Chapter Text
The after-school art club finished at five on the dot, which meant Seonghwa’s entire day began to tilt towards that hour like a compass needle.
He checked the time on his phone for the third time in as many minutes and pretended it was because he had work messages, not because his stomach always tightened a little in the last stretch before pick-up. It was a silly, familiar anxiety—the sort that had nothing to do with his daughter’s competence and everything to do with the fact that the world was large and she was small and he loved her so much it sometimes felt like an ache in his ribs.
Ara had turned six only a couple of weeks ago, but to Seonghwa she would always be his little girl, no matter how old she got. Keeping her safe, properly safe, was his only priority.
The lobby of the school’s community centre smelled faintly of floor cleaner and old paint, warm from the radiators. A handful of other parents waited in scattered clusters; mums with handbags slung over their shoulders, dads in office shirts with their sleeves rolled up, a grandad perched on a plastic chair with a paper cup of coffee.
Seonghwa stood near the noticeboard, half-reading flyers about autumn term registrations and half-watching the corridor that led back to the rooms where the children were finishing up. He liked to be early. Early meant there was time to account for everything, especially risks. It was time to look, listen, and adjust. It was what he told himself, anyway.
He had brought Ara’s cream puffer coat, her little baby-pink knitted hat, and the spare pair of socks he kept in his bag because he had learned the hard way that children could find puddles in deserts. He had also brought the snack she liked most—a strawberry yoghurt drink—and the snack she liked second-most—the apple slices he would offer if she insisted she wasn’t hungry.
Preparedness was care. That was the rule he lived by, the one he had built his parenting around, brick by brick, until it was a house he could stand in without shaking.
The door at the end of the corridor swung open and, like a dam breaking, children flooded out.
Ara came first, as she always did, all quick feet and bouncing ponytail, her cardigan buttoned wrong by one button because she’d dressed herself after painting. A streak of pastel blue ran along one cheek, like she’d been kissed by the sky.
And she wasn’t alone.
Minjun burst out right beside her, holding her hand so confidently it looked like they’d been holding hands their entire lives. He had paint on his fingers and a grin so big his cheeks pushed his eyes into crescents. He said something to her—Seonghwa couldn’t hear it over the noise of the other children and their parents—and Ara laughed so hard she practically skipped.
Seonghwa’s chest loosened. There she was. Whole. Happy. A bit messy, but children were meant to be messy. He knew that.
“Ara,” he called, lifting a hand so she could spot him in the crowd.
She spotted him immediately. She always did. Her eyes brightened, and then she did that thing she’d started doing this year—the half-turn, as if checking her joy didn’t leave anyone behind. She tugged Minjun with her, and together they made a beeline for Seonghwa like he was the finish line.
“Appa!” Ara threw herself at him with the force of a small meteor.
Seonghwa caught her easily, bending with the impact, her arms tight around his neck. She smelled like poster paint and something sweet—chocolate biscuits, probably, from snack time. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head without thinking, it was a warm habit that he never planned to quit.
“Hello, my star,” he murmured into her hair. “Did you have fun?”
“Yes!” she said, the word exploding out of her. “We made—”
“We made a dragon!” Minjun announced, as if Seonghwa had asked him personally.
Ara wriggled in Seonghwa’s arms to point back towards the craft room. “Not just any dragon. A space dragon.”
Minjun nodded gravely, paint still drying on his fingers. “It breathes fire and also it can fly to the moon.”
“That sounds extremely dangerous,” Seonghwa said with solemnity.
“It’s friendly,” Ara protested, offended on the dragon’s behalf. “It only breathes fire at bad guys.”
Minjun leaned in as if sharing state secrets. “And it’s got glitter.”
“Glitter,” Seonghwa repeated with a soft smile. “Well. That changes everything.”
Ara giggled, then finally slid out of his arms and reached for her coat in the practiced way of a child who knew the next part of the routine. Seonghwa crouched slightly, ready to help her with the sleeves, when she didn’t immediately put it on. Instead, she turned, still holding Minjun’s hand, and stared up at him with wide, determined eyes.
“Can Minjun come to the park?” she asked.
Seonghwa blinked. He hadn’t expected that question so soon. He had expected, perhaps, ‘snack’ and then ‘tired’, maybe a complaint about homework. Ara’s ability to reroute his evening plans with a single sentence was strangely impressive and deeply unsettling.
He glanced at Minjun. The boy stared back politely, but his grip on Ara’s hand tightened, hopeful.
“Minjun’s dad might have other plans,” Seonghwa said gently, buying himself time.
“His dad is right there,” Ara said, and pointed.
Seonghwa followed the line of her finger, and his gaze landed on a man standing near the entrance, half-hidden behind a pillar and a crowd of parents. He was shorter than Seonghwa—not by much, but enough that Seonghwa noticed because he always noticed. His hair was dark and slightly messy, as though he’d run his hand through it one too many times. He wore a black hoodie under a dark-blue denim jacket that had seen better days, and he was looking down at his phone with the posture of someone who spent most of their time bracing for the next thing to go wrong.
He looked up, and Seonghwa felt the strange little jolt of being noticed.
The man’s eyes went to Minjun first—immediate and warm—and then to Ara, and then to Seonghwa. When their gazes met, the man’s expression shifted into something open and cautious all at once, like he was trying not to be intrusive in a moment that didn’t belong to him.
Minjun waved with his free hand. “Appa!”
The man pocketed his phone and moved towards them.
Seonghwa adjusted Ara’s coat on his arm like he suddenly needed something to do with his hands. He told himself he was being normal. He was being civil. He was simply assessing—as any responsible parent would. It wasn’t judgement, it was vigilance.
The man reached them and smiled down at Minjun. “Hey, buddy,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair with paint-safe care. “How was it?”
“Space dragon,” Minjun said, as if that explained everything.
The man’s smile widened. “Obviously. Should’ve guessed.”
Then his eyes lifted to Ara. “Hi,” he said, voice gentle. “Did you have fun too?”
Ara nodded vigorously. “We made a dragon with glitter and it’s friendly and it breathes fire at bad guys.”
“Right,” the man said, as if he was taking notes. “Very important. I’m glad it only targets the appropriate demographic.”
Ara giggled again. She was a sucker for adults who took her seriously. She didn’t have a clue on what the word ‘demographic’ meant, but it didn’t matter, it sounded right.
Seonghwa watched the exchange and felt a reluctant softening at the edges. He’d encountered plenty of parents who treated other people’s children like inconveniences, even his own daughter—which he quickly took care of. Politely, of course. But this man spoke to Ara like she was a person, not a stray cat that had wandered into his path.
Still, Seonghwa didn’t let that soften him too far. Kindness in a five-minute conversation wasn’t the same as safety. The man finally looked at Seonghwa properly and gave a small, polite bow of his head. “Hello,” he said. “You’re Ara’s dad, right? I’m Kim Hongjoong. Minjun’s.”
“Oh,” Seonghwa said, because his brain briefly stalled on the ease of the introduction. It had been weeks of this—his daughter coming out of the art club with Minjun attached to her like a second shadow, the two of them inseparable at the park, in the school yard, on the walk home. He’d seen Hongjoong in passing, always from a distance, always in motion. He’d never had to put a name to him.
“Park Seonghwa,” he said, offering the same polite nod back. “Ara’s dad.”
Hongjoong’s smile turned a little sheepish, like he was aware he should have introduced himself sooner. “Nice to meet you. Properly.”
Ara’s eyes darted between them, bright and busy, as if she could see a story forming and wanted to hurry it along.
“Park?” she prompted again, as though the adults had wandered off topic and she was the only one keeping things on track.
Minjun echoed her immediately. “Park!”
Hongjoong glanced at his son, then back at Seonghwa. “We can, if that’s alright with you,” he said easily. “We were going to go anyway. Minjun’s got… a lot of energy left.”
