Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the first snowfall of the year.

The kind of day where the world seemed to hush itself. And yet, Seongje wasn’t in a rush to run away from the cold.

He wasn’t supposed to be out. He has a list of errands, sure, but none of them worth putting real pants on for. But the snow had come with that theatrical flair he appreciated, whispering against the glass like a dare.

So he stepped out, thinking, why not freeze a little?

And the universe rewarded him for it.

Because that’s when he saw him for the first time.

He likes to think it was fate. Not the kind that comes crashing in with thunder, but the quiet kind. Like snowfall landing on warm skin.

That something as delicate and precise as the first snow would bring him the most beautiful boy he had ever seen.

Romantic. A word he’d always carry like a compass.

The boy isn't just beautiful, he's a scene. The kind of imagery directors chase and poets never shut up about. Walking through snow like he didn’t even know it was falling.

He wore a dark grey coat that looked too big for his frame. It sagged just a bit at the shoulders, swallowing his wrists.

It wasn’t something his size. More like borrowed. From an older brother, maybe a father. Not poor, not shabby. The fabric's quality is still good enough to make him look proper, it just screams obedience in a way only good boys are.

And tucked in his arms is a small notebook, practically bleeding notes. He clutched it tightly, like he was cramming knowledge into his veins. His brows furrowed in that particular way students did during exam season. Half focus, half despair.

A student. A good one. Medical school, from the look of the visible anatomy sketches Seongje spied between turning pages.

Judging by the route he had taken, Seongje could take a good guess of his university, one of the top ones in the city. And his guesses were rarely wrong.

Beneath that serious face—the kind that screamed ‘overachiever’ and ‘parent’s trophy’—was something heavier. A weight that only boys with too many expectations and not enough choices end up carrying.

Beautiful, bright, burdened.

Of course Seongje was hooked.

The bus came tumbling down the lane like a tired animal dragging itself through snow. Its headlights cut the pale fog like knives through cotton.

The boy stepped in first. Seongje followed.

This wasn’t the quickest route to his place, but it would get there eventually. He didn’t care. Not now.

He doesn’t have any grand plan, in fact, he’s not quite a planner. It was just... curiosity. The cultivated kind. The kind he trusted more than common sense.

Inside, the warmth of the bus fogged the windows instantly. Seongje took a seat a few rows behind, diagonal from the boy. Just far enough to be unnoticed. Just close enough to watch.

The boy was quiet. Composed. Shoulders drawn too straight, tensed, like a rigid line in a notebook. He exhaled into his palms, small, resigned puffs like prayers.

From the side, his profile was delicate. His skin touched with pink from the weather, lashes long and still dusted with tiny flakes of snow.

Pretty. And tired. A combination Seongje found unreasonably enticing.

He watched him with quiet hunger. He’s curious. So fucking curious. He wants to know his name and carve it in his brain.

Then the phone rang. Not his. His. The boy’s.

He pulled his earphones from his coat pocket and tapped the screen of his phone. He's answering a call. Not a happy one.

Seongje could hear the faint sound of a woman’s voice crackling through the receiver, sharp.

He wasn’t eavesdropping, not exactly. The boy wasn’t exactly hiding it. The conversation had that tone. That brittle chill that carried even when whispered.

“Yes, I already submitted it. I told you—”

“Omma, listen. I said—no. You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I know. I’m trying.”

The boy’s voice was soft. Not out of weakness, but out of weary calibration. Each word measured like stepping stones in a minefield.

“I didn’t ask you to call them. I told you already… I don’t want that internship.”

“…No, it’s not about pride. It’s just—can’t you trust me with one thing?”

There was a pause then. Long enough for even the air to still. The boy pressed his thumb against the corner of his phone, his jaw twitched.

“Sorry.”

Seongje didn’t know the context, and didn't need to. He knew that tone. That strain in the throat. The tension of a child pretending not to shake under a parent’s voice.

When the boy finally hung up, the silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was punishment.

He pressed his forehead lightly to the window, as if trying to disappear into the frost. The kind of stillness that doesn’t calm you. It crushes you gently.

Outside the window, the snow fell in soft, thoughtless drifts. Beautiful, oblivious. So soft in his defeat.

His breath fogged faintly on the window glass, then faded. One hand curled over his notebook. The other just rested in his lap, limp and pale.

Seongje tilted his head, amused.

That was the thing about boys like him. They looked so put-together from afar. Sharp spine, straight lines, all ‘yes mom’ and perfect scores. But up close? You could see the cracks if you knew where to look.

And Seongje always knew where to look.

This isn't pity. Please.

It is interest. The delicious kind. Like watching someone balance a porcelain plate with shaking hands and wondering how far you could lean in before it shattered. It is unexplainable how the boy could possess such a fragile charm in the way he is broken, yet trying his best to be strong about it.

After a few more stops, the boy got out of the bus and stepped into a quiet neighborhood nestled behind the main road. The place was stitched together by narrow alleys and crooked utility poles, where the buildings leaned a little too close and everything felt one exhale away from silence.

Seongje didn’t follow all the way. Not yet.

But he leaned just enough to watch the direction he walked, traced it with his eyes like marking a map into memory.

Because moments like this don’t come often. And when fate hands you a lead this pretty, you don’t waste it.

He’d see him again.

He was sure of it.

━━━━━━━━━

When Seongje arrived, the first thing that greeted him was the familiar sting of overheated plastic and old dust. Most people would’ve found it unpleasant. But he found it comforting. It was the scent of control.

The glass door clicked shut behind him with a dull clack. Outside noise died instantly, just the way he liked it.

Inside, it was warmer than expected, but not cozy. It wasn’t meant to be.

To anyone passing by, the place was nothing more than a narrow, cluttered phone repair shop tucked between a laundromat and a kimbap place.

Window signage faded by sunlight, “SJ Repair” written in uneven block letters. The front room had the usual display. Old phone cases, cracked iPads waiting for pickup, a couple of disassembled Samsungs lying on a green mat under a magnifying glass lamp.

But that was just the mask.

Beyond the fake wall behind the counter—tucked behind a display shelf stacked with tangled charging cables, blister-pack earbuds, and dust-covered phone cases—lay his real world.

He slipped through the partition and into the back room. No bells. No welcome mat.

Just the soft buzz from the low hum of the ceiling-mounted AC, always running, tuned just cool enough to keep the machines from overheating and his body from relaxing too much.

Cables ran like veins across the floor, connecting CPUs, routers, hard drives, an interrelation of digital organs keeping this place alive.

Screens lit up in a slow flicker, as if greeting him. Lines of code still scrolling, paused windows frozen on chat logs and encrypted terminals. External drives stacked like bricks against the wall, lights pulsing faintly in sleep mode.

Here is Seongje’s shrine.

Where he thrived in the silence, in the click of keys, in the soft breath of artificial air blown down from the vent, cooling processors straining to keep up with his mind.

The truth is, he didn’t fix phones for money. Not really.

He unsealed locked servers. Spoofed credentials. Wrote scripts that peeled open private lives like fruit. He dealt in data no one wanted found, worked for clients with no names and no mercy.

He worked alone. Always had.

No partners. He didn’t need a team. Didn’t want one. This job needed silence, precision, and time. Things Seongje had in abundance.

He dropped into his chair, leaned back just enough to hear the creak of leather. Familiar and satisfying.His fingers traced his keyboard, the screen alive with lines resembling code left behind from past jobs. Past victories.

Seongje wasn’t anyone important on paper. Just another face in a city of tired men with too many secrets and too little sleep. He paid taxes. He had a national ID. The landlord thought he was an ex-engineer who liked fixing things and avoiding people.

But when the right people came calling—the ones who sent encrypted notes or left burner phones in bubble tea bags—they knew his name. Or, more accurately, they knew his handle.

The ghost in the wire. The one who could fake an identity down to blood type. The one who could make someone disappear. Not by death, but by erasure.

Most nights, he barely thought about them. The clients. The jobs. The strings of ones and zeroes that turned into secrets, leverage, ruin.

Seongje dragged his finger along the trackpad, waking the main screen.

The glow shifted. A new job waiting in a hidden folder, blinking slow and steady like a heartbeat.

He’d look at it later.

His mind wasn’t there. Not tonight.

Instead, it drifted—unintentionally—back to the boy.

The one from the bus stop. The one with the oversized coat and the faraway eyes.

Seongje scoffed at the thought of him.

And then, softly, like a whisper to the empty room, or maybe to the boy whose name he didn’t know yet.

“Until we meet again.”

━━━━━━━━━

Seongje rode the same bus the next day.

And the day after that.

Same hour. Same stop. Same pointless pretense.

The cold refused to fade. The city was throwing tantrums of snow, rooftops sulking under powder, gutters turning to slush. Some people kept their heads down, too busy surviving the weather to notice anything worthwhile. Some people, though, such as those innocent children, are seemingly enjoying the white hush and wonder. Building snowmen and throwing little snowballs, delighting in the sting of the cold

But Seongje wasn’t here for the weather.

He was here for a boy.

The one with the quiet voice and tragic posture. The one who’d fumbled a phone call like it was a weapon. The one who had folded himself neatly into Seongje’s thoughts like a puzzle piece that had always been missing.

It is laughable, really. How fast it all happened.

What is he going to do? Walk up and ask for his name? Flirt with him in the middle of a bus like it was a romcom on local TV? Ask for his number like some well-adjusted citizen?

Ridiculous.

Seongje isn't wired like that. He isn't...proper. He He didn’t beg for attention. He took it.

So, despite his uncertainty about what he would do once he faced his target, he still came back. He refused to let go. Because that face wasn’t one you just saw once and forgot. No, that face haunted.

He told himself it was curiosity. A passing interest. A face he wanted to see one more time.

Because Seongje had always followed his gut, even when it dragged him down the worst alleys of himself. He just did what felt right in the moment.

For three days, he went to that station to ride that particular route. He played it cool, a ghost in the background. Let the cold creep into his bones like discipline.

And on the third day, the world handed it to him.

Seongje was waiting. Boredom curling in his chest like smoke until finally, finally, the time came. Seongje spotted him from across the crosswalk.

There he is.

Same coat. Same slump. Same pathetic little drag in his step like the world owed him more warmth. But this time, he didn’t only look tired like the other day. He looked drained.

And still, so easy to look at. Like art you don’t have to understand to want.

A thin red line traced the edge of his left eye, like he’d rubbed it too hard. His fingers curled tight around the strap of his backpack, and when he boarded onto the bus, his foot almost slipped on the wet step.

Sloppy and clumsy. Seongje thought it was adorable.

He followed without hesitation. Sat where he always did, a few rows behind. The boy, near the middle, by the window.

This time, the boy leaned his head against the glass, eyes fluttering closed before the driver even pulled away.

Right there, like a child. Sleepy and alone. Looking so innocent, so naive. So endearing.

Throughout the ride, Seongje took his time, drinking in and adoring the sight—the sight he couldn’t wait to see again for the second, third, even countless times. The boy looked so peaceful in his sleep, contrary to the restless energy he carried when awake

The boy didn’t wake up until the bus braked, just slightly, into the curve of a residential loop.

His eyes flew open like someone had yanked him out of a deep, too-short dream. He blinked rapidly, confused, and reached for his bag in a flurry of motion. Seongje watched as panic registered on his face. He’d nearly missed his stop.

The boy scrambled upright, stuffing his notebook into his coat with one hand and slinging his bag onto one shoulder with the other.

And then fate really outdid itself.

In his rush, he didn’t see it. Didn’t feel it.

The phone slipped from his coat pocket and clattered to the floor, slipping under the seat in front of him. It made just a soft, little sound. A plastic whisper against rubber. But it was enough to make Seongje sit a little straighter.

The bus was mostly empty. Just them and an old woman tucked into the front row, nodding along to a gospel radio station in her headphones, eyes barely open.

No one else noticed.

Not the boy, who was already stepping into the aisle, muttering a curse under his breath as he adjusted his scarf.

Not the driver, who barely glanced in the mirror.

Seongje stayed perfectly still.

The boy descended the steps with hurried feet and vanished into a narrow alley lined with bare trees and low, gray walls, his figure swallowed by the cold.

Only then, Seongje stood. Walked casually to the row where the boy had sat. Bent down. And reached beneath the seat.

The phone was there. Slightly warm from its time in his pocket. The screen is still faintly lit, a single message banner sliding by.

Seongje turned it over in his hand like something precious. He slipped it into his coat, sat back down in his original seat, and stared out the window as the bus pulled away.

Later, back at his lair—because that’s what it was, let’s not pretend otherwise—he let the phone rest on his desk like a trophy.

━━━━━━━━━

Seongje was in the middle of cleaning a tablet when the phone he picked up yesterday buzzed on the corner of his desk.

He didn’t rush to check it.

He let it ring twice, thumb pausing his swipes over screen before reaching for it.

The caller ID was short. Simple.

Juntae.

His other hand slid to one of his phones—he had plenty, for various functions—unlocking the audio tools app he kept buried under layers of encryption. With a flick, he opened the folder filled with voice notes. Dozens of them.

He picked up the call and heard a snarky but casual voice. “Yeon Sieun! Don’t tell me you forgot our plan today.”

Seongje tapped one of the audio files to play on a response. Female, soft-toned, casual but polite. An AI patchwork stitched based on the sound of commuter announcements and old hotline calls. He had prepared them for a full conversation. Sounded real enough, sweet enough to fool anyone.

“Sorry, I picked this phone up on a bus.”

There was a pause.

“Oh? Really? Oh god, thank you so much, this is my friend’s phone.”

Another audio. Without doubt, he hit play with the corner of his thumb.

“I was going to drop it at the lost and found near Yanghwa Station, but I figured someone might call. Should I take it to you?”

Desperate stammering on the other end. “Ah. Please let me check with the owner first.”

“Sure. Feel free to call again in a few hours.”

Polite. Measured. Warm enough to pass as harmless. Predatory in its precision.

“Thank you so much!”

Click.

The call ended. The warm conversation reverted to the cold silence like a clean slice, like a razor through silk, taking him back to his own solitude.

Seongje leaned back in his chair, gaze slipping past the still-blinking tablet screen that had lost all his interest the moment that voice rang out.

He tapped the edge of the phone. It’s still warm from the call. Then, he reached over, pulled open a drawer, and took out a small notebook and a pen.

He flipped it open to a fresh page. 

And wrote it down like it was his favorite word. Each letter formed like a lover’s stroke.

Yeon Sieun.

The name was as pretty as the face. That delicate mouth. Those cool, distant eyes. And the body, small, almost breakable.

He shut the notebook with a flick, a self-satisfied snap that echoed like a promise.

Now came the fun part.

Waiting. And watching.

And slowly, carefully, pulling every string.

Chapter Text

Mornings don't come easily to Yeon Sieun.

His alarm went off like a blade, cutting through the haze of another four-hour sleep. His arm tossed out automatically, silencing it without looking. The second alarm—a backup—followed four minutes later. He got up on the third.

He showered without thinking, The water was lukewarm. Towel tucked around his hips, he stood before the fogged mirror and didn’t recognize the boy looking back. Dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Lips he hadn’t smiled with in days. Maybe weeks.

He dressed in layers. Inside out warmth first, the outer shell after. The coat was still too big. A hand-me-down from his older cousin, because his mother didn’t believe in wasting money when things “still worked.”

She's right, technically. The coat does still work. It just doesn't feel like his.

Sieun didn’t own much that did.

He moved through the day like a ghost. His classes were brutal. Not in the content, but the pace. Every lecture another uphill sprint. Every professor expecting too much. Every classmate pretending they weren’t drowning.

He was quiet. Always had been.

His notebook was filled with everything he couldn’t afford to forget. Anatomy diagrams, deadlines, the password to their utility account.

Sieun isn't someone with time to dream. Not the ones that fill his sleep, nor the ones that he maps or pictures for his future.

What remains are only his mother’s dreams.

His mother always reminds him of that. How much she had given up her dreams, and how much she wanted him to pursue them. How much they need him to succeed. How she had raised him alone after his father left. How every exam he passed meant she didn’t waste her life.

There's no place for failure. Or softness. Or escape.

He remembered, once, trying to explain the exhaustion to Juntae, his close friend from high school. The feeling of being cracked open slowly from the inside. Like nothing was technically wrong, but everything still hurt.

Juntae told him to "take a day off."

Sieun never spoke about it again.

Sometimes, at night, when the building was finally quiet and the books closed, he would lie in bed and imagine a version of himself who didn’t flinch at his mother’s calls. Who didn’t ache with guilt every time he felt the urge to disappear. Who could laugh easily. Could want freely.

He wants to be seen. To be chosen.

Not for his scores. Not for the way he made her sacrifices look worthwhile. Not for the image he kept alive, the obedient son, the gifted student, the boy who never strayed, never disappointed.

Not for the figure she spoke of him to relatives, to friends, even to herself. She wasn’t talking about him. She was talking about what he meant to her. What he could do for her. Proof that her life wasn’t wasted.

A trophy that was polished.

After a long day—hours of classes, a tense consultation with his lab advisor, and endless notes for a presentation he still wasn’t ready for—Sieun finally left campus.

His shoulders ached from carrying his bag. His back, from sitting too straight all day.

He kept his head down as he walked to the bus station, fingers clutching to his little notebook, the sharp winter air tugging at his ears and eyes.

The first snow of the year had fallen earlier that day. Soft, delicate, the kind of snow that made people pause and smile. But not him.

To Yeon Sieun, it didn’t look romantic. It didn’t feel like wonder.

It stung.

The wind bit through the threads of his coat, and the whiteness only made the world look harsher, emptier. Like everything had been scrubbed too clean, too cold. His fingers were numb, and his eyes burned from the dryness in the air, but he didn’t blink much. Just kept walking.

The street was quiet, and so was he.

When the bus arrived, he stepped in without a word.

The warmth hit him like a wall. It made his vision swim for a moment. The stark difference from outside catching up with his nerves. The seats were mostly empty. Sieun didn’t look closely.

He slid into his usual seat—middle row, right side—and let the window chill soak into his cheek.

He just wanted to go home.

Just when his thoughts had begun to drift away from the anatomy diagrams burned into his eyelids, his phone buzzed in his coat pocket.

He stared at the screen. “Omma” blinking in bold white text over the backdrop of his lockscreen.

He hesitated, thumb hovering. Then tapped to answer.

“Omma.”

Her voice cracked through instantly. The tone was not angry, but disappointed. Her specialty.

“Why didn’t you tell me the interview date moved?”

“I called Dr. Han and she said you already submitted the application without confirming with me.”

“I know you’re busy, but do you think I don’t care? I’ve made so many calls for you. You think I enjoy asking people for favors?”

Sieun pressed his forehead lightly against the cold glass, tried to breathe through the words. Let them rush past him like wind. It didn’t work.

He responded softly, trying not to let the few other passengers hear him. He saw a high school student at the front, and a guy sitting further back, but not close enough to matter.

“I didn’t ask you to call them. I told you already… I don’t want that internship.”

His voice cracked, embarrassingly small. He clenched the notebook tighter against his chest like it might steady his breath.

“…No, it’s not about pride. It’s just…”

I wanted to try applying somewhere myself this time. Without you calling ahead.

The words were right there, sharp against his teeth, aching to be spoken. But they never made it out.

Instead, Sieun just breathed. Swallowed it down. Like he always did.

His voice came out softer, stretched thin at the edges.

“Can’t you trust me with one thing?”

Silence on the line. Not quiet. But loud silence. The kind that buzzed.

His mother’s voice returned, colder.

“You think you’re above needing help now?”

There it was.

That old guilt. Immediate. Unforgiving. Hot behind his eyes even as his fingertips froze.

“Sorry.” He kept his last word short.

He ended the call before she could, so it wouldn’t sting as bad.

The silence afterward was heavier than the noise.

He didn’t cry. He was too practiced for that. He just shut down. Sat still. Let the world blur past the window in streaks of grey and white and motion sickness.

━━━━━━━━━

The day had started before the sun even rose.

He was already on campus before 7 a.m., eyes dry from only three hours of sleep. He had an extra round of consultation with a professor that morning. Something about the direction of his research not being precise enough, focused enough, competitive enough.

Everything had to be just a little more.

Then there was the assistant lab shift he had picked up to keep his scholarship secure, then a mandatory seminar, then a student rep meeting he hadn’t even remembered signing up for.

By the time the last lecture ended, the muscles between his shoulders ached from tension, and his brain felt like cotton soaked in static.

The snow was still falling, a lazy dusting now. Pretty in a way he didn’t care to look at.

He just wanted to get home.

Sieun half-dozed at the bus stop, swaying gently under the weight of his bag. His notebook was tucked into the crook of his arm, filled with half-finished diagrams and pages of scrawled notes written more by reflex than comprehension.

By the time he boarded the bus, he barely registered the heater blowing against the windows or the quiet hum of the engine beneath his feet.

There were only a few people onboard. He didn't look. Didn’t care.

He slumped against the cold glass, blinking hard, eyes aching from the fluorescent lecture hall lights that still burned behind his eyelids. Just a few stops. He could rest his eyes for a bit.

He closed them.

Just for a moment.

He jolted awake.

His heart kicked like it had missed a beat, and for a few seconds, Sieun didn’t know where he was. The bus had slowed into the curve before his neighborhood, and he saw his stop blinking into view through the frosted window.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath.

He shot up, grabbing his bag, fumbling to get his notebook safely into his coat. His limbs were uncoordinated, sluggish from sleep and cold. He nearly stumbled as he hurried down the aisle, muttering half-apologies to no one, reaching the door just as it hissed open.

The air outside slapped him awake. He tightened his scarf and began walking fast toward the row of narrow alleys.

And when he finally entered his rented room, he collapsed in bed.

━━━━━━━━━

The light was already harsh when he woke.

Not warm, just bright. Cold and clinical, the kind of winter midday sun that bounced off the snow outside and sliced through the plastic curtains like a blade.

Artificial heat pressed against his skin, dry and unkind, radiating from the stubborn little radiator in the corner that never seemed to know when to stop. The blanket was twisted tight around his legs, trapping the warmth in all the wrong places. His mouth felt parched. His eyes burned, crusted at the corners, as if sleep had dried there and hardened.

Sieun didn’t have class that day.

It was supposed to be a slow one. A chance to catch up on sleep, review some materials, maybe head to the café down the block and work on his research draft.

Sometimes, his best friends from high school would drop by — the only friends he’d managed to keep. They all went to different universities now, but they still made the effort. And for that, Sieun was quietly, deeply grateful.

Because college had been…lonely.

He blinked at the sunlight bleeding through his cheap plastic curtains. Something felt off. A wrongness humming beneath the quiet.

The silence stretched too long.

No buzz.

No alarm.

No familiar vibration against his nightstand.

His heart stuttered.

He sat up too fast, vision tilting for a second as the radiator’s too-quiet hum filled the empty space. The light outside was already too high, the angle sharp and accusatory.

Then it hit him.

His phone. It wasn’t there.

Panic clawed up his throat.

He tore through the room on autopilot. Rummaging through his bag, inside his coat pockets, flipping textbooks, checking between the couch cushions. Knowing the truth already, but needing to perform the denial anyway. If he moved fast enough, maybe he could outrun it.

But there was nothing.

Nothing.

A heavy silence fell, broken only when a knock sounded at the door.

Sieun trudged to the door, still in his wrinkled shirt from last night, hair sticking up at odd angles, breath shallow. He opened it without thinking.

It was Juntae.

He stood outside holding a paper bag.

“You look like shit,” he offered casually, nudging past the doorframe. “Did you forget we were supposed to meet for lunch? I waited at the soup place for twenty minutes.”

“Sorry,” Sieun muttered, his voice rasping. “My phone. I lost it.”

“Right, I figured.” Juntae set the bag down on the floor and pulled something from his coat pocket. “Good news. You’re lucky.”

