Work Text:
Sieun never thought much of his YouTube channel. It had barely three hundred subscribers, most of them names he recognized instantly.
Old classmates who still called him by his childhood nickname. The neighbor auntie who left heart emojis on every upload. A handful of strangers who had stumbled in by accident and stayed because they liked how gentle everything felt.
His videos weren’t meant to impress anyone. They were just little pieces of his life, carefully recorded and tucked away for a future version of himself who might want to remember how slow and kind his days once were.
Most days, his vlogs followed the same soft rhythm. The camera bobbing as he walked through familiar streets, greeting the same stray cats curled beneath convenience store benches. Close-ups of leaves and soil as he talked about new plants he was trying to grow.
Nothing loud. Nothing dramatic. Just proof that he existed gently in the small town.
When Sieun mentioned his boyfriend, it was usually in passing. He’s busy this week, or, He works in the city, so we don’t see each other often.
Sometimes a blurred shoulder slipped into frame, or a low voice answered him from off-camera, and that was it. Sieun liked it that way. If the future ever changed, if they ever broke up, at least he wouldn’t have to see his ex-boyfriend’s face lingering in his videos.
So when his boyfriend finally took a full two-week break and came back to the small town, Sieun didn’t plan anything special. He just set up his camera like always with heart a little fuller and steps a little lighter. The difference slipped in quietly, almost unnoticed.
There was a hand at his waist as they walked along the river path. The camera caught it only for a second before tilting away, but the way Sieun leaned into the touch said everything.
In the kitchen, Sieun filmed as usual, except now someone else was burning garlic behind him. His face was never recorded, only broad shoulders, hands fumbling with a spatula and a deep voice protesting when Sieun gently corrected him. The food turned out questionable.
At one point, the camera shook slightly as Seongje lifted Sieun onto the back of a bicycle, Sieun’s startled protest breaking into laughter. Seongje’s arm reached back without hesitation, steadying him and the whole moment was caught on camera.
It was all so ordinary and so tender. Nothing about the video felt like a reveal, just an extension of Sieun’s usual quiet life, now finally shared with his boyfriend whom he didn't show his face for privacy purposes, like how he barely in the video as well.
He edited it gently, trimmed the rough parts, added soft music and uploaded it with a simple title: days with him.
Then he washed up, checked on the cats outside and went to cuddle without a second thought, completely unaware that the video would blow up in a way he never expected.
⸻
The next morning, Sieun woke to his phone vibrating like it was possessed. Not the soft, polite buzz of a few notifications, this was frantic and nonstop, the screen lighting up again and again until the device felt warm.
Still half-asleep, hair sticking up in odd directions, he squinted down at it and frowned. For a split second, he wondered if he’d accidentally set some kind of alarm wrong. Then he saw where the notifications were coming from.
YouTube.
Confused, Sieun unlocked his phone. The page took a moment to load but when it did, the numbers made absolutely no sense.
100,000 views.
Sieun blinked hard, convinced his eyes were still adjusting. He refreshed the page.
500,000.
His breath caught in his throat. His fingers curled tighter around the phone, heart beginning to pound for reasons he couldn’t yet name. Before he could even process that number, it jumped again.
1.2 million.
For a long moment, Sieun just sat there on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone. His channel had grown slowly over years which three hundred subscribers earned through quiet consistency and kindness. He remembered feeling proud when a video crossed five hundred views.
But this wasn’t pride. This was shock, heavy and disorienting, like waking up in the wrong life.
The comments loaded and they flooded the screen faster than he could read them.
- WAIT, ISN’T THAT WOLF’S VOICE?!
- ARE YOU DATING THE WOLF FROM WEAKHERO??? LIKE THEE GEUM SEONGJE???
- IS THIS REAL OR A LOOKALIKE?
- THE WAY HE SAID “come here”, THAT’S HIM. THAT’S HIS VOICE.
- CHECK HIS HAND VEINS. THAT IS WOLF.
Sieun scrolled in a daze, heart pounding louder with every line. People were arguing with each other, posting timestamp and swearing they could recognize him anywhere. Some comments were shaking with excitement. Others were full of disbelief, denial, desperation.
“What…?” he whispered, genuinely lost.
Why were people acting like this? Why were they calling his boyfriend Wolf? Why were they talking like they’d uncovered a national secret? To Sieun, the video hadn’t felt special at all. It was just them walking, cooking, laughing, like how ordinary couple spend the day.
He’s just my boyfriend, Sieun thought, heart racing. Why are people being so weird? What’s happening?
Still clutching his phone, Sieun slipped out of bed and padded toward the kitchen.
Seongje was already awake, sitting by the counter, eating breakfast like it was any other morning. He wore an old t-shirt, hair still slightly damp, posture relaxed as he scrolled through his phone with one hand and spooned cereal into his mouth with the other. He looked impossibly normal. Untouched by the chaos currently tearing through Sieun’s world.