Minjun bounced on his toes to prove the point.
Seonghwa hesitated only long enough to consider whether he had anything urgent at home. He didn’t. He had dinner ingredients in the fridge and paperwork on the table, but none of it was more urgent than his daughter’s happiness.
“Alright,” he said. “For a bit.”
Ara squealed and squeezed Minjun’s hand so hard the boy grimaced and then grinned. Hongjoong nodded with a warm smile.
➽─────────❥
The four of them left the community centre together, spilling out into the early evening where the sky was already beginning to bruise into purple. A sharp wind cut down the street, and Seonghwa tugged Ara’s hat down over her ears. She made a face and tried to push it back up. He gave her a warning look, before she sighed dramatically, accepting the defeat.
They walked in an uneven line; the children in front, still hand-in-hand, weaving between each other like fish, and the adults behind, matching pace out of necessity rather than intention.
Hongjoong kept glancing forward, his attention tuned to his son like a hawk. Seonghwa understood that instinct. He had it too—the constant calculation of distance, traffic, strangers, the way a child could turn danger into a game without meaning to.
“Minjun talks about Ara a lot,” Hongjoong said after a moment, voice pitched low enough that the kids couldn’t hear. It wasn’t gossipy. It sounded almost like gratitude.
Seonghwa swallowed something complicated. He’d been hearing about Minjun for weeks as well. The name had become a regular part of their household vocabulary, threaded into bedtime stories and morning routines.
“Ara does too,” he admitted.
Hongjoong’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. “He’s… he’s been happier,” he said, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Seonghwa didn’t reply immediately. He didn’t pry, but he stored it away. Children didn’t attach to each other like that for no reason. They found something they needed and held on.
The park wasn’t far—just a small neighbourhood square with a climbing frame, two swings, and a sandpit that was perpetually suspicious to Seonghwa—anything could’ve been in there. A few streetlamps flickered on as they arrived, casting a soft orange halo over the rubberised ground.
Ara and Minjun exploded towards the equipment with the speed of freed animals.
“Careful!” Seonghwa called automatically, even as he watched them with an affection that made his throat feel tight.
They clambered up the climbing frame together, feet thudding on plastic, warm laughter cutting through the cold air. Ara squealed when Minjun pretended to be a dragon and chased her up the steps. She didn’t run away; she ran with him, letting herself be caught and then insisting on a rematch.
Seonghwa stood near the benches, hands in his coat pockets, and watched. He always watched. He had to.
Hongjoong sat down, pulling a packet of biscuits out of his jacket’s pocket. He offered one towards Seonghwa without looking like he expected anything in return.
Seonghwa hesitated, then accepted. It was a simple chocolate digestive packet, the sort you could buy anywhere. “Thanks,” he said.
Hongjoong shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Minjun always wants a snack after. I started carrying them around. Saves me from being held hostage by two hungry five-year-olds.”
“Six,” Seonghwa corrected without thinking, because Ara had been very firm about her age for the last few weeks.
Hongjoong laughed softly. “Right. Six. Sorry. I forgot your one just had her birthday.”
Seonghwa took a bite of the biscuit and discovered he was hungrier than he’d realised. He chewed, watching the children swing themselves across a set of monkey bars, their legs kicking like they were trying to outrun gravity.
“Strong kids,” Hongjoong said, amusement in his voice.
Seonghwa followed his gaze. Ara had reached the end of the monkey bars and was hanging there, arms trembling slightly. Minjun had positioned himself beneath her, hands raised, face serious. He wasn’t touching her, not really, just ready to catch.
Ara dropped into his arms with a delighted shriek. He caught her, staggered back a step, then held on until she was steady.
Seonghwa’s chest did that thing again—loosened and warmed. It wasn’t just the kids. It was the quiet competence of the other child, the earnest care.
Hongjoong watched too, his expression softening into something tired and proud all at once.
“They’re always like that,” Seonghwa found himself saying. “Together.”
Hongjoong nodded, eyes still on the playground. “Minjun’s always been friendly. But he hasn’t had a best friend like this before.”
Seonghwa kept his tone neutral, but his mind ticked through the possibilities. Single parent? New school? Just a shy child suddenly blooming? He didn’t know, and he didn’t ask. Not yet. He didn’t have the right.
Ara’s laugh carried over to them like a bird’s call.
Hongjoong glanced at Seonghwa. “Ara seems really happy,” he said.
Seonghwa’s mouth twitched. “She’s happy when she’s dirty and loud and has eaten something with sugar.”
“Ah,” Hongjoong said with the gravity of a man discussing philosophy. “So she’s a normal child.”
Seonghwa almost smiled properly. Almost.
They fell into a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, mostly because their attention kept being pulled back to the kids. The wind picked up, and Seonghwa found himself shifting closer to the edge of the playground without thinking, simply because Ara had climbed a little higher.
Hongjoong did the same for Minjun.
Two orbiting bodies around two little suns.
It was, Seonghwa realised with a strange little pang, easier when there was someone else doing the same orbit. Like the responsibility had echoes instead of being a single note, loud in his own head.
Ara and Minjun eventually wore themselves down, or at least ran out of new ways to test the laws of physics. They tumbled towards the bench, cheeks flushed, hair staticky with cold.
Ara held out her hands to Seonghwa, palms up, displaying the earlier paint stains like badges. “I’m hungry,” she announced.
“I figured you would be,” Seonghwa said, pulling out her strawberry yoghurt drink out of his coat’s pocket. She drank with an urgency that made Seonghwa worried that she would choke, but thankfully, she didn’t.
Minjun reached for Hongjoong’s biscuits again. Hongjoong gave him one, then another, because the first disappeared in two bites.
The children leaned against the bench, shoulder to shoulder, their bodies practically glued together even in rest. Ara’s sock had ridden halfway down her ankle, and Seonghwa knelt down automatically to fix it.
As he did, Ara suddenly sat up straighter, eyes shining with a new idea—the look that usually came with chaos.
“Appa?”
Seonghwa’s hand paused on her sock, looking up at her with slightly widened eyes, waiting for her to continue. “Yes, baby?”
Ara’s gaze flicked to Minjun, then back to Seonghwa, as if confirming her ally was in position.
Minjun mirrored the movement, turning to look at his father with the exact same bright determination.
Ara took a breath, and then—loudly, clearly, with no shame—she asked, “can Minjun sleep over at our house?”
Minjun immediately followed, equally loud, equally public. “Can Ara sleep over at our house?!”
The question stopped both dads cold.
A couple of nearby parents turned their heads. One mum smiled like she’d been offered a free episode of reality television. A dad two benches down raised his eyebrows and then pretended very hard to be interested in his own phone.
Seonghwa felt every pair of eyes in the park slide towards him.
He froze.
Not in the dramatic sense—he didn’t stop breathing, he didn’t drop anything—but something inside him locked into place with a click that sounded a lot like ‘absolutely not’.
Sleepover.
At a stranger’s house.
The word wasn’t just a word. It was a set of images; doors he hadn’t seen, cupboards he hadn’t opened, people he didn’t know, routines he couldn’t predict. It was a list of risks that unfurled in his mind like a scroll. Smoke alarms, locks, allergies, pets, medications, neighbours, who else lived there, whether the windows latched properly, whether the man who had just offered him a biscuit had ever been vetted by anyone other than the universe.
Ara stared up at him with enormous, pleading eyes.
Minjun stared at Hongjoong with the same expression.
Hongjoong’s posture went a bit stiff. He looked surprised—not offended, exactly, but caught unprepared. Seonghwa’s throat had gone tight. He forced it to loosen.
“Ara,” Seonghwa said carefully, because his voice had to stay calm. Calm was important. Calm was the difference between boundary and panic. “That’s… a big thing to ask.”
