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Subject: 🎉 Congratulations! You’ve Been Selected for the Kim & Chang Internship

Dear Kim Kibum,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the prestigious internship program at Kim & Chang Law Firm. Congratulations on this achievement!

Your internship will commence on Monday, 8 A.M.. Please find attached a flyer with all the details regarding your schedule, location, and first-day instructions.

If you have any questions or require further clarification, do not hesitate to reply to this email. Our advisory team will be happy to assist you.

We look forward to welcoming you to the firm and wish you success in this exciting opportunity.

Best regards,

Kim & Chang Law Firm

Advisory Department

From the moment Kim Kibum was old enough to understand right from wrong, he wanted to make the world a better place. As a child, whenever an adult asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, his answer came without hesitation “A superhero.” But while other kids dreamed of flying, shooting lasers from their eyes, or possessing super strength, Kibum was fixated on the purpose of it all: the moment the hero stepped between danger and the powerless. He wanted to be the one who made things right, who protected people when they couldn’t protect themselves. Except childhood dreams rarely survive reality, and it didn’t take long for little Kibum to realize that superheroes weren’t real, at least not in the way comic books and movies made them out to be. The world didn’t work that way. The villains weren’t always obvious, and the victims didn’t always get justice.

The law, however, was real.

If he couldn’t have superpowers, if he couldn’t swoop in and fix the world with sheer force of will, then he would find another way. Lawyers weren’t heroes in capes, but they held power. They could stand in courtrooms and tip the scales toward justice. They could make a difference. And so, the little boy who once dreamed of saving the world decided instead that he would try to make it fairer.

But that decision didn’t come lightly.

Kibum didn’t wake up one day and magically become the kind of person who could thrive in law school. He had to make himself into that person.

The moment he set his sights on becoming a lawyer, he became obsessed. Kibum dissected the path to success like a forensic report:

1. Best university? SNU.
2. Acceptance rate? 8%.
3. Solution? Outwork everyone.

It looked simple enough, it sounded simple enough, but to achieve that, Kibum missed on a lot of things. While his classmates sneaked out to parties, he stayed hunched over textbooks in the dim glow of his bedroom lamp, rewriting notes until his fingers cramped. Sleep was a luxury; free time was a myth. He didn’t have the cushion of wealth or legacy admissions. If he wasn’t the smartest in the room, he’d at least be the most prepared.

So, the day he saw his name on the acceptance list for Seoul National University’s law program, he locked himself in a bathroom stall and cried so hard he nearly threw up. Not from joy, but from sheer, staggering relief. For once, the universe had looked at his sweat and sacrifice and said: Fine. You’ve earned this.

Except, the relief didn’t last long. Law school was a den of wolves in tailored suits.

From the moment Kibum stepped through the doors on the first day, he saw it—the unspoken hierarchy. The legacy kids, raised on courtroom jargon, flashing effortless smiles and shaking hands like they already owned the place. The prodigies, who spoke with the confidence of people who had spent their childhoods debating at dinner tables with judges and senators. They moved through the halls like they belonged. Kibum wasn’t one of them, so he worked harder.

He became a ghost in the library, the one who always left last, the one who left fingerprints on borrowed textbooks.

In an entire year, Kibum made exactly one friend. Jonghyun.

Jonghyun, who talked too much and laughed too loud, who somehow bulldozed past Kibum’s defenses like they were made of tissue paper. They became roommates out of necessity since his parents couldn’t afford to get him his own apartment. And Jonghyun was kind and the type of person who made it impossible to stay distant. From the first day, he treated Kibum like an old friend, like someone he actually wanted to be around. So, they moved in together, and somewhere along the way, Jonghyun became the closest thing Kibum had to family.

Jonghyun, on the other hand, had plenty of friends. He was the kind of person who made friends without even trying, the kind who lit up a room just by existing. Because of him, Kibum knew other people too—his classmates, his colleagues. He liked them well enough, but they weren’t his friends. They were just… people he knew. Which was fine with him.

So, on a chilly Thursday morning, when Professor Kang's announced through the lecture hall's drowsy atmosphere that “Kim & Chang is accepting internship applications", Kibum's pen froze mid-note.

Kim & Chang – the firm ranked first in corporate litigation three years running. The firm whose name alone on a resume opened doors. The opportunity vibrated in his chest like a live wire.

While other students murmured excitedly, Kibum already saw the path forward: perfect application, flawless recommendations, mock interviews until his voice went hoarse. This was the golden ticket to everything he'd sacrificed for.

When the acceptance email appeared in his inbox weeks later, Kibum exhaled for what felt like the first time in months. No triumphant shouts, no frantic calls, just the quiet satisfaction of a chess player seeing their strategy unfold exactly as planned.

Relief? Yes. Surprise? Not even a little.

Seconds later Kibum heard Jonghyun's sneakers squeaking against the hardwood as he barreled down the hallway before slamming Kibum's door open with enough force to rattle the frame. "DID YOU GET IN?"

Kibum looked up from his laptop to find Jonghyun panting in the doorway, his cheeks flushed from sprinting up three flights of stairs. The morning sunlight caught the wild excitement in his wide, sparkling eyes – the same expression he'd worn when they'd aced their first-year finals.

A smirk tugged at Kibum's lips as he minimized his acceptance email. "I did," he said, letting the words land with deliberate casualness. "You?"

Jonghyun's entire body seemed to deflate with relief. "Oh, thank god!" He dramatically clutched his chest. "You'd be absolutely insufferable if you hadn't. Like, world-endingly unbearable." Before Kibum could protest, Jonghyun lunged forward, wrapping him in a crushing hug and planting three loud, obnoxious kisses on his cheek. "We're gonna be internship besties!"

"Yah! Get off!" Kibum squawked, flailing like an upturned turtle as he tried to shove Jonghyun away. His face burned with the particular humiliation only Jonghyun could inflict – the kind that involved public displays of affection and ruined personal space.

But as Jonghyun finally released him, still grinning like an idiot, Kibum couldn't suppress his own small smile. The internship suddenly felt less daunting knowing his personal tornado of a best friend would be there too – even if that meant enduring more of these mortifying displays.

*

Monday morning arrived with the kind of crisp autumn air that made Kibum's blazer feel simultaneously too thin and too stuffy. He'd dragged Jonghyun out of bed a full ninety minutes early—"We can't risk being late on the first day!"—only to spend twenty of those precious minutes watching Jonghyun massacre a half-Windsor knot for the third time.

"For god's sake," Kibum finally snapped, batting Jonghyun's fumbling hands away. His fingers moved with military precision as he fixed the tie. "How did you survive moot court looking like a college freshman at homecoming?"

Jonghyun just grinned, unrepentant. "Charisma, baby. And the fact that judges can't see my shoes."

They subway ride passed in a blur of nervous energy—Kibum checking his reflection in every window they passed, Jonghyun humming show tunes until Kibum elbowed him into silence. They emerged from the station a full forty-five minutes early, the glass towers of the business district glittering ominously ahead.

"Told you we didn't need to—" Jonghyun began.

"Coffee," Kibum announced abruptly, steering them toward the artisan roastery Jonghyun loved. It wasn't entirely altruistic; showing up sweaty-palmed at 7:15 would scream "desperate scholarship kid."

Jonghyun perked up immediately. "Is this bribery for almost giving me an aneurysm with your pre-dawn panic?"

"Think of it as hazard pay," Kibum muttered, but his stern facade cracked when Jonghyun did an impromptu tap dance at the first sip of his vanilla oat milk latte.

Watching Jonghyun charm the barista with zero effort, Kibum couldn't help the familiar pang of envy. Where he stuttered through presentations with sweat dripping down his back, Jonghyun could talk his way out of a murder charge with that disarming grin. Even now, after over a year of friendship, Kibum still marveled at how someone could be so naturally at ease in their own skin.

(There'd been a brief period when Kibum had mistaken admiration for something more. It passed quickly, buried under case files and the crushing realization that Jonghyun's dating history resembled a Netflix anthology series.)

"You're overthinking again," Jonghyun announced, snapping his fingers in front of Kibum's face. "I can hear your existential crisis from here."

Kibum swatted his hand away. "Just calculating how many billable hours you're wasting on bad coffee."

Jonghyun drained the last of his latte with an obnoxious slurp, then grinned. "We should get going then," he said, pitching his voice into an eerily accurate imitation of Kibum's pre-dawn panic. "Can't risk being late on the first day!"

Kibum rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "I don't sound like that."

"You absolutely do. Like a very sexy alarm clock." Jonghyun dodged Kibum's half-hearted swipe and tossed their cups in the bin with a basketball-style shot that somehow went in.

The transformation happened as they crossed the plaza toward the firm's gleaming lobby. Jonghyun's shoulders rolled back, his usual slouch disappearing into the poised posture Kibum recognized from their toughest mock trials. His easy grin sharpened into something more calculated, more dangerous—the same razor-edged charm that had steamrolled professors and judges alike.

Kibum straightened his own tie, suddenly grateful for the caffeine buzzing in his veins.

The conference room doors parted with a hushed swoosh, revealing a space so pristine it looked like a corporate catalog come to life. Kibum's Oxfords sank soundlessly into plush carpet as he took in the tableau, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, the sharp citrus scent of industrial cleaner, the low murmur of voices bouncing off glass and steel.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly around his portfolio as he catalogued the competition already assembled around the glacial white table:

Jinki sat ramrod straight near the head, his perfectly aligned notebook and pens betraying the same quiet precision that had earned him top marks in constitutional law. Two seats down, Taemin spun a pen between his fingers with restless energy—the baby-faced genius whose unconventional arguments often left professors equal parts exasperated and impressed.

Kibum's shoulders relaxed a fraction. Manageable threats, both of them.

Then the air changed.

A shift in the room's energy, like static before lightning. The hairs on Kibum's neck stood up before his brain even registered why.

There, lounging against the windowsill with insolent ease, as if he owned the sunlight glinting off his razor-sharp jawline, stood Choi Minho. His tailored navy suit fit like a second skin; one long leg casually crossed over the other as he scrolled through his phone. The very picture of effortless privilege.

Kibum's molars ground together so hard his temple throbbed. Of course. Of fucking course.

Minho chose that moment to look up. Their eyes locked across twenty feet of polished concrete. His lips curled—not quite a smile, more like a predator recognizing worthy prey.

Jonghyun's whisper tickled Kibum's ear: "Well. This just got interesting."

Interesting was not the word Kibum would use. Catastrophic felt more accurate.

Jinki and Taemin—competent, unthreatening, friendly—barely registered in his periphery. But Minho? Choi fucking Minho?

Kibum's skin prickled with the phantom memory of their first encounter. Orientation week. Kibum’s first day in a suit that still smelled of discount department store starch. Minho’s eyes—brown and unfairly warm—scanning him head to toe before delivering the verdict: "You don’t seem like the lawyer type." The way his mouth quirked, like he’d made some private joke at Kibum’s expense. Minho had said it like he was observing the weather, like he hadn't taken Kibum's deepest insecurity and etched it into his bones with a careless smile. The memory burned like acid. Eighteen months, and Kibum could still taste the humiliation coating his tongue.

The hatred had calcified since then, layer upon layer of fresh grievances:

• The way Minho yawned through exams yet still topped the class;
• How professors leaned in when he spoke, as if his words were scripture;
• That infuriating habit of calling him "Kim Kibum-ssi"with mock formality, like they were characters in a period drama.

Worst of all was how Minho seemed to forget his own cruelty—how he'd nod at Kibum in the halls like they were casual acquaintances, not archnemeses. As if Kibum's grudge was some childish quirk to be indulged.

Jonghyun elbowed him. "Breathe, killer. Your eye twitch is back."

Kibum forced his jaw to unclench. Today wasn't about Minho.