Sieun’s heart paused.

“You found it?”

“No, someone found it. Some lady answered when I called earlier. Said she picked it up on the bus yesterday and was gonna drop it off at a lost and found, but then she changed her mind and figured she’d wait to see if anyone called.”

Sieun stood frozen.

“Are you serious?”

“You’re welcome.” Juntae grinned. “She sounded chill. Said we could call again in a few hours to arrange pickup. You owe me coffee, by the way.”

Relief washed over him slowly. Not all at once, but in waves, like thawing hands held to a heater.

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice catching in his throat.

Juntae shrugged and handed him the takeout bag. “Eat that before you collapse again.”

━━━━━━━━━

After finishing his lunch—or a very late breakfast—the two of them sat in the quiet hum of Sieun’s tiny room. Steam still curled from the half-empty soup cup.

Juntae, stretched out with the ease of someone who didn’t worry much, nudged his phone across the table with a knuckle.

“Go ahead,” he said, voice casual. “Call your number.”

Sieun hesitated for a breath, staring at the screen as if it might bite. Then he took the phone, cold and unfamiliar in his hand, and typed in his own number with careful fingers.

It rang twice.

Then someone picked up.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice.

Sieun stood up without realizing it. His heartbeat quickened.

“Ah, hello! I’m the phone’s owner. Thank you so much for keeping it,” he said in a rush, voice trembling with polite desperation.

The voice answered almost immideately. “I’m really sorry, but... I accidentally dropped your phone. The screen cracked.”

“Oh?” Sieun replied, breath catching slightly.

“But please don’t worry,” the woman continued quickly, rushing to soften the blow. “I took it to a phone repair shop near my place. I paid for the service.”

For a moment, Sieun said nothing. The gratitude pressed up against something like shame.

“That’s… you really didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, his voice quieter now.

“Please write down this address so you can pick it up,” she said.

Sieun spun toward the cluttered desk. “Juntae—pen, paper—anything!”

Juntae, without skipping a beat, leaned down and plucked a crumpled flyer from beside the trash bin, smoothing it out against his thigh. He tossed a pen at Sieun.

Sieun wrote down as the woman recited the address. His handwriting was jagged, rushed, the ink catching where the paper was too glossy.

When the call ended, he looked over to Juntae.

“She… paid to fix it,” he said softly, as if repeating it would make it more believable.

Juntae leaned back on his palms, legs stretched across the floor like he had nowhere better to be. “Damn. Sounds like you really got lucky.”

Sieun gave a small, tired nod, still staring at the scribbled address in his hand like it might disappear. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Juntae pulled his phone back into his pocket and stood with a stretch, groaning exaggeratedly. “But hey, sorry, I can’t come with you to grab it. I’ve got an afternoon class today. Group presentation, and you know how my group’s all talk and no prep.”

“It’s okay,” Sieun said, his voice soft but sincere. “Thanks for coming. And for helping me call.”

Juntae slung his coat over one shoulder and shot him a crooked grin. “Don’t mention it. Just don’t lose your phone again, okay, clumsy ass?”

Sieun huffed. “I’ll try.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Sieun moved slowly.

He gathered a towel, a change of clothes. The water heater clicked on with a dull groan as he stepped into the narrow bathroom. Steam rose quickly, fogging the corners of the mirror, softening the lines of his reflection until he barely looked real.

The shower didn’t wash away the exhaustion that clung to his spine, but it dulled the sharpest edges.

When he stepped out, hair still damp and skin flushed from the heat, the light in the room had shifted again.

He pulled on a clean sweater. Found his coat draped over the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Folded the paper with the address into his pocket and grabbed his wallet from the desk.

Then, without thinking too hard, he locked the door behind him.

And started walking. To the repair shop.

Chapter Text

He heard the bell above the door chime. A small, stupidly ordinary sound.

But it sent a thrill down his spine.

He didn’t even look up at first. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But he made himself wait. Let the anticipation build.

It better be him.

And then, a step, a voice, a presence that made his skin hum.

“Hello?”

He recognized the deep, low voice, even though he had only heard it briefly during Sieun’s quick call on the bus.

Yeon Sieun. In the flesh. In his space. In reach.

Just as Sieun stepped inside, the faint scent hit him. Clean soap, warm skin, the trace of something floral clinging to damp hair. Seongje caught it instantly, sharp as static in the air.

So, he’d showered before coming here. Cute. Not intended for him, maybe. But Seongje would take it as a gift anyway.

Seongje wasn’t stupid. He had tugged a cap low over his forehead today. Covered his usually messy hair, which he never bothered with ini usual settings.

Just in case, he thought. Sieun might have glanced his way on the bus. He could’ve. He might recognize him as a fellow regular commuter.

Because Seongje is hot, he knew that. He noticed when people looked. How they couldn't take their eyes off of him for the purposes of admiration. So it just makes sense if his face would come off as memorable enough for Sieun, right?

“I lost my phone yesterday,” Sieun continued. “A woman said they might’ve dropped it off here?”

Seongje finally looked up, slow and measured, like unwrapping a gift he already knew the contents of.

He looked Sieun in the eyes.

On the bus, Seongje had been careful. Casual glances from the side of Sieun's face, sometimes also on his reflection through mirrored windows. He’d trained himself not to linger too long.

Now, he allowed himself the luxury.

And in that moment, he decided his favorite feature of Sieun.

His eyes.

His eyes are special. They could give every emotion away. Big and doe-like, seemed like they were on the verge of tears.

Still guarded, like he was always trying to hold it together and look composed. But softness and sorrow lived there anyway, trembling just beneath the surface, and never lied. It's the perfect pair of orbs to exude Sieun's charms and energy. Cold, full of sadness, but also sweet and innocent.

He had just seen the smaller boy yesterday, watched the subtle curve of his jaw in the reflection of the bus window, memorized the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked.

But seeing him now, this close, standing a few feet away like fate had decided to be merciful?

It made something unhinge softly inside Seongje’s chest.

Seongje let a small smile tug at the corner of his lips.

“Oh?” he said, tilting his head just enough to suggest disinterest. “Description?”

Sieun faltered, the way Seongje expected he would. Just a beat.

“Um. It’s black.”

Unprepared. Cute.

Seongje turned, pretending to rummage through a drawer. If this were real—if Sieun was anyone else—he’d ask for more detail. There were at least a dozen black phones in there.

But Sieun’s phone was already waiting. And Seongje knows exactly which one is his.

It had been polished. Restored on the surface. A clean face. No smudges. No trace of him.

Except, of course, for the parts Sieun couldn’t see.

“There you go,” he said, handing it over with casual ease.

Sieun's expression softened the moment his fingers closed around the phone, like someone had just handed him back a piece of his life. He exhaled, relief blooming across his face.

Seongje stared a little too long.

If only he knew.

That the phone was no longer entirely his.

Because Seongje hadn’t just kept it. He had kept pieces of it. Cloned its soul. Infiltrated its mind.

For Seongje, it wasn’t hard to crack a code and reveal his password. With the phone in his hands, it was only a matter of time.

He had installed a silent spyware, invisible and precise. Something you could buy for a few dollars off some obscure foreign site, buried under layers of sketchy design and bad grammar.

But tools like that weren't made for the ordinary. They were made for people like him.

From that moment on, Seongje didn’t need the real phone anymore.

He had the clone.

A perfect double, screen-mirrored in real time. Whatever Sieun would touch, Seongje would watch. Whatever he would type, Seongje would read.

And when he’d scroll late at night through photos, messages, browser tabs he’d never admit aloud? Seongje would be scrolling with him.

He could type in Sieun’s place if he wanted to. Send messages. Open apps.

He could see. He could listen. Wherever. Whenever.

The front camera had become his eyes. The speaker, his ears.

All of it. From the comfort of his desk, behind cold glass screens.

It was like having a version of Sieun that lived in his place now. Exposed and always on.

Sieun smiled and said, “Thank you,” like Seongje had done him a favor.

Seongje just nodded, tucking the moment away like a prize.

Their encounter was brief, but it was enough. For now.

━━━━━━━━━

Not long after Sieun left, Seongje flipped the little sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSE.

He didn’t feel like dealing with another single boring customer for the rest of the day. No grandmas with busted screens. No overworked delivery guys with cracked Samsungs.

Not when he’d already had the only interaction that mattered.

He locked the door and disappeared into the back, stepped into his hidden room—his real workplace—and sank into his chair like a king returning to his throne.

The room hummed faintly with the sound of servers. Screens lined the wall like altar pieces.

And one of them lit up.

The duplicate was seamless. Every flick of Sieun’s thumb, every idle scroll, appeared before Seongje in real time. The camera fed him images. The mic picked up sound.

He could see the gentle slope of Sieun’s shoulders, the curve of his mouth when he smiled. So rare, so casual, so undeserved by the people receiving it.

Sieun was texting.

A group chat. Named idk we survived somehow.

Four members.

The only group chat that wasn’t dead or muted. The only space in that entire phone that pulsed with real life. Real comfort.

His only friends.

Of course.

[Sieun – 04:11 PM]
got my phone back

[Juntae – 04:12 PM]
FINALLY
did u have to walk through a blizzard and slay a dragon to retrieve it or?

[Gotak– 04:12 PM]
bro being clumsy isn’t even your brand what’s going on

[Baku – 04:13 PM]
wdym he’s clumsy as fuck lol
remember the time he walked into a glass door at the arcade
i still have the CCTV footage don’t test me

[Sieun – 04:14 PM]
you’re all so supportive thank you i feel very safe and cherished
anyway bless that lady who answered the call

[Juntae – 04:15 PM]
and the store guy didn’t steal your nudes? amazing

[Sieun – 04:15 PM]
i don’t have any nudes

[Baku – 04:16 PM]
bro that’s the real tragedy here

[Juntae – 04:16 PM]
wait so it works fine now?

[Sieun – 04:18 PM]
yeah, super clean tbh like it got spa treatment

[Gotak– 04:19 PM]
ok but real talk do u remember your lockscreen password or did u just cry until it opened itself

[Sieun – 04:19 PM]
i am a responsible adult thank you

Seongje leaned forward, chin resting on his hand, watching the conversation unfold line by line.

This was the side of Sieun no one else got to see. The way his replies came quicker here. The dry sarcasm people would never expect coming out from that innocent and sad face. The barely-hidden affection under all the bickering.

It was ridiculous how charming it was.

Seongje watched as Sieun spent the rest of the day in a café. Quiet, corner table. Laptop out. Head bowed in focus.

Working on some kind of college paper, Seongje guessed.

From time to time, he’d open his phone to check the quick notes he’d saved. Screenshots of professors’ slides, photos of textbook pages, references from library books he couldn’t borrow.

God, he’s a real nerd.

A hot one.

But Seongje wasn’t interested in the topic he was fumbling through. He couldn’t care less what Sieun was writing about.

From the hacked phone’s front camera—subtly tilted on the table, half-propped by what was probably a coffee cup—he had a view that made his pulse thrum in his throat.

A perfect line of sight.

Sieun’s face, softly lit by the screen. Jawline taut from quiet concentration. Lips parted, just barely, as he read something intently. Brows furrowed in that cute little way that made it look like he was wrestling with the text.

Sometimes he pushed his hair back. Sometimes he chewed on the end of his pen.

And sometimes—fuck—he leaned low, elbow resting on the table, and his collarbone peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt.

Just a flash. Just enough.

He watched the slow movement of Sieun’s throat as he swallowed a bite of his cheesecake, his Adam’s apple shifting with the motion. A faint smudge of cream lingered on his lip, until his tongue darted out to lick it off.

Seongje’s fingers twitched on the trackpad.

He’d seen more of Sieun today than most people saw in a lifetime of knowing him. He’d memorized the cadence of his breathing. The curve of his spine when he was too tired to sit up straight.

He watched him type a sentence. Pause. Erase it. Then write it again.

Seongje chuckled under his breath.

“You poor thing,” he murmured, glancing at the clock. “You’ve been at that stupid document for two hours and you still hate it, don’t you?”

If Sieun could hear him, he’d probably get flustered.

Too bad he can’t.

Not yet.

And while Sieun sat there, trying to finish whatever it was with the barest flicker of passion, Seongje opened his job request folder.

Encrypted files. Dirty briefs. Codes waiting to be cracked.

He liked to think of this as a date.

A work date. That’s what he decided to call it.

Sieun, hunched over his laptop in some overpriced café, doing some useless work.

Typing out arguments he didn’t believe in for a class he probably resented. Biting his lip when the words wouldn’t come. Stirring his lukewarm coffee out of habit, not thirst. Sighing every few minutes like his lungs needed the drama to keep going.

And Seongje, in his dim room, surrounded by humming machines and blinking screens. One monitor split between an active data breach and Sieun’s face.

Hands decrypting, eyes flicking back to the live feed of Sieun every few seconds.

Just to check.

Just to keep him in frame.

Just to feel close.

━━━━━━━━━

At night, when Sieun finally drifted into sleep—body slack, phone still warm on the nightstand, utterly unaware—Seongje began.

His favorite part.

The exploration.

He’d poked around a little before, sure. When the device was still physically warm in his hand, when he was cradling it like a prize no one else had noticed had fallen. But time had been short then. His stage was rushed.

Now he had all the time in the world.

Seongje leaned back, monitors casting cold light across his face as he tapped through mirrored screens. Sieun’s phone came alive beneath his hands like a second skin.

First stop: the chatrooms. The ones Sieun probably didn’t even think about anymore in his sleep.

Low-hanging fruit, but he’d always enjoyed the foundational study. You can tell a lot about someone by who they talk to. And more importantly, how they talk.

No boyfriend. No girlfriend. Confirmed.

That single detail made something settle warmly in Seongje’s chest.

A pleasant silence. An open door.

A quiet smile played at his lips.

There were a few conversations worth noting.

The earlier group chat, still lively with half-hearted memes just a few hours ago. Seongje would go through the backlog later, tag inside jokes, and learn the rhythms.

His mom.

A quiet thread. Sparse and one-sided.

Mostly reminders that weren’t requests. Commands dressed up in concern.

Submit that essay.
Don’t forget your research paper meeting.
When are your finals?

Sieun replied with cold efficiency.

ok.
got it.
i will.

Neglect disguised as discipline.

Seongje knew the type. That made it easier.

Next, a college project group. Three or four classmates, all clearly useless. Sieun was the one assigning tasks, setting deadlines, following up twice. Typical.

He led, organized, and carried the weight. And none of them appreciated it. Not the way he would.

And then, a chat with a laundry service. Sieun had used it exactly three times. Even the brief exchanges held hints of his personality. Polite, efficient, responsible. Practically allergic to trouble.

Which made Seongje wonder how someone like that would react when he finally did get into trouble.

Seongje smiled to himself, fingers moving slowly over the trackpad.

Sieun’s social media was quiet, not like most college students. Sparse posts, minimal updates, barely any interaction. No thirst traps, no tagged party pics. Just muted photos of skies, stray cats, the occasional book quote, and a blurry cafe latte.

Seongje liked that. It meant there was less noise to sift through, and more room for him to breathe inside Sieun’s world. He combed through every corner. His followers, tagged mentions, even the ghosted corners of his DM.

That’s when he found it. A DM, sitting in the request box. Unread and unnoticed.

Some guy, trying to be charming and sending a harmless “Hey, you’re cute. Wanna grab coffee?”

Pathetic.

Seongje’s lips curled. He didn’t hesitate. One click, and it was gone. Deleted. Erased like it never existed.

Sieun didn’t need to see it. Didn’t need coffee with some idiot who thought politeness was enough.

Seongje raised an eyebrow as he closed his social media. Every little thread was another piece of Sieun’s world. Quiet and mundane.

To Seongje, it’s proof: he’s outgrown his old life. He needs new people. Better ones. Him.

He moved on to the gallery. Finally.

He’d waited all day for this.

Scraping through texts, watching Sieun tap away at some tedious paper like a dutiful little academic, it had its charms. But it wasn’t this.

This was the main entertainment.

He scrolled slowly, deliberately.

No rush. No need to hurry through something he’d savor.

There were photos of notes. Lined paper scribbled in cramped, slightly slanted handwriting. Screenshots of academic journals. Highlighted quotes. Cropped textbook pages with coffee stains in the corners.

Three nearly identical photos of the same library desk, taken from slightly different angles. Sieun probably didn’t know which one he liked best.

A photo taken late at night. Sieun’s desk, dim and cluttered. A single light pooling across open pages and half-drunk tea. A laptop still glowing, a post-it stuck just above the trackpad, scrawled in tired handwriting: “Don’t be useless.”

Seongje stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering above the mirrored screen.

"You’re not," he whispered, smiling. “You’re not useless.”

A few aesthetic screenshots. A blurry photo of a candlelit cafe he probably liked but never posted. Pictures of the sky, pale and washed out with streaks of cloud. Cats crouched under cars, taken at a distance with shaky focus.

Group shots, his friends from the chat. Smiling, blurry, mid-laugh when they were doing something stupid or loud or reckless. Late-night convenience store runs. Karaoke. Sitting on a curb eating fried chicken straight from the box.

Then, he found it.

A selfie.

It was rare.

It felt like finding a hidden room in a house he thought he already owned.

No filters. No angles meant to impress.

He was curled up in bed, the background just the rumpled suggestion of sheets. A shirt that’s too big. Hair slightly tousled, falling across his forehead like it didn’t know where to go.

The light came from a lamp on his nightstand, casting a golden haze across his face.

He’s not exactly smiling, just a faint tuck at the corner of his lips.

There was the faintest flush on his cheeks, like maybe he’d been laughing a minute before. Or maybe he was just shy about his own face.

“Fuck,” Seongje whispered, a breathy scoff curling at the edge of his mouth. “Look at you.”

He wanted to swallow him whole.

He wanted to drag the image out of the screen and press it against his face. He wanted to crawl into that moment and ruin, hold, consume.

But he’s a man with self control. So for now, he’d already be content being Sieun’s quiet little spy.

A secret admirer, as he’d like to say.

━━━━━━━━━

Since then, Seongje watched Sieun’s routines unfold through the phone, day by day, like flipping through pages of a private diary.

He ate convenience store meals when his schedule got a little too crowded. Ramen cups, triangle kimbap, lukewarm coffee from vending machines. Always rushed. Always eaten in silence.

He spent his college days darting between classrooms and professor offices, too responsible for his own good.

Getting home after dark had become normal lately; it was becoming the rhythm of his life.

His chats were mostly dry, functional, and often left unread. The old friends chat room being the last remnant of something warm in his life.

It was tragic, really.

Someone like Sieun living like a background character in his own life. Eating alone. Studying like it’s all he’s got. Carrying everything on his back just to be ignored.

He didn’t even realize how much more he deserved.

But Seongje did.

So he watched. Waited until the moment was right.

And when the time came, Seongje would be the one to light up Sieun’s life. To offer him fire. To be his sun.

Whether Sieun liked it or not.

Chapter Text

By now, Sieun had stopped trying too hard with people.

College was exhausting enough. Endless lectures, the buzz of fluorescent lighting overhead, and a sea of faces that blurred together in every class. He moved through the motions on autopilot, just trying to survive the routine.

Friends were a luxury, not a necessity.

He tried to keep that in mind every time a group project landed on his lap.

He didn’t talk much during meetings. Just enough to delegate tasks, follow up, keep everything from derailing. Sometimes, if the others started ghosting, he didn’t mind doing the bulk of the work.

He thought he was helpful. Efficient.

After another curt, chilly discussion with his group that evening, he’d packed his things and left first. He always did.

It wasn’t until he was halfway to the stairwell that he realized he’d left his water bottle behind. He turned back, steps slow, shoulders already heavy.

That’s when he heard them.

“He’s always like that, right? So extra.” Laughter. Quiet, but sharp.

“Yeah. Like, okay, we get it, you wanna impress the professor.”

“Honestly, I’m kind of glad he does all the work.”

“Same. Let him. He probably doesn’t have anything better to do.”

Sieun froze just outside the half-open door, hidden by the angle. His hand hovered near the doorknob, but he didn’t move.

Their voices scraped something raw inside his chest, like fingernails dragged across skin he couldn’t protect.

They didn’t say his name.

They didn’t have to.

His water bottle sat inside, right where he’d left it. Close enough to grab. But Sieun didn’t reach for it. Didn’t make a sound.

He turned around and walked away.

The air outside was colder than he remembered. Or maybe he’d just stopped feeling warm somewhere between the study room and the stairwell.

Sieun walked home with his head down, bag heavy against one shoulder, steps mechanical like a robot.

The campus buzzed faintly around him—distant laughter, the thump of music from a class window, headlights sliding across the pavement—but it all felt far away.

When he finally reached his rent, he didn’t turn on the lights.

He dropped his bag by the door, took off his shoes, and padded into the dark.

The silence in the room pressed in on him, dense and airless. Not the kind that brought peace, but the kind that reminded him: no one was here, no one was waiting.

He moved automatically. Opened the fridge. Nothing appealing. He closed it again. The light clicked off, leaving him in the dark once more.

Then his phone buzzed.

It was still warm in his hand when he picked it up. The battery was low, though it hadn’t been used much that day. Draining, just like him.

A voice note.

Omma. The contact lit up the screen in perfect, cold letters.

He considered deleting it without listening.

Then hit play anyway.

“Yeon Sieun,” her voice snapped through the speaker. “I saw the results from the NMTA Case Competition. You didn’t place.”

A pause. Just long enough for judgment to settle.

“I told you, if you weren’t going to win, don’t waste your time. This kind of failure doesn’t look good on your record.”

As if she’s trying to soften the blow, she shifted her tone. Lighter, but not kinder. Performative.

“Come on Sieun-ah. Help me, okay? You can’t be falling behind like this if you want to end up at SNU Hospital.”

Another beat.

“You should call Dahye tomorrow,” she mentioned one of his resume-perfect cousins. “She just got into SNU Hospital with a research fellowship. Ask her how she manages her time.”

Click.

No goodbye. No warmth. Just an evaluation, a verdict in her voice, clean and clinical. Like he was a number trending downward. A product slipping below standard.

Falling behind.

The words stuck in his ribs.

His fingers twitched.

Before he could stop himself, he crouched beside his bag and unzipped it with a sharp, practiced motion. The hiss of the zipper felt too loud in the quiet.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe proof she was wrong. Maybe proof he wasn’t as pathetic as he suddenly felt.

He pulled out his folder. Neatly packed, color-coded tabs jutting out like flags of a battlefield he thought he was winning. Each page held the memory of sleepless nights, of caffeine and cold light, of rechecking lines until the words bled together.

And then, halfway through the stack, he saw it.

Red.

Big, angry strokes from his professor. Thick lines flashing across paragraphs. Sharp arrows that stabbed their way into the margins, pointing toward cramped, scribbled comments.

This lacks clarity.

Inconsistent argument.

Fix your structure.

He flipped to another sheet. More red. More disapproval.

He had rewritten that section three times.

Spent nights hunched over a library desk long after the lights had dimmed. Skipped dinner. Ghosted the group chat.

All for this.

The pages felt heavier with every turn. They weren’t paper anymore. They were proof.

That he wasn’t enough.

Not for his professors. Not for his peers. Not for his mother.

One page slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor.

Then another.

He didn’t stop them.

He just watched, numb, as they drifted down like pieces of him breaking off and landing where they didn’t belong.

And then he was kneeling. Kneeling in the middle of the mess, surrounded by hours and nights and versions of himself that had tried so fucking hard.

But all of it didn't matter.

He stared at the red marks like they were bruises. Like the paper itself had turned against him.

The first sob came like an accident. The second, like it had always been waiting. And then there was no stopping it.

He pressed his back to the cabinet, knees drawn tight, trying to fold himself into something smaller. Something that wouldn’t be noticed, or resented, or disappointing.