“Uh… Seongje?” Sieun said hesitantly, his voice soft and uncertain.
“Yeah?” Seongje replied, not even looking up from his breakfast.
Sieun shifted his weight, fingers tightening around his phone. The screen was still lit, comments flooding in faster than he could read them. He lifted his phone slowly to read it again, as if the words on the screen might bite. “People think you’re someone named… Wolf? From WeakHero?”
The spoon stopped mid-air.
It wasn’t sudden or dramatic, Seongje’s body simply went still as if every muscle had locked at once. The casual ease drained from him in a heartbeat. Slowly, his head turned toward Sieun, eyes lifting to meet his.
“…Where are people saying this?” he asked.
“In the comments,” Sieun answered, genuinely bewildered. “On my YouTube video.”
He stepped closer and gave the phone to Seongje. The moment Seongje saw the screen, whatever composure he had left disappeared. His shoulders tensed. His jaw clenched. And whatever remained of his soul quietly exited his body.
He’d always known about Sieun’s YouTube channel. He’d watched the videos sometimes, smiling fondly at the way Sieun filmed his life like it was something precious — slow walks, stray cats, soft mornings. He’d never minded being there only in fragments: a hand, a voice, a shadow. He hadn’t thought twice about it.
But this video had more of him than usual. More moments where he forgot to stay invisible and enough for fans who had memorized him for years.
His eyes scanned the screen rapidly, recognition crashing down on him all at once. Fans said that they had been replaying clips over and over, swearing they knew him anywhere even without his face or his name.
“…Oh,” Seongje breathed.
Sieun watched his expression carefully, confusion knitting deeper into his brow. “You… know him?” he asked softly.
Seongje dragged a hand down his face. He had never meant to hide it. That was the truth. Every time he tried to tell Sieun, something got in the way.
Sieun would stop mid-conversation to point out a butterfly. Or crouch down because a neighborhood cat looked lonely. Or wrinkle his nose and say, “Do you smell that?” before dragging Seongje to the market for fresh tteok
Once, Seongje had gotten as far as, “You know, I’m in a group—” only for Sieun to gasp and say, “Wait! Did you water the basil?
And somehow, two years had passed.
Two years of being just Geum Seongje. Not Wolf. Not Ganghak’s center. Not the Nation’s Boyfriend whose face covered billboards and whose voice sold out stadiums. With Sieun, he was just a man who burned garlic and got scolded, who lifted him onto bicycles and held him by the river.
Seongje had loved that more than anything, so he decided to stay quiet.
And now, half the country knew that the Nation’s Boyfriend was, quite literally, someone’s boyfriend in real life. Honestly? Seongje didn’t care about the headlines. Or the fans. Or the noise that would inevitably follow.
All he cared about was Sieun who was standing there with wide, confused eyes, waiting for the truth.
⸻
Seongje’s phone didn’t stop ringing.
It lit up again and again where it lay on the floor between them, vibrating so hard it rattled against the floor like it was possessed. Names flashed across the screen in relentless succession — Yoojoon, Minjun, Doyoon — each call cutting off only to be replaced by another almost immediately. WeakHero’s group chat exploded with missed calls and message previews stacking so fast Seongje didn’t even bother reading them.
He ignored every single one. But then, the phone buzzed again.
Manager Gotak.
Seongje glanced at the screen, sighed and flipped the phone face-down without hesitation. Hyuntak could wait. The world could wait. Right now, his entire life was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, looking like he’d just discovered gravity worked differently than he thought.
The phone buzzed again making Seongje groaned. When he flipped it over, the name staring back at him made his shoulders tense.
Na Baekjin.
The CEO of his agency, who also his co-founder of the said agency. His best friend since forever.
“…Fuck,” Seongje muttered, rubbing his face before answering.
“Geum Seongje!” Baekjin’s voice exploded through the speaker the moment the call connected. “Do you have any idea what kind of hell—”
“Not now, Baekjin,” Seongje cut in flatly. “I’m talking to Sieun. Fuck off and just do your job.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
“…What am I supposed to say?” Baekjin snapped back. “God, I hate you, Seongje.”
Seongje leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like this was a mild inconvenience instead of a national incident. “I’m pushing thirty. Just tell them I’ve been dating privately for two years, that it’s serious and that they should wish me happiness or whatever. The group isn’t going to collapse just because I’m dating.”
On the other end, Baekjin groaned loudly, the sound thick with suffering. “You fucker,” he muttered. “You owe me one. Like— really owe me one.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Seongje replied easily. “Put it on my tab.”
He ended the call before Baekjin could argue further. The phone immediately started buzzing again, but Seongje really ignored it this time, setting it aside and turning back to Sieun.
They were both still sitting on the floor, the morning light spilling softly around them, the outside world somehow feeling very far away. Sieun looked at him like he was seeing him for the first time, head tilted with expression openly bewildered.