“But we’re best friends!” Ara said, as if that solved the logistical and safety issues of the entire world. “Best friends have sleepovers. That’s what they do.”
Minjun nodded so hard his hair bounced. “My friend in my class had one. They stayed up late and ate snacks and watched a movie!”
Ara grabbed Seonghwa’s sleeve with both hands. “Please, Appa. Please, please, please. We can be quiet. We can go to bed early.”
Seonghwa almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was so painfully Ara to promise early bedtime as a bargaining chip. As if she had ever gone to bed early voluntarily in her life.
He glanced at Hongjoong, trying to read him in the space between heartbeats.
Hongjoong looked back, and there was something in his eyes that made Seonghwa’s stomach drop a little. Not anger or judgement.
But worry.
Because he understood exactly what Seonghwa was thinking.
Hongjoong cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said to Minjun gently. “That’s… that’s something we have to talk about with Ara’s dad first, okay?”
“But—” Minjun began.
Hongjoong squeezed his son’s shoulder, soft but firm. “It’s a big deal.”
Ara’s grip tightened on Seonghwa’s sleeve. Her lip jutted out in a pout so practised it deserved a medal.
Seonghwa swallowed and tried to find a way to say no without making it sound like ‘no because I don’t trust you’, even though that was, in fact, a significant part of it. He finished adjusting her sock, but kept kneeling. Standing right now and looking down at his daughter would feel too authoritative for her.
“I don’t… I don’t know his dad very well,” Seonghwa said, aiming his words at Ara carefully, and kept his eyes on her face. “And he doesn’t know me. Sleepovers mean that… you’re staying in someone else’s home. That’s not something we decide in a park.”
Ara blinked, processing.
Minjun’s eyes widened as if ‘home’ was a magical word.
Ara tried again, louder. “But you can know him now! We’re right here!”
A couple of parents nearby snorted quietly. Seonghwa ignored them, tuning out the unhelpful noise.
Hongjoong leaned forward slightly, as if he wanted to help, but didn’t want to overstep. “It’s alright,” he said, his voice low enough that it felt like it was meant for Seonghwa more than the children. “We don’t have to decide right now.”
Something in Seonghwa’s chest twisted at that—the quick, graceful retreat, the absence of pressure. It made him feel both relieved and faintly guilty, which was an annoying combination.
Ara’s face crumpled for a second, the beginnings of tears threatening like a storm cloud.
Seonghwa moved closer quickly, because he was many things but he was not a man who let his child cry in public if he could help it. He placed one hand on her shoulder, the other on her lap, swiping his thumb up and down her thigh to soothe her.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly as ever, “I’m not saying never. I’m saying not yet.”
Ara’s eyes shimmered, already starting her sniffling. “Then when?”
Seonghwa’s mind scrambled for an answer that was honest without being a promise he couldn’t keep.
“When I know more,” he said. “When I’ve met Minjun’s dad properly. When I know where Minjun lives and what the rules are and… and everything.”
Ara sniffed again. “That’s boring.”
“Yes, safety is boring,” Seonghwa agreed, and tried for a small smile. “But it matters. You know how sad Appa would be if something happened to you?”
Ara didn’t answer. She glanced at Hongjoong, then back at Seonghwa. Her eyes glazed over, filling fast with tears.
“Come here, baby,” Seonghwa murmured, opening his arms. “Don’t cry.” Ara fell into his warm embrace, and he held her close, resting a hand on the back of her head.
Minjun interrupted the tender moment with a huff, clearly outraged on his friend’s behalf. “My house is fine,” he announced, loud enough that a pigeon fluttered away.
Hongjoong’s cheeks flushed slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Minjun,” he said gently, “we’re not—”
“It is fine,” Minjun insisted, and then turned pleading eyes back to his father. “Appa, tell him. Tell him it’s fine. Ara can sleep over. Please!”
Hongjoong’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked at Seonghwa, something apologetic flickering over his expression.
Seonghwa felt the eyes of the park on him again, pressing, waiting to see whether he would be the villain in this tiny drama. He slowly straightened up, breaking the hug with Ara, but still holding her close enough to comfort.
He wanted to be kind. He wanted to be fair. He wanted, most of all, to keep his daughter safe.
So he chose the truth that didn’t cut.
“I’m sure it is,” Seonghwa said, voice steady, directed at Minjun this time because children deserved respect too. “And I’m sure your dad takes very good care of you. But I need to make sure before Ara stays anywhere overnight. That’s my job.”
Minjun’s shoulders sagged like he’d been physically deflated. Ara made a wounded noise and clung to Seonghwa again, half-hug, half-protest.
Hongjoong let out a breath through his nose—not a sigh of irritation, but something like acceptance. He nodded once.
“That’s fair,” he said quietly. Then, a little louder so the kids could hear, “We can plan something else first. Another park day. Or… maybe you can come over for dinner one day, Ara, and then go home. Right?”
Ara’s head snapped up. “Dinner at Minjun’s?”
Seonghwa’s brain tried to freeze again, but this time it managed only a stutter. Dinner was still at someone else’s home, but it wasn’t overnight. Dinner meant he could come too. Dinner meant he could see things, ask questions, assess.
It was still a step, but it wasn’t the cliff’s edge.
He looked at Hongjoong. The other dad’s expression was careful. It was an offering, but not pushing.
Seonghwa’s daughter watched him like he held the entire universe in his hands.
Seonghwa exhaled slowly.
“Maybe,” he said, carefully. “We can talk about it.”
Ara’s face lit up as if he’d said yes to everything. Minjun’s too.
The children grabbed each other’s hands again immediately, triumphant, and began babbling about snacks and films and dragons as if the sleepover had already been scheduled and stamped with official approval.
Seonghwa stood, heart still thudding a little too hard.
He adjusted Ara’s coat and hat with perhaps more care than necessary, then took her hand firmly.
“We should go,” he said, because routines mattered and because he needed distance to think.
Ara protested, of course. “But we didn’t even—”
“Tomorrow,” Seonghwa promised, which was his safest kind of promise; the kind he could keep. “You’ll see Minjun tomorrow.”
Ara pouted, but she didn’t cry now. Tomorrow was a powerful spell.
Minjun waved, already bouncing again. “Bye, Ara! Tell your dad to bring Rabbit!”
Ara yelled over her shoulder as Seonghwa led her away, “He said maybe!”
Hongjoong laughed, warm and slightly weary, and raised a hand in farewell. “See you tomorrow, Ara. Bye, Seonghwa-ssi.”
“Goodbye,” Seonghwa said, voice polite, and then he realised he hadn’t expected Hongjoong to use his name so easily.
As they walked home, Ara chattered about what movies were best for sleepovers, as if she were curating a programme for an event that might happen in a month or might never happen at all.
Seonghwa listened and did everything right—nodded at the right moments, murmured the right responses, kept his face steady. Outwardly, he was calm.
Inside, panic hit hard and fast.
A sleepover.
At a stranger’s house.
Absolutely not.
Not until he knew exactly who Hongjoong was, and exactly what kind of world Minjun lived in.
Ara swung their joined hands as they walked, happiness radiating off her like heat. “Appa,” she said, very casual, very innocent, “you and Minjun’s dad can be best friends too!”
Seonghwa’s mouth twitched.
“We’ll see,” he said, and kept walking, already making lists in his head—questions, checklists, standards—because that was what he did when something mattered.
And, inconveniently, this mattered a little too much for his liking.
➽─────────❥
Seonghwa saw Hongjoong again the next afternoon in almost the exact same way he’d seen him the day before; just on time, slightly windswept, scanning the corridor with the tense focus of someone who had learned not to take anything for granted.