Tears soaked into his sleeves, silent and shaking. Like he wanted to pour everything out, but was too tired to finish the motion.

Too tired to be devastated properly. Too tired to scream.

He cried quietly, as if even that too could be judged. Like if someone heard, they’d call it pathetic. Overdramatic. Weak.

So he made himself silent. Like always.

Around thirty minutes have passed. Long enough for the room to grow colder, the silence to stretch thin around his shoulders like old thread.

Sieun is still on the floor. Legs stretched out, cheek resting against the cabinet door, almost drifting to sleep from his heavy eyes due to the tears earlier.

Then, a knock. Soft.

He flinched. Rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, scrambled to his feet, heartbeat kicking up with instinctive embarrassment. Who would be knocking at this hour?

He padded to the door and cracked it open.

A delivery guy stood outside, dressed in the standard navy thermal jacket, helmet still on. He glanced at the receipt in his hand, then at Sieun.

"Delivery for Yeon Sieun?"

Sieun blinked. "...Yeah?"

The guy handed him the bag with practiced indifference. “It’s all covered. Have a good night.”

Before Sieun could ask anything else—who sent it, where it came from, if this was a mistake—the guy was already heading back down the stairs.

Steam fogged the plastic lid, curling against the cold air of the hallway. The scent was rich and comforting.

Inside is a takeout serving of bugeoguk—dried pollack soup. Something that a crier would crave after shedding tears for too long.

And beside it, a smaller box. He opened it slowly.

A slice of cheesecake. From the cafe near campus. The one he always slipped into during crunch weeks. The one where he ordered this exact slice, over and over, but never told anyone it was his favorite.

There was no note. No receipt. No app notification. Nothing.

Just this.

His heart stuttered.

It’s timed too perfectly, as if whoever sent this knew.

Knew today had shredded him. Knew what he needed when even he hadn’t been able to name it.

He looked down the hallway again.

Empty.

He carried the bag inside with hands that shook a little.

If he hadn’t felt so hollowed out, if the day hadn’t already unraveled him completely, he might’ve questioned it harder. Might’ve sat there in paranoid confusion, picking apart the how and why and who.

But he didn’t.

He ate in silence. The soup was still hot. The beef tender. The spice slow and creeping.

And the cheesecake. It tasted like the first breath after resurfacing. Sweet, a little salty, soft enough to melt on his tongue. Its base was firmer, packed with buttery breadcrumbs that gave just enough resistance to keep it from falling apart.

Warmth began to gather in his chest. Not joy. Not comfort. But something like permission. To stop fighting. To rest.

Just for tonight.

━━━━━━━━━

The cafe was quiet that afternoon.

Not empty, but hushed in the way Sieun liked. The low hiss of the espresso machine, the occasional clink of ceramic on wood, the muted hum of conversations that blurred into white noise. None of it sharp enough to demand his attention.

He sat by the window, laptop open, highlighter uncapped, a barely touched mug of iced americano at his elbow.

Outside, the sky was dull and pale. Inside, the world narrowed to theories, citations, and the weight of expectations sitting on his collarbones.

He didn't notice the figure hovering near his table until the shadow broke his concentration.

"Hi."

Sieun looked up.

The boy standing in front of him had a warm, boyish face. His build was lean and athletic, the casual strength of someone who moved with purpose but never showed off. He stood with a loose confidence, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders relaxed.

“Yeon Sieun, right?” the boy asked. “The model student?”

Sieun blinked. His fingers hovered above his keyboard, mid-sentence. He stared, unsure if he was supposed to answer or if this was some kind of mistake.

The boy laughed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, sorry. I’m Ahn Suho. We’re in the same major. Same year too.”

He said it like it's some crucial information. Like it made them close by default.

Sieun nodded once, awkward. “Ah, I see.”

But Suho didn’t leave. He gestured at the empty seat across from him. “Can I sit?”

Sieun didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no either.

Suho sat.

He asked about Sieun’s classes, halting at first, like he was reaching for something to talk about. Ones they shared, and ones they didn’t. Sieun had never paid much attention to his classmates, after all.

A shared professor, an upcoming assignment, a rumor about a cancelled lecture. His voice was light and testing, like he was feeling for common ground while trying to not make it obvious.

Sieun didn’t really know what to make of it, but he responded anyway.

But when Suho waved over his friends from the next table, something in the air shifted.

The low hum of conversation sharpened. Laughter spilled over like static.

Sieun tensed as they pulled up chairs, voices easy, casual. Just loud enough to be heard.

“Is this the guy who always rewrites the lecture notes?”

One of them smirked as they leaned back. “Legend says he even annotates his shoes.”

It wasn’t cruel, exactly. But it was the kind of teasing that assumed he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—push back.

Suho gave them a look. “Come on. Don’t be weird.”

His voice was calm, but Sieun could feel him watching. Checking if it bothered him.

It didn’t. Not really.

It was just simply annoying. And Sieun was simply just uncomfortable. The jokes were half-meant, like it was something they didn't think too much so that they could get away with it, that it was nothing too serious.

Sieun didn’t react. He kept his eyes on his laptop, fingers nudging his highlighter like he was considering a return to his notes.

He stayed a few minutes longer, polite but withdrawn, until he could excuse himself without drawing too much attention.

Suho had asked for his number before he left—“Just in case you ever wanna talk. Or need help with something”—and Sieun, too drained to refuse, had given it. A quiet nod, a number mumbled more than offered.

The next few days passed in routine.

Sieun didn’t think much of the last encounter, didn’t really expect Suho to text him.

But then they crossed paths again.

That afternoon, Sieun had the rare luxury of coming home early. The sky was still pale blue, the air thick with the last hints of sun-warmed pavement. He was rounding the stairwell near his floor when a figure stepped into view from the opposite end.

Suho.

He looked like he’d just come from class. Backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little messy, a subtle sheen of sweat on his collar like he’d taken the stairs two at a time.

He paused when he saw Sieun, then smiled. Casual. But there was a glint of surprise in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You never replied to my text.”

Sieun blinked.

“What text?”

“The one I sent the other night. Right after the cafe,” Suho said, his brows drawing in slightly. “And another one last night.”

Sieun’s lips parted, then closed again. His brain clicked through his call log, his inbox, his notifications.

He had no memory of a message. Not from Suho.

“I didn’t get anything,” he said, voice quiet. Almost uncertain.

Suho frowned. “That’s weird. I’m sure I sent them.”

He tapped into his contacts, brows knit in thought. “Did I save the wrong number…? Maybe you accidentally added an extra number?” He held out his phone. The contact read Yeon Sieun, clear as day.

Sieun glanced at the screen. “That’s the one,” he said.

Suho mouthed a silent “oh,” lips forming the shape as he looked back at the screen. Anyone could tell he was confused.

“Maybe…” Sieun trailed off. “Maybe they just didn’t go through.”

They let the moment pass. Suho brushed it off, easygoing again, and greeted him casually when they parted ways for home.

But Sieun’s steps slowed on the walk back.

He checked his phone again. It had just been his usual chat rooms, with his best friends, the group project team, his mom, and the laundry service. Nothing from Suho.

For a second, the thought crept in. Quiet and unwelcome.

That was strange.

He stared at the screen a little longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the messaging app.

Then a notification slid into view, the display dimming slightly. 5% battery remaining.

He locked it again with a sigh, the screen going dark in his hand. He didn’t want to overthink it.

There were already enough things in his life that made him feel like he was holding his breath all the time.

Maybe he was just being paranoid.

Maybe it was just a missed message.

Just a bad signal.

━━━━━━━━━

It started with whispers in the hallway.

Sieun had always known people talked. He wasn’t blind to the way some of his classmates looked at him. Quiet, serious, neatly dressed, with a sharp tongue when he did choose to speak. He didn’t bother explaining himself. Most of the time, it wasn’t worth it.

But lately, it had gotten louder.

"Fucking gay, isn’t he?" someone muttered behind him one afternoon, just low enough to be deniable.

Another time, walking past the vending machines, he heard, "You know he’s never dated anyone, right? Guy like that? Come on."

Faggot. Fairy. Gaylord. Soft.

None of it made his skin crawl. Not in the way they probably hoped. It was said like it was a weakness, something dirty.

But Sieun didn’t feel weak when he heard it. He didn’t think being gay was an insult.

All of his best friends were queer. Gotak and Baku were openly bisexual, and Juntae was as gay as he was loud. And Sieun never once thought less of them for it.

In fact, if he was being honest, they were probably the best people he knew. Surely way better than his college peers who paraded their GPAs like trophies and tore each other down with backhanded compliments in study groups.

It’s just that, he didn’t know if he was.

He’d never really thought about it. Never dated, never kissed, never had the time or interest.

Romance felt like something other people did, like sleepovers or summer breaks. He was too busy, too tired, too focused.

But when the words clung to his back like shadows—when he sat in class and caught someone smirking at him like they knew something—he started to ask himself.

Not in the cruel way they meant it. But technically. Biologically. Emotionally.

Is he gay?

The thought lingered for days. Not spoken. Not even fully formed. Just circled, like a finger trailing the rim of a hot mug, uncertain whether to lift it.

Then one evening, it happened.

A couple crossed the street in front of him. Two men. Holding hands casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like the world wasn’t watching. One of them reached out and tucked the other’s hair behind his ear, laughing at something too quiet to hear.

Sieun’s steps faltered.

He stared.

It wasn’t that it was shocking. It looked... nice. Normal and warm.

Later, in the quiet of his room, that image refused to fade.

It was late and he found himself sitting on his bed, knees pulled close, phone cradled loosely in his hands. The only light came from the hallway, thin and yellow, slipping in under the door and stretching faintly across the floor.

His thumb hovered over the browser icon.

He opened it. Closed it. Opened it again.

Then, he typed.

how do you know if you're gay or not.

Before he could enter, he held a pause. And he rephrased it.

signs you're not straight.

When the results came down on the top search, Sieun clicked on a few links. A forum post. An advice column. A quiz titled How Gay Are You?

Somewhere down that rabbit hole, a comment thread caught his eye, buried deep in one of the posts that discussed when was the time they realized it.

Sieun read the top reply.

When I couldn’t stop thinking about one specific guy, even when I tried to convince myself I wasn’t into him. I watched videos just to test myself.

Then there were the others.

I thought it was obvious when I realized who I imagined when I closed my eyes.

Yeah, try watching gay porn. No need for the aggressive stuff. If it clicks, you’ll know when you know it.

Sieun frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. Hesitation crept in.

Whatever. He'll just do it.

So, then, he typed.

best porn sites for beginners.

He erased it. Then typed again. And when he finally muttered that courage once and for all, he entered.

He ended up on a thread. Half sarcastic, half genuine recommendations. Jokes scattered between actual links, users arguing over recommendations and interface quality.

He found a few sites that seem more… manageable.

He cleared his history three times before switching to incognito. Opened a new, private tab the way someone might open a wound. Slow and trying to brace himself for the sting he didn't what kind of.

He typed the URL like each letter might betray him before he pressed the enter button.

This is stupid, he told himself.

But then he tried to convince himself again. It’s just an experiment. A checkpoint. Nothing more. Nothing to be scared or embarrassed about. His sexuality is something he needed to be sure of at the end after all, right?

To begin, he clicked the tab “Straight” first. It felt safe, default.

The video autoplayed. Man and woman, bed, familiar angles.

He gave it time.

He watched the rhythm, the shapes, the choreography of it all.

He tried to imagine himself in the scene. Pressing into the girl’s body under his hands, hearing her moan, her nails against his back.

But his body didn’t respond. No tightening. No heat. Just... disinterest.

It felt distant. Secondhand. Like watching someone else eat a meal he wasn’t hungry for.

He didn’t even glance at “Threesome” or “MILF” or “Amateur.”

Instead, he scrolled down to a category he hadn’t meant to look at.

“Gay.”

His thumb hovered.

He stared at it.

Then tapped.

The video filled the screen.

Two men, starting with kissing, slow and hungry. Like they were tasting something they'd missed for too long. Sieun watched the slide of mouths, the wet parting of lips, the soft hitch of breath between kisses. Fingers tracing jawlines. Hands curling into fabric. Skin meeting skin with a kind of practiced reverence.

He swallowed.

Quiet breath sounds filled the room, the rasp of lips, the way one of them pushed the other gently down onto the sheets. No bright lights. No exaggerated sounds.

He tried imagining himself again. This time, underneath. His back against the sheets, legs parted, breath catching as weight pressed into him.

A slow flush crept up his chest, rising into his neck, his ears. It felt like a secret blooming under his skin.

Something pulsed low in his abdomen. A coil tightening.

He let his hand drift downward, breath shallow, almost nervous.

Fingers slipped under the waistband of his sweatpants, hesitant at first, as though unsure they had permission to want this.

But the moment he brushed against himself, he sucked in a shaky breath. His spine arched slightly. A tremor passed through his thighs.

Oh.

It felt… good.

On-screen, one man was being taken apart into the mattress with slow, deliberate thrusts. Sieun could see his thighs trembling, the flushed red of his chest, the way his fingers curled against the sheets. It looked raw. Vulnerable.

It made Sieun ache. Not just with arousal, but also with something else. A yearning he hadn’t realized was buried under his skin, until it bloomed open, raw and insistent.

He didn’t stop.

He pushed his boxers down, the fabric catching briefly at his thighs before pooling around his hips. His hand moved again, more confidently.

It wasn’t just the act, it was the image of himself in that position. The idea of him being desired. Wanted enough for someone to kiss him like he mattered. Held down like they saw every part of him. Touched like they couldn’t get enough of him.

Ruined in the most gentle, devastating way.

He caught himself wondering, how would it feel to be touched like that?

A thought surfaced, and he felt hesitant and embarrassed. But then he shook those feelings away. Whatever. He's alone and he's safe.

He figured that gay people use lube for penetration. He didn’t have any. Of course he didn’t. It’s not like he’d ever needed it before.

But the urge to feel more, to do more, pulsed insistently through him.

So, he spit into his hand and let it smear across his fingers. It’ll have to do.

Carefully, slowly, he reached down, letting his slick fingers explore where he’d never dared before. He pressed, tentative, until the tip of one finger pressed into his hole.

It made him jolt.

The stretch. The pressure. It was overwhelming, strange, almost too much. But underneath it, there was spark. Igniting. Something sharp and sweet at the same time.

He breathed in through his nose, trying to stay grounded, chest rising and falling too quickly.

His face pressed into the pillow, shame battling with heat.

His cock flushed dark and wet at the tip, pulsing against his stomach, so hard now it hurt. He shifted his grip, circling it once, then braced himself and tried again.

Then, he pushed in a second finger.

It was not smooth or clean when it went in. It burned. It stretched him even more, and he could feel the sting of pain. But—it also doubled the arousal. A wave of pleasure filled his body and his mind.

His hips lifted slightly, chasing friction, seeking more. Pushing the fingers deeper, in and out. His teeth gritted against the noise he didn’t want to make.

Until he couldn’t help it.

“Ah—”

The sound broke out of him.

All the pain were replaced with the unbearable lust that overcame. It felt good. He kept going, going, and going.

It was the first time he'd do soing something so sexual. He had wet dreams before, but it was not something he did conciously and with this kind of level of awareness. The images on his dreams were just a blur, but now the visualization was clear as day as he watched the video.

He didn't exactly know what to do. How to do. But his fingers just moved instinctively following the pleasure that crashes in. 

And after a few minutes of trembling effort—hips rocking in clumsy, desperate moves, fingers curling and thrusting inside himself—Sieun came.

Sharp, helpless sounds escaping his lips as his back arched off the mattress.

Release splattered warm across his stomach, sticky and sudden, leaving him breathless and raw in the quiet aftermath.

The silence that followed was thick and breathless.

Sieun lay there for a moment, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, face burning embarrassment.

He turned his head back to the phone screen. The video was still playing, low, rhythmic moans spilling from the speaker like they were coming from another world.

He stopped the video and closed the tab. Just as he was about to clear his browsing history—

He froze.

His screen flickered. Just for a second.

A pause. The screen brightened. A faint, almost imperceptible shift, like someone had brushed their finger across his screen to adjust the brightness.

His chest turned to ice.

Had he imagined it?

No. It had happened. Subtle, but real. A flicker.

And he didn’t do it. He was sure of that.

Was his phone broken or something? Or was it someone else?

The thought of someone watching him in that vulnerable state—something he was still trying to understand himself—sent a shiver down his spine.

A sudden wave of fear gripped him. It wasn’t sharp, but it was cold and crawling, sinking beneath his skin.

He placed the phone down, screen-side and front camera against the nightstand. He tucked a book up against the back camera without thinking, shielding it by instinct.

Blocking the view completely.

As if turning it away might somehow make him invisible again.

Chapter Text

For most of his life, Seongje had been the silence between scenes. The blank space no one remembered.

His mother died the day he was born. Gone before he could form a single memory.

The maids at his house said she smiled at him once. He never knew if that was true, or just something they told him to soften the story.

Later, he found out the truth.

That her pregnancy was a mistake. That he was never wanted. The product of an affair swept under the rug by a man with too much reputation to spare and too little room for consequences.

His father—Dr. Keum, a man whose name carried weight in every academic and biotech circle—raised him alone. Or rather, paid others to do it.

He was a renowned figure. The kind who gave keynote addresses, wrote peer-reviewed papers, and held patents that shaped the future.

But he was never present.

Seongje didn’t grow up hungry. He had a private education, a trust fund, books stacked taller than him by age six.

But he never had someone who noticed when he disappeared from a room. Or cared when he didn’t speak.

His father didn’t yell. He didn’t hit. He just ignored.

A perfect score wasn’t praise-worthy, as if it was the bare minimum.

If he showed interest in machines, code, algorithms, his father would look at him like it was trivial. Like it was something beneath him.

Something he didn’t understand. Something that didn’t matter. “And what exactly do you plan to do with… that?” he once asked, the words laced with quiet disdain.

If he failed, there was only silence. Colder than disappointment. Colder than rage.

So Seongje stopped trying to impress him.

And started building a world where his talent meant something.

It began with innocent curiosity.

By age ten, he had taught himself to hack. Not to cause harm, just to see if he could make something move when everything else around him stayed still.

By twelve, he’d hacked his school’s website and swapped a teacher’s profile photo with a picture of Pororo—the penguin—because the resemblance was uncanny, and he thought it was funny.

They blamed a glitch. The image stayed up for three days and became a legend. Passed around in whispers, screenshotted, memed, remembered.

No one ever figured out it was him.

By fifteen, that curiosity had sharpened into something more deliberate. More precise.

He didn’t lash out. He never raised his voice. He just laughed—the kind of laugh that made your skin crawl a second too late—when people tried to test him.

Seongje didn’t really have any friends. Rumors swirled around him like flies.

Some feared him. Some admired him. And a few, inevitably, resented him.

So when a senior—swaggering, insecure, and too loud—decided to “put him in his place,” confronting him in public, sneering for him to “drop the weird act,” it was only a week later that he found the consequence.

Screenshots flooded the senior’s social media.

Private DMs. Obsessive, late-night messages to girls who’d left him on read. Cringe-inducing paragraphs begging for second chances.

They weren’t meant to be seen. Not by friends. Not by classmates. Certainly not all at once.

He said someone hacked him. But it didn’t matter. He had already been humiliated.

By seventeen, the world had started to notice his talent.

Not the one he walked through daily, but the one that mattered. The hidden forums. The invite-only boards. The dead IRC channels filled with ghosts who knew how to ask the right questions without ever using names.

By eighteen, he had clients.

Requests arrived encrypted, timestamped, and loaded with crypto deposits before he even responded.

People asked him to unlock passwords, recover erased data, scrub financial trails, trace hidden networks.

He rarely spoke to anyone. But everyone knew, if you needed something done quietly, precisely, and without moral hesitation, you asked for him.

Once he started earning his own income, he stopped going home. Moved out without a word. Lived alone.

Never cared about university. Never needed it.

And no one ever looked out for him.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That detachment was strength. That watching life from a distance was safer than being part of it.

Until Sieun happened.

Watching Sieun was like finding a language no one else could translate. Soft, strange, hurting quietly behind his eyes. A signal lost in noise.

Sieun gave him a reason to be noticed.

For once, Seongje didn’t want to be a spectator to someone else’s life.

Not just the silent hand behind another story, not the unseen force helping someone else's narrative unfold.

He wanted to be written into it.

And since he had access to Sieun’s life, it was like binge-watching a long-running K-drama that had never aired to the public. Just streamed, quietly and endlessly, only for Seongje.

He had become addicted.

The plot was a chaotic patchwork of genres, stitched together without warning.

A little tragic. A little romantic. And, as of late… increasingly obscene.

The tragedy, of course, was everywhere. The kind that seeped into every frame of Sieun’s day-to-day life. From the way people constantly let Sieun down, to the quiet, unspoken wounds he carried like background music.

It lingered in the muted way he spoke in class, the way he lowered his eyes when someone brushed him off.

Professors who dismissed him, classmates who used him as if he’s a convenient workhorse, a mother whose affection felt more like a calendar reminder rather than anything tender.

All of them failing the most precious boy Seongje had ever laid eyes on.

And Seongje—who, by any honest measure, was not a sympathetic man by nature—found himself unable to bear the sound of Sieun’s muffled sobs through the speaker of his phone.

It was quiet crying, barely audible. The soft, muffled kind of crying that people do when they’ve learned to keep it hidden. As if even his grief had been trained to behave.

It filtered through the tinny mic of his phone, distorted by distance and poor quality, but it might as well have been a scream.

Because Seongje heard it.

Even from the other side of the city. Even through concrete and signal towers. Through code, through encryption, through firewalls meant to keep people like him out.

He couldn’t keep listening. Couldn’t not act.

So he did the one thing he could.

He pulled out his phone and opened the delivery app with efficiency. Scrolled through the usual places. Selected something warm, gentle.

Nothing too spicy or heavy. Sieun didn’t like spicy food when he was upset. Seongje had noted that a few days ago.

And then, at the end, he added the cheesecake.

Sieun’s favorite.

The same one Sieun always bought from that tiny cafe tucked behind his campus. The same one Seongje had seen countless times through the cams, always positioned delicately on a plate while he scribbled through lecture notes.

Then, there was, undeniably, a bit of romance woven in.

Not something Seongje was enjoying, though. He wouldn’t call it that.

It was just a fact—cold and obvious—that someone like Sieun, with that too soft face and that painfully sharp mind, was bound to attract attention.

Attention named something like Ahn Suho.

That bastard.

Too friendly. Too warm. Always talking to Sieun with that bright, harmless voice, like he meant well. Like good intentions could shield someone like Sieun from the world and all the ways it could ruin him.

Seongje couldn’t see his face clearly, just slivers, slashes of blurry image from Sieun’s front-facing phone camera. Because of course Sieun wouldn’t hold it at an angle that showed people around him clearly.

Still, he was sure of one thing. He was definitely hotter than that bastard. Definitely more deserving of Sieun.

He didn’t like that subplot.

So he skipped it.

Hijacked the narrative, really.

Whenever Sieun left his phone unattended—showering, sleeping, hunched over a desk with earbuds in and focus dialed too high—Seongje slipped in.

Intercepted.

Deleted Suho’s messages like pruning dead leaves from a flower he was trying to grow properly.

He held back the urge to block Suho’s number altogether.

Not out of mercy, but calculation. He didn’t want Sieun scrolling through his settings one random day and stumbling on a number listed under “Blocked” without context.

It helped that Sieun was a frustratingly slow texter.

He left unread messages sitting like unopened letters, sometimes for hours, sometimes days.

It was annoying. It was lucky. It was a gift.

And Seongje took it as such an open window. Time to clean up the parts of the story that didn’t belong. To revise the script. To edit out the side characters.

But none of that prepared him for the last genre twist.

A fucking pornography.