“So…” Sieun said slowly, carefully, like he was stepping through unfamiliar territory. “You’re actually famous?”
Seongje didn’t answer right away. He stayed where he was, seated on the floor with his back leaning against the couch, staring at absolutely nothing. His jaw tightened, then loosened, like he was bracing himself for impact.
“Like,” Sieun continued, eyes widening as the reality began to settle in, “really famous?”
There was a pause. The air between them felt strangely heavy.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sieun asked, the words tumbling out in genuine disbelief rather than accusation.
Seongje let his head fall back against the couch with a dull thump, eyes squeezing shut. He was absolutely dying inside.
“I did,” he groaned, voice muffled against the upholstery. “There were a few times I tried to tell you, but you never listen when I talk about work—”
“That’s not true!” Sieun protested immediately, sitting up straighter, clearly offended.
Seongje cracked one eye open and shot him a look. “Sieun. The last time I tried to explain what I do, you interrupted me to tell me the stray cat outside looked lonely.”
Sieun faltered. “…He did look lonely,” he muttered, gaze drifting guiltily toward the window.
“And before that,” Seongje continued, pushing himself upright now, hands gesturing wildly as if reenacting his own frustration, “you smelled tteok and dragged me three streets over. And once when I literally said the words boy group, and you cut me off to ask if I watered the basil.”
Sieun frowned deeply, brows knitting together as he replayed those moments in his head. After a long, thoughtful pause, he spoke again, voice cautious.
“I thought you were just a backup dancer.”
For a heartbeat, Seongje didn’t move. Then he turned his head slowly to stare at Sieun. His expression went completely blank, the kind of stillness that felt far more dangerous than anger.
“A what?”
Sieun, completely unaware that he had just stepped on a landmine, nodded a little, hands fidgeting nervously in his lap as he tried to explain himself. “You know,” he said earnestly. “Like the dancers who perform with idols. The really good ones. The… hot ones.”
Something in Seongje’s face twitched.
“Hot ones?!” he echoed, voice jumping an octave as he suddenly lurched forward. “Yeon Sieun, you little shit! Who are you gawking at?!”
Sieun flinched instinctively, shoulders drawing in as he realized, far too late, that he may have chosen the wrong phrasing. He hesitated, eyes darting away before he answered carefully, “Uh… the Kwon twins?” He glanced back up, unsure. “You know them, right? They were G-Dragon’s dancers. They were really good and, um… hot too?”
That was the final blow.
Seongje made a sound halfway between a gasp and a strangled laugh before lunging forward and grabbing Sieun’s cheeks, squishing them mercilessly between his palms. “Oh,” he said, eyes blazing with exaggerated offense, “so you have hot men you’re watching now?”
“Seongje!” Sieun protested, his words coming out muffled as he tried and completely failed to pry Seongje’s hands away. Laughter bubbled out of him anyway, uncontrollable, shoulders shaking as he struggled. “Stop!”
“Wow,” Seongje muttered dramatically, still squishing his face like it was personal. “I leave you alone to go on tour, and you’re out here gawking at hot dancers instead of your own boyfriend who is in the same industry, by the way.”
“I didn’t know you were, like, a famous idol!” Sieun managed to get out between laughs, eyes crinkling as he looked up at him.
Seongje stared at him for a long second, then sighed, all the fire draining out of him. He squished Sieun’s cheeks affectionately one last time before finally letting go.
“Fine,” he said, resigned. He leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair like he was bracing himself. “I’m in a boy group,” he said plainly. “It’s called WeakHero.”
“Oh,” Sieun replied softly.
For a brief moment, he just stared at Seongje, eyes unfocused. Then something clicked. His eyes widened, mouth parting slightly as all the scattered details he’d ignored over the past two years suddenly lined up perfectly.
“Ohhhhhh,” he breathed, the realization hitting him all at once. “That’s why you keep giving me signed WeakHero albums! That’s the reason I thought you worked as a dancer!”
Seongje froze. Then he let out a long, deeply suffering groan and tipped his head back until it thunked gently against the couch. “Oh god, Yeon Sieun,” he muttered. “Did you even open the album and see what’s inside?”
There was a pause.
“Uh,” Sieun said, thinking. “…No?”
The sound Seongje made next was almost inhuman. He groaned again, louder this time, dragging his hands down his face like the weight of the universe had finally caught up to him.
Then, without warning, he reached out and pulled Sieun into a loose headlock, gentle and careful, more dramatic than aggressive, pressing Sieun against his chest like he needed to physically release all his pent-up frustration.
“You are unbelievable,” Seongje muttered into his hair.
Sieun squeaked in surprise, then laughed, the sound light and unrestrained as he wriggled uselessly in Seongje’s arms. “Seongje, stop!”
But Seongje didn’t let go right away. He held him there for a moment longer, listening to that soft, warm and too good laugh for this ridiculous situation. The tension in his shoulders eased despite himself.