Yet when Minho's gaze slid over to him—lingering just a second too long, Kibum felt the strangest heat creeping on him as he sat at the table with Jonghyun.

After a few minutes the door opened with a soft click, and the murmured conversations trailed off as a man in a well-fitted grey suit stepped inside. He had the relaxed confidence of someone who didn't need to prove anything, running a hand through salt-and-pepper hair as he surveyed the room with an appraising but not unkind look.

"Morning everyone," he said, his voice warm but carrying the weight of experience. He set down a stack of files with a quiet thump. "First off, congratulations. Making it into this program means you're already in the top tier of your class." A small smile played at his lips as he glanced around at them. "But if you'll forgive the cliché—this is where the real work begins."

Kibum found himself sitting up straighter anyway, his pen hovering above his notebook. There was something about the man's calm demeanor that commanded attention without demanding it—the quiet assurance of someone who'd seen hundreds of interns come and go.

The supervisor pulled out a chair but didn't sit, resting his hands on the backrest instead. "I'm Attorney Park, and over the next six months, I'll be your guide through what I promise will be..." He paused, his eyes twinkling slightly. "...the most exhausting and rewarding experience of your lives so far."

A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the group. Kibum noticed Minho leaning forward slightly, his usual smirk replaced by genuine interest. Even Jonghyun had stopped fidgeting.

"Now," Attorney Park said, tapping the files, "let's talk about how we're going to turn you five from promising students into actual lawyers."

The supervisor's polished leather shoes echoed against the hardwood as he paced. "This is a six-month crucible," he said, the metaphor settling over them like smoke. Kibum could already feel the heat. "Every fortnight, you'll rotate to a new junior partner—shadowing, assisting, absorbing. Some will treat you as glorified coffee runners." A pause. "Prove them wrong."

The folders made a soft whump as they landed on the table. Kibum's fingers twitched when he saw the report template tucked inside—neat rows of boxes waiting to be checked, paragraphs waiting to be polished into perfection. His least favorite kind of paperwork.

"Fifteen business days," the supervisor tapped his watch face for emphasis. "That's your reporting cadence. Not summaries of what you witnessed—analyses of what you contributed." His gaze lingered on Taemin, who was chewing his lip raw. "We don't measure attendance. We measure impact."

Kibum's pen left indents in the margin of his notebook. Reports were bureaucratic theater, but he'd damn well perform better than anyone else.

"Now." The supervisor braced his palms on the conference table. "The unspoken truth."

Kibum's throat went dry. He knew what was coming but hearing it aloud made his ribs contract.

"One position. One offer." The words fell like a guillotine. "One of you will get a permanent position at the end."

Jonghyun's knee knocked against his under the table. To Kibum's right, Jinki's pencil tip snapped against his notepad. Only Minho remained motionless, his expression unreadable as he traced the rim of his coffee cup.

The supervisor straightened. "This isn't group work. Your classmates?" A deliberate sweep of his eyes. "Obstacles. Outshine them. Outwork them." His cufflinks glinted as he gestured to the city skyline beyond the glass. "This firm rewards winners. Everyone else gets consolation letters."

Kibum's vision tunneled. The folder's edge bit into his palm as his gaze flicked to Minho—who chose that exact moment to look back.

Minho's mouth curved. Not a smile. A challenge.

Fine. Kibum could play this game. He'd spent a lifetime clawing his way up; he wouldn't stop now. Let Minho rely on charm and pedigree. Kibum had something better, the bone-deep certainty that no one in this room wanted it more.

Kibum would get that permanent position.

Chapter Text

The next day, Kibum woke up resolved to be the best he's ever been. It'd be their first official day at the firm and they'd get their first assignment. Kibum's 8 AM Contracts lecture couldn't end fast enough. He'd spent the entire class mentally reviewing case law while watching the clock, his foot tapping impatiently beneath the desk. The moment Professor Kang dismissed them, he was out the door, briefcase swinging as he power-walked across campus.  

He bypassed the crowded cafeteria—lunch was a luxury when victory was on the line—and jogged to the subway station, his stomach growling in protest. The train ride was its own special hell of delays and overcrowded cars, but Kibum stood ramrod straight, refusing to let his suit wrinkle.  

Thirty minutes early. That should be enough.  

He arrived at the company flushed from rushing through the midday heat, his dress shirt sticking to his back. The elevator ride up felt endless—  

Only to find Minho already lounging against the conference table like he owned it, some starry-eyed paralegal giggling at his every word. Sunlight caught the bastard's sharp jawline, his stupid perfect hair, the obviously custom-tailored suit that probably cost more than Kibum's rent.  

Kibum cleared his throat sharply.  

The paralegal jumped, smoothing her skirt. "Oh! Mr. Kim! We weren't expecting—"  

"Traffic must've been terrible," Minho said looking up. That infuriating smirk played on his lips. "You're late."  

Kibum's grip on his briefcase turned white-knuckled. "Well, I wouldn't know," he snapped. "Some of us don't have our daddy's town cars to take us everywhere. And for the record, I'm thirty minutes early."  

Minho leaned back in his chair, his gaze locking onto Kibum’s with that maddening, self-assured calm. "Early is relative, Kim Kibum-ssi." He gestured to the meticulously organized case files spread before him—highlighted, tabbed, with a fresh Americano sweating condensation onto a coaster. "I've been here since eleven."  

A single Post-it note sat in the center of Kibum's designated seat.  

"Better luck tomorrow."

Before Kibum could retaliate, the conference room door swung open. Jonghyun entered with Taemin and Jinki in tow, their laughter cutting through the thick tension like sunshine through storm clouds.

"Kibum!" Jonghyun called, throwing an arm around his stiff shoulders. "You should've joined us for lunch. Turns out Taemin here is a killer tteokbokki connoisseur." He winked at Jinki. "And this one knows more about 90s hip-hop than my dad."

Taemin offered a shy smile while Jinki adjusted his glasses with that precise flick of his finger Kibum had seen him do during exams. The motion somehow made Kibum aware of his own tension – his shoulders were hunched near his ears, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. He forced himself to exhale.

Jinki gave a polite nod before gravitating toward Minho's orbit, Taemin following like a comet tail of nervous energy. The second they were out of earshot, Jonghyun's elbow dug into Kibum's ribs.

"Hey." His voice was low, meant only for them. "Don't let that rich boy live rent-free in your head."

Kibum swallowed hard. It wasn't fair. Minho knew exactly how long the cross-town commute took from campus, knew Kibum couldn't afford cabs like he clearly did. The dig about being late had been deliberate, another reminder that some people started this race ten steps ahead.

"Did you eat?" Jonghyun asked, already rummaging through his backpack.

Kibum shook his head just as a packaged kimbap roll landed in his hands, the seaweed still crisp. Jonghyun didn't even look at him as he muttered "Figured," but the familiarity of it – the way Jonghyun always seemed to know – made Kibum's throat tighten dangerously.

When the antique clock on the wall chimed once. Precisely at the stroke of 1 PM, the door opened again.

Junior Partner Lim Yeon entered like a thunderclap in a Burberry trench coat. Her stilettos clicked a staccato rhythm against the marble as she surveyed the group with hawk-like intensity.

"Good. You're all here." She dropped a stack of files with a thud that made Taemin jump. "Your first real test – the Park Pharmaceuticals merger dispute. Client meeting in..." She checked her diamond-encrusted watch. "Forty-seven minutes."

A beat of stunned silence.

Jonghyun was the first to recover. "Ah, Miss Lim, shouldn't we—"

"Read the case history? Draft questions? Practice your bowing?" Lim's smile was all teeth. "Welcome to Kim & Chang, children. Here we learn by drowning." She turned on her heel, pausing at the door. "Oh, and Choi Minho-ssi? Your father says hello."

The door clicked shut.

Kibum didn't miss how Minho's jaw tightened at the mention of his father or how quickly that perfect mask slipped back into place.

"Well," Minho said, already dividing the files with practiced ease. "Shall we get to work, colleagues?"

Kibum grabbed the top folder.

The case was straightforward—a textbook merger dispute Kibum had analyzed a dozen times in class. Park Pharmaceuticals' attempted acquisition of a smaller biotech firm, now tangled in allegations of breached confidentiality agreements. He grabbed a document from the folder, skimming the familiar corporate legalese with half his attention, the other half tuned to the murmurs around the table.

To his surprise, the discussion sparked immediately. Jinki pointed out a subtle clause about intellectual property timelines. Taemin questioned the plaintiff's damage calculations with startling insight. Even Jonghyun, who usually played the class clown, offered a sharp observation about jurisdictional strategy.

And then there was Minho.

"Section 4.2," he said, tapping the page with one well-manicured finger. "The non-compete terms are unusually broad for this industry. Either Park's legal team was incompetent, or..." His eyes met Kibum's across the table, "...they wanted this to fail from the start."

Kibum's grip tightened on his papers. It was a brilliant point—exactly the kind of outside-the-box thinking he prided himself on. The conflicting urges to applaud and strangle Minho left him grinding his teeth.

Forty minutes later, Attorney Lim reappeared like a specter. "Time's up." She surveyed them with an unreadable expression. "Remember, you're shadows today. Speak only if spoken to. Breathe too loud and I'll have you waiting in the hall. We’ll have the time to discuss the case between ourselves after the meeting."

As they filed toward the conference room, Kibum couldn't resist murmuring to Minho, "Non-competes don't apply if the merger was never finalized. Basic contract law."

Minho's shoulder brushed his as he leaned in. "Which is why I said 'unusually broad,' not 'enforceable.' Basic reading comprehension, Kim Kibum-ssi."

The conference room fell silent as Attorney Lim dipped into a perfect thirty-degree bow. "Good evening, Mr. Song."

Kibum and the others mirrored her immediately, their movements synchronized like a choreographed dance. From his vantage point, Kibum caught sight of the client—a broad-shouldered man in his fifties who didn't bother rising from his leather chair. His Rolex glinted under the recessed lighting as he flicked ash from his cigar into a crystal tray.

"Lim." The man's voice was like gravel rolling downhill. "Are you babysitting now?"

A muscle twitched near Attorney Lim's jaw, but her smile remained polished. "These are our new interns," she said, gesturing to their group without breaking eye contact with Song. "They're observing today as part of their training."

Song's gaze swept over them with all the interest one might give to potted plants. Kibum clenched his pen tighter, the metal biting into his finger. He'd been dismissed by powerful men before, but never so casually.

They took their seats around the mahogany table. Kibum found himself sandwiched between Jonghyun and Taemin. To his surprise, the youngest intern's notes were an organized chaos of serious legal annotations interrupted by cartoonish sketches of... were those cats wearing judge's wigs?

"Mr. Song," Attorney Lim began, her voice smooth as poured ink, "let's start at the beginning. When was the merger first agreed upon?"

Kibum watched, mesmerized, as she transformed before their eyes—her posture opening just enough to seem approachable while her eyes remained sharp as scalpels. It was a masterclass in client control: inviting enough to build trust, commanding enough to retain respect.

Song tapped his cigar against the crystal ashtray. "June 14th. Handshake deal at the Grand Hyatt. The paperwork came after."

Lim's stylus glided across her screen. "And when did you first suspect they might be stealing from you?"

"When my CFO found our research specs in their patent filings." Song's knuckles whitened around his tumbler of whiskey. "Three weeks before the deal collapsed."

Kibum's pen froze mid-note. That was textbook bad faith negotiation.

Lim remained impassive. "Your merger agreement included a standard non-disclosure clause, correct? Section 7.1?"

"Of course."

"Yet Park Pharmaceuticals claims your team gave them the formula legally." Lim turned the tablet to show a highlighted contract page. "This email from your head researcher suggests otherwise."

Song's jaw tightened. "That's taken out of context."