Ara came out with Minjun first, of course. She always did. There was something magnetic about them, like they had an invisible string tied between their wrists. The moment Seonghwa was within reach, they collided—hands clasping, shoulders bumping, words tumbling out so quickly Seonghwa only caught fragments.
“Dragon—”
“My teacher said—”
“Snack time—”
Seonghwa let himself breathe properly, watching Ara’s face light up. Then, before she could turn those bright eyes on him and ask for a sleepover again, he moved.
He didn’t rush, because rushing made people look defensive. He approached like he did at work when he needed something delicate. Calm posture, polite smile, nothing in his hands that could be mistaken for anything harmful.
Hongjoong looked up just as Seonghwa stepped within conversational distance.
For a half-second, Hongjoong’s expression did something complicated—surprise and caution, with the faintest flicker of ‘oh no, here it comes’—and then he smoothed it into friendliness like he was pulling a blanket over a mess.
“Hi,” Hongjoong said, a little too quickly. “Seonghwa-ssi, right?”
Seonghwa nodded. “Yes. Hongjoong-ssi.”
He didn’t offer his hand. People didn’t always like that, and Seonghwa wasn’t here to make anyone uncomfortable. He offered something better: a reasonable tone and a clear intention.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked.
Hongjoong blinked. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Minjun was tugging at Hongjoong’s sleeve, already impatient. “Appa, can Ara come over?”
Ara echoed, “Can I, Appa?”
Seonghwa didn’t look at his daughter. If he looked at her, he’d soften too soon. Instead, he looked down at the ground, crouching slightly with his hands on his knees, bringing himself down to their level without breaking the flow of the adult conversation.
“Not today,” he said, gentle but firm. “You can play at the park for a bit first, and then we’re going home.”
Both children groaned in unison, dramatic and offended, as if he’d suggested they never speak again.
Hongjoong cleared his throat. “We can—we can take them to the park,” he offered, gaze flicking between the kids and Seonghwa. “If that’s alright. They… they seem to have decided it’s part of their daily schedule.”
“It is,” Ara replied with a face that blended serious and adorable.
Seonghwa stood up again. “That’s fine,” he said, then added, “There’s something I wanted to ask you anyway.”
Hongjoong’s shoulders went a fraction stiff again, but he nodded. “Sure.”
They walked together, the children in front again. Outside, the air had that damp chill that clung to coats. Seonghwa made sure Ara’s zip was all the way up. Hongjoong shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching slightly against the wind.
At the park, the kids sprinted towards the climbing frame pretending the ground beneath them was lava. Seonghwa and Hongjoong stopped by the bench they’d used the day before, as if their bodies remembered where this conversation was meant to happen.
Seonghwa waited until Ara and Minjun were fully absorbed—Minjun pretending to be a monster, Ara shrieking with delight—before he spoke again.
He kept his voice low, controlled, the way he did when he was trying to be respectful.
“I wanted to talk about the sleepover,” he started.
Hongjoong’s face did exactly what Seonghwa had expected; his eyes widened slightly, then his mouth pulled into a small, wry line.
“Right,” Hongjoong said, and his tone was… careful. Friendly, but braced. “Yeah. About that.”
Seonghwa nodded once. He didn’t apologise. Not for wanting information. He’d learned the hard way that apologising for boundaries made people think the boundaries were negotiable.
“I’m not comfortable with Ara staying overnight anywhere,” Seonghwa said, “unless I know the parent and the environment.”
Hongjoong’s laugh was quick and humourless. “Yeah. That’s… that’s fair.”
Seonghwa tilted his head slightly. “I hope you don’t take it personally.”
Hongjoong blinked as if the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. Then he gave a little shrug, eyes returning to the children. “I mean a lot of people do,” he said, “but you’re not wrong. You’re her dad. It’s our job to make sure our children are safe.”
Seonghwa felt something shift in his chest at that—how plainly Hongjoong said it, how little defensiveness there was underneath. Seonghwa was used to being judged for his protective way of thinking. Also just as used to swallowing it half the time.
Seonghwa chose his next words with further care. “Ara’s never had a sleepover before,” he said. That wasn’t entirely true. She once stayed with Seonghwa’s brother for a night when work had run late, but that was different. That’s her uncle. That’s his brother. Someone he knew and trusted very well. “So if we ever do this, I need details.”
Hongjoong nodded again, quickly. “Okay, sure. Ask me anything.”
Seonghwa’s brain, which had been making lists since yesterday, presented them in neat order like cards on a table.
“Alright.” Seonghwa sat on the bench. Hongjoong didn’t sit straight away; he hovered, then lowered himself onto the edge like he didn’t want to take up too much space.
Seonghwa folded his hands. If anyone had walked past, it might have looked like a job interview in a playground.
In some ways, it was.
“First,” Seonghwa said, “where do you live?”
Hongjoong’s eyebrows lifted. “Straight to it.”
Seonghwa didn’t smile. “Yes.”
Hongjoong huffed a small laugh under his breath, then gave the address. He spoke clearly, as if he expected Seonghwa to write it down. Seonghwa didn’t have a pen, so he took out his phone from the inner pocket of his coat, opened his notes app and typed it in anyway.
Hongjoong watched him do it, mouth twitching. “You’re really doing this.”
“I said I needed details,” Seonghwa flatly replied.
Hongjoong nodded, a little helplessly amused. “Right. Details.”
“Emergency contact,” Seonghwa continued. “Aside from you. Who does the school call if you can’t answer?”
Hongjoong’s amusement softened into something more serious. “My friend, Jung Wooyoung,” he said. “He lives nearby. He’s on Minjun’s forms, and he’s picked him up a few times when work’s been… chaotic. He’s great with kids, so I trust him to help if I ever need it.”
“Okay.” Seonghwa typed the name. “Phone number?”
Hongjoong gave it, and Seonghwa wrote it down.
Hongjoong watched him, then asked, “Should I be… offended?”
Seonghwa looked up from his phone screen with a raised eyebrow. “Do you feel offended?”
Hongjoong opened his mouth, then closed it before letting out a low chuckle. “Not exactly,” he admitted. “It’s just—no one’s ever asked me like this.”
Seonghwa’s expression didn’t change, but his tone turned more gentle. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said. “I just need to know.”
Hongjoong stared at him for a beat, then nodded once, like he’d accepted something. “That’s okay,” he said quietly. “I get it.”
Seonghwa moved on.
“House rules,” he said. “Screens, meal times, bedtime. What do you do?”
Hongjoong grimaced a little. “Uh…”
Seonghwa waited.
Hongjoong rubbed his thumb against the edge of his sleeve. “We… try,” he said, then laughed at himself. “That sounds terrible.”
“It sounds honest,” Seonghwa said, which was the point.
Hongjoong exhaled. “Screens are limited on school nights. He can watch a cartoon show after dinner if homework’s done. Weekends are looser.”
Seonghwa nodded. It sounded reasonable.
“Bedtime?” Seonghwa prompted again.
Hongjoong made a face that was half apology, half defeat. “Ten, ideally. Sometimes eleven. If he’s wound up. If I’ve worked late. If the stars are aligned wrong. Stuff like that.”
Seonghwa’s mouth pulled into something that was almost a smile. “And do you read to him?”
Hongjoong’s eyes flicked up, surprised by the question. “Yeah, he loves stories,” he said, softer. “Most nights. Even if it’s short.”
Seonghwa found he could breathe a little easier. So far, so good. There were a few things here and there that Seonghwa didn’t fully agree with, like the bedtime hours, but overall it wasn’t a deal breaker.
“Ara’s bedtime is nine,” he said, mostly to calibrate. “She’ll argue, but she goes.”
Hongjoong made a sound of impressed disbelief. “Teach me your ways.”
“It’s not magic,” Seonghwa stated. “It’s consistency.”
Hongjoong looked like he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. “Right,” he said. “Consistency. I’ve heard rumours.”