Eventually, he loosened his grip, resting his chin briefly atop Sieun’s head before letting him go, still shaking his head in disbelief.
“I really can’t believe you,” Seongje said, though the fondness in his voice gave him away completely.
⸻
Union Ent. statement dropped first, clean and polished, posted simultaneously across every official platform the company owned. The wording was careful with every sentence weighed and approved, every implication sanded down until it couldn’t cut anyone.
WeakHero’s Wolf had been in a private, long-term relationship for over two years. The company had always respected his personal life and asked that fans continue to support WeakHero with warmth and understanding.
Within minutes, it was everywhere.
The statement was screenshotted, reposted, translated into dozens of languages. Hashtags climbed the trending charts at breakneck speed, not just on one platform, but across all of them. News outlets rushed to turn it into headlines sharp enough to cut through the noise: Nation’s Boyfriend Confirmed in Long-Term Relationship, Wolf of WeakHero Revealed He’d Been Dating for Two Years, Fans React to Idol Dating News.
Clips from Sieun’s vlog resurfaced again and again, slowed down, zoomed in, dissected frame by frame. The deep laugh. The off-camera “come here.” The hand resting naturally at a waist like it had done so countless times before. What once looked ordinary now felt intimate. Comment sections spiraled — shock, denial, tears, joy, betrayal, laughter — all colliding at once.
Through all of it, Seongje sat quietly beside Sieun on the floor of the small living room with his phone buzzing nonstop. The statement had done what it was meant to do. It had controlled the narrative. But Seongje had never been very good at staying within lines drawn for him.
That night, without warning and without discussion, he opened Instagram and posted exactly one photo. Just a picture taken at dusk.
The sky was washed in muted purples and soft golds, the sun already slipping away, leaving the world suspended in that quiet in-between. The river below reflected the light like scattered glass. Two figures stood at the edge, backs turned to the camera, close enough that there was no space left between them.
Seongje’s arms were wrapped securely around Sieun’s waist, hands resting there with a familiarity that spoke of years, not months. Sieun’s arms were looped around Seongje’s neck, bodies pressed together, cheek to cheek as they watched the moon begin to rise.
The intimacy was unmistakable and the caption was simple. two years to forever with you
That was all it took to make the internet detonated. Fans lost their minds in real time, emotions spilling over each other faster than they could be processed.
- holy shit wolf really is dating that vlogger!
not us shipping him with everyone he acted with only to find out he was never single - this is so cute im crying what the hell
Some people mourned over imaginary relationships. Others laughed at themselves for missing something that now felt painfully obvious. Many softened because there was something undeniably tender about the way he chose to show it. No glamour. No spotlight. Just a moon, a river and the man he loved held close.
The photo spread like wildfire. Edits appeared within minutes. The narrative shifted, not betrayal but an overwhelming, unexpected warmth.
Five minutes later, Seongje’s phone lit up with a single message.
Baekjin: you’re paying for my therapy
Seongje glanced at it, then locked his phone without replying. He didn’t feel the need to explain and didn't feel the need to apologize.
Sieun leaned against him, warm and blissfully unaware that half the country was losing its mind over the simple truth that Wolf had always belonged to someone. Seongje wrapped his arms tighter around him, pressed a quiet kiss into his hair and decided, once and for all, that it had been worth it.
⸻
Seongje did not ask nicely. He whined.
Full-on dramatic with no-shame whining as his arms wrapped around Sieun’s waist from behind, body pressed close, chin settled comfortably on Sieun’s shoulder like he belonged there. He swayed them slightly as he spoke, voice low and drawn out, every word soaked in pleading.
“Please,” he said, dragging the word until it almost hurt. “You never even opened them. You don’t even know what’s inside.”
Sieun sighed, long and suffering, even as he leaned back into the familiar warmth. “Seongje,” he said, trying to sound firm and failing immediately, “I wasn’t planning to—”
“Just one album,” Seongje cut in quickly, tightening his arms. “One. You unbox them and I will shut up forever.”
“That’s a lie,” Sieun muttered.
“…For at least a week?”
Sieun hesitated. Then sighed again. “You’re unbearable.”
But he still set up the camera.
The result was nothing like his usual videos. There were no soft morning light, no carefully arranged plants and no lo-fi music humming gently in the background.
Just Sieun sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, camera on a tripod with his hair slightly messy, surrounded by a very intimidating stack of WeakHero albums — every version of every comeback, neatly piled beside him like evidence.
He stared at the lens for a few seconds too long, frozen in place as if the camera might suddenly judge him.
“So, uh,” he said at last, lifting his hand in a small, hesitant wave. “Hi?”
The word echoed awkwardly in the quiet room. Sieun winced immediately, shoulders curling inward.
“This is weird,” he admitted, voice soft and embarrassed.