"Then help me understand the context." Lim's voice softened just enough to sound collaborative. "Because right now, this reads like Park set up this entire merger just to steal your Alzheimer's research."

A charged silence fell. Kibum exchanged glances with Jonghyun—this was more explosive than they'd anticipated.

Minho suddenly leaned forward. "The email timestamp—"

Lim's glare could have vaporized steel. The interns collectively held their breath as she smoothly redirected: "What matters is proving Park's intent. Mr. Song, did your team document all information shared during due diligence?"

Song exhaled smoke through his nose. "Not thoroughly enough, apparently."

"Then we'll reconstruct it." Lim tapped her screen, pulling up a document tree. "Every email, meeting note, file transfer. If they accessed anything beyond what was formally disclosed..." She let the implication hang.

Kibum's mind raced. This wasn't just a contract dispute—it was potential corporate espionage. His fingers itched to dive into the document trail, but he forced himself to keep observing.

Song finally nodded. "You'll need our server logs."

"I'll have our tech team submit the request today." Lim's smile was razor-thin. "We'll bury them in their own paperwork."

As the discussion turned to litigation strategy, Kibum noticed Minho's barely contained frustration at being silenced. Their eyes met across the table—a silent acknowledgment that this case just got infinitely more interesting.

*

After the meeting, Attorney Lim led them back to the conference room, taking her seat at the head of the table. The interns filed in after her, notebooks at the ready.

"Now's your chance to speak up," she said, her gaze landing on Minho. "Questions, insights, anything relevant. Go ahead."

Minho sat up straighter, his finger tapping the case file. "The timestamps prove Park accessed the formula before signing the confidentiality agreement. If we can show they had it beforehand—"

"That would make it corporate theft, not just a contract violation," Jinki cut in, adjusting his glasses.

Lim gave an approving nod.

Taemin twirled his pen between his fingers, glancing at his notebook where he'd doodled tiny scales of justice. "But couldn't they argue they developed it independently?"

Kibum snorted before catching himself. "With the exact same molecular structure? Impossible." He clamped his mouth shut, but—

"Ah, Kibum-ssi graces us with his opinion," Minho said, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.

"Someone needs to correct your flawed logic," Kibum shot back.

Lim cleared her throat sharply. "Enough. What should our priorities be?"

Jonghyun, who'd been unusually quiet, spoke up first. "Prove Park had the formula before the NDA was signed."

"How?" Lim pressed.

Kibum leaned forward. "We need their internal communications—emails, meeting notes, server logs. Anything showing they discussed the formula beforehand."

"Good," Lim said. "And what arguments might Park's team make?"

Jinki tapped his chin. "They'll likely claim—"

"—that they discovered it through legal research," Minho interrupted. "We'll need expert testimony to disprove that."

Kibum couldn't resist adding, "And their financial records. If they suddenly increased R&D funding right after the meeting—"

"—it would suggest they stole the formula to develop it," Minho finished, meeting Kibum's gaze.

A beat of silence passed as they realized they'd just agreed.

Attorney Lim broke the moment. "Anything else to add?"

The interns exchanged glances around the table. Jinki opened his mouth, then closed it. Taemin shook his head, his pen still doodling what looked like a frowning gavel in the margins.

"Alright then." Lim stood, gathering her files. "Our job is clear—gather evidence and build airtight arguments. I'll coordinate with tech to secure those server logs. You're dismissed."

As they all rose to bow Lim out of the room, Minho stretched his arms behind his head with that infuriating casual grace. "So," he said, his gaze deliberately lingering on Kibum, "who wants drinks to celebrate our first day? My treat."

Jonghyun whooped. "Hell yes! I know a—"

"Pass," Kibum said, snapping his briefcase shut.

Minho's smile didn't waver. "Scared you'll enjoy yourself, Kibum-ssi?"

"Scared I'll lose brain cells listening to you outside work hours." Kibum snapped.

Jinki and Taemin exchanged bewildered glances at their heated exchange. Taemin—ever the innocent observer—blurted out: "Wait... did you two used to date or something? Why do you hate each other so much?"

The question landed like a grenade. Kibum froze mid-step. Minho choked so hard on his own spit that Jinki had to pound him on the back.

Jonghyun's laughter echoed through the hallway. "Oh my god, Taemin, please never change."

Kibum's ears burned crimson. "Like I'd ever date someone so—so—"

"Despicable?" Minho wheezed, still recovering.

"Yes! Exactly!"

Minho rolled his eyes. "And like I'd ever date someone so uptight."

"I am not uptight!" Kibum's voice cracked embarrassingly high.

"Prove it then," Minho challenged, stepping closer. "Let’s go out for drinks. Unless you're scared..."

The challenge hung between them, sharp as the soju bottle’s broken seal. Kibum could either walk away and look like a coward, or endure an evening with his nemesis. His migraine pulsed in time with his racing heartbeat.

Jonghyun threw an arm around both of them. "Great! Now that we've established you're definitely not exes with unresolved tension—let's go!"

*

Outside, the sun was setting, as they spilled onto the bustling avenue. All around them, seasoned lawyers in thousand-dollar suits marched with purpose—some hailing cabs, others scrolling through phones with the weary confidence of people who owned the city. Their group of five looked absurdly young by comparison, like students who'd raided a parent's closet, their enthusiasm betraying them at every step.

Minho led the way with practiced ease, weaving through the crowd as the others chattered about depositions and discovery requests like they'd been doing this for years instead of hours. Minho’s laughter came at all the right moments, his nods perfectly timed, but Kibum noticed the way his fingers kept tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. The performance was flawless, if you didn't know where to look. Not that Kibum was looking. He told himself that was only because the sunset caught his eye—because the way the orange light bled across the skyscraper windows was distracting, not because he was standing in the middle of it, haloed in gold like some pretentious painting.

Kibum hated that he noticed. Hated that his brain cataloged the details without permission: the faint shadows under Minho’s eyes that no amount of charm could hide, the way his suit jacket hung just slightly looser than it had last week, like he’d forgotten to eat. It wasn’t concern. It was simply professional assessment. Survival instinct. Knowing your rival’s weak points had nothing to do with caring.

"Earth to Kibum!" Jonghyun's elbow connected with his ribs. "Stop mentally drafting your resignation letter. We're here."

Kibum blinked. The neon sign above them buzzed like an angry hornet, its pink-and-blue glow staining their faces: HOLTZ BAR - HAPPY HOUR 5-7PM. Minho held the door open with one shoulder, the other hand tucked casually in his pocket. In the dim bar light, his earlier tension had vanished—shoulders loose, smile easy. A perfect performance.

Kibum made sure to take the seat farthest from him, the vinyl booth squeaking in protest. When the waiter came, he ordered water with lemon—only for Minho to lean forward, forearm braced on the sticky tabletop. "Make that a bottle of chamisul soju," he said, flashing that infuriatingly white smile. "And five glasses."

The second the waiter left, Kibum's fingers curled around his napkin. "I don't need you to order for me."

"You said you'd drink with us." Minho's thumb traced the rim of his empty glass.

"No, I said I'd come with you." Kibum's voice dropped to a hiss. "There's a difference."

Across the table, Jonghyun mimed an explosion with his hands. "Here we go."

Minho's grin widened. "C'mon, Kibum. When was the last time you let loose? Actually, wait—" He snapped his fingers. "Never. The answer is never."

"I have class at eight AM."

"So do we," Taemin piped up, already peeling the label off his beer bottle. Jinki nodded sagely beside him.

Minho leaned in. The bar's amber lighting caught the flecks of gold in his eyes. "Tell me you've never showed up to lecture hungover."

"Of course not."

"Then congratulations." Minho poured a shot, the liquid catching the light like molten glass as he slid it toward Kibum. "Today's a day of firsts."

The soju burned Kibum's throat on the way down, a fire that spread to his cheeks. He hated the way Minho watched him—like he was a puzzle to solve, a brief to dissect.

Jonghyun whooped, sloshing beer onto the table. "One down! Now do another before he changes his mind, Minho-yah."

Minho's fingers brushed Kibum's as he refilled his glass. A spark. A mistake. Kibum jerked his hand back, but not fast enough to miss the way Minho's breath hitched.

"Scared?" Minho murmured, low enough that the others couldn't hear over their own laughter.

Kibum knocked back the second shot. "Of you?" The alcohol loosened his tongue, his limbs. "Please. I've seen scarier things in contract law footnotes."

Minho's laugh was startled, real. It did something dangerous to Kibum's chest.

By the third round of soju, Kibum's cheeks burned with an unfamiliar warmth, his carefully knotted tie now hanging loose around his neck like a surrendered flag. The bar's dim lighting softened the edges of everything – the sharp lines of the table, the too-loud laughter of his friends, even the perpetual frown he usually wore. For the first time in months, his shoulders didn't carry the weight of tomorrow's responsibilities.

Jonghyun was mid-story, dramatically reenacting Professor Kang's infamous "Statute of Frauds" meltdown while Jinki provided surprisingly accurate sound effects. Kibum found himself laughing so hard his ribs ached, the sound foreign yet comforting in his ears. He couldn't remember the last time he'd stayed out past nine PM without a textbook in hand.

As he watched Jinki nearly choke on his beer from laughter, Kibum realized with startling clarity how little he'd known his classmates beyond their courtroom personas. Jinki, always so serious in class, had a wicked impersonation streak. Taemin, who seemed shy during lectures, now held the table captivated with stories of his summer internship that involved – of all things – an escaped pet iguana in the courthouse. And Jonghyun... well, Jonghyun had always been sunshine incarnate, but seeing him draw out the quieter members of their group revealed a kindness Kibum had taken for granted.

And Minho.

Kibum's gaze drifted to where Minho sat slouched against the booth, his usual perfect posture abandoned. The sharp edges of his carefully constructed charm had softened with each drink until what remained was... pleasant. Human. He wasn't holding court or making cutting remarks – just listening with a small, genuine smile as Taemin described the iguana incident. The bar's neon lights painted his features in shifting blues and pinks, and for once, he didn't look like Choi Minho, heir apparent to Seoul's legal elite. He just looked like a tired twenty-something finally allowing himself to breathe.

At ten PM, reality came crashing back as Jonghyun checked his watch with exaggerated horror. "If we stay any longer, Professor Han might actually murder us tomorrow."

Kibum stood too quickly, the room tilting dangerously. Strong hands steadied him - Jonghyun on one side, and to his surprise, Minho on the other. Their eyes met briefly, and Kibum expected a mocking comment, but Minho just squeezed his arm once before letting go.

Outside, the night air was a shock to Kibum's system. He leaned against a lamppost while Jinki hailed a cab, his head swimming with alcohol and something dangerously close to affection for this ragtag group. Jonghyun, ever the caretaker, was already ushering Taemin into the waiting taxi when Kibum noticed Minho standing apart, scrolling through his phone.

"Your ride coming?" Kibum asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Minho's head snapped up, his usually sharp eyes slightly unfocused from the soju. "Yeah, my father's driver is—" The sentence died on his lips as a sleek black Mercedes glided to the curb behind their taxi, its polished surface reflecting the neon bar signs like liquid night.

For a heartbeat, Kibum saw something raw flicker across Minho's face—not arrogance, but something almost like shame. 

"Kibum-ah! Quit flirting and get in!" Jonghyun's drunken shout shattered the moment.

As Kibum rolled his eyes and folded himself into the taxi's backseat, something unexpected happened. The Mercedes’ window tint was so dark it could’ve been a void. Normally, Kibum would’ve seethed. Tonight, he just wondered if Minho ever felt like he was disappearing into that blackness too. Yep, he drank way too much.