It started with him not believing it.

That Sieun, at the age of twenty—Seongje has checked and noted his birthday from his college ID card he had on his phone—still hadn’t realized his own sexuality.

It struck Seongje as saddeningly late.

He’d watched from behind the screen, gaze fixed as Sieun curled up on his bed, hunched around the faint glow of his phone.

His face was drawn, brows furrowed in concentration, and his fingers hovered uncertainly above the keyboard. He looked like a kid standing in front of a locked door, unsure if he was allowed to knock.

The search bar blinked at him as he typed in timid, fumbling questions.

how do you know if you’re gay.

signs you’re not straight.

They were the kinds of questions most boys asked years earlier, when hormones hit with reckless timing.

But for Sieun, it was all new. Uncharted.

And somehow, it made sense.

Seongje had long figured that Sieun had never been in a relationship. Hell, not even something warm with his mother.

He’d never seen any flirtatious texts, no shared playlists, no nicknames or inside jokes tucked between messages.

Affection was just not something Sieun had been raised to expect.

He didn’t seek it, didn’t reach for it, not out of arrogance but because he’d simply never been taught it was his to have.

Seongje wasn’t about to judge. He had never been in a serious relationship either.

He didn’t believe in love, not really, not in the traditional sense. His father had seen to that. He was cold, distracted, and long gone, though his absence had begun long before he was physically gone.

It was the kind of disappearance that doesn’t make noise. The kind you grow up with like a second skin.

Still, unlike Sieun, Seongje had tried to touch the world anyway.

He had kissed girls, kissed boys, fucked strangers in dark stairwells and unfamiliar bedrooms. For friction. For a heartbeat other than his own.

He never stayed. He never lingered. It was always temporary, weightless, and meaningless the moment it was over.

But watching Sieun—so untouched, so oblivious to his own desire, so unsure how to begin—it did something to Seongje that those hookups never had.

And it made Seongje want to take care of him in a way that felt almost instinctive, like fixing something fragile left in the rain.

One of the ways Sieun tried to prove his sexuality was something Seongje technically shouldn’t have been watching.

Not that it stopped him.

Really, if you asked him, he had every right.

His precious Sieun, cheeks flushed pink, blinking too often, lip caught between his teeth as he followed one link after another with the hesitant desperation of someone trying to piece together a version of himself that he had never been allowed to understand.

There was a kind of courage in it, clumsy and trembling and so heartbreakingly sincere.

Then came the video.

Sieun was holding the phone himself, screen tilted slightly down as he lay back in bed.

It gave Seongje a perfect angle.

Low and centered, the front camera aimed just enough upward to frame Sieun’s flushed face, his heaving chest, and up to the soft curve of his lower abdomen peeking above the waistband of his sweats.

Not enough to see everything, not the full picture. Not the part Seongje most wanted.

But it looked like Seongje was kneeling between his legs.

Like he was on the floor, eyes level with Sieun’s lap, forced to worship the view like something sacred and forbidden.

And God, Sieun had no idea how exposed he was.

No idea how beautifully the shadows played along his collarbones, how each twitch of his throat as he swallowed gave him away.

Sieun’s hand slipped down beneath the camera’s edge, and when it came back up, it was wet.

Seongje was sure those shaky fingers were curled around his cock, stroking slow, unsure. And that uncertainty was intoxicating.

Seongje leaned back, already undoing his pants, movements slow and practiced. His cock was already hard in his hand, flushed and aching with arousal.

On screen, Sieun shifted, adjusting the phone slightly. But not enough to show everything.

And then, Sieun paused. He turned his head slightly, glanced off-screen, and then leaned forward.

He spit.

Right into his palm.

It was quick and careless. Like he couldn’t believe he was doing it, like if he hesitated even a second longer, he’d lose the nerve.

Seongje’s hand froze mid-stroke. His breath hitched.

The image alone—the soundless, half-lit view of Sieun spitting into his own hand, preparing himself to slide a finger into his ass—made Seongje throb.

He bit down on his bottom lip as he gripped his cock tighter. Like holding back from making too much noise, as if Sieun could hear him through the phone and stop whatever he was doing.

“Good boy,” he whispered as faintly as he can under his breath, unable to help himself.

Sieun’s cock wasn’t visible. Neither was his ass.

But his movements were.

The tightening of his lower belly.

The way his arm shifted more deliberately now, just out of frame, told Seongje exactly what he was doing beneath the camera’s edge.

He was fingering himself.

Clumsy, cautious, but undeniably real.

And Seongje could see it. Not the act itself, but the signs of it.

The unsteady rise and fall of his chest. The subtle lift of his hips. The way his wrist moved just slightly, rhythm building, breaths shallowing into quiet little exhales.

Seongje could see the tremble ripple through him.

Seongje stroked himself slowly, in perfect sync with what he saw, every glide of his palm a response to Sieun’s unraveling.

As if their bodies were communicating across the screen.

And then came the sound.

Not a full moan. Not yet.

A stifled, trembling gasp that cracked open at the edges. Small but sharp. The first one Sieun let slip after trying so hard to stay quiet.

It was the sound of someone breaking without knowing it.

Shit, it was so fucking real.

It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Sieun bit his lip, clearly trying to stay quiet, as if someone might hear him. Too used to hiding even in the privacy of his own room.

The boy moved with a clumsy rhythm, fingers trembling, not quite sure where to press.

So Seongje imagined teaching him. Guiding him. Not with words, but with touch. His hand wrapped around Sieun’s, showing him how to stroke, how to grind, how to give in.

And when Sieun lifted his hips just a little harder, the camera catching the taut line of his stomach, sweat-damp at the waistband.

Seongje stroked harder. He could feel himself twitching in his grip, could feel his own breath syncing with Sieun’s sharp inhales.

The rhythm picked up. Sieun’s arm moved faster. His grip on the phone wavered slightly, the screen shifting in and out of frame as his body began to lose control.

Sieun’s back arched ever so slightly as he found himself. That soft, startled gasp when he touched the right spot.

He looked scared by how good it felt. And Seongje felt that fear like fuel.

Seongje followed every second of it, hand slick and fast now, chasing the tremble in Sieun’s thighs, the jerk of his hips, the soft whimper that slipped out when he bit down on his own lip.

And just after the moment broke—just after Sieun came with a quiet, breathless choke of a moan, mouth parted and eyes fluttering shut—Seongje came too.

Biting down on a hiss, hips lifting off the chair, warmth spilling over his hand as he kept his eyes trained on the screen, on the boy who still didn’t know what he was awakening in someone else.

On the other side of the city, Seongje leaned back in the dark, skin flushed, breathing slow. Sticky fingers. Soft smirk.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done to me, baby.”

And then, there.

As his hand shifted, lazily reaching for something, he accidentally dropped it. Fingers slipping against the smooth edge of the table, knuckles knocking against a mug, palm slapping down onto his desk.

Directly on the phone.

The device jolted under the sudden contact, a sharp click echoing as it rocked against the wood, and the screen flared to life for a second. Too bright. Too awake.

Responsive, like it had been sleeping and his touch had pulled it violently back.

A flicker.

A glitch of light and exposure.

Just long enough for movement to register.

Did Sieun notice that?

It looked like he did.

Because the satisfied haze on his face—lips parted, lashes heavy, that relaxed slack of someone recently undone—suddenly shifted.

All color drained from his face in real-time.

Something sharp cut through it.

His eyes widened. His head turned toward the device.

A beat of silence.

Then horror.

His expression snapped into something cold and alert, pupils dilating as if his brain had just caught up to what his body had missed.

The careless act—Seongje dropping his hand, waking the screen—was enough to shake him from the afterglow.

And then came the worst part.

Sieun flipped the phone over, hard. The camera view collapsed into darkness. A clatter followed. Then nothing.

Just pitch black.

Seongje sat there, frozen, eyes locked on the feed like it might spark back to life.

But it didn’t.

Shit. He fucked up.

Chapter Text

It was rare for Sieun to see his friends these days. Everyone was busy. College life had a way of pulling people in different directions, but somehow, today worked.

They ended up packed around a small, greasy table in the corner of a loud, bright BBQ place. The air smelled like sizzling pork belly, burnt garlic, and cheap soju.

Juntae had insisted on this spot under the pretense of “restoring brotherhood energy,” and now their table was overflowing with empty side dishes and overlapping conversations.

“Okay, okay, but you have to tell us,” Gotak said, waving his metal tongs dangerously close to someone’s eye, “Is it true? Park Humin and Na Baekjin are finally official?”

Baku groaned. “Why are we still talking about this?”

Gotak nearly choked on his lettuce wrap. “Because it’s hilarious. You literally turned beet red last time someone said his name.”

“Because I was eating something spicy!” Baku shot back.

“Oh my god,” Juntae grinned. “He’s doing it again.”

Sieun didn’t say much. He was chewing quietly, listening.

“No, seriously,” Gotak said. “Don’t dodge the question. Are you two dating or what?”

Baku rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe. Kinda.”

They all exploded at once and chaos erupted.

“Oh my god, you’re so whipped.”

“Baku got scooped.”

“He confessed, didn’t he? You folded like a beach chair.”

“I didn’t—!”

The teasing died down eventually, and the meat kept sizzling.

Gotak reached for a refill of kimchi and said, more quietly now, “Still, can’t believe Baekjin grew up like that. He used to be this scrawny, weird kid always trailing behind Baku.”

“He glowed up hard,” Juntae agreed. “Totally different energy now.”

Then he turned toward Sieun, eyes narrowing like he’d just remembered something. “You know, he actually kind of reminds me of you.”

Sieun blinked mid-bite. “What.”

“Just a little,” Gotak added. “If Sieun hit the gym.”

“Yeah,” Juntae said, nodding solemnly. “You’re the mini, starter Pokémon, and Baekjin’s the evolved final form.”

“Compact,” Gotak laughed. “Like a dangerous marshmallow.”

Sieun gave them the flattest stare in his arsenal. “You realize none of this is a compliment? And you should look at yourself in the mirror, Juntae.”

Juntae shrugged, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “I’m just saying, you’re adorable. Girls would be all over you if you stopped glaring at people like they just misspelled mitochondria.”

That earned a sharp snort from Baku, loud and sudden, his drink nearly slipping from his hand. Gotak followed with an easy laugh, tipping his head back.

Sieun didn’t respond right away. His fingers toyed with the edge of his sleeve, gaze dropping to the table.

Then, quietly—so quietly it almost got lost beneath the hum of the sizzling meat—he said, “I don’t think I like… girls.”

The laughter stopped.

It was as if someone had hit pause on the room. The air between them stilled, sharp and suspended.

Juntae froze, then immediately slapped a hand over Gotak’s shoulder, the other flying up to cover his own mouth. His eyes were wide, not with shock, but with something like awe. “Wait, wait. Is this the moment?”

Baku leaned forward dramatically, both elbows on the table, his eyebrows arching high. “Are you coming out to us right now? Like right now right now?”

The attention prickled under Sieun’s skin like static. He shifted in his seat and reached up to rub the back of his neck, cheeks flushing.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, voice uneven. “I just… I was thinking about it the other day.”

He didn’t mention that he’d watched porn just to check, of course. Or the way he couldn’t feel a thing when it was a woman on screen, but something clicked too easily when it wasn’t.

“I think… I’m gay,” he admitted.

The words hung in the air like chalk dust, slow to settle.

A beat of silence. Then Baku gasped, eyes wide, a piece of meat nearly tumbling from his mouth mid-chew. “Thank god, finally! It took you long enough!”

Sieun blinked, thrown by the enthusiasm. “Wait. You were assuming my orientation this whole time?”

Gotak and Juntae whipped their heads toward Baku, synchronizing perfectly with matching glares.

Baku raised both hands in surrender, mouth still half-full. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I just… had a feeling, alright?”

Sieun rolled his eyes, but the gesture lacked any real bite. In fact, a quiet sort of warmth began to pool in his chest

Gotak grinned. “Well, now that that’s out in the open, you should go on a date.”

“Seriously,” Baku nodded, excited now that the topic is no longer about his love life. “We’ll set you up with someone.”

“I don’t have time,” Sieun muttered, stabbing at his rice.

Juntae raised an eyebrow. “You have time to color-code your seminar notes in two fonts.”

Before Sieun could protest, Juntae snatched his phone off the table.

“Hey—what are you—”

“I’m helping you.” He typed in the passcode with alarming confidence. “Let me download a dating app.”

Sieun tried to reach for it, but Gotak and Baku had already crowded around Juntae.

“Swipe left. That guy looks like he’d force you to drink carrot juice every morning.”

“Ooh, right swipe. He has a cat. That’s Sieun energy.”

“Can all of you not—”

They passed his phone around like it was a party favor. By the time he finally got it back, a profile had been set up, complete with a photo he didn’t remember approving, a suspiciously charming bio, and more than a few matches.

The rest of the night blurred into snapshots of noise and light. Laughter bouncing off the walls. Arms slung around shoulders. Someone dragging them to their usual karaoke joint. Someone else pouring way too much soju into his glass.

“To celebrate your gayness!” Juntae had declared, raising his drink like a toast at a royal banquet.

They still plotted Sieun’s love life like it was a group project. Like if they just optimized the right variables—personality, physical look, the perfect first date—it would all fall into place.

Sieun had declined with a flat look.

“I told you I’m gay, not that I want to date someone.”

They stared at him like he’d said the dumbest thing in the world.

And maybe he had.

But Sieun had laughed. Genuinely. It was the loudest his heart had felt in weeks.

━━━━━━━━━

The next morning, Sieun woke with a stiff neck and the kind of dry, sticky mouth that only cheap barbeque grease and leftover soju could cause. Thick on his tongue, bitter at the back of his throat like regret.

Strips of pale sunlight cut through the blinds, resting softly along the edge of his bed. The light was gentle, almost kind, like it hadn’t heard what happened the night before.

For a moment, it felt normal. Quiet. The kind of stillness only a Sunday morning offered. Nno lectures, no alarms, just the muted hum of daylight spilling into the room.

Sieun reached for his phone on instinct, the way he always did first thing, fingers brushing over the smooth screen as he pulled it toward him.

Just a routine check. He planned to scroll through his messages, maybe review his to-do list in the notes app, the ones he updated each morning to keep himself tethered.

But then he noticed something.

Something was gone from his phone.

The dating app.

Not hidden in a folder. Not quietly sitting in a corner waiting to be tapped. Just gone.

As if it had never been there to begin with.

Sieun stared at the screen, thumb hovering in uncertainty over the blank space where the app used to be.

He hadn’t deleted it. Not last night. Not while drunk. Not even by accident in some clumsy haze. And definitely not in his sleep.

His throat tightened. The dryness deepened, the back of his mouth suddenly tasting like ash, like something stale left too long in the air.

It’s not like he intended to use it. He hadn’t even opened the inbox Juntae and the others had bullied him into making. He’d barely looked at the messages, let alone responded.

Still… it wasn’t the first sign.

There had been others.

Texts from Suho that never arrived. Entire conversations lost in the ether, like they’d been caught midair and never delivered.

The cheesecake delivery, timed too perfectly, landing on his doorstep the exact night his chest caved in and the crying started. He hadn’t told anyone. He hadn’t spoken to anyone. But it came, anyway.

And then the screen.

That strange flicker a few nights ago, barely noticeable, just a faint bright, like a fingerprint brushing the inside of the glass, leaving no mark but still felt.

Like something else had a say.

His fingers curled tighter around the phone, nails pressing into the edges.

And then—without fully thinking, without giving himself a chance to spiral further—he held down the power button until the screen faded to black.

It blinked out.

He let it drop onto the mattress beside him.

He didn’t want to look at it anymore.

Not for a while.

━━━━━━━━━

Sieun spent the rest of Sunday—and most of Monday morning—with his phone turned off.

It sat in his bag like a dead weight, silent and sealed, as if keeping it off might somehow keep whatever was wrong with it at bay.

Normally, after classes, he’d make his way to the library, skim through reference books he didn’t have time to fully read or highlight printouts with two colors.

But not today.

Today, he had other plans.

He needed to fix his phone. Or at least find out what the hell was going on with it.

He decided to go back to the last repair shop he went to. The one where he picked up his phone after he had lost it.

The other shops were either too far—in areas he barely visited—or way too expensive. One place near the station had glass doors and staff in matching polos, and just walking past it made him feel like they’d charge a month of his pocket money for breathing their air.

Though, he had to admit, this one repair shop is not exactly comforting either.

From the outside, the place looked like it was closed more often than open. A cramped storefront with dusty windows and a weather-beaten sign, the lettering faded and flaked at the edges, like the name itself was trying to disappear.

If it hadn’t been for the woman who found his phone and casually mentioned this place, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance. Would’ve walked right past without even registering it was a business at all.

But last time, the guy at the counter had done a surprisingly good job. The screen had been pristine, crystal-clear, like the phone had been replaced with a newer version of itself.

So he walked to the place, hands tucked into his pockets, the cold weight of his phone still resting in his bag.

When he stepped inside, a faint chime rang overhead, tinny and a little delayed. The air smelled faintly of solder, plastic, and something vaguely citrus, like someone had tried to clean but gave up halfway.

Behind the cluttered counter stood the guy.

To be honest, Sieun didn’t really remember his face from last time. Sieun thought he had been wearing a cap then, maybe with the brim pulled low. He’d only caught flashes. A voice, a gesture, hands moving quickly over a screen.

But this time, he saw him clearly.

His hair was a dark, smoky brown. Messy, but not in a careless way. More like it had been tousled just enough to look effortless, like he’d rolled out of bed already looking better than most people on their best days.

He wore wire-framed glasses that added a kind of quiet intelligence to his face, but there was nothing soft or delicate about him. He had the look of someone who spent hours behind a screen, not in a withdrawn, fragile way, but focused. Controlled.

His eyes were sharp, ringed faintly with exhaustion, but steady. Watchful. Like he didn’t miss much, even when he looked half-asleep. Like he was always two steps ahead of whatever—or whoever—stood in front of him.

Sieun thought he looked a little too young to be running a place like this, a shop with peeling paint and a sign that looked like it hadn’t seen a full renovation in a decade.

But he also looked a little too confident to care what anyone thought, so Sieun just stepped in to greet him.

“Hello.”

He looked up, blinking like he hadn’t expected anyone to walk in. For a brief moment, his expression flickered—surprised, maybe even curious—but it quickly smoothed into something calm. Lazy, even. Like he’d slipped into a practiced mask.

“Can I help you?” he asked, voice low and unhurried.

Sieun pulled his phone from his bag and placed it on the counter. It made a soft thunk against the glass.

“I’d like you to check my phone. I think something’s… broken. Or something.”

The tall guy raised an eyebrow, then reached for the phone with long, sure fingers. “Is there any specific problem?”

Sieun hesitated. How was he supposed to explain this without sounding paranoid?

But if he wanted help, he had to try.

Sieun continued, slower now. “Some apps just… disappear. Like, completely. Not in the app drawer, not in my history. And sometimes, the screen dims on its own. Like someone’s touching it, but I’m not.”

The guy didn’t say anything. He just gave a small nod, the kind that told Sieun he was listening, though his expression remained unreadable.

He powered on the phone, screen lighting up in the dim shop, then glanced at Sieun briefly. Giving an unspoken heads-up, like asking silent permission before going further. Sieun nodded once.

“Is your battery draining fast?” the guy asked, eyes still on the screen.

“Yes,” Sieun looked at him with wide eyes, like he’s some kind of tech shaman and had just read his fortune so accurately. “It does. It runs out really fast lately.”

The guy just hummed and nodded again, unfazed, like he’d already known what Sieun would say.

Then, he reached under the counter and pulled out a compact, matte-black laptop. Within seconds, he had Sieun’s phone connected to it by cable, the screen of the laptop flickering to life with lines of code and scanning tools Sieun couldn’t begin to interpret.

Then he stopped. He unplugged the cable from Sieun’s phone and powered it off with a deliberate press, like he was muting it.

“I hope you’re not too attached to this phone,” he murmured, fingers tapping with idle precision. “There’s something here,” he said, voice even but quieter now. More focused. “A remote access package. Hidden behind dummy system files.”

Sieun’s breath caught.

“What does that mean?” he asked, throat dry.

The guy looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time since they started.

“It means someone installed spyware on your phone. Not some random app or junkware either. It's a custom. Designed to hide in plain sight and relay your data back to whoever set it up.”

Sieun’s stomach dropped.

“Your messages. App activity. Location. Possibly your camera or mic,” the guy added, almost clinically. “Depends how far they went.”

Sieun felt cold all over. “So… someone’s watching me?”

The man didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Sieun for a beat longer than necessary, then closed the laptop with a soft click.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Seems like it.”

“But… why?”

Sieun’s voice came out smaller than he intended, thin and strained. The question hung in the air, fragile, like he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.

The guy didn’t speak right away. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms loosely, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. As if he were trying to decide how much to say. Or whether Sieun could handle it.

“Could be anything,” he said smoothly. “Some people do it for money. Some for revenge. Some just want to feel close to someone.”

There was the slightest curl of his lips there, like he knew that one would land funny.

Sieun’s stomach turned.

“To me?” he echoed.

The guy shrugged, but there was something too practiced about the gesture. Too smooth. “People track what they want to keep tabs on. Could be a jealous ex. Could be someone with too much time. Could be someone who thinks you’re interesting.”

“I’m not,” Sieun muttered, eyes dropping to the dark screen of his phone. “I’m not interesting.”

“You’d be surprised how many people think they’re invisible when they’re not,” the guy replied, tone lighter now, almost amused. But his gaze didn’t soften.

Sieun didn’t know what to say to that. He looked down at his phone, suddenly more aware of how long it had sat in his pocket, listening. Watching.

“Can you remove it?” he asked. “The spyware?”

“I can,” the guy nodded, without hesitation. “But…”

Sieun’s gaze snapped up at the word.

“It might be better to move slowly,” the guy said gently. “These kinds of things… they don’t always show up through normal means. If someone really went through the trouble of installing something custom, they might be monitoring the connection for changes.”

Sieun listened to him as if he were trying to understand someone speaking another language he clearly didn’t speak. “You mean… they’d know I’m trying to get rid of it?”

“Possibly. It depends on how sophisticated the tool is,” he said, tone measured, almost reassuring. “I just don’t want to make it worse for you. Removing it isn’t hard. But I’d say it’s smarter to observe a little first. Gather more data. Make sure we understand what we’re dealing with.”

That sounded logical. Reasonable.

Like something a professional would say.

But Sieun is not a professional, and it still sounds like it's jeopardizing his safety.

"Maybe I should just go to the police," he muttered, almost more to himself than to the person he was speaking with.

The guy leaned back a little, keeping his posture open but relaxed, as if this was just another normal part of their discussion.

"The thing is, though, if you were to go to the police now, it might be a little tricky. It’s not easy to prove something like this without solid evidence. A lot of the time, they don’t have the means to track down who’s behind it, especially with a physical spyware like this one."

Sieun’s gaze shifted away for a second, his thoughts clearly racing. The words made sense, but they didn’t sit well with him. "So, what am I supposed to do? Just let it go?"

The guy folded his arms lightly and leaned forward, voice dropping just slightly, like they were discussing something sensitive.

“Look, if you’re okay with it, I’d suggest we monitor things for a bit longer,” he said. “No rush to pull the trigger. We gather more signs, see if whoever’s behind this slips up. You can come by anytime and let me know what’s been happening. I’ll help you track it.”

He made it sound casual, easy. Like an open-door policy rather than a calculated tether.

“And if there’s something specific you’re worried about, like a conversation you don’t want overheard, or a moment where you want total privacy, you can always shut the phone off completely. Just don’t use it during that time.”

Sieun bit his lip.

He had never experienced anything like this before, of course not. The idea that his phone had been hacked, that someone had been watching him, was so far outside the realm of his expectations. It almost didn’t feel real.