Seonghwa returned to his list.
“Allergies,” he said. “Does Minjun have any?”
Hongjoong shook his head. “No. Nothing diagnosed. He gets a bit itchy with some cheap washing powder, so I avoid it. Does Ara?”
“Ara doesn’t have allergies, but my brother is severely allergic to peanuts and I don’t keep them in the house. So if Minjun ever comes over, no nuts.”
Hongjoong nodded. “Of course,” he said. “No nuts. Easy.”
Seonghwa even typed the acknowledgement down. He couldn’t help it. Writing it down made it real, and it was a good way for him to keep track of what was discussed.
He glanced up to check the children. Ara was perched at the top of the climbing frame, pretending to be a queen. Minjun was below, apparently her loyal dragon. They looked indestructible.
They were still safe and sound, so Seonghwa turned back to Hongjoong.
“Who else lives with you?” he asked.
Hongjoong’s jaw tightened for a moment, then relaxed. “Just me and Minjun,” he said. “No flatmates. No… no one else.”
Seonghwa nodded while typing. “Any pets?”
Hongjoong shook his head with a laugh. “I can barely keep a plant alive.”
Seonghwa paused. That was a bit of an amber flag to Seonghwa, but he moved on. “Smoke alarms?” he asked, because if he didn’t, his own brain would not let him sleep.
Hongjoong blinked like he’d expected the questions to end sooner. Then he nodded again. “Yeah. There are smoke alarms. In the hall and the kitchen.” He hesitated, then added quickly, because he already assumed what Seonghwa was thinking. “They—they work. I checked them. Recently. Last week. Tuesday. In the afternoon.”
Seonghwa was aware, suddenly, of how this must feel on the other side. The scrutiny, the implication that Hongjoong had to prove he deserved trust.
He didn’t soften the questions, but he softened his delivery.
“I’m not trying to make you feel interrogated,” he said.
Hongjoong snorted softly. “It’s definitely an interrogation.”
Seonghwa met his eyes. “Polite,” he said, “but yes.”
Hongjoong stared at him, then—unexpectedly—laughed. A real laugh this time, short and warm, not as nervous and awkward as the ones before.
“Alright,” Hongjoong said, settling back a little. “Carry on, detective.”
Seonghwa felt a reluctant flicker of amusement. “Contact details,” he said. “Your number and full name.”
Hongjoong gave them both, and Seonghwa typed them neatly.
Then Seonghwa added, “Medical. Any conditions? Asthma? Anything I should know?”
Hongjoong shook his head. “No. He’s healthy. Gets colds like everyone else. Dramatic about it.”
“Children are dramatic,” Seonghwa agreed with a half smile.
Hongjoong’s gaze drifted back to the climbing frame, where Minjun had apparently decided dragons could also be superheroes. “He’s a good kid,” Hongjoong said quietly, like he didn’t say it out loud often. “He’s just… loud. A bit chaotic. But never harmful.”
Seonghwa watched Ara laugh as Minjun pretended to be struck down dramatically. “Ara likes chaos,” Seonghwa replied.
Hongjoong’s mouth curved into a small smile. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
There was a pause—one of those little gaps where the conversation could either end or deepen, depending on who stepped forward.
Seonghwa stepped forward, because he’d come here with a purpose.
“One more thing,” Seonghwa said.
Hongjoong looked at him attentively.
“If Ara ever stays with you,” Seonghwa continued, “I want to see where she’ll be sleeping. I want to meet you properly in your space. Not just at pick-up. Not just at the park.”
Hongjoong’s smile faltered, not because he was offended, but because something in him braced again—like he’d been expecting this part and didn’t like it, but couldn’t argue with it.
“Right,” he said slowly. “The house.”
Seonghwa nodded once. “Yes.”
Hongjoong’s eyes flicked down, then up again, and Seonghwa saw the brief struggle there. There was pride against practicality, embarrassment against love for his son, and the overwhelming fear of being measured and found lacking.
Seonghwa didn’t pretend he hadn’t seen it. He also didn’t pounce on it.
He simply waited.
Hongjoong exhaled, then said, “Okay.”
Seonghwa blinked. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy.
Hongjoong’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I… I don’t have anything to hide,” he said, voice a touch rough. “It’s not… perfect. But it’s ours. And Minjun’s safe there.”
Seonghwa’s chest tightened again—not with suspicion this time, but with something close to respect. It took a certain kind of courage to say ‘it’s not perfect’ and still open the door.
“Good,” Seonghwa said, and meant it. “Then we’ll do it properly.”
Hongjoong tilted his head. “When?”
Seonghwa considered his schedule automatically. Work. Dinner. Homework. The rhythm of their week.
“Tomorrow?” he suggested, and then, because he was aware he sounded like he was booking an inspection, he added, “I can come by after dinner. I won’t stay long. I just want to… meet the house.”
Hongjoong’s lips twitched as if he’d heard the same thing. “Meet the house,” he repeated, amused despite himself.
Seonghwa’s tone remained serious. “Yes.”
Hongjoong laughed again, shaking his head. “Alright,” he said. “Tomorrow after dinner. Seven?”
Seonghwa nodded. “Seven is fine.”
Hongjoong looked at him for a beat, then said, softer, “Thank you.”
Seonghwa frowned slightly. “For what?”
“For not just saying no and walking away,” Hongjoong said, and there was something in his voice that made Seonghwa’s throat feel oddly tight. “For giving Minjun a chance.”
Seonghwa held his gaze. “I’m giving Ara a chance,” he said honestly. “She cares about Minjun. That matters.”
Hongjoong’s expression softened, the defensiveness easing into something like relief.
In front of them, Ara shouted, “Appa! Minjun says dragons can sleep over too!”
Minjun yelled, “They can if they’re friendly!”
Hongjoong’s face brightened with helpless affection. He stood and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Only if they brush their teeth!”
Ara groaned loudly. “Dragons don’t have toothbrushes!”
“They can,” Seonghwa called back automatically, “if they’re in my house!”
Ara spun around, scandalised. “Appa!”
Hongjoong laughed, and Seonghwa—without meaning to—found himself laughing too, quietly, under his breath.
It wasn’t a sleepover. Not yet.
But it was a door opening, just a crack.
And Seonghwa had agreed to step through it.
➽─────────❥
Seonghwa arrived just five minutes before seven hit the clock.
He always arrived on time. Early, if anything. It wasn’t because he enjoyed being punctual for its own sake—it was because time was one of the few things he could control, and control was the scaffolding he’d built his life around.
Ara had been vibrating the entire car ride like a kettle nearing boil, narrating her own excitement in a steady stream.
“Minjun said I can see his room,” she announced, for the third time, as Seonghwa pulled into the street Hongjoong had given him.
Seonghwa’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “You’re not going inside without me.”
“I know,” Ara said, rolling her eyes as if he were being ridiculous. “You’re coming. You’re meeting the house.”
Seonghwa’s jaw ticked. He hadn’t realised that phrase would become a thing. And it almost sounded like mockery, coming from his daughter.
Ara leaned forward between the front seats, her breath warm against his ear. “Are you going to inspect it?”
He glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glitter-bright with mischief as she held onto her childhood plush, Rabbit. It wasn’t an original name, but it stuck with them. It was cream white, pink nose, with floppy ears that were far too long to ever be anatomically correct. It held onto a knitted red rose, one that Seonghwa had to sew back together one too many times.
“I’m going to look,” he said. “That’s all.”
“That’s inspecting,” she whispered, delighted.
Seonghwa parked, got out, and walked around to open the back door for Ara. He did it automatically, even though she insisted that she could do it herself. She could. He still did it.
The apartment building was older, brickwork darkened by rain, with a narrow entryway and a buzzer panel that looked like it had been replaced in a hurry at least once. The hall smelled faintly of damp and someone’s cooking—garlic and something fried, comforting and a little heavy.