Chapter Text

Kibum's first conscious thought of the morning was that someone had replaced his brain with wet cement. The second was that death might be preferable to Professor Han's 8 AM Consumer Law lecture. He stumbled into the lecture hall fifteen seconds before the bell, his sunglasses doing little to shield him from the assault of fluorescent lighting. Across the aisle, Jonghyun looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backward, his usually artfully messy hair now just messy, his signature leather jacket hanging limply over a wrinkled shirt. Their eyes met in mutual suffering.

Never again, Kibum thought as his stomach lurched dangerously.

Professor Han's voice boomed through the auditorium, each syllable reverberating through Kibum's skull like a mallet strike. Miraculously, the professor seemed oblivious to their plight, though given the dark circles under Han's own eyes, Kibum suspected he might be sympathetic to the cause.

The rest of the week passed in a caffeine-fueled blur of lectures and strategy sessions that left Kibum's notebooks overflowing with hastily scribbled notes. Attorney Lim's case meetings became his lifeline, the only time his pounding headache would fade into the background. Where their professors lectured, Lim engaged. She'd listen to their arguments with that razor-sharp focus, her manicured fingers steepled in front of her lips as she dissected their logic.

Kibum found himself hanging on her every word, his pen flying across pages as she revealed new angles to approach the case. He documented not just her legal strategies, but the way her eyes would light up when someone made an unexpected connection, how she could dismantle a flawed argument with three precise questions. In those moments, Kibum could almost forget his exhaustion, his hunger, the way his hands still trembled slightly from Tuesday's excesses.

He wanted and needed to absorb every scrap of knowledge she offered. Each insight was another weapon in his arsenal, another step toward proving he belonged here. The margins of his notebook filled with increasingly frantic annotations, the pages bearing the indents of his desperate focus.

When the weekend came the apartment felt too quiet without Jonghyun’s usual chaos, no half-sung pop songs drifting from the shower, no clatter of dishes in the sink, just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of Seoul’s weekend bustle outside. Kibum sat on the couch and stared at the empty space where Jonghyun had grabbed his keys before leaving with a cheerful, “Don’t wait up!”

For the first time, Kibum considered if he should have accepted Jonghyun’s invitation to go out. It was an unsettling thought. He wasn’t the type to chase after company, he preferred solitude, the control of his own space. But the memory of their get together at the bar lingered like the ghost of a good dream. Kibum had enjoyed himself. He felt good.

The realization sat strangely in his chest. Sure, the hangover had been brutal, and yes, he’d sworn off soju for at least a month, but for those few hours, he hadn’t been Kim Kibum, overachieving law student—just Kibum, someone who could clink glasses and trade insults and breathe without calculating his next move.

With a frustrated groan, he slammed the laptop shut, too distracted now to do anything related to study. He fully collapsed onto the couch. The glow of his phone illuminated his face in the dim room as he unlocked it. Jonghyun’s latest text stared back at him: a grainy, overexposed photo of him and Jinki grinning in some neon-lit club, arms slung around each other, drinks sloshing in their hands. He wondered if Minho was there as well. Not that he cared, but curiosity sparked in his brain.

Kibum’s thumb hovered over the screen. Then, against his better judgment, he opened his social media and typed Choi Minho into the search bar.  

It wasn’t hard to find. Minho’s profile was exactly as polished as Kibum expected—pristine, tasteful, effortlessly cool—but not in the way he’d imagined. There were no pretentious law school humble-brags, no smug mirror selfies in tailored suits. Instead, Minho’s feed was a quiet collection of stolen moments: a golden-hour lake, its surface shattered by a skipping stone; a scruffy terrier mid-leap, tongue lolling in pure joy; a stack of vintage vinyl records, their sleeves worn at the edges. 

Kibum’s stomach twisted.  

There was no trace of the cutthroat law student, no hint of the arrogant heir who’d sneered at him in lectures. This Minho, the one who framed sunlight like a poet and captioned a photo of a rain-streaked window with just "Quiet"—felt like a stranger.  

Of course, Kibum thought bitterly, he doesn’t need to prove anything.

While the rest of them clawed for recognition, Minho could afford to play at being a normal person. He could snap artsy photos and pretend he wasn’t already guaranteed a corner office at his father’s firm. He could waste an internship spot at Kim & Chang just for fun, just to remind people like Kibum that no matter how hard they worked, some doors only opened with the right name.  

Kibum’s jaw ached from clenching. He threw his phone onto the coffee table, but the images lingered behind his eyelids—Minho’s easy smile, the careless beauty of his stupid, privileged life.  

He didn’t realize he’d grabbed a pillow and screamed into it until his lungs burned.

*

The email notification had arrived at 3:17 PM - "Evaluation: A - Exceptional Work!". Kibum had stared at the screen until his eyes burned, reading the supervisor's praise three times over: "Your analysis of the merger dispute demonstrates remarkable legal acumen." Twelve exhaustive pages. And now, the validation sat like a stone in his stomach because-

"Face it, superstar," Jonghyun sing-songed, sprawled across Kibum's bed like an overgrown cat. "You're the only one who got actual compliments." He waved his own evaluation sheet, a perfectly respectable A minus, like a white flag. "Even Minho only got a 'thorough analysis.' No exclamation points for Mr. Perfect."

Kibum's fingers tightened around his textbook. That was the problem. An A meant nothing if Minho's was just as good. If they were equal.

"You need to celebrate," Jonghyun pressed, kicking Kibum's chair. "Let’s go to this pre-halloween party. You've been studying so hard your highlighters have started bleeding together."

"That's not how highlighters work," Kibum muttered automatically. His gaze flickered to the open casebook where he'd underlined the same sentence four times without absorbing it.

Jonghyun rolled onto his stomach, grinning. "Jinki's going as a 'sexy vampire'. Taemin's debating between 'rockstar zombie' or ‘cute cat’ " He wiggled his eyebrows. "Even your crush, Changmin, texted that he's coming."

"I don't have a crush on Changmin," Kibum snapped, too quickly.

"Sure," Jonghyun drawled, already pulling out his phone. "Which is why you memorized his entire class schedule last semester. Totally normal behavior."

Kibum's face burned. "I don't have a costume."

"Ha!" Jonghyun's triumphant shout made Kibum flinch. "I knew you'd say that." He was already dialing, the phone pressed to his ear with a shit-eating grin. "Hey babe! Yeah, I need a last-minute costume for our resident genius. Something that says 'I'm brilliant but emotionally constipated-'"

Kibum lunged for the phone, but Jonghyun rolled away, cackling. The textbook tumbled to the floor with a thunderous crash, taking Kibum's dignity with it.

“Taeyeon is coming, she’ll bring you something fun to wear.”

*

Against all Kibum’s protests, he ended up dressed as a fox. Taeyeon, Jonghyun’s friend (and maybe fling? He wasn’t sure) from the arts department, had painted his face with orange and white makeup, pinned fluffy ears to his head, and even attached a tail to the back of his baggy jeans.

Jonghyun was trying so hard not to laugh—not because the costume was bad (it was actually kind of adorable), but because Kibum’s expression was so unamused, his usual sharp glare now framed by delicate whiskers. The contrast was hilarious.

Jonghyun was objectively ridiculous in his inflatable dinosaur costume, the green fabric straining comically around his shoulders as he nearly toppled over trying to navigate the crowded room. Taeyeon had painted his face to match – big, dopey eyes and cartoonish scales that made him look like something out of a children's show. Under normal circumstances, Kibum might have found it amusing. Tonight, it just made his own predicament feel that much more pathetic.

"Stop looking so miserable," Jonghyun shouted over the music, his words slightly slurred from the beer he'd already downed. "You look cute!"

"I look like an idiot," Kibum muttered, crossing his arms. The motion made his tail swish awkwardly, which only deepened his scowl. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck – whether from embarrassment or anger, he wasn't sure. Probably both.

The party pulsed around them, a throbbing mass of bodies and noise that set Kibum's teeth on edge. He'd agreed to come because Jonghyun had begged, because he'd promised it would be "just us and the guys," because maybe, secretly, he'd wanted to prove to himself that he could let loose for once. But now that he was here, all he could think about was how much he'd rather be home reviewing case notes.

"I'm not drinking tonight," Kibum announced, louder than necessary.

Jonghyun's face lit up with disproportionate delight. "Bless you," he said, grabbing Kibum's shoulders with his stubby dinosaur arms. "That means I get to be the drunk one. You're on babysitting duty."

Kibum's stomach twisted unpleasantly. The thought of escorting a drunk Jonghyun – and probably Taemin and Jinki too – through this nightmare made his head pound. "You wish, bastard," he snapped, but there was no real bite to it. He could already feel the weight of responsibility settling over him, that familiar pressure to take care of things, to be the responsible one.

The house where the party was being held was obscenely large. Some rich law school alumnus's place, no doubt. Kibum's lips curled as he took in the vaulted ceilings, the expensive artwork, the kind of careless wealth that made his skin crawl. It was too much like Minho's world, all flash and privilege without substance.

Speaking of.

Kibum's breath caught when he spotted Minho across the room, the crowd parting just enough to reveal him leaning against a doorway. Of course he'd gone for the most arrogant costume possible: devil horns perched atop his perfectly styled hair, a red blazer hanging open over his bare chest like he was starring in some cheap romance novel. The low lighting caught on the planes of his stomach, the definition of his shoulders, and Kibum hated how his eyes lingered.

Fitting, Kibum thought bitterly, forcing himself to look away. He’d rather focus on the promise he'd made to Jonghyun, to try to have fun, just this once.

Jinki and Taemin were a welcome distraction.

Jinki, as Jonghyun had warned, had gone full "sexy vampire", though Kibum had expected fake plastic fangs and a cheap cape, not this. Jinki stood before them in a fitted black velvet suit, a cascading blonde wig framing his face, his lips painted a deep red. He struck a dramatic pose, one hand pressed to his chest.

"I am Lestat de Lioncourt," Jinki announced, voice dripping with theatrical flair. The music drowned out half of it and Kibum nodded like he understood the reference (he didn’t).

Then there was Taemin.

If Kibum thought his fox costume was embarrassing, Taemin had outdone them all. His "cute cat" getup was a pastel pink nightmare: a hood with oversized ears, a tail that curled at the tip, and mittens with little paw pads sewn into them. His face was dusted with glitter, whiskers painted delicately across his cheeks.

"Do I look scary?" Taemin asked, flexing his claws, which were, inexplicably, bedazzled.

"Terrifying," Jonghyun deadpanned, reaching out to boop Taemin’s nose. "I’m shaking in my dinosaur boots."

Kibum exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. This wasn’t so bad.

But then, just a few minutes later, Jonghyun disappeared into the crowd, swallowed up by the sea of bodies. Jinki and Taemin were nowhere to be found, probably off doing shots somewhere, and Kibum stood frozen in the middle of the chaos, the music pounding against his skull, the fox ears suddenly unbearably heavy on his head.

The air started to feel too thick, too warm. He could feel the eyes on him – pitying or amused, he couldn't tell – and it made his skin crawl. Without thinking, he pushed his way through the crowd, past gyrating bodies and spilled drinks, until he burst out into the cool night air.

The backyard was quieter, at least. Kibum collapsed onto a patio chair, his breath coming too fast. He yanked off the stupid ears and threw them onto the table, where they stared up at him mockingly. His hands shook slightly as he ran them through his hair, the gel now ruined from the costume.

Alone. Again. The familiar ache settled in his chest, that old loneliness he could never quite shake. He'd tried, hadn't he? He'd put on the damn costume, he'd come to the party, he'd done everything right. And still here he was, outside looking in.

The back door opened, and Kibum's head snapped up, his heart doing something stupid in his chest. But it wasn't Jonghyun coming to check on him. Of course it wasn't.