From somewhere just off-camera, Seongje let out an unmistakable snort.
“Seongje,” Sieun whined, cheeks already warming as he turned his head slightly toward the sound. “I’m shy.”
“Just unbox it,” Seongje said cheerfully, tone far too pleased with himself to be helpful in any way.
Sieun rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched despite himself. He reached for the top album, their latest comeback and lifted it carefully. He turned it over slowly, fingers tracing the glossy edges.
“Wow,” he murmured, genuine awe slipping into his voice. “It’s… very shiny.”
He opened it and everything inside promptly spilled out onto the floor in a chaotic clatter — cards, paper, plastic sleeves scattering everywhere.
“Oh—” Sieun froze, staring down at the mess in front of him, hands hovering uselessly in the air. “Uh… What’s this?”
He picked up a small, glossy card between his fingers, squinting at it as he brought it closer to his face, trying to understand what he was holding.
“That’s a photocard,” Seongje explained from behind the camera, casual and entirely unbothered.
Sieun looked down again, then tilted the card slightly, studying the face printed on it. His brow furrowed. “…But it’s not you?”
Before he could say anything else, Seongje suddenly lunged into frame, moved with startling speed, snatched the photocard straight out of Sieun’s hand and flicked it away like it had personally offended him.
“Yah!” Sieun hissed, startled and indignant. “Why would you do that?!”
“I’ll give you my photocard,” Seongje shot back immediately, voice sharp with misplaced jealousy.
Sieun stared at him.
Then he stared at the camera.
Then back at Seongje.
“God, you’re impossible,” he said flatly.
He leaned forward, picked up the discarded card and inspected it properly this time, turning it over with careful fingers. “It has a name on it.”
He read it slowly, lips moving slightly as he nodded to himself. “Yoojoon-ssi. I’ll keep this properly.”
“GET RID OF IT,” Seongje yelled from behind the camera and Sieun ignored him completely.
He continued sorting through the inclusions — stickers he arranged neatly in a small pile, group postcards he paused to look at one by one, genuinely interested. When he finally pulled out a polaroid and realized it was Seongje’s, his expression softened immediately.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “This one’s you.”
Somewhere off-camera, Seongje made a very satisfied sound.
Only then did Sieun move on to the photobook. He flipped through the pages slowly, carefully, eyes scanning as if he were studying something unfamiliar rather than casually looking. His movements were unhurried and thoughtful. Then he stopped.
“Oh.”
The page showed Seongje staring directly into the camera, gaze intense, posture sharp and confident like the best selling idol was. Nothing like the man sulking behind the camera moments ago making Sieun stared at the page for a long moment.
“Didn’t know my boyfriend was like this,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then he glanced up at the camera, honesty softening his expression. “To be fair, I didn’t know Seongje was an idol at all until that video blew up.”
He turned a few more pages, then paused again, fingers stopping mid-motion as his eyes caught on something unfamiliar.
“Oh! There’s writing!”
Without thinking, he leaned closer, bringing the page nearer to him and read it aloud.
“To my angel Sieun, thank you for loving me when I was just me. —Seongje.”
The words lingered in the air as the room went completely silent, like even the walls had stopped breathing. Off-camera, Seongje let out a low, mortified groan. “Why did you read it out loud?”
Sieun blinked and looked up, cheeks still burning a soft, unmistakable red. His expression was perfectly deadpan, as if he genuinely couldn’t understand the problem. “Am I not supposed to?”
“Edit this out,” Seongje whined immediately, voice pitched high with panic.
Sieun’s lips twitched. He glanced back at the camera, then at the album in his hands, and gave Seongje a small, fond and absolutely unmoved smile.
“No,” he said simply.
There was a beat of silence. Then, with deliberate calm, Sieun closed the album, smoothing his palm over the cover like he was tucking something precious away.
“…That’s enough for today,” he said, nodding once to himself as if the decision had already been made.
What followed after the video posted was chaos.
Fans flooded in faster than anyone could keep up, the numbers climbing so quickly they blurred together. Shock, disbelief, laughter and affection spilled across the screen in real time, each comment louder than the last.
- WAIT HE DIDN’T KNOW SEONGJE IS THE WOLF FROM WEAKHERO?!?!
- THIS IS SO CUTE I’M LOSING MY MIND
- SEONGJE BEING JEALOUS OVER YOOJOON’S PHOTOCARD IS HILARIOUS
- NO WONDER WE NEVER KNEW WOLF WAS DATING, HIS OWN BOYFRIEND DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HE WAS AN IDOL 😭
- SIEUN IS TOO PURE FOR THIS WORLD I HOPE HE’S OKAY WITH ALL THIS ATTENTION
Clips of the video were reposted everywhere — Sieun’s confused sincerity, Seongje’s off-camera whining, the accidental love letter read aloud to millions. Fans analyzed every moment, every expression, every tone of voice, hearts melting over how unpolished and real it all felt.