Ara practically skipped, her little leather boots squeaking against the tile.
“Remember,” Seonghwa said, keeping his voice calm, “we’re visiting. That means good manners.”
Ara shot him a look only a child could manage—dramatic and long-suffering beyond her years. “I know how to be polite.”
“You know how to say you know,” Seonghwa corrected with a warningful, raised eyebrow.
She stuck her tongue out at him, then fixed her face into angelic innocence just as the lift doors opened with a wheeze.
They rode up in a silence punctuated only by Ara’s impatient foot-taps.
On the third floor, they stepped out into a corridor lined with identical doors, each one as anonymous as the next. A folded pushchair had been left up against the wall, half in the way, as though whoever owned it had meant to come straight back and simply… hadn’t. Further along, an umbrella had been wedged against one of the doorframes, its tip skidding out towards the carpeted walkway.
Seonghwa’s stomach turned. It was the sort of stupid, everyday hazard no one noticed until it wasn’t everyday any more—until someone went down hard on it. Anyone could catch a foot on that. Anyone could go sprawling.
Ara could, too. And that was a problem.
Seonghwa found the number Hongjoong had told him and raised his hand to knock, then paused. He could hear movement inside—quick footsteps, something shifting, a muttered voice that sounded like it was answering itself.
He knocked anyway.
There was a brief scramble, like someone tripped over the concept of visitors. Then, after a minute or two, the door opened.
Hongjoong stood in the doorway in a plain black t-shirt and grey cotton joggers, hair still slightly damp like he’d showered in a hurry. There was a faint smear of something dark on one cheek—not dirt, Seonghwa realised after a second, but what looked suspiciously like a marker pen.
His smile came fast, a bit too bright, as if he’d been practising it in his bathroom’s mirror.
“Hi,” Hongjoong said. “You’re—you’re right on time.”
“Yes,” Seonghwa replied, because it was true and because he didn’t know what else to do with the fact that Hongjoong looked mildly panicked.
Ara shoved herself forward before Seonghwa could remind her about waiting.
“Hello!” she said loudly, and then, with the brightest smile, she added, “Thank you for inviting us to your house.”
Seonghwa blinked.
Hongjoong blinked too, then his face softened into genuine amusement from the little one’s politeness. “You’re welcome,” he said, bending slightly to her level. “Come in. Minjun’s been counting the minutes.”
From inside, a boy’s voice shouted, “Ara’s here!”
A second later Minjun appeared, skidding across the floor in patterned, mismatching socks. He was holding a toy dinosaur in one hand and a colouring book in the other, fully prepared to present Ara with a choice of activities to do for the evening while the two fathers had their boring discussions.
“Ara!” he yelled, and then he noticed Seonghwa and abruptly snapped into something approximating manners. “Hello, Ara’s dad.”
“Hello, Minjun,” Seonghwa said, and gave him a small nod.
Before Seonghwa could even form a thought to introduce himself properly to Hongjoong’s son, the children collided in the hallway in a hug that was more like a tackle, chattering instantly.
Seonghwa stepped over the threshold that divided the inside from the outside. He didn’t announce that he was assessing. He didn’t pull out a checklist. He didn’t make a face. He simply took in the space the way his brain insisted on taking in any environment his daughter might exist in.
The apartment was… lived in.
That was the first thing he noticed. Not filthy—not even properly dirty—but unquestionably occupied. Shoes by the door, a slightly overstuffed coat rack, a backpack slumped against the wall with a school book half sticking out. A faint trail of crumbs near the skirting board that suggested someone had eaten a biscuit and then forgotten gravity existed.
The hallway was narrow. The walls were scuffed in places, like furniture had been manoeuvred through too many times. A child’s drawing was taped up at a crooked angle, a stick figure family with a dragon that might have been Minjun and Hongjoong and the space dragon they’d built yesterday.
Seonghwa’s gaze moved without permission to the practical details.
A child lock on the cleaning cupboard—good. A gate at the end of the hallway leading into the kitchen—also good, though it leaned slightly, the hinge not sitting quite how it should’ve. A socket cover on one socket, and not on the one beside it.
Kid-proofing was there, but imperfect.
His mouth stayed neutral. He didn’t let anything show.
Hongjoong hovered near him like a nervous host, hands fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. “Sorry,” he said immediately, before Seonghwa had even removed his shoes. Hongjoong didn’t even have to ask. “It’s a bit… it’s small. And—”
“It’s fine,” Seonghwa said, because ‘fine’ was neutral and he was trying to be kind. After all, he had to show a good example of manners to his daughter.
Hongjoong’s eyes flicked over Seonghwa’s face like he was searching for hidden judgement anyway. Seonghwa dragged his eyes up from the scatter of shoes abandoned by the door and met Hongjoong’s look head-on. He smiled then—broad and bright and carefully arranged. It didn’t quite reach his eyes; there was something restrained behind it, something held back. But it was warm enough, convincing enough.
It was enough to make Hongjoong’s shoulders ease, just slightly.
Ara and Minjun were already dragging each other down the end of the hallway, voices bouncing off the walls.
“Our dads are here!” Ara announced, as if she were hosting a party and not simply existing loudly.
Minjun shouted back, “They’re going to be friends now!”
Hongjoong made a sound that might have been a laugh and might have been a plea for mercy. “Minjun,” he called, “let’s keep it down, we have neighbours.”
The kids had already vanished into Minjun’s bedroom without another word and just excited squeals, leaving Seonghwa and Hongjoong alone in the hallway. Seonghwa placed both his hands into the pockets of his trousers, smiling faintly at Hongjoong.
Hongjoong cleared his throat with a nervous grin. “Please, come in, I’ll show you around.”
“Yes, that would be great.”
Seonghwa stepped further in.
The living room was cramped but functional. A sofa with a throw blanket that didn’t match the cushions. A coffee table that had clearly been rescued from somewhere—one leg slightly shorter than the others, a folded bit of cardboard shoved under it to stop it wobbling. Toys in a basket, toys outside the basket, toys that looked like they’d given up on the idea of baskets altogether.
The television sat on a low unit with a corner guard on one side and… no corner guard on the other.
Seonghwa’s eyes lingered for half a second.
Hongjoong followed his gaze and flinched as if he’d been physically tapped. “I—I had one,” he blurted. “The other one fell off and I keep meaning to—Minjun doesn’t usually—I mean, he’s not—”
Seonghwa turned his head back towards Hongjoong, expression carefully calm. “It happens,” he said, evenly with a slow nod. “Kids pull things off.”
Hongjoong blinked, as if he’d expected a lecture. His shoulders dropped by an inch.
“Right,” Hongjoong said, exhaling. “Yeah. They do.”
“As long as it’s fixed by the time Ara comes here. If she comes here.”
Hongjoong nervously chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. It was a habit to comfort himself in times of stress. “Y-Yes of course, trust me, I know it’s not safe.”
The corner of Seonghwa’s mouth twitched into a faint, crooked half-smile.
Did that mean Hongjoong knew? That he was aware, all along, of the quiet hazards scattered through his own home?
Or did he only notice the things Seonghwa loudly observed?
It was difficult to tell which would unsettle him more.
There was a faint smell of detergent and something warm—pasta sauce, maybe. The air was slightly too dry from the radiator. A stack of mail sat on the side table, the top envelope unopened. A mug with a chipped rim sat beside it, cold coffee clinging to the inside.
Seonghwa noticed it all and pretended he didn’t.
Because it wasn’t entirely unsafe. It wasn’t neglectful. It wasn’t some horror show.
It just wasn’t Seonghwa.