Minho stood framed by the golden light spilling from the house, looking less like the polished devil from earlier and more like... well, a person. His usually perfect hair was mussed, strands falling across his forehead. One of his plastic horns had lost its LED glow, hanging at a drunken angle that should have looked ridiculous but somehow didn't.

Kibum wasn't looking at the strip of bare skin between Minho's low-slung jeans and the open blazer. He definitely wasn't counting the defined planes of muscle that flexed as Minho dragged a hand through his hair. And he absolutely didn't notice the way the moonlight caught on the sweat-slick hollow of Minho's throat.

Minho dropped into the chair opposite him with the easy grace of someone who'd never worried about where he belonged. The plastic cup in his hand sloshed amber liquid onto the patio stones as he set it down. Kibum watched, mesmerized despite himself, as Minho fished a pack of cigarettes from his blazer pocket. The lighter flared, casting sharp shadows across his face as he took the first drag.

"Looks like the fox escaped the henhouse." Minho said, finally. That voice. Smooth as whiskey and twice as intoxicating.

The cherry of the cigarette burned bright in the dimness, a tiny warning light. Kibum swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "I didn't know you smoked."

"Only at places like these." Minho exhaled a slow stream of smoke that curled between them like a challenge. "And I'm under a lot of stress lately."

Kibum barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. "Right." Because that was rich coming from Minho, who breezed through life like the universe personally owed him favors.

The silence stretched, thick with everything they weren't saying. Somewhere in the house, glass shattered to cheers. A burst of laughter floated through the night air, too bright and sudden, like fireworks.

Minho studied him through the haze, his gaze heavy. "You're staring."

Kibum's cheeks burned. "I'm not—" He cut himself off, fingers digging into his thighs. The fox tail still attached to his jeans twitched with the movement, absurd and humiliating. "Why are you out here?"

"Needed air." Minho tapped ash onto the ground, the motion careless. Then, quieter: "Saw you leave."

Something dangerous fluttered in Kibum's chest. He focused on the cigarette rather than Minho's mouth. "Shouldn't you be inside charming everyone?”

The plastic chair creaked as Minho shifted. His face could be soft sometimes—Kibum had seen it in rare moments after class, when Minho thought no one was looking—but now it sharpened into something challenging. A bastard's smirk, all white teeth and calculated provocation. He leaned forward until their knees almost brushed, forcing Kibum to meet his eyes.

"What is your problem with me?"

The question hit like a physical blow. The sheer oblivious privilege of not even recognizing his own offenses. Minho moved through the world like this, scattering careless words like confetti, never staying to see who had to clean them up. No one had ever pulled him aside to say "that wasn't okay" or "think before you speak." Of course not. Minho was golden boy incarnate, raised in some marble-floored mansion where his every stumble was cushioned by family money and connections.

Kibum's laugh came out jagged. "You really don't know?"

Minho's eyebrow arched. The broken devil horn cast a lopsided shadow across his face. "Enlighten me."

The words burned Kibum's tongue. How Minho coasted on charm while others worked themselves raw or how his casual arrogance made Kibum feel small in ways he couldn't articulate. But admitting that would mean giving Minho power over him, and that was unacceptable.

"Why do you care what I think about you?" Kibum deflected, staring at the cigarette burns scarring the patio floor.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the muffled bass from inside and the distant hum of cicadas. Then Minho leaned back, the plastic chair protesting under his weight.

"You're right," Minho said, tone flattening. "I don't."

He stood in one fluid motion, the red blazer slipping off one shoulder. Kibum refused to track the movement, refused to acknowledge the hollow feeling spreading through his chest.

But then Minho paused, fingers resting on the sliding door handle. Without turning, he said, "For the record? I notice way more than you think I do."

The door hissed shut behind Minho, leaving Kibum alone with the ghost of his heartbeat and the sour aftertaste of their conversation. His hands trembled—from anger, he told himself, not from the way Minho’s gaze had lingered on his mouth before walking away.

He felt small. Pathetic.

And that wasn’t the way.

Kibum stood so abruptly the patio chair screeched against concrete. Minho didn’t get to ruin his night. Didn’t get to slink off after dropping cryptic lines like he’d won something. I notice way more than you think I do. Bullshit. Minho noticed nothing except his own reflection.

He stormed back inside.

The party was a blur of sweat and bass, bodies pressing too close. Kibum snatched a half-finished drink off a table and downed it, the burn of cheap vodka grounding him. He’d show Minho how little he cared. He’d—

Jonghyun.

His best friend was slumped against Changmin near the kitchen, laughing at something stupid, his dinosaur hood pushed back to reveal glitter-smeared cheeks. Changmin—tall, unfairly handsome, a third-year law student who’d always glanced at Kibum a second too long in the library—grinned when he spotted him.

“Kibum!” Jonghyun waved him over, already slurring. “Changmin was just saying—”

Kibum didn’t let him finish.

He stepped into Changmin’s space, close enough to smell his cologne (subtle, citrusy, nothing like Minho’s woodsy fucking arrogance), and hooked a finger in his belt loop. “Wanna get out of here?”

A beat of silence. Jonghyun’s eyebrows shot up. Changmin’s gaze flicked over Kibum’s face, lingering on the smudged fox whiskers, before he smirked. “Thought you’d never ask.”

*

The firm’s library was nearly empty at this hour, the only sounds the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of pages. Kibum rubbed his tired eyes, glaring down at the case file in front of him. Attorney Kang, their new designated junior partner to assist, was nothing like Attorney Lim.

Where Lim had been patient, encouraging questions and debate, Kang treated the interns like nuisances. "Figure it out yourselves," he’d snap whenever someone dared ask for clarification. "If you can’t understand the basics, you don’t belong here."

So Kibum had stayed late, determined to master every detail of the Hanson Corp merger case Kang had dismissively tossed their way. He’d pored over precedents, cross-referenced statutes, and scribbled notes until his handwriting blurred. If Kang wanted perfection, he’d get it.

Jinki, ever the diligent one, had stayed behind with him. Unlike Minho, who seemed to absorb legal theory like it was second nature, or Jonghyun, who charmed his way through gaps in knowledge, Jinki shared Kibum’s belief in hard work over luck.

“What if we approach it from the shareholder dissent angle?” Jinki mused, flipping through a corporate law textbook. “Kang shot down my last suggestion, but maybe if we—”

The sudden slam of palms against wood made them both jump. Kibum looked up to find Minho looming over them, his usually perfect hair disheveled, tie loosened, and - most startling of all - his cheeks flushed with barely contained fury.

“You fucking slept with Changmin?” Minho hissed, his voice low but vibrating with intensity.

Kibum's mouth went dry. The air between them crackled with something electric and dangerous. "Uh-"

"So it's true." Minho barked out a humorless laugh, running both hands through his hair as he paced in tight circles. The movement was erratic, uncharacteristic for someone who always moved with calculated grace. "Unbelievable."

Kibum's chair screeched as he stood, pulse pounding in his ears. "What business is it of yours who I sleep with?"

Minho whirled to face him, now close enough that Kibum could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "Oh, this is perfect," Minho sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "Just fucking perfect."

Jinki rose cautiously, placing a hand on Kibum's arm. "Minho, maybe we should-"

"No, let him answer!" Kibum shook off Jinki's grip, stepping even closer until their chests nearly touched. Minho didn't retreat. "What? You think someone like Changmin wouldn't want someone like me? Is that what's eating at you?"

Minho's laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. For a fleeting moment, Kibum thought he saw something raw flash across Minho's face – something that looked suspiciously like hurt – before the mask of anger slammed back into place.

"Fuck you, Kim Kibum." The words landed like a physical blow as Minho turned on his heel and stormed out, the library door swinging violently behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening. Kibum slowly sank back into his chair, hands trembling.

Jinki exhaled heavily. "Well."

"What the hell was that about?" Kibum's voice came out smaller than he intended.

Jinki chewed his lip, clearly weighing his words. "Minho and Changmin, they... well, that's not really my story to tell."

The cryptic response only twisted the knot in Kibum's stomach tighter. He stared at the door Minho had disappeared through, the ghost of their confrontation hanging heavy in the air between the scattered case files and unfinished work. What the fuck?

Chapter Text

After the library fiasco, Choi Minho started acting like Kibum didn’t exist.

He didn’t acknowledge him in meetings, ignored him during classes, avoided eye contact in hallways, and skipped over him entirely in group chats and project updates. It was like Kibum had been erased from Minho’s reality. Not a word. Not a glance. Not even the bare minimum of professional courtesy.

And Kibum told himself he was fine with it. Better than fine, actually. He didn’t want Choi Minho’s attention. He didn’t need it.

Except, it was becoming a noticeable problem.

Their little intern group was starting to feel the tension, growing quieter when the two of them were in the same room. Even their supervisors had begun to raise eyebrows. Kibum could feel it every time someone hesitated before assigning them to the same task, or shot nervous glances across the table when they had to speak in the same meeting.

But the final straw came during a team briefing with Attorney Kang.

Kibum made a comment—clear, concise, relevant to the case they were reviewing. Moments later, Minho repeated the exact same point, almost word for word. Kibum froze, eyes flicking toward their supervisor, who was already narrowing his gaze like he’d just caught two children whispering in class.

“Whatever you two think you’re doing here,” Attorney Kang said coldly, “it’s not funny. I suggest you both take this more seriously. I don’t like repeating myself.”

Kibum felt the heat rise in his face. Embarrassment. Frustration. Fury.

Because this—Minho’s silent treatment, his petty cold-shouldering—wasn’t just some high school drama anymore. It was affecting Kibum’s reputation. His work. His shot at building a future.

Minho joking around with his career like that? Absolutely unacceptable.

They were one month into the internship, and Kibum couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he was already falling behind. He wasn’t failing, he knew that much, but he also wasn’t standing out. Not the way he’d hoped. Not the way he needed to.

Jinki was smarter than him, recalling obscure legal precedents as if he’d personally drafted them. Taemin was quicker, connecting dots mid-conversation and offering fresh perspectives that left even the junior partners pausing to think. And Jonghyun could charm a room full of senior attorneys without breaking a sweat, disarming with wit and weaving arguments like a seasoned litigator. Kibum admired them for it. Envied them, too.

Kibum’s strengths were quieter. He wrote immaculate reports, thorough and sharply argued, each line polished until it could cut. More than once, he’d been told they were “impressive” or “solid,” but the praise felt distant. It wasn’t enough to be competent. Not here. Not when only one intern would walk away with a permanent offer.

Which meant that letting Minho embarrass him in front of their supervisors was out of the question. He couldn’t afford to lose ground. If Minho wanted to play games, fine. But Kibum would make it clear he wasn’t someone to be stepped on. Something had to be done.

So, the moment Attorney Kang left after that humiliating meeting, Kibum didn’t waste a second. He crossed the room in quick, determined strides, and grabbed Minho by the sleeve of his tailored blazer. The fabric felt soft beneath his fingers, like brushed velvet, but there was nothing soft about the way he tugged.

“We need to talk,” he said under his breath, eyes locked on Minho’s like a dare.

Around them, their fellow interns were trying (and failing) to look like they weren’t eavesdropping. Kibum didn’t care.

Minho, to his credit, or maybe out of curiosity, didn’t resist. He gave Kibum a long, unreadable look and then silently followed as Kibum pulled him down the hallway, past open doors and half-whispered gossip, until they reached a small, rarely used conference room at the very end.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Only then did Kibum realize his fingers were still gripping Minho’s sleeve. He let go abruptly, as if the fabric had burned him, and took a step back.

“Alright,” Minho said, his voice calm but not unkind. “I’m listening.”

Kibum crossed his arms, trying to rein in the storm brewing in his chest. He didn’t come here to be calm.

“You think this is funny?” Kibum asked.