It wasn’t a carefully curated reveal. It wasn’t media-trained perfection. It was just soft, awkward, a little embarrassing and entirely genuine interactions between the couple.
And somehow, that was what made the internet fall even harder.
⸻
They rarely fought or rarely even argued. If anything, their disagreements were usually small, easily smoothed over with quiet apologies and shared meals. But there was one pattern that never failed to strain them — comeback season.
This one, after Seongje was public with his relationship, had been especially brutal. For nearly a month and a half, Seongje hadn’t seen Sieun at all.
Sieun lived in a literal small village, the kind where the roads narrowed into quiet stretches and the nights went dark early. Getting there meant an hour and a half drive on a good day, longer if traffic was bad or if Seongje was already exhausted from schedules that started before sunrise and ended well past midnight.
They had survived on phone calls. Short messages sent between rehearsals. Voice notes whispered during breaks. Pictures of skies, cats and meals they weren’t sharing.
So when Seongje finally promised, really promised, that he’d come for two days once the music video filming wrapped up, Sieun had believed him. He’d marked it quietly in his mind, rearranged his days without saying a word and cleaned the house a little more thoroughly than usual.
Then, at the last minute, the company extended the shoot. Technical issues that needed them to reshoots. Delays that no one could control. Seongje called him immediately, guilt already tightening his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “They’re extending it. I can’t leave yet.”
Sieun had gone quiet for a moment before answering. When he did, his voice was careful. “It’s okay,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”
Seongje heard it. That slight tremor. The way Sieun softened his tone like he was cushioning the words so they wouldn’t hurt either of them. It was the voice he used when he didn’t want to be a burden, when he was swallowing disappointment and pretending it didn’t exist.
Before Seongje could say anything else, before he could apologize properly or reassure him, there was a voice calling Sieun from somewhere. Someone asking him something.
“I have to go,” Sieun said quickly, too quickly. “Talk later.”
The call ended and Seongje stared at his phone long after the screen went dark. Later that night, during a short break between takes, he called again. This time, Sieun answered almost immediately.
“Just,” Seongje said quietly, exhaustion and frustration bleeding into his voice, “tell me you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad,” Sieun replied softly but the strain was unmistakable. “I just miss you. That’s all.”
That did it. It cracked something open in Seongje’s chest, something raw and aching. He leaned back against the cold wall of the set, eyes closing briefly as guilt washed over him. Missing him wasn’t anger. It was worse. It meant Sieun had been alone with that feeling, carrying it gently so it wouldn’t spill.
“Hey,” Seongje said immediately. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise.”
“Seongje,” Sieun murmured, concerned now. “It’s okay. You’re tired.”
“I don’t care if I’m tired,” Seongje said firmly. “I’ll take the first train. Or the last one today. I’ll drive if I need to. I want to see you too. I need to make sure you’re okay.”
“…Okay,” Sieun said. “But don’t push yourself. I’m fine.”
The next morning, true to his word, Seongje was standing at Sieun’s front door. He looked wrecked with his hood pulled low, eyes tired, shoulders heavy. But the moment Sieun opened the door, everything else seemed to fall away. Seongje stepped inside and pulled him into his arms without a word, holding him like he’d been afraid he might disappear.
Sieun knew Seongje was exhausted down to the bone, so they did the only thing that felt right. They crawled into bed fully clothed, tangled together beneath the blankets as Seongje’s arms wrapped around Sieun’s waist and Sieun tucked close against his chest.
They napped and drifted in and out of sleep. Every now and then, Seongje pressed a kiss into Sieun’s hair like he was grounding himself, like this was the proof he needed that everything was okay.
And for the first time in weeks, it was.
⸻
Out of absolutely nowhere, Seongje posted a vlog on Sieun’s channel. The title alone nearly gave everyone whiplash; “two days off with someone I love”
People clicked expecting something soft. Something slow. Something in line with Sieun’s usual quiet aesthetic with muted colors, gentle music and careful framing.
But instead, they got chaos.
The video opened with violent camera shaking, heavy breathing and the unmistakable sound of Seongje half-running and half-sprinting.
The frame was crooked, bouncing wildly as Seongje filmed himself racing down a narrow village road toward the small bus stop at the edge of town. The background blurred into streaks of green and concrete. He was panting dramatically, laughter cutting through his breath, excitement making him completely forget about stabilization.
“I see him!” he whispered loudly, immediately contradicting himself by nearly yelling. “I see him! Oh my god, wait, he’s ignoring me. BABY! LOOK HERE—”
The camera jerked sharply to the side, zooming in far too much on a familiar figure standing by the bus stop. Sieun had just gotten back from his flower shop, apron still on, hands full with one arm hugging a bundle of leftover flowers and the other holding his bag. He was focused on arranging them carefully, unaware of the disaster rapidly approaching him.
