”
Junhui’s posture tightens slightly.
“This kind of half-formed bond can’t remain in limbo indefinitely,” the doctor continues. “The body will eventually demand resolution. Either completion or severance. Prolonged suspension increases the risk of chronic symptoms.”
She looks between them now, deliberately.
“So,” she says, “what are you planning to do next?”
The question hangs in the air, heavier than the clinical tone suggests.
Wonwoo feels Junhui shift beside him. He waits, letting Junhui decide who will speak.
Junhui clears his throat. “We’re… taking things slowly.”
The doctor nods, acknowledging without judgment. “That’s reasonable. But it’s not a long-term strategy.”
Silence settles again.
Junhui’s fingers curl briefly in his lap. Then he turns his head toward Wonwoo.
“Can you wait outside for a bit?” he asks. His voice is even, but there’s something deliberate in it. “I need to confirm something with the doctor. In private.”
Wonwoo doesn’t ask what.
He studies Junhui’s face for a moment, searching for signs of distress or hesitation. He finds none. Just resolve.
“Okay,” he says.
He stands, collects his jacket, and pauses briefly at the door. Junhui doesn’t look at him this time, but he doesn’t pull away either when Wonwoo’s hand brushes lightly against the back of his chair.
“I’ll be right outside,” Wonwoo says.
Junhui nods. “Okay.”
Wonwoo steps into the hallway, the door closing softly behind him.
Wonwoo waits.
About ten minutes later, the door opens softly.
Wonwoo looks up immediately.
Junhui steps out first. His posture is composed, his expression carefully neutral, but there is a new steadiness to him that Wonwoo registers at once. Like something settled, carried deliberately.
The doctor follows a moment later.
“Everything alright?” Wonwoo asks, already on his feet.
Junhui nods. “Yeah.”
The answer is quick. Wonwoo doesn’t comment on it, but his attention sharpens all the same.
The doctor addresses them both, her tone clinical, even. “From a physiological standpoint, the bond is continuing to stabilise. Proximity is clearly beneficial. For now, maintain your current arrangements and monitor symptoms.”
Wonwoo nods. “And longer term?”
The doctor pauses, letting the weight of the question exist. “You don’t need to decide anything today. We’ll reassess.”
Junhui doesn’t look at her. His gaze is fixed ahead, as if he has already moved past the appointment itself.
They leave together.
The hallway hums quietly, fluorescent lights casting a flat, colourless glow. Wonwoo falls into step beside Junhui, close but careful. Junhui keeps his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but guarded in a way that feels intentional rather than defensive.
“You okay?” Wonwoo asks.
Junhui nods again. “Just tired.”
Wonwoo accepts the answer without pressing, though he feels the difference immediately. Junhui isn’t frayed. If anything, he’s too composed, as if something has resolved internally that hasn’t yet reached the surface.
Outside, Junhui pauses at the top of the steps, drawing in a deep breath. He looks out at the street, then back at Wonwoo.
“Can we just go home?” he asks.
“Yes,” Wonwoo says. There is no hesitation.
They walk back in silence. Junhui stays close this time, their arms brushing with each step. Wonwoo lets the contact exist, attentive to it without claiming it.
Inside the apartment, Junhui slips off his jacket and leaves it draped over the chair. He doesn’t retreat to his room. Instead, he goes straight to the living room and sits on the sofa, exhaustion finally allowed to show now that the effort of being functional is over.
Wonwoo joins him a moment later.
They sit without touching at first, the familiar closeness hovering just short of contact. Then Junhui leans sideways, resting his head against Wonwoo’s shoulder. The movement is deliberate.
Wonwoo stays still, letting Junhui set the terms.
Minutes pass. Junhui’s breathing evens. The room fills with the low hum of the bond, steady and present.
Then Junhui shifts.
He straightens slightly and turns his head, looking at Wonwoo from close range. His expression is open in a way Wonwoo hasn’t seen since before the separation. Not vulnerable. Intent.
“Do you want to hold me?” Junhui asks.
The wording lands precisely.
Wonwoo hears it for what it is. It’s not a request for support. It’s a question aimed squarely at him.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
He looks at Junhui, really looks. The careful neutrality. The way Junhui has left room for refusal without preparing himself for rejection. Wonwoo understands, suddenly and clearly, what is being asked.
Not will you take responsibility.
Not will you stay because you should.
But do you still want me.
“Yes,” Wonwoo says. The word is quiet, but unambiguous. “I do.”
He moves slowly, deliberately, giving Junhui time to withdraw if he chooses to. He wraps his arm around Junhui’s shoulders and draws him in.