Minho mimicked Kibum’s action and crossed his arms in front of his body. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Kibum snapped. “You’ve been ignoring me for days. Acting like I don’t exist unless it’s convenient for you. Then you make me look like an idiot in front of Kang like that. I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m done letting you screw with my work just because you—what? Got your pride hurt?”

Minho didn’t flinch. Didn’t snap. He just leaned back against the wall, slow and measured, the picture of someone who had learned long ago how to wear calm like armor. His gaze met Kibum’s, unwavering.

“You don’t know a thing about me,” he said, voice low.

Kibum laughed bitterly. “I know enough. You’re the golden boy. Always have been. You can coast through this internship on charm and family connections and that smile you flash at everyone. I can’t. I don’t have that luxury. So yeah, when you pull crap like that in meetings, it matters. It hurts me. But not you, right? You’ve always got a backup plan.”

Minho’s expression didn’t shift in anger—it softened, almost imperceptibly, with something like disappointment.

“You know what your problem is, Kim Kibum?” he said, voice quiet but unwavering. “You look at people and decide exactly who they are without ever asking a single question. You build these neat little stories in your head and live like they’re facts. Like no one could surprise you. Like you’ve already got the world figured out.”

He took a breath, eyes fixed on Kibum’s. “If you’ll let me offer just one piece of advice, it’s this: open your mind. Stop treating people like case files to be solved and dismissed. Listen. That’s how you become an exceptional lawyer. Not just a good one.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

“Let’s make this easier. I won’t get in your way if you stay out of mine. Deal?”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned, pulled the door open and walked out, leaving Kibum standing there alone, jaw tight, hands clenched and chest burning.

*

Kibum chewed on Minho’s words for days before he could begin to swallow them, let alone digest. At first, all he felt was rage. How dare Minho say that to him? It was arrogant, presumptuous, completely out of line. Wrong. Minho didn’t know him. Had no right to psychoanalyze him like that.

But the anger didn’t last.

Minho’s voice lingered in the back of his mind like a song he couldn’t stop humming. And slowly, uncomfortably, it started to settle into the cracks of Kibum’s self-assurance. Could he be right?

Kibum didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to write Minho off the same way he always had—smug, privileged, infuriatingly charming—but one question stuck: Why didn’t he have more friends? Why was it always so hard to let people in? Why did everyone seem to fit so neatly into categories in his mind: useful, useless, temporary, irrelevant?

“No,” he muttered to himself one night, pacing his room like a caged animal. “No. I’m not doing this. I know who I am. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

But the certainty didn’t stick the way it used to.

He felt a dull ache settle into his chest as memories trickled in—friendships he’d let rot on the vine, connections he’d dismissed before they had a chance to grow. Kibum had always told himself it was by choice. He didn’t need distractions. He didn’t need people who would slow him down or shift his focus. He was building a future, and friends didn’t fit into that architecture.

The truth was harder to face: he was afraid. Afraid of what it might cost him to open up. Afraid that trusting the wrong person would pull him off track. Afraid that any softness would be exploited, any vulnerability turned into a weakness. So instead, he’d built walls and called it discipline. He’d told himself he was strong for standing alone.

But meeting Jonghyun had changed something. Or at least, it had started to. Jonghyun hadn’t let himself be pushed away. He had laughed at Kibum’s barbs, seen through his sharpness, stayed anyway. Kibum had judged him the moment they met—too loud, too laid-back, too unserious—and been wrong about every single one of those things. Jonghyun had proven it with his actions, again and again.

And still, Kibum hadn’t changed. Not really. Not deeply. Because even with Jonghyun, he’d held on to the fear. The fear that if he let go of his tight grip on control, he’d lose everything he’d worked for.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t know how to be any other way. But for the first time, he wondered if maybe he needed to start trying.

As always, Jonghyun picked up on Kibum’s restlessness like it was written on his forehead.

“Spill it,” he said casually one afternoon as they sat across from each other at their usual campus café, poking at plates of lukewarm kimchi fried rice after a grueling exam.

Kibum raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “The food?”

Jonghyun gave him a flat look, unimpressed. “You know that’s not what I meant. You’ve been acting weird for days.”

Kibum sighed, stabbing a piece of egg with his chopsticks. “I’m… self-reflecting.”

That made Jonghyun laugh—an easy, melodic sound—but he stopped when he saw Kibum wasn’t even smirking.

“Wait. Seriously?”

Kibum didn’t answer right away. He stared at his plate for a moment before glancing up. “Jjong, be honest with me. Would you say I’m… closed-minded?”

Jonghyun blinked, caught off guard. “Whoa. That’s a big one. In what way?”

Kibum hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you think I’m too judgmental?”

Jonghyun sat up straighter, setting his chopsticks down like it was time to get serious. “Okay. Honesty? You sure?”

Kibum nodded once. Jonghyun was one of the few people whose opinion he trusted, and he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want the truth. Still, his shoulders were tense like he was bracing for impact.

“Well…” Jonghyun began carefully, “I think sometimes, yeah, you can be a little quick to decide who someone is. You’re smart, like, freakishly intuitive, but you also don’t always give people time to surprise you. You make up your mind, and once you do, it’s like they’re locked into whatever version of them you’ve already decided on.”

Kibum’s eyes dropped to the table. “Like… Minho?”

Jonghyun didn’t even blink. “Yeah. Like Minho. And me too, when we first met, remember?”

Kibum nodded, his gaze dropping to the table, too embarrassed to meet Jonghyun’s eyes. The guilt sat heavy in his chest. But under the table, Jonghyun nudged his foot lightly against Kibum’s, a gesture that said it’s okay, that there were no hard feelings.

After a beat of quiet, Jonghyun asked, “Is this about whatever went down with Minho last week?”

Kibum let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. He said all that crap right to my face. Can you believe the audacity?”

Jonghyun chuckled. The air between them had loosened again, the weight of the conversation lifted just enough for Kibum to breathe easier.

“What do you know about Minho and Changmin, by the way?” Kibum asked, more curious than he wanted to admit.

Jonghyun, halfway through chewing a bite of rice, replied, mouth full, “I don’t know anything.”

“You’re lying,” Kibum said, narrowing his eyes. “You and Jinki are besties now. He must’ve told you something.”

“I don’t know anything for sure,” Jonghyun said, swallowing. “Jinki’s tight-lipped. But I have a vivid imagination.”

Kibum leaned in a little, intrigued despite himself. “Then tell me.”

Jonghyun smirked. “Why don’t you ask Changmin yourself? You two are so... bonded now.”

Kibum groaned. “Please. Changmin’s a fuckboy. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. I’m not about to sit him down for a heart-to-heart.”

“Suit yourself,” Jonghyun shrugged. “Just stop obsessing over Minho before you give yourself an ulcer.”

Kibum actually laughed at that—really laughed. Maybe Jonghyun had a point. Still, he couldn’t stop his mind from circling back to that moment. The flash of something real in Minho’s eyes when he brought up Changmin. Hurt? Jealousy? Why had it even mattered to him?

Maybe he’d never find out.

But if there was one thing Kibum knew for sure now, it was that he didn’t want to keep being the person who assumed the worst. He wanted to unlearn that instinct, to start seeing people not as fixed roles in his life but as full, unpredictable beings.

And maybe he should start with the two people he’d gotten closest to during this internship: Taemin and Jinki.

*

Kibum now had set three goals for himself:

1. Be a top student;
2. Be an excellent intern; and
3. Be a better person and a better friend.

That last one was easily the most difficult. But Kibum wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. If self-improvement was going to be part of the syllabus, then he’d study it like he did every case file: relentlessly, obsessively, and with purpose.

So, instead of his usual routine of rushing straight to the firm after morning lectures, Kibum started making time for something new: lunch breaks with Jonghyun, Taemin, and Jinki. It felt awkward at first. Foreign. Like he was stepping into a room where everyone already knew the script and he was still flipping through the first page.

He had a strong suspicion Jonghyun had warned them in advance and given them a heads-up that Kibum was trying. Because when he showed up at the little restaurant they frequented, Taemin and Jinki exchanged a glance, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them, but neither said a word about it. No teasing. No awkward questions. Just room.

Still, Kibum couldn’t help but watch the three of them like an outsider looking in. Their rhythm was effortless—inside jokes, quick banter, a casual ease that only came with time and shared experiences. He found himself observing more than participating, dissecting their dynamic like it was an oral argument to be studied. He knew he shouldn’t do that, shouldn’t reduce people to patterns and habits, but old instincts die hard.

And worse than not knowing how to insert himself into the conversation was not knowing if he even wanted to. Their topics often drifted into stories he wasn’t a part of—concerts, drunken nights, chaotic group chats filled with memes he’d never seen. Every time he felt himself slipping back into the belief that this was a waste of time, that he could be reading a legal brief or prepping for the next meeting instead of sitting here pretending to laugh at something Taemin said, he tried to push back.

No. This mattered. They mattered.

So instead of running away, he took a breath, leaned back in his chair, and reminded himself that this wasn’t about being impressive—it was about being present. About listening, learning, and showing up, even when it felt uncomfortable. Because that’s what friends do. And when Kibum set his mind to something, he did everything in his power to make it real.

Chapter Text

Kibum was thriving. Or at least, that was the lie he repeated to himself each morning like a mantra. Fake it till you make it. He'd done it before. Everyone had. But the words tasted like bitter coffee and sleep deprivation now. He was running on fumes, barely sleeping, constantly pushing through days packed with stress and self-imposed expectations. And as if the pressure of school and the internship weren’t enough, there was the quiet, gnawing remorse about his friendships and the countless moments of staring at his phone, paralyzed by the guilt of unanswered messages. Yet paradoxically, the very relationships that drained him also became his lifeline.

Over the past few weeks, he’d found himself growing closer to Jinki and Taemin. What started as a forced dynamic created by himself had slowly softened into something more genuine, like it had been with Jonghyun. The shift came once Kibum allowed his guard to lower, even just a little. He started laughing more, listening more. He stopped seeing them as competitors and began seeing them as brilliant, flawed, kind people. Jinki’s quiet insight drew him in; Kibum wanted to learn from him. Taemin’s wide-eyed determination made Kibum want to help, to encourage. And he wasn’t sure when it happened, only that it was happening. And somehow, despite everything else, that made him feel just a little less alone.

Still, no amount of emotional growth could shield Kibum from the sheer exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin. He was doing his best—showing up, taking notes, staying sharp in meetings, nodding along even when his brain screamed for rest—but the effort was starting to wear thin. His coffee intake had doubled. Then tripled. He wasn’t sure if his heart was racing from caffeine or anxiety anymore.

As a way to cope, Kibum began taking nightly walks. Quiet, aimless wanderings through the campus grounds when it became clear that sleep wasn't coming. With each passing night, the habit deepened. He and Jonghyun lived close by, so the familiar paths felt safe enough to get lost in thought without truly going anywhere.

There was something calming about the cool breeze against his face, the hush of the world after dark, the way the moonlight spilled over the pavement like silver ink. The silence let his thoughts slow down, even if just for a little while.

Sometimes, Jonghyun would tag along. A night owl by nature, he claimed the quiet hours felt more alive than the daylight ever did. Kibum didn’t argue. There was a certain peace to the darkness, less pressure, fewer expectations. Just two friends walking without needing to fill every silence.

One of those nights, as Kibum and Jonghyun strolled in silence, Minho ran past them—sweat on his brow, earbuds in, a polite nod and breathless “hey” his only acknowledgment before he disappeared down the path. It was brief, almost forgettable.

Minho had been keeping his distance, just like he’d promised. He wasn’t inserting himself into Kibum’s world anymore, not intentionally, at least. And yet, his presence still lingered in the air, frustratingly persistent. He was still charming in that effortless way, still smart, still blessed with a kind of ease that made Kibum bristle. Everything about him, the discipline, the quiet confidence, the maddening restraint, was everything Kibum admired, and hated himself for admiring.