“Stop yelling,” Sieun said the second he noticed, voice hushed and panicked. “People are watching—”
Seongje immediately zoomed in closer, completely unbothered, the frame cutting off half of Sieun’s face just to capture the way his ears turned red.
“He’s shy,” Seongje announced proudly. “My baby is so cute.”
Sieun groaned softly, turning his face away and trying to shield himself with the bouquet. “You didn’t even tell me you were coming,” he hissed.
“I wanted to surprise you!” Seongje said, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. He swung the camera back to himself for a second, hair a mess and eyes bright despite the exhaustion still clinging to him. “Look at him. I haven’t seen him in weeks and he’s already scolding me.”
The video never settled after that.
It was two days of pure, unfiltered chaos with Seongje filming everything that Sieun would normally cut out. Shaky clips of them laughing so hard the audio peaked. Sudden zoom-ins on Sieun’s face whenever he smiled without realizing it. Seongje shouting “BABY WAIT FOR ME!” while running after Sieun through narrow village paths.
There were clips of Sieun’s flower shop too with Seongje crouched awkwardly behind the counter, whispering commentary like he was on a nature documentary.
“This is his natural habitat,” he murmured seriously. “Surrounded by flowers. Beautiful. Delicate. Occasionally bites when annoyed.”
“Get out,” Sieun said flatly, trying so hard not to act nonchalant.
At night, the camera caught nothing but darkness and muffled giggles, Seongje whispering far too loudly about how warm Sieun was, how he smelled like soap and flowers and how he missed this. There was no background music, no careful edits — just a glimpse of their chaotic life, messy and real.
By the end of the vlog, the camera wobbled as Seongje pointed it at the ceiling, Sieun’s soft voice drifting in from off-screen.
“Are you done?” Sieun asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Seongje replied, voice suddenly softer. “I just wanted to capture this so I can look back when I'm on tour.”
The video cut there and once again, the internet absolutely lost its mind.
⸻
Sieun's birthday was in three days and hadn’t expected anything. When Seongje had called three nights earlier, his voice tired and apologetic, saying he couldn’t make it because schedules were a mess and flights coming back were impossible, Sieun had only hummed in acknowledgment.
He hadn’t even paused what he was doing. Sieun still carefully trimming flower stems at the shop, fingers steady and expression calm.
“It’s fine,” he’d said easily. “Don’t rush. You don’t have to come.”
And he meant it. Birthdays had never been a big thing to him. Half the time Seongje wasn’t around anyway during the time — touring, recording, overseas. Sieun had learned long ago, before even meeting Seongje, not to attach expectations to a specific date.
For him, it had really been just another day.
Sieun had closed the flower shop a little earlier than usual, hands faintly sore from tying bouquets since morning. The bakery next door had noticed, of course, they always did.
When he went in to buy a small slice of cake, the owner only smiled knowingly and handed him a neatly boxed piece instead, waving off his money with a quiet, “Happy birthday, for tomorrow.”
Sieun had blinked, surprised they remembered, then thanked them softly and walked home with the box tucked under his arm and his thoughts completely empty.
That night passed without ceremony. He ate dinner alone at the small table by the window, listening to the distant sounds of the village settling in. He didn’t check his phone much. He didn’t wait for anything.
Truthfully, he was exhausted as May was always like this. Spring meant weddings, confessions, apologies, celebrations. Everyone wanted flowers, and Sieun had spent weeks barely sleeping to keep up with the demand.
So he washed his dishes, set the cake aside for later and went to bed early without making a wish or marking the day in any way.
That was why the doorbell ringing early the next morning caught him completely off guard.
The sound cut sharply through his half-sleep, pulling a confused frown onto his face as he turned over in bed. No one ever came this early. He lay there for a moment, blinking slowly, hoping it was a mistake until it rang again.
Groaning softly, Sieun pushed himself up and shuffled toward the door, eyes barely open. He was still wearing Seongje’s oversized sweater, sleeves swallowing his hands, the familiar scent clinging to the fabric in a way that made his chest ache without him realizing why. He didn’t bother checking the peephole. He simply unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Seongje stood there, grinning wide and breathless like he’d run the last stretch, eyes bright and impossibly warm. For a second, Sieun's brain refused to cooperate, stuck somewhere between sleep and shock.
Then movement behind Seongje snapped him back to reality.
Three more figures crowded into the narrow doorway, barely fitting in the frame. Yoojoon was already laughing, hand over his mouth like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Doyoon leaned sideways to peer past Seongje, eyes sparkling with mischief. Minjun stood carefully at the back, both hands gripping a cake box that was visibly tilted at a dangerous angle.
Sieun knew each of their names now. Yoojoon. Doyoon. Minjun. The members of Weak Hero were standing in his hallway like they belonged there.
“Surprise, baby!” Seongje shouted, far too loudly for the quiet village morning.
Sieun’s mind went completely blank.