He didn’t have a jealous ex. No obsessive admirer. And definitely not someone nursing a crush on someone as… as quiet, as withdrawn, as ordinary as him.

Could it be someone from college?

Maybe he’d said something offhand that had rubbed someone the wrong way. He knew plenty of people found him annoying, even if he never meant to be.

The truth was, he didn’t know what to do.

So when the tall guy spoke—calm, detached, practical—it somehow made sense.

Grounding advice. Nothing too extreme. Nothing that required him to dive headfirst into panic.

“You’ll help me check it again later?” Sieun asked, quieter now. Hopeful, but wary.

“Of course,” the guy said, nodding once. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Sieun let out a long, quiet breath. The fear was still there—lurking beneath his ribs—but it was wrapped now in something else. A strange layer of calm. Like he’d passed a storm and found himself in the eye.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Yeah. That sounds… okay.”

He offered him a small smile.

“Good,” he said. “Then we’ll keep an eye on things together.”

Sieun lingered for a moment, shifting awkwardly before reaching into his bag.

“So, um… how much should I pay you?”

The guy blinked, then let out a short breath of amusement. “Nothing right now. Just focus on staying calm until we figure out exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“But I should at least pay something,” Sieun insisted, brows furrowing. “You said that you’ll continue to help me.”

“Well…” he said slowly, as if the idea had only just occurred to him, “if you really want to—how about you take me to dinner?”

Sieun blinked. “…Sorry?”

“I like to be compensated in calories,” A faint, almost sheepish smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Just lightly teasing in a way that made it hard to tell how serious he actually was.

Sieun stared at him.

He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe a price. A repair fee. A vague estimate. Not this.

“Dinner,” Sieun repeated slowly, more to himself than anything.

His brain scrambled to make sense of it. Was this a joke? Or just an unusually kind gesture?

He tried to read the guy’s face, but it was maddeningly neutral. Not a flicker of anything strange. Just steady eye contact and a slight, knowing tilt of the head, like he didn’t think it was strange at all.

“Dinner,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world. “Nothing fancy. Just a meal. We can talk more about your phone. I’ll walk you through what else we can try, what to keep an eye on.”

Sieun’s lips parted, then closed again.

He wanted to say no. Not because he felt unsafe, but because he didn’t know what this was. And he didn’t like not knowing.

But then again, he's also not sure he wants to be alone, not after receiving the knowledge that someone had been hacking into his phone, watching him.

Should he just go home, sit in silence, and scroll through a potentially compromised device?

He had already spent the whole class spiraling that morning, wondering if he was losing it, if maybe he’d blown things out of proportion and the creeping paranoia was all in his head.

Because as absurd as it was, as inappropriate as the timing felt, at least this way, he’d be with someone who seemed to know what was happening to him and is experienced with it.

And maybe, Sieun thought, maybe it would feel less terrifying if he wasn’t alone in it.

“…Okay,” Sieun said quietly. “Just dinner. Just to talk.”

He smiled, calm and patient. Like he’d known from the beginning that Sieun would say yes.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Just to talk.”

He straightened from his chair, already moving with quiet ease toward the back of the counter. “There’s a place a few minutes from here,” he added over his shoulder. “Not too crowded and good food.”

There was a knowing edge in his tone, like he’d already decided Sieun would like it too, like the verdict had been made long before Sieun even walked in.

Without waiting for a reply, the taller guy reached for the sign on the front window and flipped it with a casual flick of his wrist.

“You’re closing?” Sieun asked, pausing just short of the door, uncertain whether to follow or apologize.

“Just for a bit,” the man replied, already slipping into his coat with practiced ease. “Not like this place gets a rush.”

He tossed the words out with a faint smirk, as if the whole situation amused him more than it should.

Then, without another word, he moved to the door. With exaggerated politeness, he pushed it open and held it there, posture easy, gaze unreadable.

There was something about the gesture that made Sieun feel like he was being invited into something more than just a walk down the street. But he stepped through anyway.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky while they’d been inside. The streets were still warm with daylight, but the shadows had grown longer, stretching behind their steps.

The guy didn’t rush. He strolled beside Sieun, hands tucked casually in his pockets, chin slightly tilted like he was entirely at ease. Like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

And Sieun followed.

Telling himself it was just dinner.

Just to talk.

Chapter Text

Seongje stared at the pitch-black screen on the duplicate of Sieun’s phone, disconnection glaring back at him.

Sieun had cut him off. It was almost pathetic, like being ghosted by a boyfriend who was pissed off and making him pay for it.

Shit. Had he really crossed the line this time?

He knew he’d been a bit careless.

Not because he lacked skill, heck no. Seongje was meticulous by nature. He thrived in shadows, moved through systems like water. But this time? This time, he had been reckless, by impulse.

Don’t blame him.

He just couldn’t control his body, not when his mind had already short-circuited.

Not after seeing that.

Sieun, touching himself like that.

That trembling breath, that shy, confused flush on his cheeks, that utterly innocent look in his eyes as he dared to touch himself though it was probably the worst sin he’d ever committed.

Seongje hadn’t just lost focus. He'd forgotten the world around him. Forgotten everything but the image in front of him.

Sieun, soft and alone, flinching when he hit the right spot, hand clumsy but determined, face contorted in a mix of shame and desperate pleasure.

A kind of quiet euphoria.

And not to mention, how the hell was he supposed to just stand there and watch freaking Ahn Suho, or any other clueless bastard from that pathetic dating app, try their luck with his Sieun?

No. Absolutely not.

That pushed him over. It made something cold and furious bloom in Seongje’s chest.

He’d deleted it without hesitation. The messages. The app. Didn’t even think twice. He had the access, the right, the reason.

Sieun didn’t need that garbage. What he needed was someone who actually understood him. Someone who knew how to look past the silences and see the gold underneath.

But now—with no feed, no audio, no quiet glimpses into the boy’s routines—his world felt wrong.

Boring.

Too quiet.

Empty.

And fuck, he hated it.

He missed that little creature. He missed watching him.

That soft, stubborn, tightly wound thing who didn’t even know how beautiful he looked when he frowned at his laptop or bit down on his pen or let his eyes flutter shut from exhaustion.

So, when Sieun walked into his shop, it felt like the universe had given him a second chance.

It caught him a little off guard when Sieun showed up and laid everything out in quiet, nervous pieces.

That brilliant little brain of his.

Seongje had to give it to him. Sieun was sharper than most. Even when shaken, even when scared, that mind of his still worked through the fog and landed exactly where it needed to.

He actually almost managed to connect the dots.

Finally figuring out.

Almost.

Just almost, if he hadn’t come to Seongje, who’s actually the very thing he was trying to run from.

The irony tasted sweet on his tongue.

The little lamb, shivering at the edge of the forest, asking the wolf for shelter.

Ironic and poetic.

But Sieun doesn’t have to worry, Seongje is nothing like that. Nothing like what he was thinking.

Sure, Seongje should have been more careful. Left fewer traces. Moved more discreetly.

But he stayed calm. He always did. This wasn’t the first mess he’d cleaned up, and it wouldn’t be the last.

He could fix this.

He could always fix everything.

So, with the usual charm and the gentlest pressure, he’d steered the conversation exactly where he wanted it.

Slipped just enough concern into his voice, just enough calm into his expression, to make Sieun feel like the safest option in the room was standing behind that counter.

And somehow, he’d succeeded.

Sieun agreed to trust him.

To even take him to dinner.

Seongje almost smiled at the thought. From hacking his phone to picking his menu. He’d call that growth.

The restaurant is on a quiet side-street. One of those older Korean places with a faded sign, mismatched chairs, and slightly bent metal chopsticks from years of use.

Warm yellow lights buzzed overhead, catching on the silver pots and the stainless-steel hood above the open kitchen. A small TV played muted reruns of an old weekend drama.

It wasn’t glamorous.

But it was perfect.

Seongje had picked it deliberately.

Private enough for a conversation. Familiar enough to keep Sieun from tensing up. And most importantly, no one would look twice at two guys eating samgyeopsal or kimchi jjigae in a corner booth here.

He watched as Sieun sat across from him, his posture still guarded. Hands resting in his lap, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to take up less space.

“I’d recommend the pork cutlet here,” Seongje said, casually flipping the laminated menu open and sliding it toward him. “Or the galbi-tang. Their broth is clean.”

Sieun glanced up from his tea, his gaze meeting Seongje's for a brief moment. He gave a small nod, before speaking in a soft voice, "That sounds… fine."

The words were tentative, as if he were still unsure of Seongje, as if he hadn’t yet decided whether to completely trust him.

Good.

Seongje couldn't help but smile to himself, a thin, self-satisfied curl of his lips, before flagging down the waiter.

His order was casual, efficient, as though he’d already decided what they would have without needing to ask.

The ajumma walked off, her footsteps clicking softly against the tiled floor, and the space between them fell into a brief, almost comfortable silence.

The soft hum of the ceiling fan overhead filled the air, adding a warmth to the atmosphere, though neither of them seemed to fully settle into it.

Across from him, Sieun still held his cup of tea in both hands. His gaze flicked to the window for a moment, then back down to the table, as if he were unsure where to focus his attention.

His discomfort was palpable, yet there was something undeniably endearing about the way he fidgeted, unsure of what to say, where to look.

“I just realized,” Seongje said, leaning back slightly, the words casual as if they’d just occurred to him. “I never asked your name.”

He had to at least pretend about this, didn't he?

Sieun blinked.

“Sieun,” he said, his voice quiet. “Yeon Sieun.”

Seongje let the name roll around in his mind for a moment, savoring the sound of it. He repeated it silently, as though committing it to memory. Not because he needed to, but because he already had. Dozens of times.

He nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, deliberate smile. “Keum Seongje.”

Their eyes met briefly across the table, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them. It wasn’t quite intriguing, but something close to it.

“You’re smart for catching all those details earlier,” Seongje continued, his tone steady, almost admiring. “Most people don’t.”

Sieun just raised his eyebrows and nodded softly, showing gratitude in silence.

Their food arrived then, the bowls of galbi-tang steaming and fragrant, filling the air with the savory scent of rich broth and tender beef.

A side of rice accompanied it, and a few metal banchan dishes were placed between them. Kimchi and slices of fish cake.

The two of them ate mostly in silence after that. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but it wasn’t easy either.

Sieun focused intently on his soup, dipping his spoon in and out of the bowl with quiet precision, chewing in small, polite bites.

Across from him, Seongje fought the impulse to stare.

He tried, but failed.

Instead, he rested his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, chopsticks idly twirling between his fingers. He let the silence stretch before breaking the silence.

“Not a fan of talking during meals?” Seongje said while his eyes lingered, hoping Sieun would look up.

Sieun didn’t answer right away. He sat with his shoulders slightly hunched, and he looked like he was finding the right words for the next response.

“I’m not great at small talk,” he said at last, eyes still on the table.

He wasn’t cold, just distant.

Seongje could see it clear as day, thoughts spinning behind those eyes, looping worst-case scenarios like a broken record.

He almost felt bad. Almost.

Seongje nodded slowly, folding his hands around his own cup. He didn’t press.

“You look like you’re thinking a lot,” he said quietly. “Let me guess. Replaying everything from last week, trying to remember everything you’ve done and how much you’ve been exposed to.”

Seongje put on a face as if he’s the only person capable of understanding Sieun right now.

“I get it,” Seongje continued, his tone light but careful. “Honestly, if you weren’t panicking a little, I’d be worried.”

Still no reply. But Sieun didn’t shut him down either.

"Thinking’s good," Seongje said, keeping his voice low and even, like someone trying not to spook a wounded animal. "But if you think too hard, you’ll end up with a headache."

Sieun finally looked up. There was a beat of silence before he spoke.

“You said you’d help me.” His voice was soft but unsure, as if wanting something solid to hold onto. “You said you’d tell me what to watch for. What to do next. I’d like to know.”

There it was.

Seongje leaned back slightly in his chair, adopting a neutral expression.

“You said it wasn’t malware. That it looked more like… a targeted breach?”

Seongje nodded slowly, taking his time with his response. “Right.” His voice was deliberate, his gaze steady. “It didn’t behave like a mass bot. The access points were too specific.”

Sieun’s gaze dropped again, his eyes lost in thought. “So someone… specifically wanted to see my stuff?”

“Mhm.”

“…And you’re sure?” Sieun’s voice broke the silence, a quiet edge of uncertainty creeping in.

“Pretty sure,” Seongje replied, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. He wasn’t trying to reassure Sieun. He wasn’t trying to soften the blow.

It was just the truth, cold and unadorned.

Sieun didn’t respond immediately. He seemed to be weighing the next question carefully, his shoulders tensing as he considered whether it was worth asking.

“So how do I find out who it was?”

There was a brief pause, a moment that hung in the air.

“I want to know who’s been spying on me,” Sieun said, his tone sharp, now full of annoyance. His voice wasn’t interested in games

Across from him, Seongje’s mouth twitched, just slightly.

You want to hunt me down?

The thought rose dry with quiet amusement. But of course, he didn’t say it.

“You said I couldn’t report them to the police without proof. So I need to know their identity first, get the evidence, and then I’ll go to them.”

Okay, now you’re thinking.

“There’s no clean way to trace it in an instant,” he said. “Not if they knew what they were doing.”

Sieun frowned, visibly dissatisfied with the answer.

He leaned forward slightly, still trying to coax something proactive out of Seongje, the edges of frustration creeping into his expression. “So that’s it?” he asked, voice laced with disappointment.

Seongje, with his characteristic calm, continued. “But, you can watch for patterns.”

Sieun raised a brow, his expression skeptical. “Patterns.”

“Yeah,” Seongje said, as though that was explanation enough. “Like… what they did, exactly. What files they opened, what apps they hovered around. When it happened. Times of day, frequency. All of that tells you something. Not everything, but enough to guess a motive. And once you start to understand the why,” he added, his voice dropping lower, but still casual, “you can sometimes figure out the who.”

Seongje watched him carefully, like he was waiting for Sieun to catch on. As if it’s a game between them.

The idea thrilled him more than it should’ve.

Let’s see how close you get, Yeon Sieun.

“You have to be patient,” he said, voice smooth and maddeningly composed. “Jumping in headfirst doesn’t always lead anywhere good.”

Sieun didn’t say anything more, as if he’d given up. Instead, he blinked slowly and returned his focus to the bowl in front of him.

Eventually, their bowls were empty. The meal coming to an easy end without any tension.

Sieun flagged down the ahjumma, who quickly came with the bill. Without a word, Sieun paid as promised, sliding cash onto the tray with a finality that suggested he wanted to end the evening without any lingering attention.

Too bad. Seongje was just starting to have fun.

Once outside, the air had shifted, cooler now, with a light dusting of snow beginning to fall softly around them.

The pavement glistened faintly under the dim glow of the restaurant sign, and the street was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic.

“You can walk home alone?” Seongje asked, his voice casual, though there was something almost too nonchalant about it.

Sieun paused, taking a half step ahead before glancing back. He breathed in, steadied himself, and then said, “Yeah.”

After a beat, almost reluctantly, he added, “Thanks.”

Sieun turned again, his steps soft against the pavement, barely making a sound. Street lights flickered faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the ground.

He was about to disappear into it.

But Seongje moved before he could fully fade.

“Wait.” His hand slid into his coat pocket—not the one where he kept his own real phone, or the duplicate mirrored the view of Sieun’s life—but for another device.

Smaller than the average smartphone. Older. A little clunky around the edges, its matte-black case dull from use. The corners were chipped, the back slightly scratched.

One of the secondhand models he kept in a drawer behind the counter. Cheap but reliable, the kind most customers ignored until they were desperate.

This one had history. It had been in too many hands, sat in too many forgotten bags, maybe even held someone else’s secrets before it landed here. It was anonymous.

Without hesitation, Seongje stepped forward and held it out.

Sieun looked at him, confused.

“Use this if you need me,” Seongje said evenly, his voice smooth as polished glass. “It’s already set up. Number’s live. I saved my contact.”

He offered the device without fanfare, holding it out like it was the most casual thing in the world. Except nothing about this was casual.

The phone sat heavy in his palm.

Sieun blinked, not reaching for it yet. “You’re giving me a whole phone?”

The question came out flat, but beneath it was disbelief. Caution. The kind of wariness that grew in the spaces between too many unanswered questions.

“A private line.” His voice didn’t waver. Unbothered. Like he hadn’t just handed an asset to someone he barely knew. “Just for us. If something comes up. If you need to consult that hacker.”

Sieun looked lost. So, Seongje just continued.

“If you text me from your regular phone, you’re sending your stalker a copy of every word. I won’t be able to help.” Seongje said with no humor in his tone. Just cool logic.

Sieun stared at the device in his hand, lips parting like he wanted to argue.

“But this is a lot,” he said eventually, voice low. “You don’t have to… go this far. I can just stop by your shop again if I need something.”

Ah.

That fragile voice. That instinct to backpedal, to keep the distance safe and measurable.

Seongje’s brows lifted slightly. Just a twitch.

“Wow. First guy to ever reject free tech support from a genius. Should I be offended?” he asked, voice edged with quiet amusement, but still light in a way not to scare Sieun.

He didn’t sound offended. Just amused. Too calm for someone offering help in a situation that felt like a slow-motion nightmare. Like nothing about this situation was alarming to him.

Sieun didn’t respond to the joke. He didn’t laugh.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. Not accusing, but just honest, like the weight of the flat truth spilled out of his mouth.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

And Seongje didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked almost… thoughtful.

“No,” he said after a moment, “You don’t.”

He paused again, letting that sit in the air between them before adding,

“But I know exactly what I’m doing.”

And that’s all that mattered, wasn’t it?

He reached out and brushed Sieun’s hand, just enough contact to make it feel inevitable. He placed the phone into his palm and curled the boy’s fingers around it himself.

Like sealing a deal.

Then he let go.

The phone stayed there. Warm from his skin. Weighty with intent.

And before Sieun could even think to hand it back—before he could voice the quiet protest forming at the back of his throat—Seongje simply walked backwards with a smirk on his face.

“See you around,” he said casually.

The smile he wore didn’t match the newness of their exchange. It curled at the corners like they were old friends. Like they were already entangled.

Except, for Sieun, this was the first time they’d truly spoken.

Without waiting for a response, he walked away, coat swaying gently behind him, footsteps quiet against the dark pavement.

He disappeared into the street’s shadows as if he’d never been there at all.

Leaving Sieun behind with a phone in his hand and a thousand questions in his head.

━━━━━━━━━

Seongje came home to his apartment that night. As a reward.

He rarely did. Not because he couldn’t. Just because most nights didn’t deserve it.

The place stood in sharp contrast to the dusty clutter of his repair shop. That shop was a mask.

It was grime, full with scattered cables and scratched-up desks.

While his apartment was all sleek lines and silence.

He’d earned this place. With the kind of work he did, money wasn’t a problem. The savings stacked up fast when your services were illegal, efficient, and never cheap.

Modern and pristine, it occupied one of the upper floors of a high-rise in a quiet, expensive district.

The building was polished with glass and marble tiles. The living room opened into an expansive view of the city skyline, floor-to-ceiling windows bordered by charcoal curtains.

Everything was black, gray, or white. Minimal clutter. No personal photos.

The kind of place that looked staged for a catalog shoot, not lived in.

And really, it wasn’t lived in. Not regularly.

Most of the time, he spent his nights in the cramped, half-secret room at the back of the repair shop. That was where he worked best. Alone, surrounded by code. Quiet except for the hum of machines and the occasional music filtering through.

He didn’t need comfort to function. He needed access, and silence.

He only came here when he needed to reset. Once every few days.

Only when his body gave out—when the sharp chemical tang of flux clung too heavy to his skin or the cold glow of too many screens began to throb behind his eyes—did he let himself retreat here.

And tonight, he wanted that silence. Clean air. Cold sheets.

He shrugged off his coat and hoodie, letting them drop onto the edge of the sleek leather sofa. His muscles ached. Not from labor, but from self-restraint. Smiling too long. Playing too soft.

Maybe because he hadn’t expected it to go that well.

He was supposed to be careful with Sieun. But things were moving faster than expected.

And actually, he didn’t mind.

He wasn’t going to work tonight. Or tomorrow. Or maybe even the next day. Let the feeds stay dark. Let the alerts pile up.

He just wanted to relive it. Every second of Sieun’s voice, every flick of his eyes, every stubborn twitch in his brows as he tried not to let Seongje get to him.

He wanted to sink into that memory, piece by piece, like tracing the outline of a code he already knew by heart.

It was good to be his own boss. Good to have the power to stop the world for a while.

Especially now, when the most interesting variable he’d ever encountered was finally orbiting closer than anyone had ever dared.

Seongje stepped out of the shower, steam rolling off his skin as he slung a towel around his shoulders, damp hair pushed back with a lazy drag of his fingers.

He stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, watching the slow drip of water trace the sharp lines of his chest and abs. Lean, efficient muscle built through a routine he never skipped, not even when he was holed up in that secret room of his.

And then, he noticed a buzz. Sharp and low, vibrating against his polished marble counter.

His phone. The real one.

Seongje turned his head lazily toward the sound, water still glistening on his collarbones.

He crossed the open floor, barefoot, the cool tiles grounding him in contrast to the heat still clinging to his skin. He picked up the phone from the counter with one hand.

A notification blinked on the lock screen. One that might have made him too excited.

A message from a contact named “Cutie.”

It was the number on the burner he’d handed to Sieun earlier. He’d saved the contact, of course.

[Cutie – 09:48 PM]
test

That was it. No punctuation. No greeting. No context. Just a single word, typed hesitantly, like Sieun was checking if the connection would really go through.

Seongje let out a quiet breath through his nose, something between a chuckle and a sigh.

Of course that’s how he’d start. It sounded like the most Sieun text ever.

He settled into his living room couch, the towel around his hips still damp, hair dripping onto his collarbones. He typed back, calm and casual.

[Seongje – 09:51 PM]
Looks like it works.
Made it home okay?

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Returned again. Classic.

[Cutie – 09:56 PM]
i’m home

[Seongje – 09:56 PM]
That’s good to hear.

He left it at that. Brief and not pushing. Then, he added.

[Seongje – 09:58 PM]
So, what made you text me?
Something wrong again with your phone?

The reply came quicker this time.

[Cutie – 10:00 PM]
just checking if it works
felt weird not saying anything after you gave me the number

Seongje’s lips quirked faintly.

Couldn’t wait to start texting me, huh? he thought, the words forming easily. But he kept them to himself. It’d be too early and too forward to say something like that.

Instead, he typed something softer. Warmer. Something that wouldn’t make him pull away.

[Seongje – 10:02 PM]
I appreciate it

[Cutie – 10:02 PM]
i haven’t turned on my phone yet

[Seongje – 10:03 PM]
Fair. I’d be cautious too

[Seongje – 10:04 PM]
Also
You handled things today better than most people would’ve
Just saying

There was no reply, but the “Read” timestamp showed.

He could imagine Sieun staring at the message, unsure how to respond to a compliment.

The later came in later after a longer pause.

[Cutie – 10:10 PM]
thanks
i’m gonna sleep

[Seongje – 10:11 PM]
Good night, Sieun
Message me if anything feels off

And with that final text, their quiet little exchange fizzled out for the night.

Seongje stared at the last message on his screen, letting it linger a second longer than necessary. A smirk tugged at his lips.

He was actually getting closer to Sieun.

Not just from behind a screen. This was real. Shared soup. Late night text. Every small detail fed something electric and possessive inside him, a soft pulse of satisfaction humming in his chest.

God, he was in such a good mood.

Too good.

He probably shouldn’t be grinning this much after watching someone spiral, but here he was, buzzing with it. That low, dangerous thrill curling warm under his ribs.