After that night, Kibum began to notice a pattern. Minho, who he’d never once seen on campus after hours, started appearing more and more often. Sometimes running. Sometimes kicking a ball around with a group of students. Sometimes alone, cross-legged on the lawn with a Kindle in hand, as if the world wasn’t spinning as fast for him.

It wasn’t intentional, Kibum told himself. Just coincidence.

As the weeks went by and the air turned colder, the interns finally received what felt like a promotion. They were no longer confined to office work and briefing sessions. From now on, they would start accompanying their supervisors to court hearings as well. As mere observers, of course, but it was a step forward.

Monday morning found the group gathered in the conference room, each of them sitting a little taller, eyes brighter with anticipation. Their backpacks rested by their feet, folders in hand, and everyone seemed a little too aware of the silence.

Attorney Lim entered the room without fanfare, a tablet in one hand and her coat draped over her arm. “Choi Minho and Kim Kibum,” she said without even glancing up, “you’re with me today.”

Kibum’s eyes met Minho’s across the room. It was only for a second and neither of them said a word.

“Mr. Kang will come for the rest of you shortly,” Lim added, already turning on her heel. “Well? Why are you two still sitting? Let’s move.”

Both Kibum and Minho stood quickly, grabbing their things and falling in step behind her. Kibum felt a swell of satisfaction that Lim had chosen him. He had been waiting for this opportunity, hoping to observe her in court, to see the woman he admired in her element. But walking beside Minho complicated the feeling. Minho had a way of filling every space, of radiating quiet confidence that made Kibum hyper-aware of himself.

They followed Lim out of the building and into a sleek black town car. She slid into the window seat on the left. Kibum, trying not to crowd her, ended up in the middle, leaving him pressed shoulder-to-ankle against Minho. He didn’t dare shift, and neither did Minho.

“This case is a bit sensitive,” Lim said, buckling her seatbelt. “But I think it suits both of your profiles. That’s why I chose you.”

Kibum glanced at her, puzzled. What was his profile, exactly? But before he could dwell on it, she handed each of them a folder thick with documents.

Kibum opened his immediately, eyes scanning headlines and footnotes. Lim summarized as they read: “In short, the ex-husband is claiming the mother is unfit to care for their children alone overseas. She’s received a job offer in New Zealand, and he’s trying to prevent her from taking the children with her.”

Kibum frowned, flipping through the affidavits and correspondence. “But he’s not seeking custody himself?”

Lim shook her head. “They haven’t reached any agreement. He doesn’t want custody. He just doesn’t want her to go.”

Kibum exhaled slowly. He understood that this wasn’t about the child at all. It was about power, about control. The man didn’t want to raise the child; he just didn’t want his ex-wife to move on without him. The realization sat uncomfortably in his chest, twisting something in his gut.

Lim’s voice remained even, analytical. But Kibum could feel the weight of what wasn’t being said. He hadn’t expected the emotional impact of a case he wasn’t even arguing, and the sharpness of it caught him off guard.

As he stared down at the documents, lost in the details, Minho shifted slightly beside him. Their arms brushed, briefly grounding Kibum in the present.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, filled only by the soft sounds of pages turning and the low hum of the car engine.

When they finally arrived at the courthouse, Lim moved with practiced confidence, slipping into place at her client’s side—the mother, who sat stiff, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Kibum and Minho took their seats together at the back, their vantage point granting them a quiet observer’s view. Kibum’s sharp eyes immediately began cataloging the scene. The ex-husband’s attorney, another man of course, stood out at once. He had a presence that was expansive in all the wrong ways, his suit too loud, his watch too obvious, the sort of man who wanted to be seen as wealthy and successful. It was almost theatrical, especially when compared to Lim. She didn’t need to try; she simply exuded authority, her aura commanding respect without excess.

He glanced at Minho then, catching him watching too: studying, evaluating, but with a certain grace in the way he carried his judgments. Minho never seemed to sneer, even when he was clearly unimpressed.

The doors at the front opened, and the judge entered, bringing with him a sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere. The quiet that followed was absolute, the kind that pressed heavy on the chest. Proceedings began swiftly. The ex-husband’s lawyer launched into a polished monologue, laying out his client’s supposed grievances with unnerving ease. His words flowed like oil, smooth and slippery, as he set the stage before finally calling his client to the stand.

The courtroom grew unbearably quiet, a suffocating kind of silence that seemed to thicken the air until every breath lodged heavy in Kibum’s chest. When the ex-husband began to speak, his voice was calm, measured, but each syllable was sharpened with venom. He painted the mother as reckless, negligent, even a danger to her own child, accusations so cruel and deliberate they seemed to strip the humanity from her altogether. What unsettled Kibum most wasn’t just the ugliness of the lies, but the way they poured out of the man’s mouth so smoothly, as if deceit were second nature. The courtroom absorbed the words with unnerving stillness, and for a terrifying moment, Kibum couldn’t tell whether people might actually believe them.

Something about it hit too close. The imbalance of power, the way truth could be twisted until it resembled something unrecognizable, the helplessness of watching someone’s character dismantled in front of an audience. It pressed against old wounds he usually kept buried. His heart lurched into a frantic rhythm, his skin prickling cold even as his body burned with restless energy. Every muscle urged him to run, to get out, but he couldn’t move. His mind screamed at him that he was trapped, that this was spiraling out of control, and suddenly it was too much. Too loud in its silence, too cruel in its ease, too dangerous in its familiarity. Panic clamped down on him before he could stop it.

The man’s words blurred into noise. Kibum’s hands started to tremble, the edges of his vision softening like frost creeping up glass. His chest tightened as if bound by invisible wire, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if he was angry, heartbroken, or both. His throat ached. His heart thudded too fast.

Then he stood. He didn’t think, didn’t plan. His body simply took over. Kibum pushed out of his seat and slipped from the courtroom without a word, weaving past rows of startled observers. By the time he made it into the hallway, his breath was coming in short, broken bursts. His legs moved fast, almost clumsily, until he found the nearest bathroom.

Inside, the light was too bright. The tiles felt like they were spinning beneath his feet. He leaned against the sink, but the cold porcelain didn’t ground him. His fingers gripped the edge, white-knuckled, until he couldn’t hold on anymore. He stumbled back and began pacing. His breathing grew uneven. Shallow. His chest burned. Tears clouded his eyes, and no thought could form—just raw, frantic panic.

The door creaked open behind him. Footsteps. Someone else entered.

Kibum flinched, instinct screaming at him to leave, to find somewhere else, anywhere else to be alone. But when he turned to bolt, the way out was blocked.

Minho.

He was just standing there, hesitant but calm, his broad frame still and unmoving like a dam holding back a flood.

“Kibum,” Minho said gently, his voice stripped of sarcasm, stripped of ego. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Kibum opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A stuttering breath, a half-formed syllable. His throat tightened again.

“I—” he tried, but the word cracked in two.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Minho said, taking a slow step forward, both hands raised in front of him—not touching, just offering. “You don’t have to talk. Just breathe.”

But breathing felt impossible. Kibum was breathing, technically, but every inhale was too fast and every exhale too short. The room was tilting again.

Without waiting, Minho closed the distance. He reached out, gently but firmly taking Kibum’s arm and guiding him back, until Kibum’s back met the cool tile wall. Then Minho crouched down in front of him, urging him to slide down too.

Kibum didn’t even care about the grime of the bathroom floor. He just let himself sink.

Minho sat beside him, close but not crowding. Then he reached out, slowly taking Kibum’s trembling hand and placing it over his own chest. His palm was warm, his heartbeat steady. He held Kibum’s hand there with his own.

“Feel that?” Minho said, voice low and even. “Breathe with me. Just match it. In…”

He inhaled slowly, deeply.

“…and out.”

He exhaled just as slowly.

Kibum focused on the rhythm beneath his palm. In. Out. The rise and fall of Minho’s chest anchored him, each breath a small rope pulling him back from the brink.

They stayed like that—silent except for breathing—for what felt like both an eternity and no time at all.

Gradually, the storm began to pass. Kibum’s breathing slowed. The tremors in his hands dulled. His vision cleared. The ache in his chest faded, replaced by a hollow sort of stillness.

He became aware of everything again. The cool tile at his back. The faint hum of the bathroom’s fluorescent light. The press of Minho’s hand over his. And the warmth.

He looked up. Finally, fully.

Minho was already watching him, eyes soft and dark and impossibly sincere. No smugness. No mask. Just Minho, open and concerned and somehow more disarming than Kibum had ever seen him.

Kibum blinked slowly, lashes still damp, vision clearing little by little. His mouth parted. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words stayed lodged somewhere deep in his throat. All he could do was breathe, shallow and uneven, still tethered to the quiet rhythm of Minho’s chest beneath his hand.

“Better?” Minho asked, his voice so gentle it almost didn’t feel real. He didn’t move, didn’t shift his gaze. His hand remained on Kibum’s, steady and grounding, like he wasn’t ready to let go either.

And for a moment, Kibum wished Minho hadn’t spoken. He wished the silence could stretch just a little longer—that they could stay suspended in this strange, quiet pocket of time where everything had cracked open but somehow didn’t hurt as much. Now that he had said something, reality was creeping back in.

Kibum blinked again and slowly pulled his hand away, fingers curling into his lap as if trying to hide. He gave a small nod in answer, not trusting his voice. Yes. He was better. Better than before. But still not quite okay.

Minho stood, unfolding his long frame with a grace Kibum had always pretended not to notice. “I’m going to get you some water, okay?” he said softly. “Stay here.”

And just like that, Minho was gone.

The door swung shut with a hollow click, and the silence that followed was unbearable.

The bathroom suddenly felt cavernous. Too big. Too echoey. Kibum stood up on shaky legs and stumbled toward the sink, gripping the edge just to feel something solid. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, unforgiving and cold. He looked up and stared at his reflection.

Red-rimmed eyes. Blotchy cheeks. Hair flattened awkwardly against his forehead. He looked… raw. Like someone cracked open, a version of himself that no one was supposed to see.

He leaned forward, splashing cold water on his face, hoping it would snap him out of it. But all it did was make him colder.

The door creaked open again, and he quickly turned away from the mirror.

“There you go,” Minho said, walking in and holding out a small bottle of water.

Kibum took it without a word. Their fingers brushed again, a whisper of contact. He twisted the cap and drank slowly, more for something to do than because he was thirsty.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, eyes on the floor.

Minho didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back against the tiled wall, arms loosely crossed, watching him. Not in a judgmental way, just… observing. Like he was still trying to figure out what Kibum needed and didn’t want to assume too much.

“You don’t have to go back in if you’re not ready,” Minho said after a while. “I can tell Lim something came up. She’ll understand.”

Kibum shook his head slowly and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “No. I want to go back. I need to.”

Minho didn’t press further. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said simply, his tone steady. He stood by the door, waiting, giving Kibum space to move first, like a promise not to walk ahead or leave him behind.

Kibum tossed the bottle into the trash and straightened his jacket. Without another word, he stepped out of the restroom and started down the hall toward the courtroom. Minho fell into step beside him, silent, a steady presence.

The rest of the hearing was a blur. Kibum sat rigidly in his seat, eyes trained on the man speaking at the stand, but the words washed over him without meaning. His heart wasn’t in it and his head, even less. It kept pulling him back to the bathroom, to the tightness in his chest, to Minho’s hand on his.

He felt exposed. He hated that Minho had seen him like that, so vulnerable, gasping for breath like a child. And now that the adrenaline had faded, shame had crept in. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe all the ambition and poise he worked so hard to project were just that—projection. A mask. And now it was slipping.