Seonghwa’s home was much more ordered. His routines were tidy. His surfaces were clear. He’d never let post pile up like that, because post meant tasks and tasks meant anxiety and anxiety meant he couldn’t sleep. He’d been like that long before he was a father, but fatherhood had sharpened it into something almost compulsive.
Here, the apartment felt like someone had been running and simply hadn’t had time to stop.
Hongjoong gestured vaguely. “You can—sit. Anywhere. I’ll just—”
He darted forward and snatched a hoodie off one end of the sofa as if it were evidence of a crime. He scooped up a cushion that had a small ripped seam. Then he picked up a toy car, stared at it, and seemed to realise he had no idea what to do with it.
Seonghwa watched, silent, while Hongjoong attempted to tidy with the frantic energy of someone trying to erase their own life in thirty seconds.
“You don’t have to do that,” Seonghwa said finally, voice softer than before.
Hongjoong froze, still holding the toy car. His cheeks coloured into a flush of pink. “I—I know,” he said, but his tone said he didn’t know. “It’s just—you’re… you’re very put together.”
Seonghwa didn’t like that. It sounded too close to praise, and praise could slide into judgement on the wrong angle.
“Please, it’s not like that. I’m just… particular,” he corrected.
Hongjoong’s laugh came out slightly strained. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”
Seonghwa decided not to argue, because he was here to assess, not to defend his personality.
“Can I see where Ara would sleep?” he asked.
Hongjoong nodded immediately, almost too quickly. “Yeah. Of course. It’s down the hall.”
Before he moved, Ara reappeared in the doorway like a small hurricane.
“Appa!” she announced. “Minjun says when I sleep over we can build a fort and then you and Hongjoong can talk about adult things!”
Seonghwa’s eyebrows rose at the sudden idea the children came up with. “Adult things?”
Ara nodded. “Like taxes.”
Hongjoong laughed out loud, surprised at how smart Seonghwa’s daughter was to even know that word—although she only really knew how to say it. “Taxes,” he repeated, eyes wide.
Minjun appeared behind Ara, face earnest. “Or cars! My dad hates when his car breaks down and sometimes shouts at it—”
Hongjoong pointed at him. “Minjun.”
Minjun beamed, unrepentant. “It’s true.”
Ara took Seonghwa’s hand and squeezed, shouting in excitement, “and when Minjun sleeps at our house, you can make us hot chocolate and bring out the fluffiest blankets and—”
Seonghwa interrupted gently. “Ara. Indoor voice.”
Ara did not lower her volume. She did, however, widen her eyes and whisper-shout instead, which was arguably worse. “And then you and Minjun’s dad can be friends forever.”
Hongjoong’s ears went pink.
Seonghwa let out a quiet, stuttered noise. Ara said things like that the way she said the sky was blue, like it was already factual and decided.
“Alright,” Seonghwa said, patting her hand. “Go play.”
Ara looked offended. “But—”
“Go,” Seonghwa repeated, firm enough that she listened.
The children darted away again, voices fading back into the living room with the thump-thump of feet and the immediate crash of something being dropped.
Hongjoong flinched, then called, “Please don’t break anything we can’t afford to replace!”
Ara shouted back, “Okay!”
Minjun shouted, “No promises!”
Hongjoong rubbed his forehead and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Sorry,” he said.
Seonghwa didn’t know what he was sorry for—the noise, the mess, the fact that his life wasn’t pristine. Seonghwa didn’t want him to be sorry at all, but he also didn’t have the language to fix it without sounding patronising.
So he chose honesty.
“They’re happy,” Seonghwa said simply.
Hongjoong’s face softened into relief. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “They are.”
He led Seonghwa down the hall.
The bathroom door was half closed. A laundry basket sat outside it, overflowing slightly, a towel draped over the top. The kitchen gate squeaked as Hongjoong passed it, and Seonghwa noted the way it held, despite the lean. Not perfect, but functional. But he had already noticed that the moment he walked in.
At the end of the corridor, Hongjoong opened a door.
Minjun’s room.
It was small, barely more than a box, but it was undeniably a child’s space. There were posters slightly peeling at the corners, a bed with dinosaur bedding, a pile of soft toys arranged like an audience. Beside it, there was a bookshelf holding a chaotic row of picture books, some stacked horizontally because they no longer fit vertically. Beside that, a lamp shaped like a rocket sat on a chest of drawers.
There was a second mattress—one of those fold-out ones—tucked upright beside the wardrobe, along with a sleeping bag rolled neatly on top of it, as if it had been prepared, and a spare pillow in a clean-looking pillowcase.
Hongjoong gestured to it quickly, as if he’d been hoping Seonghwa would notice without being told. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said. “If Ara stays over. She’d sleep there. I’d—obviously I’d be in the living room, or—I don’t know. However you prefer.”
Seonghwa stepped forward and looked closer.
The bedding was clean. The pillow didn’t smell musty. The fold-out mattress was thin, but not unsafe. The window had a latch. The radiator cover was in place. There was a small nightlight plugged in, and—Seonghwa’s eyes caught on it—the socket beside it was missing a cover.
He registered it. He didn’t react.
Hongjoong caught the direction of his gaze anyway and immediately said, “That one—I need to replace it. I thought I had another—”
“It’s fine,” Seonghwa said again, but this time he added, gently, “Again, just make sure it’s covered before she stays.”
Hongjoong nodded so fast his hair bounced, just like his son’s would. No DNA test needed. “Yes. Yeah. Absolutely.
Seonghwa glanced down at Hongjoong properly.
Up close, Hongjoong’s embarrassment was written in the lines of his posture. Not shame, more like someone who expected to fail a test and was bracing for the moment the red pen came out.
Seonghwa didn’t want to be that red pen.
He wasn’t here to prove superiority. He was here to protect Ara.
And the room, despite the clutter, despite the mismatched furniture, was clearly cared for.
There was love in the way the bed was made. Love in the fact that Hongjoong had a spare mattress ready at all. Love in the child’s drawings taped to the wall.
Seonghwa felt his judgement shift.
“Minjun’s room is… nice,” Seonghwa said, choosing the word carefully.
Hongjoong’s eyes widened, as if he hadn’t expected anything positive at all from Seonghwa. “It is?”
Seonghwa nodded. “It’s a child’s room,” he said, which was the highest compliment he could give. “It’s comforting.”
Hongjoong let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it since the bedroom door opened. “Okay,” he said, voice rougher than before. “Good.”
They stood there a moment longer, the hum of the radiator filling the silence.
Then Ara’s voice shrieked down the corridor. “Minjun! We need blankets for the fort!”
Minjun shrieked back, “The big blankets!”
Hongjoong closed his eyes briefly. “They’re building a fort.”
Seonghwa smirked. “Of course they are.”
Hongjoong looked at him, a little helpless. “Do you… want water? Or coffee? I have decaf as well if you prefer.”
“Regular coffee is fine,” Seonghwa said automatically, because coffee was the default solution to most things, including awkwardness.
Hongjoong nodded and led him back to the kitchen.
The kitchen was narrow. A dish rack sat on the counter, half full. The bin was closed properly. Cleaning spray sat high up, out of reach. There was a cupboard lock on the low cabinet where the sharp things probably lived.
Seonghwa’s eyes ticked through it all. He found himself both reassured and… unsettled, but not by danger. By effort.
Hongjoong was trying. You could see it in the way things had been arranged. There were safety measures in place, even if a bit wonky. The kind of trying that came from loving a child fiercely and not having enough hours in the day to do it perfectly.
Hongjoong filled the kettle, then fumbled for mugs.
He pulled out one with a cartoon cat on it and immediately shoved it back like it was embarrassing. Then he pulled out another mug with a cracked glaze. Then, after a brief internal crisis, he settled on a plain one with a slightly faded logo.
He set it down with too much care.
Seonghwa watched without comment. He didn’t need perfect ceramics to know whether Ara would be safe.