Junhui exhales as soon as the contact completes, the sound leaving him like something he’s been holding back for days. He shifts closer, settling fully into Wonwoo’s chest, forehead resting just below his ear.
Wonwoo adjusts instinctively, one hand coming to rest flat against Junhui’s back. He doesn’t stroke. He doesn’t soothe. He holds him the way someone holds what they’ve chosen, quiet but sure.
Junhui’s hand rises slowly, fingers curling into Wonwoo’s shirt, anchoring himself there. Not clinging. Confirming.
They stay like that, the bond humming low and steady between them.
Junhui doesn’t move away. He doesn’t tighten his grip either. He seems to be measuring his own weight against Wonwoo’s chest, testing whether it’s still allowed.
“I didn’t… fall apart,” he says eventually. His voice is low, careful. “After you left.”
Wonwoo doesn’t respond. He knows better than to.
“I mean, I wasn’t fine,” Junhui adds. “But I survived. I always do.”
His fingers shift against Wonwoo’s shirt, grounding him.
“At first, I thought about you all the time,” he says. “Not in a dramatic way. Just… small things. I’d see something and think, Wonwoo would like this. Or he’d say something annoying about this.” There’s the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “I hated that.”
Wonwoo’s chest tightens, but he stays quiet.
“Then it got quieter,” Junhui continues. “I stopped expecting you to show up in my thoughts every day. But you never really left either. You were just… there. In the background.”
He exhales.
“I used to hope you were okay. Which sounds stupid, because of course you were. You always are.” His tone shifts slightly, something wry cutting through. “I knew you’d land on your feet. I knew you’d do well.”
Wonwoo swallows.
“When I started university,” Junhui says, “it was later than everyone else.”
Wonwoo stills slightly.
“I’d already learned how not to rush things by then,” Junhui continues. “So when I heard your name again, I wasn’t expecting it to mean anything.”
His fingers curl briefly, then relax.
“I found out you were here, in the same university.” He lets out a quiet breath. “Your major wasn’t a surprise at all. I remember thinking, of course. Of course you’d choose something like that.”
Wonwoo’s hand presses more firmly against Junhui’s back, just for a moment.
“I told myself it didn’t matter,” Junhui says. “That we didn’t have anything to do with each other anymore. I didn’t let myself be… hopeful.”
He pauses.
“And then I heard you were in the military.”
Wonwoo’s breathing shifts, almost imperceptibly.
“I was relieved,” Junhui admits. “Because it meant I wouldn’t accidentally run into you. At least not for a while.”
He hesitates, then adds more quietly, “But I worried too. I wondered how you were doing. Whether you were eating properly. Whether you were okay.”
The words are simple. They land anyway.
“I survived all those years without you,” Junhui says. “I really did.”
He shifts then, pulling back just enough to look at Wonwoo, eyes open and clear now.
“But the moment you were suddenly in the same space again,” he continues, “my body just… did something ridiculous. Like it had been waiting for permission this whole time.”
Wonwoo meets his gaze, expression open, unguarded.
“I know it doesn’t make sense,” Junhui says. “But it’s like my body recognised you before I could stop it.”
Wonwoo lifts his hand, thumb brushing once, carefully, against Junhui’s shoulder.
“It’s not ridiculous,” he says quietly.
Junhui searches his face for a moment, then lets himself lean back into Wonwoo’s chest again, the tension easing slightly, as if the words have finally landed somewhere safe.
“I just needed you to know that,” Junhui murmurs. “That I wasn’t waiting. I was living. And somehow… I still ended up here.”
Wonwoo lowers his head, resting his cheek against Junhui’s hair.
“I know,” he says again. And this time, it carries everything he hasn’t said yet.
They stay quiet for a few more moments after Junhui finishes speaking.
Wonwoo doesn’t rush to fill the space. He keeps his arm around Junhui, steady, letting the weight of what Junhui has said settle fully before he adds anything of his own. He feels Junhui’s breathing even out again, feels the way his body has relaxed now that the words are no longer trapped inside him.
Then Wonwoo speaks.
“I didn’t survive the way you did,” he says quietly.
Junhui stills, just a little.
“I functioned,” Wonwoo continues. His voice is calm, almost clinical, the way it gets when he’s being precise. “I did what I was supposed to do. I went to class. I studied. I did well. I slept. I ate. From the outside, everything looked… fine.”
His hand presses more firmly against Junhui’s back, not to pull him closer, but to anchor himself as much as Junhui.
“But I wasn’t living,” he says. “Not really.”