What if Lim noticed? What if she regretted picking him? What if he was never really convincing to begin with?

When the hearing ended, Attorney Lim gathered the interns in the hallway for a quick debrief. Her tone was calm, professional as always.

“There will be additional sessions before we get a final decision,” she explained. “But based on today, the ex-husband’s arguments are weak. I doubt he’ll get what he wants.”

Kibum listened, nodded in the right places, but barely registered her words. If Lim noticed how quiet he was, she didn’t comment. She dismissed the group with a quick smile and offered them a ride back to the firm.

“I’ll take the train,” Kibum said quickly. “It’s closer to home.”

Lim nodded without protest. But before Kibum could make it to the station, Minho was already walking beside him again.

“You gonna stalk me now?” Kibum asked dryly, not even looking at him.

Minho shrugged. “I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“I’ll be fine,” Kibum replied, flat. “That wasn’t my first panic attack.”

Minho frowned. “You say that like it’s something to be proud of.”

“And you act like you care,” Kibum shot back, his tone sharp as glass. The armor was back in place: thick, cold, and familiar.

Minho gave a short laugh, humorless. “Whatever. It’s a public street. You can’t stop me from walking on it.”

“Then just say whatever it is you’re dying to say.”

Minho paused, then sighed. “I think you need a distraction. Let’s go somewhere.”

Kibum exhaled hard through his nose. “What I need is to go home, take a shower, and pretend today didn’t happen.”

But Minho didn’t back down. He reached out, his fingers wrapping gently around Kibum’s wrist—not tight, just enough to stop him mid-step.

“Hey,” he said. “I helped you back there, didn’t I?”

Kibum didn’t reply.

“So now I’m asking you to help me. I don’t want to go home. I need a distraction too. Just come with me for a bit.”

There was something in Minho’s eyes again. That flicker of honesty, rare and disarming. Kibum didn’t understand it. Why didn’t Minho want to go home? What was waiting for him there—or not waiting?

Kibum sighed. Again.

“One hour. That’s all I’m giving you.”

Minho’s lips curved into a relieved smile, but not smug. “I’ll take it. Come on.”

He led Kibum down the sidewalk, and a sleek black car pulled away from the curb just a few feet behind them.

Kibum narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Was that car following us?”

“Yes,” Minho said casually as he pulled the car door open. “Obviously.”

Kibum shot him a sideways glance. “Why does that not surprise me?” he muttered, ducking inside.

The car slid away from the curb with quiet elegance as Minho murmured something to the driver. Kibum sat stiffly, still unsure what he’d just agreed to. Whatever he’d been expecting from Minho—a rooftop lounge, some glitzy bar in Gangnam—it definitely wasn’t this.

The car pulled up in front of a small, weathered storefront, its sign barely lit, letters in faded red and gold script. Inside, the place looked more like an old convenience store than a restaurant. Linoleum floors, a flickering ceiling light, and mismatched plastic chairs tucked under wobbly tables. It smelled like soy sauce and garlic and something fried. It wasn’t bad, just... unexpected.

An elderly woman behind the counter broke into a wide grin when she saw Minho. She greeted him in fluent Mandarin, her tone warm and familiar. And of course, Minho replied in perfect Mandarin, his voice softer than Kibum was used to hearing.

“You speak Mandarin?” Kibum asked as they made their way to a table and sat down across from each other.

Minho quirked a brow. “You don’t?”

Kibum groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh my God.”

“I’m just teasing,” Minho said with a chuckle, unfazed.

He reached for the laminated menu. “This place has the best Chinese food you’ll ever eat in Korea. Honestly? Maybe even in China.”

Kibum raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’ve been to China a lot, then?”

“A few times,” Minho said, flipping casually through the menu. “My dad has a lot of business there. Chinese clients, mostly.”

Kibum made a vague noise in response. “Of course he does.”

They placed their order—Minho insisted on ordering in Mandarin, and the woman fussed over him like he was her own grandson. Kibum leaned back in his seat, watching the interaction with a strange feeling curling in his chest.

Once the food was on its way, Kibum couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“So,” he began, leveling a look at Minho, “are you gonna tell me why you needed my help to not go home? You could’ve come here by yourself.”

Minho hesitated. For a second, the confident gleam in his eye dulled, replaced by something more guarded. He looked away, fiddling with his chopsticks.

“I suppose I could’ve,” he said slowly. “But... my dad’s a little overprotective.”

Kibum didn’t say anything, letting the silence pull more out of him.

Minho exhaled, glancing around before continuing. “You know the guy who drove us here?”

Kibum nodded.

“He says he’s my bodyguard. My father calls him that, anyway. But let’s be honest, it’s just a dressed-up word for 'spy'. My dad pays him to follow me around. Keeps tabs. Reports back.”

Kibum blinked, surprised. He didn’t quite know what to say to that. It was... invasive, even for someone like Minho.

“I got lucky,” Minho added, his voice lower. “He’s a decent guy. Doesn’t hover when I’m with friends, lets me breathe a little.”

Kibum frowned, studying him. “But why would your dad even need to do that? Why spy on you?”

Minho looked down, drumming his fingers softly on the table. “That’s... a whole other story,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And I don’t want to ruin the food before it even gets here.”

Kibum didn’t push. But for the first time, he saw something in Minho he hadn’t before: a kind of quiet loneliness hiding beneath all that polish and privilege. He felt the urge to know more, a type of curiosity that wasn’t usually part of Kibum’s thoughts. He usually didn’t care much about people’s personal lives, first because it wasn’t any of his business, second because he wasn’t interested. But, somehow and for some reason, he cared about what Minho had to say. And maybe it was Jonghyun’s influence, or Jinki and Taemin, he didn’t know. But just the fact that Minho didn’t bore or annoyed him to death, Kibum considered that as an improvement. And what Minho was saying about his father intrigued Kibum, it was absolutely not what he imagined of the oh so perfect Choi family.

“Do you think Lim will win?” Kibum asked as a way to change the subject and distract Minho and himself from thinking about Minho’s complexity.

“Oh, definitely. She has all the proof that miss Lee is a perfectly capable parent.” Minho said.

Kibum agreed. It was somehow an easy win even thought the case was so nasty. The law was on the mother’s side. The only kind of “proof” the father had was this one time the kid had hurt himself on school and the mother wouldn’t pick up her phone right away so the dad had to take the kid to hospital and he kept using that to say she was negligent. Kibum’s skin prickled thinking about that, the flashes of the panic attack coming back, but more than that, the feeling of Minho’s hand on his and the warmth of his presence on the cold bathroom. Kibum shook himself as the food arrived. Thank God for the distraction.

Minho had ordered some noodles and dumplings and everything tasted as good as it smelled. It was the best Chinese food Kibum had ever tasted. Kibum, who had a weakness for good food, felt his mood lift almost instantly. Eating well had always been his way of grounding himself. But even as Kibum savored the meal, he noticed that Minho barely seemed to taste his own. His movements were stiff, his posture too tight, and though his smile appeared when conversation called for it, his eyes remained distant, caught on thoughts that clearly weren’t at the table. Kibum didn’t press. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

After dinner, when the check came, they split it neatly down the middle. Minho offered, almost insisted, on driving Kibum home, but Kibum shook his head with a sharp refusal, insisting on the train instead. As he rode the train back, the day weighed on him. The courtroom, the lies, the panic clawing at his chest, Minho’s unexpected softness, the dinner that had been strangely pleasant—it all circled in his head until exhaustion settled heavy in his bones.

When he finally pushed open the door to the apartment, relief swept over him. Jonghyun was home. Kibum found him curled up on their secondhand couch, a bowl of ramen in hand, eyes fixed on some documentary flickering on the TV. The familiar, easy warmth of Jonghyun’s smile greeted him the second he stepped inside. He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and padded over to sink onto the couch beside him.

“Today was the weirdest day ever,” he said, the words slipping out before he even thought about them.

That caught Jonghyun’s attention. He set down his chopsticks, straightening slightly, ready to listen.

“Can you believe Minho was actually nice to me?” Kibum added, shaking his head as though the statement itself was absurd.

“Oh?” Jonghyun’s eyebrows lifted, amusement flickering across his face.

“Yeah. Oh.” Kibum leaned back against the cushions with a sigh. “We had dinner. Just the two of us. And we didn’t even try to kill each other.”

Jonghyun grinned. “Shocking. Did the world end while I wasn’t paying attention?”

“Very funny,” Kibum muttered, though his lips tugged into the ghost of a smile.

“And what did you guys talk about?”

Kibum hesitated. His mind flickered to Minho’s quiet admission, the shadows that had passed over his features, the loneliness he’d glimpsed beneath the polish. But that wasn’t his story to tell.

“Mostly about the hearing,” he said, which wasn’t a lie, just not the whole truth.

Jonghyun tilted his head, studying him with that sharpness that always made Kibum feel exposed. “Just that? You look... unsettled. That doesn’t sound like ‘just about the hearing.’”

Kibum scoffed and reached for the ramen bowl, stealing a bite without asking. “Maybe I’m just tired. Ever think of that?”

“Mm, sure,” Jonghyun said, not pressing but clearly unconvinced. His tone softened. “But you know you can tell me if something’s bothering you, right?”

Kibum’s chopsticks hovered over the bowl for a moment before he set them back down. He wasn’t ready to unravel the knot of emotions Minho had left him with, not when he barely understood them himself. Instead, he leaned back into the couch, letting his shoulder bump gently against Jonghyun’s.

“Don’t go all therapist on me,” Kibum muttered. “I just said today was weird, not tragic.”

Jonghyun laughed quietly. “Weird and tragic usually overlap for you.”

Kibum rolled his eyes, but the warmth of Jonghyun’s teasing grounded him.

“Well, I’m gonna shower,” he said finally, dragging himself up from the couch. “I feel like today’s been a year long.”

But going under the cascade of hot water didn’t ease Kibum’s thoughts the way it soothed his body. The steam wrapped around him, and when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t blankness that met him, it was Minho. Those steady, impossibly gentle eyes. The warmth of his hand anchoring Kibum when he thought he might come apart. He should have pushed the thought away. He should have shoved it down where it couldn’t reach him. But he was too exhausted. So, he let it come, let it spread through him.

He couldn’t deny it, not in the privacy of his own head, that Minho was beautiful. Striking in a way that bordered on unfair. His presence filled a room with ease, and his body, all sharp lines and sculpted strength, carried itself like something carved out of marble. A Greek statue brought to life.

The memory of his hand lingered most of all, strong but careful, as if Minho could hold him together if he wanted to.

Heat pooled low in Kibum’s stomach, coiling tighter as his mind betrayed him. He imagined Minho close, imagined the press of that chest against his back, the weight of him filling the small space, steam curling around them both. He was already hard, aching, and Kibum’s hand slipped down without hesitation, wrapping around himself.

But it didn’t feel like his own hand. In his mind, it was Minho’s. Larger, firmer, stroking him with the same steady confidence as his grip in the bathroom. The fantasy sharpened: Minho pressing him against the wall, lips at his neck, chest against his shoulders, holding him in place like Kibum belonged there. The thought made him gasp, hips jerking forward into his fist. The water roared in his ears, his breath came fast and shallow, every tug blurring into the image of Minho above him, Minho taking control, Minho making him want more than he ever meant to admit.

It didn’t take long. The pressure snapped, and Kibum came hard, muffling the sound against his forearm, shuddering as the heat rushed through him. His knees nearly buckled, the spray of water washing the evidence away before it could linger.

For a long moment he just stood there, chest heaving, forehead against the cool tile. The images still burned in his mind, too vivid, too dangerous. Kibum clenched his jaw, trying to steady himself.

That had been Minho—Minho’s hands, Minho’s body, Minho in every stolen thought. And that was something Kibum swore he would take to the grave.