While the kettle boiled, Hongjoong leaned back against the counter, arms crossing in front of him like a barrier.
“I know it’s not…” Hongjoong began, then stopped, jaw working.
Seonghwa kept his expression neutral. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said quietly.
Hongjoong blinked. “Doesn’t have to be what?”
“Like mine,” Seonghwa said, because he knew that was what Hongjoong meant without saying it. “Ara doesn’t need a polished home. She needs care. And now, I know that she would be cared for here.”
Hongjoong stared at him, as if he’d been expecting a different ending to this conversation.
Then he let out a laugh that sounded more like disbelief than humour. “You’re nicer than you look,” he said.
Seonghwa lifted an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Hongjoong’s eyes widened. “No—I didn’t mean—I just mean you look like you’re about to—you know. Judge.”
Seonghwa’s mouth went thin, because it was true. “I do judge,” he admitted as he shrugged his shoulders. “I try not to. But I do.”
Hongjoong nodded, accepting it like a fact. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too. Just… mostly myself.”
That landed unpleasantly in Seonghwa’s chest.
The kettle clicked off. Hongjoong moved quickly, as if grateful to have something practical to do. He made coffee in the way of someone who’d made coffee a thousand times with one hand while doing something else with the other.
They carried the mugs back into the living room.
The fort was already half-built. The children had dragged a blanket over the sofa and anchored it with books and cushions. Ara’s ponytail had come loose. Minjun had somehow got a sock stuck to his sleeve.
They looked up in unison as the adults entered, eyes alight.
“Look!” Ara shouted, too loud. “It’s our house!”
Minjun corrected, equally loud. “It’s our sleepover house!”
Ara clapped. “And when I sleep over, our dads can sit here,” she pointed dramatically to the floor beside the fort, “and talk about taxes!”
Minjun nodded, with a mischievous smirk. “And love.”
Hongjoong choked on his hot drink—it was unbearingly painful.
Seonghwa nearly dropped his mug.
Ara turned to Minjun, scandalised. “Minjun!”
Minjun blinked, confused. “What? My teacher says love is important.”
Ara’s face scrunched up in thought, then she brightened like she’d solved a puzzle. “Yes! Our dads can talk about love too. Like—like friendship!”
She grabbed Seonghwa’s hand and tugged him forward, physically trying to position him where she’d indicated like he was a piece of furniture.
Seonghwa resisted gently. “Ara,” he said, “let’s not—”
“But you’re here!” Ara insisted. “So you and Minjun’s dad are friends now. Right?”
Minjun looked at Hongjoong with the same fierce expectation. “Right, Appa?”
Hongjoong’s eyes flicked to Seonghwa, wide and embarrassed, like he didn’t know how to answer without stepping on something.
Seonghwa’s mind supplied the practical truth; they were not friends. They were two parents negotiating. That was it.
But he looked at Ara’s hopeful face, at Minjun’s earnest one, at the way the children had already decided the story.
And he thought for a moment, inconveniently, that being friends with Hongjoong might not be the worst thing in the world.
So he said, carefully, “We’re… getting to know each other.”
Ara gasped like he’d confessed to a grand romance. “That’s the same!”
Minjun cheered. “Yes!”
Hongjoong’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, his cheeks still pink. “If that’s the same,” he said, “then sure.”
Ara immediately turned back to her fort, satisfied the adult world was now properly organised. “Okay,” she declared. “So next time, sleepover.”
Seonghwa’s instincts tried to tense again—the word still had weight—but he looked around once more. At the gate. The locks. The ready mattress. The way Hongjoong watched the children with constant attention even while pretending not to, and affectionately at that.
It wasn’t unsafe.
Just not Seonghwa.
But Seonghwa felt a small acceptance turn in his chest, that maybe he’d be okay with it. As long as Ara was safe and happy, and that he knew about it.
He sipped his coffee, steadying himself on the warmth.
“Next time,” he said, noncommittal but not dismissive, and Ara took it as a promise anyway.
Hongjoong glanced at him over the rim of his mug, a question in his eyes.
Seonghwa held his gaze for a beat, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
➽─────────❥
Seonghwa told himself, very firmly, that he was not thinking about Hongjoong’s home.
He told himself this on the drive home, while Ara hummed in the car seat behind him and narrated every single detail of the fort like she was giving a guided tour of a museum exhibit.
He told himself this while he washed Ara’s paint-stained hands, while he coaxed her through dinner, while he checked her homework and reminded her, again, that dragons still brushed their teeth if they wanted to live in his house.
He told himself this while he tucked her into bed and listened to her ramble sleepily about Minjun’s dinosaur bedding and the rocket lamp and how Minjun’s dad had the coolest custom-painted jackets.
And then, after she finally fell asleep—mouth slightly open, one arm flung above her head, Rabbit tucked under her chin—Seonghwa sat at his kitchen table and thought about Hongjoong’s apartment anyway.
It was safe. Ara would be safe. He kept reminding himself that.
The locks were there. The gate was there. The mattress was ready. The cleaning sprays were out of reach. Hongjoong had been attentive in that constant, background way Seonghwa recognised in himself—the eyes always tracking the child, the mind always running a quiet calculation, hands always half-ready.
And still.
Overprotectiveness crept in like a draught beneath a closed door.
What if something slipped past them? What if, despite the locks and the gate and the careful rearranging, Ara tripped in the night? What if she fell awkwardly and twisted her small ankle, or worse—bone too fragile, body too slight?
The thought alone tightened his throat.
Seonghwa drew in a breath that was deep but felt painfully shallow all at the same time, his fingers curling against the edge of the table as though bracing against something that had not happened and, he told himself firmly, would not happen.
At last, Seonghwa pushed back his chair and rose from the kitchen table. He moved through the flat methodically, switching off each light in turn until the rooms fell into a familiar hush. Before turning to his bedroom, he paused at Ara’s door and eased it open.
She hadn’t moved. Still sprawled across the mattress, Rabbit pinned beneath her chin, breathing slow and even. He stood there a moment longer than necessary, watching the gentle rise and fall of her back, committing the steadiness of it to memory.
Only then did he retreat to his own room.
He always left his bedroom door slightly open—not wide, never fully closed. Just enough. Enough that if Ara woke from a nightmare, she could push it open and climb in without hesitation. Enough that he would hear her small footsteps padding down the hall.
He peeled off his clothes—a plain black hoodie and dark jeans, nothing remarkable—and changed into his night things; a soft white t-shirt and black cotton shorts then went down to his knees, worn thin from washing. When he finished, he didn’t so much walk to the bed as give in to it.
He sank down heavily, the mattress dipping beneath him, the day catching up all at once. His arm fell over his eyes, trying to block out thoughts rather than moonlight seeping through the cracks of the curtains. The room was quiet. Too quiet, perhaps.
Seonghwa grabbed his phone from the bedside table and opened his notes app, staring at the top corner of his screen, where Hongjoong’s address now sat neatly. Emergency contact, mobile number, building code, all labelled and filed with precision. Everything in its proper place. Everything accounted for.
He should have felt reassured.
He did not.
Instead, something restless lingered beneath his ribs, a faint, insistent unease he could neither justify nor dismiss. The information was there. If something happened—if anything happened—he would know where to go, who to call, how quickly he could get there.
So why did his chest still feel tight?
He hated that feeling most of all. It was untidy and illogical. It crept in between reason and instinct and blurred them together until he could no longer tell which one he was meant to trust. He prided himself on being measured, on assessing risk calmly and responding appropriately. This—this low, shapeless anxiety—made him doubt himself. Made him question whether he was being careful, or simply afraid.
He set the phone face-down on his bedside table and turned to his side. Sleep did not come easily. When it did, it was thin and fractured, breaking apart at the smallest sound, as though even in dreams he was still listening for something that might go wrong.