Junhui tilts his head slightly, listening.
“I knew I loved you,” Wonwoo says. “That part didn’t change. What changed was how much I understood it.” He exhales slowly. “That took time. It was gradual. It happened after you were already gone.”
He doesn’t try to soften that.
“I realised how much you meant to me in all the spaces you weren’t in anymore,” Wonwoo continues. “In the quiet. In the routines. In the things that didn’t make sense without you.”
Junhui’s fingers tighten briefly in his shirt.
“Some days were manageable,” Wonwoo says. “Other days took everything I had just to… not think about you.”
He gives a quiet, almost humourless huff of breath. “Concentrating on not thinking about you turned out to be a full-time job.”
“University had been the hardest part. I kept wondering where you were studying,” he says. “What subject. Who you were with. Whether you liked it there. Whether you were happy.” His voice remains even, but the effort behind it shows. “I’d sit in lectures and realise I hadn’t heard a word for ten minutes because I was trying not to imagine you in some other classroom.”
He swallows.
“I was balancing the workload, keeping my grades up, making sure I looked… sane. Healthy.” He lets the word hang. “There were days I thought I was losing my grip, just trying to keep all of that contained.”
Junhui shifts closer, instinctively, his forehead brushing Wonwoo’s collarbone.
“I chose it,” Wonwoo says, before Junhui can say anything. “I know that. Leaving was my decision. So I decided to live with it.”
A beat.
“That’s part of why I enlisted,” he admits. “I thought it would make things simpler. That if someone else made the choices for me, if everything was structured and external, I wouldn’t have to keep fighting myself.”
He exhales, long and controlled.
“It helped, in a way. There was no space to think. No room to wonder. Just orders. Schedules. Physical exhaustion.” His thumb moves once against Junhui’s back. “It quieted things.”
Junhui lifts his head slightly, eyes searching Wonwoo’s face.
“And then I came back,” Wonwoo says.
His voice shifts then. Not softer. Just more exposed.
“And on my first day back,” he continues, “I heard your name.”
Junhui’s breath catches, almost inaudibly.
“I wasn’t looking for you,” Wonwoo says. “I didn’t think I had the right to.” He lets out a slow breath. “But the moment I heard it, everything I’d been holding in place… moved.”
He meets Junhui’s gaze now, fully.
“I realised I never really learned how to exist without you,” Wonwoo says. “I just learned how to endure it.”
Junhui’s hand comes up, resting flat against Wonwoo’s chest, right over his heartbeat.
Wonwoo covers it with his own, holding it there.
“I’m not telling you this because I expect anything,” he adds quietly. “I chose the distance. I chose to live with it.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“I just didn’t want you to think you were the only one who carried something all those years.”
Junhui looks at him for a long moment, eyes dark and searching, then slowly leans back into his chest again.
They stay like that, bodies aligned, breaths slowly synchronising.
Two people who survived in very different ways.
And finally, finally, said it out loud.
They stay like that for a long moment after Wonwoo finishes speaking.
Junhui’s hand is still on his chest, palm spread flat, as if confirming that the heartbeat underneath is real. Wonwoo keeps his own hand over it, not pressing, not guiding. Just there.
Junhui doesn’t pull away.
Instead, he shifts. Slowly. Deliberately.
He leans back just enough to look up at Wonwoo. Close enough now that Wonwoo can see the slight redness around his eyes, the way his mouth is set, not tense but thoughtful. As if he’s checking something one last time before deciding.
Wonwoo doesn’t move. He lets Junhui have the space to choose.
Junhui lifts his head a fraction more. Their faces are close enough that Wonwoo can feel his breath, warm and steady. Junhui hesitates there, suspended, giving Wonwoo time to stop him if he wants to.
Wonwoo doesn’t.
Junhui leans in.
The kiss is soft. Careful. Almost tentative. His lips brush Wonwoo’s, barely there at first, as if testing whether the contact will hold or collapse. Wonwoo freezes for half a heartbeat, then responds, just as gently, meeting Junhui where he is rather than pulling him closer.
Junhui exhales against his mouth, a sound that feels like relief more than desire. He presses in again, slightly firmer this time, enough to make the kiss real without demanding anything more from it.
Wonwoo’s hand tightens at Junhui’s back, just a little.
They part slowly, foreheads still close, breaths mingling.
Junhui doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. Something in his expression has eased, settled into certainty rather than hope.
“So,” he murmurs, voice quiet but clear. “That’s still there.”
Wonwoo’s mouth curves, just faintly. “It never left.”