The city glowed in a quiet sprawl behind him, all golden haze and distant noise. It felt cinematic, almost. Like the world was applauding him.

Just the memory of Sieun was enough to make the night taste sweet.

Chapter Text

After the visit to the repair shop, Sieun had treated his phone like it might explode.

He’d left the phone off the moment he left the shop and hadn’t touched it since.

For two days, it sat dead in his drawer like some cursed object. Watching it felt like watching a trap he wasn’t sure how to disarm.

When he finally did turn it back on, it was early morning.

The world outside still dim. His room quiet.

He sat at the edge of his bed like he was waiting for a punishment. Face half-covered by a mask, hoodie pulled up, more armor than comfort.

As if that could shield him from whoever might be watching through the screen.

The light flickered on.

Notifications flooded in like a sudden tide.

He scrolled with slow, tense fingers, half-expecting something monstrous to appear.

But instead,

Juntae and Gotak were in the group chat arguing over whether he’d been kidnapped or had just gone full hermit mode.

[Gotak – 09:25 AM]
there’s no way he got kidnapped. he’s probably just ghosting us again ’cause he’s busy with his endless tragic genius routine

[Juntae – 09:27 AM]
if he’s dead, I’m not splitting funeral costs with you

The corner of Sieun’s mouth twitched. A breath escaped him that was almost a laugh.

Baku, on the other hand, had apparently thrown subtlety out the window and ran over it with a truck. The guy had sent seventeen messages in a row. All increasingly chaotic.

[Baku – 09:25 AM]
sieun?

[Baku – 09:28 AM]
dude??
if you’re okay just say something

[Baku – 09:30 AM]
seriously this is weird

[Baku – 09:35 AM]
okay now I’m actually worried

[Baku – 09:38 AM]
we’re coming to your place today if you still don’t reply!!!

And the last one from Baku would be a voice note. Timestamped just a few minutes ago.

Sieun hesitated, then tapped play.

“Okay, listen, you can’t just vanish like that. Who do you think you are, Batman? Answer your phone, loser. Or I’m showing up and your weird neighbor’s gonna think I’m your boyfriend again—AND I’M FINE WITH THAT, BY THE WAY.”

There was a dramatic sigh at the end, followed by a muffled, “Juntae, no, I’m not done yelling—”

Then it cut off.

Sieun blinked at the screen, the ghost of laughter clawing up his throat. They were so stupid.

Absolutely idiotic.

But they were his idiots.

And they were worried. Actually worried.

He thumbed out a response, short and to the point—“I’m ok. don’t come”—that got a storm of question marks, keysmashes, and outright threats in return.

Meanwhile, there was his mother. Her name hovered in the inbox with only a few messages sent last night.

[Omma – 08:22 PM]
Why can I not call you?

[Omma – 08:25 PM]
You’re not skipping classes, right?
Don’t get into trouble.

That was it.

No "are you okay," no question about his silence. No warmth. No real concern.

Just the usual, detached expectation that he behaves.

He replied with a short message telling her he was busy going to classes and not to worry. Polite, distant, and just enough to keep questions at bay.

Other than that, nothing weird came out of the phone. Nothing suspicious.

No apps were missing. No sudden glitches. No phantom touches.

Not even after Sieun stared at it for five full minutes like he could will it into revealing something.

Everything looked normal.

Then, without thinking, he went to the window.

Parted the curtain an inch and scanned the street below.

Nothing suspicious. Just the usual blur of foot traffic and parked scooters. The neighbor’s laundry flapping like tired flags on the railing.

But still, he watched for a second too long, as if expecting something to move wrong. To turn toward him.

Nothing.

He let the curtain fall.

Then, after what felt like a full inspection, Sieun finally slipped his phone into his bag.

He turned away, reaching for the rest of his things.

The key to his rented room dangled from a black kitten keychain, something won by Baku from a claw machine, who swore it looked just like him and jammed it on without asking.

His earbuds, nestled in their matte case.

The backup charger, edges dulled by friction.

And the notebook. With corners folded from habit and sentences that constantly crawled across the pages.

Sieun collected all of them in automatic motion.

And then he saw it.

The other phone.

The one that the repair guy—Seongje, apparently—had given him.

It lay half-buried under a hoodie on his desk, as if it had been waiting patiently for him to remember it.

The dull black casing still looked as plain and forgettable as ever, but the moment he picked it up, the screen lit up with a soft vibration.

They’d been texting for the past two days.

Not constantly. Just enough to slip quietly into the in-between spaces of Sieun’s day.

The pauses between lectures. The walks home when the sky turned dim. The moments when everything felt too still, when silence pressed in around him like a weight.

Nothing deep. Just light messages. Simple check ins.

They didn’t mean much.

Sieun still couldn’t quite figure him out.

Seongje was strange.

Even from the first meeting, there had been something off about him. Not in a threatening way, just a little too casual.

He didn’t seem to care about the usual polite distance people kept. No social rules to follow.

He didn’t bother with the usual small talk. He spoke like they already knew each other, dropping honorifics from the get go.

He wasn’t pushy. Just... oddly at ease with himself.

And above all, he was unreasonably kind to Sieun.

It was already weird enough that Seongje had asked him to dinner. Sieun doesn’t get asked to dinners.

But the part where Seongje gave him this phone is what Sieun couldn’t stop circling to.

People didn’t just hand over devices to nearly strangers. That was their first meeting and Sieun barely talked, didn’t smile much, and weren’t exactly likable.

Seongje had no reason to do that.

But he had no hesitation.

And the strangest part is that he always seemed to text at the exact moment Sieun’s thoughts began to unravel.

And Sieun had given answers, despite them being minimal.

This kind of behavior—responsive to someone he barely knew—was totally out of his character. Sieun doesn’t do this. It made no sense.

But with all this hacking crap going on, Seongje seemed like the one person who might actually know something. The closest thing Sieun had to someone who could say or do anything remotely useful.

And with his real phone turned off most of the time now, the silence was starting to get to him. There were moments he felt like he was going crazy, with no one to talk to and too many thoughts spiraling in his head.

He couldn’t tell his friends about it. Not yet. He didn’t want to worry them.

So he made a decision. He’d give the guy a chance.

And if his ass started acting weird again, he’d toss the phone in the garbage without a second thought.

[Keum Seongje – 10:02 AM]
Still alive, or is this a message from the other side?

[Yeon Sieun – 10:04 AM]
alive. barely.

[Keum Seongje – 10:04 AM]
Good enough.
Btw. If you’ve got any important data stored on the old phone, better to remove them for now. Maybe make a new email and save everything to drive from your laptop. Or use physical storage if you can.

[Yeon Sieun – 10:04 AM]
👍

[Keum Seongje – 10:04 AM]
You heading out today?

[Yeon Sieun – 10:05 AM]
going to class

[Keum Seongje – 10:05 AM]
Ok.
Also, If your college email’s still logged in on the old phone, might be a good idea to log it out.
Anything tied to ID numbers, student portal stuff, just remove them.

Sieun had left that one on read. But he’d made a note of it in his head. He’d definitely get to it later, once he got to campus.

[Keum Seongje – 10:06 AM]
Let me know if the phone starts acting up again.

He stared at the message a moment longer than he needed to, thumb hovering like he might type something.

But there was nothing left to say. Not anything that wouldn’t come out sounding like he was scared or dependent.

And he didn’t want to hand that right now.

So he locked the screen instead.

He shrugged on his jacket and zipped the bag shut with a small, sharp motion.

He stepped toward the door and pushed it open, and the hinges creaked faintly as the cold air reached in like a warning, and stepped outside.

That was all it had to be.

Just to survive the day.

━━━━━━━━━

The sun in winter was a liar.

It streamed through the cafe windows like warmth, like spring had arrived early.

Pale light poured in through the windows, soft and gold-tinted. Fingerlike shadows stretched out across the floor of the cafe.

But outside, the wind bit at exposed skin and numbed fingers through gloves. The sharp smell of snow still clung to the air, lingering in the air even though it hadn’t fallen in days.

The kind of cold that wasn’t brutal, but crept in politely with frosts before sinking its teeth in.

Inside, though, the cafe was a little haven. Lo-fi music filtering through the air, heating vents humming faintly, and the smell of espresso beans mellowed by baked sugar and warm vanilla.

Sieun sat in front of his laptop, by the window, like usual.

Accompanied by the cheesecake he always told himself he wouldn’t get again, but always ended up with. His iced americano sweated beside it, a ring of condensation pooling slowly beneath.

And then, like on cue, the doorbell rang.

Chime.

He didn’t look up at first. Just a glance. One of those passive, disinterested scans.

But he froze when he noticed who was coming in.

Seongje.

Still tall. Still in that black coat, the zipper undone like effort bored him. Still unbothered by the cold in a way that looked both reckless and vaguely admirable.

Hair unkempt, like he ran his fingers through it and called it a day, strands falling across his forehead in a way that looked unintentional.

Sieun watched him order. Watched him scan the pastry case. Watched the exact moment Seongje pointed to that cheesecake.

When Seongje turned around to scan the room, tray in hand, their eyes met.

And Seongje smiled.

Like the world is so small. Like it wasn’t weird at all to bump into someone you’d only known for barely a week.

Like it wasn’t even a coincidence.

And instead of hesitating like most people would, Seongje simply smiled. Easy.

“Didn’t know this was your spot,” he said, approaching with an unhurried step. His voice was low, calm.

Sieun looked up, startled for a moment. “It’s not.”

“It suits you, though” Seongje murmured. Then—without waiting for permission—he pulled out the chair across from him and sat.

The scrape of the chair legs on the tile was subtle, but it still felt louder than the space between them.

Sieun didn’t stop him. Didn’t say anything at first. He just watched as Seongje settled in like he belonged there. Like this wasn’t strange.

His eyes drifted to the cheesecake on Seongje’s tray. Then to his own. Then back again.

“You got the same one,” he said quietly. Just saying. Not that it mattered though.

“I always order cheesecake,” Seongje replied, tone even. “And the waiter here said it’s their best.”

Honestly, Seongje didn’t look like someone who’d pick cheesecake, Sieun thought.

He looked like cigarettes and bitter coffee. Like someone who belonged more to dark alleys than quiet cafes. But here he was, fork in hand, casually demolishing a bite to prove his point.

Sieun nodded faintly. He glanced down at his own plate. “It’s okay.”

“You’ve eaten most of it.”

Sieun didn’t respond to that. He didn’t need to. The plate spoke for itself.

Seongje sipped his drink, a steaming black coffee.

And then he let out a deep, dramatic sigh, like he’d just drunk the best thing in his life.

The kind of satisfied noise ahjussis make after downing a shot of soju under neon lights, except this wasn’t alcohol. It was caffeine.

Sieun glanced at him. “Why are you here?”

“Got a supplier two blocks over,” Seongje said with a shrug. “Decided to drop by. Cafe looked nice.”

Sieun gave a small nod. Not agreeing. Not doubting. Just accepting the answer for what it was.

Seongje glanced around the cafe. “You come here often?”

Sieun looked at him, eyes steady. “Sometimes.”

“That makes sense,” Seongje said, almost to himself.

He stirred his coffee once, slow and thoughtful.

He hadn’t paid that much attention to Seongje’s features before. Not really. But now, sitting across from him like this, the details just surfaced.

He didn’t mean to look. Didn’t mean to think.

But Sieun found himself studying him longer than he meant to.

A mole beneath his eye. And a faint scar, resting somewhere between his cheekbone and the beginnings of a smile line. His lashes were long. And his jaw, strong in a way that made his whole face seem more defined under the cafe’s lamp light.

Sieun blinked slowly, then looked back out the window. Pretending not to glance at their reflections overlapping in the glass.

A waitress made her way over to their table, weaving between chairs with practiced ease.

She had a small notepad tucked into her apron and a pastel Polaroid camera slung casually over one shoulder, the strap faded from use.

“Hi there,” she said, stopping beside their table. “Sorry to interrupt. But just so you know, we’re running a little couple’s promo today.”

Sieun blinked, her words sliding into his ears like static. A what?

The frown came instinctively, forming between his brows before he could catch it.

The waitress carried on, cheerful and undeterred. “It comes with a winter treat to-go, chocolate croissant for later,” she held up a small paper bag as proof, “and a voucher for your next visit.”

She gave them both a knowing little smile, and then lightly patted the Polaroid camera against her hip. “All we ask is a quick photo for our year-end couples wall. Totally optional, no pressure.”

Sieun opened his mouth, caught somewhere between confusion and protest.

“We’re not—” he started, the words dry in his throat.

But Seongje cut him off before he could finish. “We’ll do it,” he said easily, without even glancing at Sieun. His tone was smooth, effortless, like this sort of thing happened to them all the time.

He leaned back slightly, angling his body toward the camera, elbow draped across the table with all the practiced ease of someone used to being seen.

Before Sieun could react, Seongje shifted his posture subtly, angling toward the camera with a kind of quiet familiarity. Like he’d done this a hundred times. Like he belonged there.

Sieun stared at him. “What?”

“It’s a free croissant,” Seongje replied, tone steady. “And I look good in polaroids.”

The waitress laughed, clearly pleased. “You two are too cute. Just stay how you are, this is perfect.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Seongje’s arm moved behind his chair. Not touching, but close. The kind of proximity you could feel because of the air, how it changed, how it pressed differently when someone was there. The space between them narrowed in an instant.

Click.

The flash was soft. Quick. Over before he could register it.

“Done!” the waitress said brightly, waving the photo to help it dry. “We’ll have it pinned on the wall by tonight. Feel free to look for it next time you’re here.”

She set the bag down gently in front of them, along with a small, folded voucher.

And then she was gone. Already turning away, already humming as she handed their photo to the counter, then moved to the next table, like nothing unusual had happened.

Sieun stared down at the paper bag.

Then—without meaning to—his gaze drifted to the front counter.

There, propped gently near the register, the polaroid sat developing in soft shades of chemical white. The outline was already visible. Two silhouettes.

He turned toward Seongje.

The taller was already chewing on his cheesecake, looking like the most unbothered person on earth.

Sieun’s fork scraped gently against his plate.

His laptop still sat open in front of him, half-dimmed, the screen filled with bullet points he could no longer remember writing.

He stared at it, willing focus to return.

It didn’t.

With a quiet sigh, Sieun shut the laptop lid. The screen went dark with a soft click.

He murmured with a low voice. “I’m not getting anything done.”

Beside him, Seongje shifted just slightly, his gaze turning toward him. The corner of his mouth lifted, just a trace of a smile.

“Cheesecake’ll do that to you.”

“It’s not the cheesecake.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

They just fell. Unfiltered, too honest for the silence that followed.

He felt it shift, then. The atmosphere. The warmth in Seongje’s posture stilled, just a little.

When Seongje spoke again, it’s nothing Sieun expected at all. “Me, then?”

The words were quiet, but they carried something smug in the way he said it. Subtle, but unmistakable.

It felt... out of place. Just for a second. Like a thread pulled loose from a careful weave.

The tone wasn’t rude, but confident in a way that didn’t match the version of him Sieun thought he was talking to.

And then—just as quickly—it was gone.

The smirk faded. His posture softened again. As if the mask slid back into place so seamlessly that Sieun almost wondered if he imagined it.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I mean… am I disturbing you? I shouldn’t have sat here. You were already here.”

Sieun kept his gaze on the table, the ridges of the folded napkin between his fingers suddenly fascinating.

“I should go,” he said quietly, already reaching for his bag. “Class early tomorrow.”

He stood without making a show of it, movements neat and practiced. The bag strap settled over his shoulder with a light shift of weight. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t linger either.

When Sieun stepped out from the cafe, Seongje had offered—or more like insisted—to walk him to the bus stop.

Dusk was settling over the streets, casting long shadows beneath the soft orange wash of the street lights.

They walked side by side until they reached the bus stop.

Sieun checked the screen with a small glance. His bus would be there in less than a minute.

He glanced once toward the road, then turned slightly. Ready to say something.

Maybe goodbye. Maybe nothing at all.

But Seongje was faster.

He reached into his coat and pulled out the paper bag from earlier. The one from the waitress. Folded carefully at the top.

Without asking, without offering, he slipped it into Sieun’s hand. A quiet, decisive gesture that left no room for protest.

“Use the voucher for your next cheesecake,” he said simply.

Sieun stared at it, fingers curling around the crinkled paper.

It was such a small thing. Just a chocolate croissant wrapped in paper. And a flimsy little voucher tucked inside. One of those kinds they give out with a printed smiley face.

But it pulled something a little absurd in him.

Because now, somehow, he had his face pinned to the wall of his regular cafe.

Under a banner that read Winter Couple Wall.

Next to a man he’d known for barely a week. A bastard with no concept of boundaries.

The bus rolled up with a low hiss and a glare of headlights, tires splitting the wet sheen of the street. The doors opened with a chime, warm air spilling from inside like a sudden exhale.

Sieun stepped in. He didn’t rush. Just walked past the threshold and paused at the top step.

And then he looked back.

Seongje was still there.

Standing by the curb, hands deep in his coat pockets. Still watching him, like time wasn’t real and buses didn’t matter.

Sieun didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.

But he didn’t look away either.

Not until the doors closed with a sigh and the street began to slide away, turning quiet behind him once more.

━━━━━━━━━

It had been about two weeks since they met at the cafe.

Sieun isn’t sure when exactly their messages became this... intimate.

It started with a handful of exchanges. Sieun would ask out of curiosity how hacking actually worked. He’d read up on real-world cases—news articles, cybersecurity blogs, even court documents when he could find them—and treat them as study cases, asking Seongje if the same thing was happening to him or not.

And Seongje would reply with explanations simple enough for a layperson like Sieun to understand, clear, concise, never condescending.

Then, weirdly, Seongje started checking in on Sieun’s daily life. Not in a blunt or demanding way, but through offhand messages like, “Your replies are slower than usual. Finals hitting?”

In return, he’d share glimpses of his own routines. Brief complaints about his busted coffee machine, screenshots of CPU stats from a machine he was fixing, or some random memes he’d found on social media.

And then, there were pictures.

The first was a blurry shot of a street cat crouched on a windowsill. Seongje had written, “He looks like you.”

Sieun had stared at it too long, wondering if that was an insult or a strange compliment.

Another time it was a cheesecake from a cafe. “Last one from your spot was better.”

Then… the selfies started. Just one, at first. Seongje in bed, eyes half-lidded, hair a mess, blanket tucked under his chin. Another came with him frowning at a coffee cup, dark circles under his eyes.

They were never overt. But they were personal.

And truthfully, Sieun wasn’t sure why he kept responding to any of it.

These trivial, unnecessary things. He had no reason to indulge them.

Seongje was supposed to be just a contact, someone he’d stumbled into who happened to know his way around systems. Not a friend.

And yet, somehow, they had fallen into the habit of messaging every day. Just a little. Just enough.

Then, that photo came.

That damn photo.

It dropped into their chat without warning at 11:43 p.m.

A mirror selfie. Harsh lighting overhead. Seongje stood in front of the mirror, a dark fitted shirt clinging to his torso, sleeves hugging the muscle on his arms. A towel hung loosely over his head, hiding part of his forehead and casting a shadow across his eyes.

Below it, a text was written.

[Keum Seongje – 11.43 PM]
Trying to track muscle growth. You said you’re studying med. Any insight on human bodies?

Sieun froze.

He stared at the photo longer than he should have. Zoomed in, just a little. Then locked his phone. Put it face-down. Picked it back up.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t like Seongje hadn’t sent selfies before.

But this one felt different, though.

Eventually, he typed.

[Yeon Sieun – 11.48]
i’m a med student. not a personal trainer.

[Keum Seongje – 11:49 PM]
But still, you study the human body. Thought you’d have insight.

Sieun stared at the message.

The pause wasn’t long. But then, another image popped up.

It was taken in front of a mirror again, but closer this time.

Sieun’s eyes caught Seongje’s hand holding the phone, clearer now. The veins stood out along the back of his hand and wrist, subtly pronounced under the skin. His knuckles were relaxed, but firm.

The angle caught his upper chest and shoulders clearly. The fitted shirt still clung to him, a shade darker in a few places, damp spots where sweat hadn’t dried yet. It stretched over his frame in a way that felt almost too deliberate.

[Keum Seongje – 11:52 PM]
If you were evaluating this in a clinical context
Anything needs further examination?

Sieun’s jaw clenched tighter. The phone suddenly felt heavier in his hand, like the weight of the screen alone was pressing against his palm. The glow of it cut too sharp against the low light of his room, like it was exposing something.

What the hell was that even supposed to mean?

His face felt warm.

Too warm.

Heat crawled up the back of his neck, slow and uninvited. It spread across his cheeks and settled low behind his ears like a quiet alarm.

He didn't need a mirror to know. He was probably red.

He stared at the screen. Reread the message again.

Anything needs further examination?

What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

He thought, hard.

Ran through options in his head. None of them fit. Everything either sounded too flippant or like he was trying too hard to sound unaffected in his head.

After a short moment of typing, deleting, and typing again, Sieun finally settled on something vague.

[Yeon Sieun – 11:56 PM]
looks fine. no need to examine further.

He stared at the message after it was sent. And regretted it immediately.

Shit.

Did that sound like he was saying Seongje was… fine? Or did he just sound like an idiot trying too hard to be casual?

He hated how long it had taken him to say something so simple, but it still came out sounding like something else.

Then Seongje’s reply came in.

[Keum Seongje – 11:57 PM]
Your turn.

Sieun blinked.

What?

A second message followed.

[Keum Seongje – 11:57 PM]
Send me something.

His breath hitched, just for a beat. He gripped the phone tighter.

Send what?

His mind went blank.

Was Seongje asking for a picture?

Was he joking? Flirting? Testing him?

Still, Sieun opened his gallery with stiff fingers, suddenly too aware of how little he had to work with. His photos were mostly screenshots, lecture notes, pictures of food, receipts.

There were a few selfies.

He barely took them, and when he did, they were rushed. Reflections in elevator doors, quick snaps after crawling out of bed just to check if his bangs were uneven. Stiff expression. Poor lighting. Definitely not flattering.

He cursed under his breath.

Why didn’t he have any decent pictures? Why didn’t he care about this sort of thing before now?

Eventually, he opened the front camera.

He positioned the phone above him and checked everything. Angle, lighting, expression.
Shifted slightly on the bed, pulling the blanket aside to sit up straighter. The lamp beside him cast a warm, golden glow across one side of his face. His skin looked soft in it.

He adjusted the tilt of the phone. Lifted it a little higher. Lowered his chin. Tilted his head slightly to the left.

Then his eyes flicked to his collar. It had slipped low from sleep.

Without thinking, he reached up and tugged at it with two fingers, pulling the fabric just enough to reveal the slope of his collarbone.

His fingers hovered.

And then he froze.

The moment snapped into focus like a slap of cold air.

What the hell was he doing?

What the hell was he about to send?

He straightened instantly, yanking the sweater back up. The fabric rasped across his neck in a sudden move.

He locked the screen with one sharp press.

Then with a finality, pulled the blanket over his head and curled onto his side, like that could erase the moment.

Whatever. He’d reply to Seongje tomorrow, saying he fell asleep and restart their conversation.

━━━━━━━━━

The next time Sieun saw Seongje, it felt like a coincidence so specific that his skin crawled.

An event so random it came as absurd.

Korean Basketball League.

Gotak had scored free tickets for the four of them. It was a mix of luck, timing, and a generous cousin.

Sieun wasn’t really into basketball until his friends introduced him to the sport.

But he was even less into spending another evening sitting in silence, staring at his phone and wondering if it was staring back.

So he went.

Baku and Juntae came too, loud and chaotic in that particular way people got when they hadn’t seen each other in person for too long. Their voices carried even when they whispered, their energy like static bouncing from row to row.