“…You said you couldn’t come,” he managed, the words slipping out weak and disbelieving, like if he said them out loud, Seongje might disappear.
Seongje didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward immediately, closing the distance and cupping Sieun’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing gently over his cheeks as if checking that he was awake and telling him that this was real.
“I lied,” he said without shame, voice bright and soft all at once. “Happy birthday.”
From behind him, Yoojoon let out a laugh. “Wow. You made him cry already? We literally just got here.”
That single comment sent Seongje into instant panic. His hands tightened just a little, eyes scanning Sieun’s face with sudden urgency. “Wait, are you crying? Babe, hey—”
“I’m not,” Sieun protested weakly, inhaling sharply as his vision blurred despite himself. He hated this part, how emotions always betrayed him before he could get a grip on them. “I’m really not. You guys didn’t have to do this.”
Seongje’s expression softened in a way that hurt more than the surprise ever could. His grin faded into something quieter, more sincere. “I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I wanted to.”
They piled into Sieun’s small living room soon after, filling the space with noise, warmth and a kind of energy that felt completely foreign to the quiet house. Minjun crouched by the table, struggling with the lighter as the candles stubbornly refused to cooperate. Doyoon offered commentary that was absolutely not helpful. Yoojoon wandered around, taking in the place with open curiosity.
Through it all, Seongje stayed close. He hovered at Sieun’s side like a shadow, brushing shoulders, fingers catching lightly on his sleeve.
The cake finally made it onto the table, slightly lopsided with frosting smudged along one edge. It was clearly a last-minute purchase and handled too many times. Still, Seongje and the others looked absurdly proud of it, like it was the greatest achievement of their lives.
They sang loudly and painfully off-key for a famous boy group, it was honestly a tragic. Doyoon messed up the lyrics halfway through, laughed and restarted without apology. Yoojoon clapped to a rhythm that did not exist. Minjun tried to keep everyone on track and failed immediately.
Sieun stood there with his hands clasped in front of him, overwhelmed in the softest, gentlest way. His eyes flicked between them — this ridiculous, impossible scene unfolding in his living room — like he was afraid that if he blinked too long, it would all disappear.
“Make a wish,” Seongje murmured, leaning close, voice low and meant only for him.
Sieun hesitated but then he closed his eyes. When he blew out the candles, Seongje clapped the loudest.
⸻
Later, long after the cake had been cut and slightly mangled, long after candles had melted into uneven wax puddles and sugar crumbs dotted the table, the house had settled into a kind of comfortable chaos.
Yoojoon had claimed the floor with his back against the couch, scrolling through his phone and laughing at something only he found funny. Doyoon lay half-sprawled across the couch itself, arguing with Minjun over which photos were “postable” and which would “absolutely get them in trouble.” It was loud, messy and alive in a way Sieun’s home rarely was.
He drifted away from it without anyone noticing, feet carrying him toward the window out of habit. The sky outside was pale and bright, morning light spilling gently over the village rooftops. The world looked exactly the same as it had yesterday. That should have made this feel unreal, but it didn’t.
Seongje was already there. He stood slightly off to the side, leaning against the wall, phone loose in his hand like he’d forgotten what he was holding. His attention wasn’t on the screen at all. It was fixed on Sieun, quiet and steady, the kind of gaze that didn’t rush or demand anything. It made Sieun feel exposed and held at the same time, like Seongje was memorizing this version of him without asking permission.
“You really didn’t care, did you?” Seongje asked softly when Sieun stopped beside him.
Sieun followed his gaze back to the room — the scattered cake plates, the three bandmates laughing too loudly, the evidence of a celebration he hadn’t expected and never asked for. He shook his head slowly.
“To be honest,” he said, voice gentle and unembellished, “I don’t really care.”
There was no bitterness in it. No disappointment. Just truth. But Seongje’s jaw tightened anyway.
He reached out, fingers threading through Sieun’s without hesitation, warm and sure. “But I do,” he said quietly. “So I’m sorry. For the past two birthdays I missed because of work.”
The apology sat heavy between them, sincere and unguarded. Sieun looked down at their joined hands, then squeezed back, grounding him in the simplest way he knew how. When he smiled, it wasn’t the polite curve he used with customers or the small one he offered to reassure people. It was real and soft, meant only for Seongje.
“It’s okay,” he said, meeting his eyes. “But thank you. For being here with me.”
Seongje exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.
Sieun glanced back toward the living room again. The Weak Hero members were now huddled together, phones out, whispering urgently as they scrolled through photos and debated captions like it was a matter of national importance. Someone laughed. Someone else groaned dramatically. It felt strangely natural, like this was where all of them were supposed to be.
And for the first time in a very long while, Sieun finally felt like his birthday isn't just like any other day.
When each of them posted Instagram stories with unfiltered photos and cheerful captions, congratulating Sieun like he was one of their own, the fandom did not survive.