His friends argued over snacks, insulted the team logos, and shouted advice at the players like any of them were listening. It was normal, noisy, and safe in a way Sieun hadn’t felt in weeks.

The arena pulsed with noise. Horns, echoing chants, the deep bass of the announcer's mic cutting in and out.

Their seats were mid-row, not close but not far to the court. Close enough to see the expressions on the players’ faces, the sweat on their brows.

The energy in the room was contagious, if not overwhelming—at least for Sieun—enough to rattle in your chest, even if you weren’t cheering.

At some point during the second quarter, Sieun leaned over to say something to Baku, and he saw him.

Alone. A few rows across, wearing an orange windbreaker that looked too bright for the venue. Somehow, it made him harder to look away from.

He was slouched in his seat, arms resting loosely over his knees. His gaze followed the players on the court, but not in any way that felt invested.

Every so often, his eyes drifted casually. Across the rows, across the crowd.

At one point, he glanced behind him.

And they found Sieun.

And stayed there.

Just for a second. Long enough to register.

Seongje didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just gave a small, barely noticeable nod.

Halftime came. The stands shifted in waves. People standing, stretching, voices rising over the music.

A kid near the front got separated from their parent, their head darting left and right with quiet panic.

Sieun caught it in the corner of his vision, just as Seongje moved.

He crouched slightly, said something to the kid, then walked with them down a few rows before pointing them in the right direction. The kid nodded, then ran off.

“Yo,” Juntae muttered, nudging Sieun’s arm. “That guy’s been glancing this way. Do you know him?”

Sieun blinked. His eyes shifted briefly back to where Seongje was—already back at his seat, now alone again—then returned to the court.

His voice was soft. “He helped with my phone.”

Juntae squinted. “Who?”

Sieun paused. “The guy who fixed it. The shop downtown.”

Recognition clicked. “Oh. That time? When the lady said he left your phone at a repairshop?”

Sieun only gave a small nod.

Baku leaned forward, following their line of sight. “Is he alone?”

Sieun didn’t answer immediately. He shrugged, gaze returning to the court. “Dunno.”

“He’s kind of hot,” Juntae added under his breath, squinting across the stands.

Baku made a face. “He’s messy as fuck.”

Gotak snorted. “That’s because your type is literally Na Baekjin.”

Their voices faded into the background again, but Sieun wasn’t following the conversation anymore.

The players blurred into motion, indistinct shapes darting across the court. Someone shot. Someone missed. The crowd roared, but it all passed through him like static.

Just then, Keum Seongje stood up from his seat.

No rush. No expression. He stretched, cracked his neck like he was just another bored spectator, and casually descended the aisle steps. Moving with that same unhurried gait he always had.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t scan the row numbers.

He was already looking for them.

For Sieun.

Baku noticed first. “Uh… is your guy coming this way?”

Sieun’s blood prickled under his skin. “Don’t—” he started, but it was too late.

A shadow loomed at the edge of their row.

Keum Seongje was standing there, holding a drink. A random canned iced tea with a garish label and condensation beading down the side.

Without saying anything, he stepped forward and held the drink out to Sieun.

Just like that.

Like he hadn’t just skipped three steps in the social handbook.

Sieun stared at him, blinking once. Then again.

Seongje didn’t budge. He tilted the can a little, just enough to make the gesture harder to ignore.

“They ran out of the grape ones,” he said, voice low and smooth like it wasn’t their first conversation of the day. “This one’s less terrible.”

That was it.

Baku squinted. “Um—”

Juntae leaned in. “Wait, is this—?”

Gotak’s brows slowly rose.

Sieun didn’t take the drink. Not yet. He looked from the can to Seongje’s face, searching for some kind of logic. Some kind of answer.

“Why are you giving me this?” he asked, flat.

Seongje shrugged with one shoulder, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Thought your hands looked empty.”

The response was so absurd, so disarmingly casual, that Sieun had no idea what to say to it.

Against his better judgment, he took the drink.

Baku turned fully toward Juntae. “I feel like I missed a whole arc of something.”

“You definitely missed something,” Juntae whispered back.

Gotak just kept eating his popcorn like he was watching a drama unfold live.

Seongje didn’t stay. He gave Sieun one last look—fleeting, unreadable—and turned to leave the same way he came to his seat. Quiet and calm.

Sieun looked down at the drink in his hand.

He didn’t say anything. Just rested it on his knee, fingers loose around the can.

Through the rest of the game, he stayed quiet. Eyes on the court, but mind elsewhere.

The walk back from the arena was loud at first.

Baku was still ranting about the final quarter, something about a missed foul and the referee being obviously blind. Gotak kept doing dramatic replays with his arms, nearly knocking over a trash bin in the process. Juntae laughed so hard he had to stop to catch his breath, wiping at his eyes like they’d just witnessed something tragic.

Sieun didn’t say much, just let their voices fill the space around him. The familiar chaos was oddly comforting.

But it didn’t last.

It was Juntae who said it first. Too casually.

“That guy from earlier. The one with the windbreaker. What’s his deal?”

Sieun’s steps slowed. Barely. But enough.

“Seemed weird,” Baku added, narrowing his eyes like he was replaying it all in his head. “Just… showed up? Didn’t even say anything? And gave you a drink?”

Sieun shrugged. “I told you. He helped with my phone.”

Gotak, who’d been quiet the whole time, finally glanced over. “Are you guys… like, close or something?”

“I don’t know,” Sieun muttered. It came out flatter than he meant it to. Defensive. He cleared his throat. “Not really.”

The street lights flickered above them as they passed, cold white and clinical, as if spotlighting the hesitation in Sieun’s expression.

“Is he, like, a part-timer there or something?” Juntae asked, brows drawing together. “He looked young. About our age, maybe?”

Sieun hesitated.

He wasn’t sure how to answer that.

Every time he’d been to the shop, it was just Seongje. No staff, no boss, no sound from a back room.

“I don’t know,” Sieun said finally. “I’ve never seen anyone else there.”

“Does he go to college?” Gotak asked, glancing sideways.

He didn’t know who Keum Seongje was. Not really.

And that shouldn’t have been a problem.

Their conversations had always lived in the in-between. Late-night messages, memes, random questions that never dug too deep. It was light. Easy.

But now, suddenly, it didn’t feel as easy.

Not after that photo.

Truthfully, Sieun had started to suspect he might be a little attracted to the taller one, though he wasn’t ready to admit that, not even to himself.

Should they be closer than this?

Was he being cold? Rude? Was he the one drawing the line too harshly?

He’d told Seongje things. Nothing deep, but still. His major. The med program. His university. A few scattered pieces of his routine when Seongje asked something random like “how many hours do you even sleep?”

But Sieun never gave the same curiosity in return.

He figured, Seongje shouldn’t be the only one who knew things about him.

Because now, Sieun wanted to know.

How old are you?

Did you graduate college? Did you drop out?

Do you even have coworkers?

Where do you live? Do you live alone?

The questions stacked slowly in his mind, fragile and oddly heavy.

━━━━━━━━━

Sieun was walking home from another late study session at the library, bag slung over one shoulder, his brain still buzzing from hours of notes and caffeine.

The streets were mostly quiet, the occasional sound of a car in the distance or music leaking out from a convenience store radio. When he turned the corner near the slope that led to his rental, he slowed.

Voices. Slurred and angry.

Just ahead, under the dim yellow flicker of a street light, a group of drunk guys was circling. Shouting, laughing. Sieun assumed it was just another bunch of assholes post-bar fight, yelling for nothing.

He wasn’t afraid of guys like them, not really. But he also wasn’t an idiot. There was no point walking into a fight and increasing the possibility of getting dragged into that mess, especially when no one ever thanked you for it.

So he ducked into a narrow alcove beside the wall and crouched low, eyes on the scene. He grabbed a discarded glass bottle lying nearby. Just in case.

And he waited. Maybe they’d leave soon.

Then, when he was observing the situation, he realized it wasn’t a mere fight. It was a beating.

Five or six of them, crowding around someone already on the ground. A single figure.

Sieun’s body tensed. His first instinct wasn’t fear, but calculation.

He scanned the street. No one else around. No cars. He didn’t know if the guy deserved it or not, but six-on-one wasn’t a fair fight.

Assholes, Sieun thought bitterly. Only brave when they outnumber.

He thought of what to do next.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Hands steady. Camera open. He started recording as he stepped out slowly, deliberately. Walked forward with his screen raised.

One of the drunk guys noticed him first.

“What the hell?”

Sieun didn’t stop walking. His voice came out calm, flat, cutting through their noise.

“Get out of here, or I’ll send this to the police right now. I’ve already got your faces on camera.”

They froze. Looked at each other.

One of them scoffed, a sharp tch, and then—like smoke dispersing—they started to back off. Muttering curses, shooting dirty looks, but none of them bold enough to say anything more.

Sieun didn’t move until they were gone.

Then he lowered his phone and rushed forward.

The figure on the ground hadn’t moved.

When he knelt beside him and got a proper look, his chest tightened.

“...Seongje?”

The name left his mouth. Then, without realizing, his body moved faster.

He crouched down fully, slipping an arm behind Seongje’s shoulders and lifting him upright. There were bruises already blooming along his cheekbone and jaw. Blood at the corner of his mouth.

“What the hell did you get yourself into?” Sieun muttered under his breath.

Seongje didn’t answer.

So Sieun didn’t wait for one. He slipped one of Seongje’s arms over his shoulder and helped him stand, staggering slightly under the weight. Seongje leaned into him more than expected, but never said a word.

Together, they made it down the slope. To Sieun’s door.

Once they got inside, Sieun set Seongje down carefully on his small couch, hands already reaching for the first-aid kit he kept under the small drawer at the corner.

Seongje had a few cuts scattered across his face. Nothing too deep, but enough to sting. A scrape on his cheekbone. A thin, red line across his temple. His lower lip was split, blood already dried in a fine crack along the edge.

Sieun dabbed antiseptic onto the cuts one by one, the scent sharp in the small room. The cotton pad came away pink. Seongje didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound.

But when Sieun leaned in to reach the corner of his jaw, his arm brushed lightly against Seongje’s chest.

That’s when he heard it. A sharp breath. Barely audible, but Sieun heard it.

Sieun paused. Glanced down. His eyes narrowed.

“Where else does it hurt?”

Seongje didn’t answer.

Sieun set the cotton aside and leaned back slightly, just enough to get a better look at him. His gaze flicked downward, then reached for the edges of Seongje’s coat, tugging it off his shoulders with deliberate care.

That left Seongje in a clinging t-shirt and jeans. Clothes that now seemed too tight around the bruises they covered.

“Lift your shirt.”

Seongje exhaled through his nose. But he raised his arms.

Sieun helped him peel the shirt up over his head, careful not to tug too hard. The fabric was damp in places, sticking to skin that had already begun to bruise.

And that’s when he saw it.

Dark purples and sickly reds fanned out across Seongje’s ribs, blooming violently beneath pale skin. The discoloration was worst along his left side, where the bruises darkened into uneven maroon splotches. A few thinner red lines traced the outline of where a boot might’ve landed, the shape of impact still visible like fingerprints pressed too hard into fruit.

“Shit…”

Sieun grabbed the cold pack, wrapped it in a towel, and pressed it gently against the worst of it. This time, Seongje winced.

“You need an X-ray,” Sieun muttered, voice quieter now.

“I’ll be fine.”

Sieun shot him a look.

He was only in his preclinical years. The early part of med school where everything was mostly theory. Hours memorizing muscle layers, tracing nerve paths on plastic mannequins, studying textbook cases. Not a lot of hands-on practice yet. He hadn’t started his clinical internship. He hadn’t treated real patients in a hospital.

But even with the limited knowledge he had, he could recognize the damage. The possibility of fractured ribs hidden under bruising that deep. The way Seongje kept one side slightly guarded, how his breath subtly shortened every time he shifted.

“I don’t need imaging to know that’s not just bruising,” Sieun said quietly.

Seongje just leaned back against the wall, head tilted, his expression unreadable under the soft pool of light.

Sieun sat there for a moment, staring at the bruises, then at the man wearing them like they were nothing.

He was considering something. Then, finally, he spoke.

“Just stay here for the night. Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you to a hospital first thing.”

Seongje didn’t argue. Just gave a quiet hum that might have been an agreement.

Sieun grabbed the small plastic tub of ointment from the kit. Scooped out a dab with two fingers. He worked in silence, spreading the cooling balm over the deeper bruises in slow, careful strokes. His touch was gentler than before, his focus narrowed to the rise and fall of Seongje’s chest beneath his hand.

He finished with the ointment and lightly covered the area with gauze, taping it down with practiced fingers.

“As expected from a model med student.” Seongje commented with a light smirk.

Sieun looked at him in disbelief. “You’re seriously acting too chill.”

Seongje just smiled at him and added “Thanks, Yeon Sieun.”

Sieun nodded. And then he figured, this is the time to ask questions. Which he had plenty.

“Who are they?”

“No idea. Just some drunk assholes. I was walking past, one of them got mouthy and tried to provoke me.”

He shrugged, lips curling faintly. “I had the upper hand, obviously. Until their cowardly asses jumped at me all at once.”

Sieun looked at him for a moment.

He’d lived in this rental for a while. Walked that same street more times than he could count. And sure, it wasn’t the safest part of town, but he’d never run into a group like that before.

Maybe it had just been bad luck. Sieun had to make sure to be more careful next time he’s walking home at this hour again.

“You should probably be more careful next time,” Sieun said, “Especially if you’re out that late.”

“Say that to yourself. You live around here.”

Sieun suddenly found himself spiraling a little. The reminder hit. The fact that he’d been hacked.

Someone was watching him. If they ever decided to come after him while he was walking home alone, like what happened to Seongje... it could’ve gone bad.

He tried to pull his focus back to Seongje, using the distraction to quiet the unease clawing at his chest. A question that had been sitting at the back of his mind finally slipped out.

“By the way, how old are you, actually?”

Seongje scoffed, a quiet huff of amusement under his breath.

“Why don’t you guess?”

Sieun blinked. “Your age?”

Seongje didn’t respond, just raised an eyebrow, like he was challenging him.

Sieun hesitated. His eyes flicked across Seongje’s face, reading nothing but calm confidence. The way he spoke, the way he moved. It all gave that impression.

“...Twenty-three?” Lie. Sieun was thinking twenty-five. But he trimmed it down a bit, just in case. He didn’t want to offend a guy who was already bruised and bleeding.

A faint smile tugged at Seongje’s lips.

“I’m twenty.”

Sieun blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Mm.”

So, they’re the same age.

All this time, he’d assumed that Seongje was at least a few years older. And he’d never questioned it. The banmal, the way Seongje never hesitated to cross lines Sieun hadn’t even drawn.

“Huh,” Sieun said quietly. “Guess I just thought you were older.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Seongje replied. “I’m guessing we’re the same age?”

Sieun just nodded.

After a stretch of silence, Sieun glanced over.

“You don’t go to college?”

Seongje raised an eyebrow. “What? You suddenly wonder a lot of things about me now that I’m covered in bruises?”

Sieun stared at him, deadpan. Eventually, Seongje relented with a small shrug.

“No. I run the repair shop. And a few other businesses. Right after I graduated from high school.”

“What kind of business?”

“A nerd like you wouldn’t understand.”

Sieun looked at him flatly, a small hint of offense in his eyes. Seongje had gotten a little too comfortable around him by now, enough to start throwing around such teasing comments. “Well, nerds are supposedly the ones who do understand things. Mind you," He shot back.

Seongje leaned his head back against the wall and smirked. “I’m sorry,” he said, eyes half-lidded, tone slow and smug, “but even your GPA might not help you with this one.”

Finally, Sieun didn’t push further.

Seongje shifted on the couch—leaning forward slightly to stretch his shoulder—and the movement pulled his torso more fully into view under the soft overhead light.

And just like that, Sieun became painfully aware of how much skin was in front of him.

The sharp lines of his collarbones. The way his chest rose and fell with each quiet breath. And then, his stomach. Not overbuilt, but lean and defined. Subtle lines of muscle traced down the center, visible even beneath the faint bruising.

The memory of that gym selfie flickered in Sieun’s mind, fit shirt clinging to muscle followed by a teasing caption.

Now that same body was right here. Bare.

Sieun blinked hard and looked away, pressing his knuckles lightly against his temple.

What the hell was he thinking?

The bare body was definitely injured and covered in bruises.

Without a word, he walked over to his wardrobe and pulled the door open, rummaging through for something clean to cover Seongje with.

None of it would fit. That much had already been obvious.

Their size difference wasn’t subtle. Broader shoulders, longer limbs, a frame that made most of Sieun’s clothes look like they’d shrink in comparison. Still, he sifted through the stack of folded shirts and hoodies, pushing aside thinner fabrics in search of something oversized.

Eventually, his fingers landed on an old sweatshirt, something his grandma had bought him, way too big for his frame.

This’ll do.

He brought it over and set it down beside Seongje.

Seongje reached for the sweatshirt and began pulling it on. But as he lifted his arms, he winced. Shoulders tensing. The movement tugged at the fresh bruises along his upper arm, already darkening beneath the skin.

Sieun hesitated for a second, then stepped forward.

“Here. Wait.”

He gently took hold of the fabric, helping guide it over Seongje’s arms, slow and careful, making sure nothing pulled too hard. Their hands brushed once—barely—but Sieun still felt heat rise up his neck.

His face was warm by the time the sweatshirt finally settled over Seongje’s frame.

“Thanks,” Seongje murmured, his voice low.

Sieun just gave a small nod and sat back down, avoiding his eyes.

The night continued with Sieun practically playing nurse, handing over a glass of water, offering snacks, even mumbling that he could cook something simple if needed. But the taller had waved him off, saying he wasn’t hungry.

Sieun ended up pushing a piece of bread into Seongje’s hands, muttering something about how he needed it.

They kept talking after that. Nothing deep.

“Why were you even in this area so late?” Sieun asked.

Seongje gave a vague answer, something about running late on errands for the shop.

The conversation drifted after that. Bits of nothing. The bread. The broken lamp in the corner of Sieun’s room. Whether Seongje had ever managed to fix his leaky coffee machine or just gave up and bought a new one.

Eventually, Sieun started to feel it, the weight of the day pulling at his eyes, his limbs getting heavier.

But one thought lingered.

Is Seongje going to sleep there? On the couch?

But… he was injured. And that thing barely passed for comfortable.

Just as the thought finished forming, Seongje glanced over, like he’d read it off Sieun’s face.

“I’ll be fine here,” he said, voice quiet but certain.

Still, Sieun hesitated.

Then came the inevitable smirk.

“Unless,” Seongje added, “you want me to accompany you on the bed.”

That made Sieun freeze.

His breath caught—just slightly—but enough for him to notice it. For a second, he didn’t move.

Of course, it was a joke. It had to be.

Seongje had been doing that a lot lately, slipping in comments that hovered somewhere between teasing and something else. Things said in a tone just soft enough that you couldn’t pin them down. Couldn’t fully deflect.

Sieun didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice not to betray the heat rising at the back of his neck.

Instead, he turned away quickly, went to the bed, grabbed a pillow, and brought it over with stiff hands. Wordless. Face warm.

He shoved it gently into Seongje’s lap, refusing to meet his gaze.

Behind him, Seongje gave a soft scoff. Not mean, just amused.

Once Seongje was settled on the couch, Sieun switched off the light and padded quietly back to his bed. The room dimmed, wrapped in heater-warm air and thick quiet.

He lay down, pulling the blanket up with more force than necessary.

And finally—after everything—he closed his eyes.

And sleep came slow.

Chapter Text

Of course Seongje still watches him.

Even with all of Sieun’s increasingly meticulous efforts to reclaim his digital privacy, Seongje still finds a way in. The burner phone he gave him still sings like a bird, and Seongje never misses a beat.

And now that he's no longer a stranger, no longer just a shadow in Sieun’s periphery, he doesn't hesitate to close the distance himself.

Like at the cafe near his campus. It felt like a little date, seeing Sieun all shy and flustered. They even had their picture hanging on the wall as a couple. Seongje was lucky that day.

At the basketball game, he’d originally planned to sit a few rows behind. Just far enough to watch Sieun without interruption, to quietly study his reactions while pretending to care about the mind-numbing game like everyone else.

But as fate—or perhaps just last-minute ticketing—would have it, the only favorable seats left were a few rows in front of Sieun. These particular spots were just behind a walkway, the kind people usually avoid because someone’s always walking by with a soda tray or swinging their backpack into your line of sight.

Yet, as he settled in, legs stretched out like he owned the place, Seongje realized it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was kind of perfect. Because now, instead of silently observing from a distance, he was the one being seen. Letting Sieun catch glimpses of him, indeed, had its own quiet thrill.

Seongje knew he had Sieun hooked. Just a little.

That selfie he took? Seongje saved it. Studied it like art.

Sieun’s lips were slightly parted, collarbones teasingly bare, and eyes unsure. Seongje’s heart swelled with pride at the fact that it was taken for him, even if Sieun didn’t send it at the end.

Of course, with his access, Seongje got it anyway. What was meant to be his, claimed with the precision of someone who never doubts what he deserves.

But then, those cute little texts and encounters weren’t really cutting it anymore.

It was, undeniably, addictively sweet. But Seongje wanted more.

So he came up with a plan. A twisted little play, rehearsed down to the minute.

He knew he’s a little crazy.

And he knew that’s exactly what those meatheads thought when he offered them cash to beat him.

He’s actually more than capable. His job may look like it keeps him glued to a chair, but it’s high-risk, dangerous enough that, in case he ever runs into trouble, he makes sure to keep up regular workouts and physical training.

So despite his mostly sedentary work behind screens, Seongje could actually take on six guys by himself if he had to.

But getting jumped near Sieun’s neighborhood, timed perfectly at the right moment just when Sieun was walking home, was the only way he’d be invited in.

So of course he didn’t fight back, not the way he could have.

He let the punches land, let his knees buckle just enough, let the blood trail artfully down the corner of his mouth like a scene rehearsed. All carefully measured damage. Not enough to break anything vital, just enough to look like he’d been outmatched.

Just enough to draw Sieun’s eyes on him.

He made sure to remind those guys not to aim for his face. Of course he didn’t want to show up with a bruised eye or a busted lip.

He couldn’t look ugly when he finally got the chance to stay with Sieun, right?

During the beating, he internally cursed at one of them. The one who seemed to enjoy it a little too much, stomping on his left ribs harder than necessary. That prick went overboard.

But the cursing turned into gratitude the moment Sieun touched him.

Sieun’s full attention was on him.

His eyes widening with worried panic, lashes quivering as he took in the damage. His hands hovered uncertainly, like he was afraid that even the slightest touch might hurt Seongje.

But as Sieun tried to tend to him, his fingers caressed so gently over the bruises that Seongje’s breath caught in his throat.

Suddenly, the pain didn’t matter. Not the bruises. Not the aching ribs.

Not when Sieun was looking at him like that.

He felt like a husband being tended to by his worried wife. Touched with care, studied with concern, held like something that mattered.

And in that moment, every blow, every carefully planned bruise—it was all worth it.

Seongje knew this was a good idea.

Sieun even stayed with him through the night, offering quiet company and soft conversation. Talking about little things, even when his voice had gone low with sleep, and his eyelids fluttered between consciousness and dream.

His sweet, soft little Sieun.

Sieun might act cold and guarded, but Seongje knew that behind the stiff posture and clipped tone was a big, steadfast heart. The kind that would let a half-conscious man bleed on his couch because decency told him to. Because an instinctive sense of empathy made him.

Seongje almost felt irony curl at the edges of his mouth. How could someone so clever be so gullible sometimes?

But it’s okay. It’s Seongje.

And Seongje isn’t the kind of someone who’d ever hurt Sieun.

He’s just a little different.

His way of showing love and interest wasn’t what most people would call normal, he knew that. He’d admit it, if only to himself. But it was real. Honest in its own twisted shape.

And it belonged to no one else.

Only Sieun.

Some time past midnight, Seongje rose from the couch in silence.

The room was still, heavy with the hush of sleeping things. Wrapped in a gentle warmth, lit only by the soft amber glow spilling from the lamp on Sieun’s coffee table.

He turned toward the room Sieun had disappeared into earlier. His bedroom.

The door wasn’t fully closed. It was left slightly ajar, just enough for a sliver of light to fall across the floor. Just enough to see the faint outline of the bed inside.

His lips curled into a quiet, amused smile. A breath of a chuckle escaped him.

Did he leave it open on purpose?

Are you inviting me in, Yeon Sieun?

He stood up and walked toward the door, pushing it open gently, making sure it didn’t make a sound.

The room was cool and dim. A quiet hum of stillness wrapped the space like a blanket.

Seongje’s gaze landed immediately on the bed.

There he is.

Lying on his side, blanket draped loosely over his hips, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. Sieun’s hair was mussed in soft, weightless waves. His lips slightly parted, lashes resting delicately against his cheeks. He looked entirely at ease.

The steady rise and fall of his chest moved with the tranquil rhythm of sleep.

Unguarded, untouched by the world in his peace.

Seongje stepped closer.

He crouched low at the edge of the bed, settling at the foot like a man before an altar.

His eyes didn’t leave him. They traced the gentle lines of Sieun’s face, the vulnerable shape of his hands, the dip of his waist beneath the blanket.

He wanted to memorize it all. Burn it into the folds of his mind.

And after a quiet, lingering moment, he leaned in.

Close.

Close enough to feel the faint warmth of Sieun’s breath against his skin. He inhaled slowly. A clean scent hit his senses. Faint hints of citrus, probably Sieun’s shampoo.

God, he smells good.

Seongje reached out, slow and careful, and gently patted Sieun’s head. His fingers moved through his hair, brushing the fringe from his forehead, light as wind.

“You’re so pretty when you sleep,” he whispered, barely audible.

Then he dipped lower, his mouth hovering just above Sieun’s cheek. His lips ghosted along the curve of his jaw. He moved slowly, deliberately, brushing his mouth along the soft skin.

Then, his lips found Sieun’s.

He pressed into the kiss just enough to feel it, to have it, but not enough to wake him.

A quiet thrill curled low in his chest, sharp and intoxicating.

Sieun’s lips tasted soft. Sweet. Addictive in the way something forbidden always is. Like the first drag of something dangerous, or the sip of a drug that promises ruin and relief in the same breath.

He pulled back just before he lost himself entirely, eyes still locked on Sieun’s sleeping face.

Then, as if guided by instinct, his eyes flicked to the corner of the room.

There, by the dresser, a small laundry bin sat tucked beside the wall. Only a few steps away from the bed.

Silently, Seongje rose from where he knelt and moved across the room. He crouched down and lifted the bin open with the kind of anticipation one might have when unlocking a secret box.

Inside were messily folded shirts, towels draped unevenly, and a few pairs of socks tossed in without much care, just waiting for the next laundry day.

Muted tones filled the bin. Blacks, grays, and the occasional faded blue. From this alone, Seongje thought Sieun’s wardrobe could use a bit more color and personality. But sure, he respects his choice of fashion.

His hand moved through the pile, fingers brushing through fabrics until they found what he’d been looking for.

Sieun’s undergarments.

There were a few boxers and briefs, but one in particular caught his eye. A short brief, or more accurately, a panty. Warm white in color, with a delicate curve at the waistline and a tiny ribbon at the front.

Fuck.

Does Sieun fucking wear panties?

The knowledge hit Seongje like a live wire.

He picked it up with both hands and held it for a moment. The fabric was light, delicate, and definitely worn. Still warm from Sieun’s skin. Maybe yesterday? A few days ago?

He lifted it higher for a better view, letting it unfold between his fingers. The soft cotton drooped in the middle, weightless, barely holding its shape. He stretched it gently between his hands, watching how the waistband flexed, how the leg holes curved inwards.

He imagined how it must stretch over the dip of Sieun’s hips, how it hugged the soft curves of his thighs. How the fabric must press flush against him when he sat, when he walked, when he shifted in bed.

The image burned itself into his mind.

Fuck.

Seongje had already started the list in his head. Exactly what kind of panties he’d buy for Sieun. The fabric, the color, the cut. Laces would look good, and pastel colors would definitely suit Sieun. Maybe something see-through?

He’d choose them carefully, thoughtfully and let Sieun wear them. For him.

And then, came the temptation.

He glanced at Sieun again. Still asleep. Peacefully and undisturbed.

Then, slowly, he brought the fabric closer to his face and pressed it to his nose. Right at the center. Right where Sieun’s cock must have been.

The scent hit him instantly. Musky, faintly sweet, with an edge of salt. Fabric steeped in skin and heat, the natural trace of a body that had moved, breathed, and existed. It was humid, earthy, like warmth trapped in cotton.

He inhaled again, slower this time, letting it fill his lungs. The scent was sharp and close, and it made his lips part, mouth watering with want.

And then his tongue moved, pressed flat against the center.

The fabric was damp in particular areas, and the taste was strong at first. Salty, with a light bitterness from dried sweat, and a faint metallic tang, like skin after hours of movement. After a long day.

To some, it would’ve been disgusting. Filthy, even. But to Seongje, it was delicious.

The sourness didn’t bother him.

It stirred something primal in his gut.

He licked again. And again. Slower, firmer. The more he tasted, the more his body responded, a low pulse thudding between his legs.

Seongje’s thoughts spiraled.

His cock pressed hard against his pants, straining. His hand moved to palm over it, firm and slow.

His eyes, half-lidded, drifted back to Sieun helplessly lying in bed.

He could take him right now. Right here. And no one would stop him.

But he didn’t.

As much as he wanted to bury himself in that warmth, to claim what he already considered his, he had to wait.

He’d already stolen what was probably the boy’s first kiss, no need to pretend otherwise. While he was unconscious, at that.

But sex? That was different. That meant more.

He knows their first time had to be real. With Sieun fully awake, fully willing, wanting him just as much.

So Seongje forced himself upright, dragging the last remnants of strength and restraint through his body as he stumbled into Sieun’s bathroom. He shut the door behind him and locked it with a quiet click, leaning against the wood.

Then he moved quick. Frantic. He shoved his pants down around his thighs in one motion, clumsy and rushed. Not even bothering to completely remove them.

His cock was already flushed, stiff, twitching with need. Leaking against his stomach like it couldn’t wait to be touched. He grabbed it without hesitation, fingers curling tight around the base.

His other hand still held Sieun’s underwear, soft and warm in his palm from how tightly he’d been clutching it. He lifted it to his face and inhaled. Deep. The scent filled his lungs like oxygen, thick and raw.

He started stroking himself.

The first one is slow, as if he’s savoring it. He let the fabric brush against his face as he pumped his cock.

But that control didn’t last. The rhythm grew faster, rougher, desperate. His hips jerked into his fist with sharp, strained movements. It felt like a wildfire was crawling up his spine.

But even as pleasure climbed fast beneath his skin, Seongje slowed, just for a moment.

He looked at the underwear in his hand, his thumb grazing the soft, worn center where the scent still clung. Then, without thinking, he brought it lower. He slipped it around the base of his cock, guiding the fabric with his twitching fingers.

The material clung to him, sliding up his length in slow, deliberate passes. The wet flesh rubbed against the dry cotton, and the contrast in texture made the friction sting a little.

But after a few firm strokes of his fingers, the cotton began to dampen, soaking through, turning softer, warmer, easier to move against him. It dragged lightly across his skin, catching on the slick sheen of precome as he wound it in a slow circle. It brushed the underside of his shaft, teasing the nerves with every pass.

He hissed through his teeth.

He kept moving it in slow, circular motions, the hem of the fabric catching beneath the head of his cock just right. The pleasure rose fast now, clawing its way up through his spine.

All he could think was Sieun. On the bed outside, sleeping so prettily. The thought of it—Sieun’s scent pressed against him, Sieun’s body having warmed this same fabric—was more than enough.

As he pumped his cock, pain flared through his arms. Those same joints Sieun had gently tended earlier are now burning with every movement. Bruises pulled and stretched, muscles screaming with protest, asking him to stop.

But he didn’t.

His thighs tensed, stomach tightening. He bit back a sound, eyes clenched shut.

And with that, he came. His release spilling hot across the inside of Sieun’s underwear, soaking the fabric in thick, sharp bursts.

For a moment, Seongje just stayed there. Trying to even out his breath, with cock softening in his hand, sweat cooling on his back. The silence felt thick with what he’d just done.

Carefully, he stood and reached for a towel. He cleaned himself up first, wetting his hands under the sink and running them along his length to wipe away the mess, then drying off with a clean towel.

Then, he turned his attention to the underwear, rinsing it in the sink with warm water and a bit of soap. His fingers moved gently. The fabric clung to his skin, still warm from his palm, from everything he’d poured into it.

Once it was clean and damp, no trace of what he’d done left behind, he pressed it between layers of tissue and patted it dry as best he could. Well, not perfect. But enough.

He stepped out of the bathroom and padded across the quiet room. The world felt muted after a moment of intensity he’d just had with himself.

He approached the laundry bin and, without a sound, placed the underwear back inside along with the towel he’d used.

His eyes drifted toward the bed.

Sieun was still sleeping, turned toward the wall now, his breath deep and slow.

After making sure Sieun is still in his peaceful rest, he slipped out of the hallway, leaving the bedroom door just slightly ajar. Just the way it had been before, as if nothing had happened.

He returned to the couch in silence, lowered himself slowly, and pulled the blanket Sieun had left for him earlier over his body. His eyes closed as his breaths were evening out. The faint scent of soap and skin still lingered on his fingers.

And with that, he let the sleep take him.

━━━━━━━━━

Seongje woke to the faint clatter of utensils and the low hiss of something cooking. The air was warm with the smell of oil, egg, maybe garlic.

He blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented for half a second before his body caught up with him. His hair was probably a mess, strands sticking out at odd angles from the pillow.

Shit. His right arm is throbbing, after the strain he’d put them through last night.

Sieun emerged from the kitchen, carrying two plates. On each was a neat row of golden rolled omelet, still steaming slightly, flecked with scallion and bits of carrot. He put them on the table, just a few steps across where Seongje is lying down.

“You good?” Sieun asked, glancing over. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Seongje muttered, groaning as he sat up. “Fuck, it stings.”

Sieun walked over, expression calm but attentive. “Open up for a bit.”

Seongje swallowed the grin threatening to pull at his lips, hiding the flicker of excitement crawling up his chest.

He pulled up the shirt—Sieun’s shirt—slowly, dragging the fabric over his torso until it bunched just below his collarbones, exposing the bruises along his ribs like he was presenting something for inspection.

Sieun leaned in, face focused. His eyes scanned the red and purple marks carefully.

“The bruises on your ribs are fading,” he said. “The ointment I gave you last night must’ve worked.” He gave a nod, like he was reassuring himself. “I still think you need an X-ray though, just to be sure. But from the outside, yeah. It’s looking better.”

His eyes moved to Seongje’s right arm, fingers brushing along the skin with gentle pressure. “These are healing too,” he murmured.

“But—” he traced one of the darker bruises, his thumb pausing as it pressed gently into the muscle.

Seongje hissed.

Sieun looked up at him, brow creased. “Did you lift something heavy last night?”

He blinked, keeping his face neutral.

“No.”

Sieun let out a quiet hum. “The muscles are a bit tight. Maybe your sleeping position strained them a little.”

Seongje just nodded, keeping his expression blank, carefully neutral. He damn well knew why his muscles were tight, and it had nothing to do with a bad sleeping position. But technically, he hadn’t lied, right?

“Have some breakfast,” Sieun said, standing up and walking back to the table without waiting for a reply. “We’re going to the hospital after this.”

He sat down with a small exhale, picked up his chopsticks, and casually began slicing through the gyeran-mari on his plate.

Seongje rose from the couch a beat later, careful not to move too quickly. Partly because of the bruises, partly to keep himself from looking too eager. He padded over to the table and slid into the chair across from Sieun.

“You don’t have class today?” he asked casually, picking up his chopsticks and taking a bite. The egg tasted like comfort, reminding Seongje of the rare, quiet mornings from his childhood, when his favorite house assistant used to make him something similar whenever he was sick.

“No. It’s Sunday.”

“Ah, right.”

While enjoying his food, Seongje felt something warm settle in his chest.

Breakfast together with Sieun. On top of that, with omelets Sieun cooked just for him.

It’s a perfect start to the day.

━━━━━━━━━

Seongje sat on the edge of the exam bed while the X-ray film glowed behind the doctor on a light panel. Sieun stood beside him, arms loosely crossed, brow faintly furrowed in focus.

“Well,” the doctor said, tapping the film with the end of a pen. “There’s no fracture, which is good. But you do have some soft tissue inflammation around the right forearm and upper ribs.”

“Is it serious?” Sieun asked.

“Not immediately,” the doctor replied. “But if left untreated or aggravated further, it could become chronic. Rest is key. Ice, anti-inflammatory meds, and minimal strain for at least a week. Two, ideally.”

Sieun nodded. “Is it localized inflammation or extending into tendon damage?”

The doctor smiled, a little impressed. “You’re in med?”

“Pre-med. Second year.”

“Good eye. No tendon damage yet, the swelling’s mostly along the brachioradialis. It’s good that we caught it now before it gets worse.” The doctor turned toward the desk and began typing. “I’ll write a prescription for anti-inflammatory meds, along with a cold compress routine and rest protocol.”

Seongje glanced at Sieun, raising a brow. “Does that mean I can’t hit the gym for a while?”

Sieun gave him an annoyed look, like he’d just asked whether fire was wet. “You’re not even supposed to lift a damn bag of rice.”

Seongje smiled faintly. He liked the way Sieun scolded him. Because beneath the irritation was something unmistakable. Concern.

It shows in how focused he was, checking every bruise with quiet precision, consulting with the doctor with that sharp observation, making sure Seongje was okay.

Seongje put on his shirt, layered his coat over it, and climbed off the exam bed without a word.

The printer whirred behind them as the prescription rolled out. The doctor stood, tore the paper off, and handed it to Seongje.

“Take this to the front desk. Ice your arm today, and avoid moving too much until the inflammation settles.”

Seongje took the slip with his uninjured hand, eyes lazy with boredom.

“Thank you,” Sieun said, offering gratitude on his behalf.

They stepped out into the hallway. Sieun naturally took the lead, moving with a quiet ease that made it clear he was more familiar with how hospitals worked.

They settled onto a bench outside the hospital pharmacy, just across from the frosted-glass window where prescription numbers ticked upward in red. The waiting area was quiet, save for the occasional shuffling feet, soft pages turning, and the distant ding of elevators.

Seongje leaned back slightly, adjusting his position to avoid straining his arm. He let his head fall against the wall behind him, exhaling slowly.

“…What if two weeks without gym ruins me?” Seongje muttered, eyes on the ceiling. “What if I stop being hot?”

Sieun gave him a sideways look, unimpressed. “You’ll survive.”

Seongje’s lips curled, just a little. “You’d be disappointed too if that happens though, no?”

“Stop saying weird things,” Sieun snarked, but he couldn’t quite hide the faint pink creeping up the tips of his ears. His eyes fixed stubbornly on the pharmacy number board, anywhere but Seongje’s face.

Seongje only tilted his head, that same knowing smile playing at his lips. Watching Sieun squirm ever so slightly is better than any painkiller would be.

Everything is going so well.

Until it’s not.

“Yeon Sieun!” A bright, familiar voice cut through the hallway behind them.

When they both turned to see the source of the voice, Seongje’s brows arched.

Of course, he recognized that voice. He’d held back the urge to punch something every time he heard it through the speaker on Sieun’s phone. He’d deleted the messages—ones that came from the very owner of that voice—from Sieun’s inbox more times than he could count.

“Ahn Suho?” Sieun voiced his name.

Suho approached with easy, confident steps. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Sieun blinked and straightened slightly. “What are you doing here?”

“Actually, my dad’s a doctor here. I was just dropping off his charger. He keeps leaving it at home.” He held up a small white box in his hand, like proof.

His eyes drifted to Seongje for a beat, then back to Sieun. Flicking between them as if quietly reading the scene, assessing something. “You’re not alone,” he said lightly, flashing a polite smile in Seongje’s direction.

“Ah—” Sieun blurted, like it had just hit him that the two hadn’t met. “This is Seongje.” There was a subtle pause in his voice as he hesitated—considered—what to call him. “My friend.”

The word fell a little too neatly into place.

Seongje let it hang in the air.

Friend.

He didn’t show it, but he hated it.

Still, he nodded politely.

“Nice to meet you,” Suho said with a slight bow.

Seongje mirrored it, but he didn’t blink. “Likewise.”

Almost immediately, Suho’s attention turned back to Sieun. “You’re not hurt or anything, right?” His voice was laced with concern, his brows slightly furrowed.

The kind of look you give someone you care about.

The kind of look Seongje would gladly rip off his face if he could.

“No,” Sieun replied. “I’m just taking him,” he added, tilting his chin subtly toward Seongje.

“Ah.” Suho absorbed that with a short nod and a glance, barely sparing Seongje a full second of eye contact. As if he wasn’t something to worry about. As if Sieun was the only one worth his attention in this hospital right now.

What a prick.

Suho kept the conversation going, chatting easily about college and their schedules. Then, with a teasing grin, he added, “You still keep rejecting my offers to hang out, by the way. I mean, I don’t even mind studying together at the library if that’s what you prefer.”

Seongje’s jaw tightened.

Just like that, the good morning burned out in his chest. This bastard had to show up out of nowhere and soured the entire air around him.

And finally, as if the universe had taken pity on him and wanted their conversation to end just as much as he did, the pharmacy number turned to 34—his number—followed by the flat, muffled voice announcing it through the speaker behind the glass.

“Thirty-four, please.”

Seongje cleared his throat. Then he stood, slow and steady, brushing invisible dust off his pants before walking toward the counter.

Sieun’s brows arched at the motion. He turned back to Suho quickly. “I should be going now. See you, Suho.”

“Ah, okay! See you!” Suho beamed. “Don’t forget, let’s study together at the library sometime!”

Sieun only offered a small nod in return before following after Seongje.

━━━━━━━━━

They sat side by side at the bus stop, shoulders close but not touching, the metal bench cool beneath them. A breeze passed through, rustling the edges of Sieun’s coat and fluttering the loose strands of his hair.

Seongje leaned back, arms folded loosely, watching the road like it had personally offended him.

“That your college friend?” he asked, finally breaking the silence for the first time since they’d left the hospital.

Sieun turned slightly. “Yeah.”

Seongje gave a small nod, almost to himself, his gaze still fixed forward. “He’s trying pretty hard to get his way with you.”

Sieun blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Seongje tilted his head, turning to face him more fully, brow arching just slightly. “You seriously don’t see it? He clearly has a crush on you. Are you that dense?”

Sieun frowned. “Ahn Suho? No. He’s just like that with everyone.” He tried to recall what he knew about Suho, how the guy was effortlessly sociable and basically friends with almost everyone in their year.

“He’s asking everyone to study together at the library with just the two of them?”

Now that—that got Sieun silenced. Seongje turned his eyes back to the road, feigning nonchalance as he leaned slightly into the bench.

And after a pause that stretched a little too long, a little too tense, a little too close to confrontation, Sieun finally spoke.

“I’m not… interested.”

Seongje glanced at him again, expression unreadable, saying nothing. As if inviting Sieun to continue. As if giving a cue for him to elaborate further.

Sieun’s eyes dropped to his shoes, his voice quiet and a little unsure. “In studying with him. Or the other hangouts.” He kept staring downward, but his gaze drifted, over a crack in the pavement, the white dusting of snow clinging to the curb, his own shoelace.

He didn’t fully understand why he needed to say it. But he did anyway.

“I’ve never said yes to any of his invites,” he added after a beat. “Not once.”

Seongje arched his eyebrows in understanding, catching whatever it was Sieun was probably hinting at. Whatever Sieun was struggling to put into words, to convey his intention without laying it bare. Just enough to be heard without scaring himself off.

He let out a quiet hum. “Hm. Is that so?” A slight smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head lower, angling to catch Sieun’s eyes again.

And when their eyes finally met, Seongje’s voice softened. “Good.”

Sieun dropped his gaze immediately, his ears tinting pink. He cleared his throat, like he was trying to push the moment aside.

“Where do you live, anyway? Are you taking the same bus as me?”

“I’m heading to my shop first. Got a few things to fix.” He didn’t answer the question directly. Sieun didn’t need to know where he lived. Not yet.

“Fix what? You can’t even move your arms properly,” Sieun said, frowning slightly.

Seongje smiled at him, quietly pleased by the concern in Sieun’s voice. “Don’t worry, cutie. That won’t be necessary.”

He watched as the nickname silenced Sieun, the now-familiar pink tint rising to his ears for what had to be the god-knows-how-many-th time since the night he brought Seongje to his place.

“I’ll tag along until you’re home first.”

Sieun’s eyes flicked up in protest. “You don’t have to. You should rest.”

“I can’t let my savior walk home alone after what he did for me, right?”

Sieun didn’t answer, just exhaled softly through his nose, eyes flicking away like he didn’t want to admit the way his chest tightened at those words.

And just after that, the bus to Sieun’s neighborhood rounded the corner. They got on together, even though Sieun made a point once again that Seongje didn’t have to.

And Seongje persisted regardless.

They sat in the back with a surprisingly practiced ease. The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was familiar. Comfortable.

Seongje stretched his legs, just enough to nudge against Sieun’s. Their knees touched with each bump of the bus, the fabric of their pants brushing now and then.

Seongje didn’t pull away.

And Sieun didn’t protest.

When the bus slowed near Sieun’s stop, the brakes hissed and the world outside stirred, reminding them of everything beyond their little shared moment. They rose together, bodies moving in quiet harmony, and stepped off side by side.

Sieun said it again. “It’s just across the street. You don’t have to—”

Only to have Seongje already walking beside him, all the way to the gate.

At the entrance, under the soft light of the building’s porch, Spongje gave him a quiet smile. “Thank you for taking care of me,” he said, voice softer than usual.

And he watched as Sieun looked up at him, eyes wide and a little glassy.

His heart stuttered at the sight.

Sieun hesitated, like the words were stuck in his throat, unsure if they were too much or too little. Finally, he exhaled and let them out. “Take your meds. Don’t move too much.”

Just two simple instructions. But somehow, they lit something warm in Seongje’s chest.

Anything tied to Sieun always shifted his mood so fast. Like flipping a switch.

Seongje lingered in silence, watching Sieun turn and slip inside. His gaze followed the back of Sieun’s head until the door clicked softly behind him.

Seongje looked up as a soft yellow glow pulsed in the second‑floor window. Sieun’s room.

He turned away at last, coat pockets swallowing his hands, hair catching the evening breeze.

Footsteps soft on pavement, the world around him blurred, the day’s tension folded into the gentleness of twilight.

And a smile tugged at his lips.

Complete and satisfied.

Chapter Text

It was finals week.

Sieun went through it like a soldier in a war he never enlisted for. His days blurred into a continuous loop of study cases, diagnoses, and essays replaying over and over in his head even in the rare hours he managed to sleep.

The professors had advised students to take it easy during exam week, no more all-nighters, just do your best and rest.

But Sieun’s anxiety didn’t listen to reason.

His mother had made it painfully clear. If he didn’t get a perfect score this term, she would contact his professors personally and negotiate.

Whatever that meant.

Sieun already felt secondhand embarrassment from the last term when she had tried to “discuss” his grades in a way that was less than ethical in an academic setting. The memory alone made his stomach twist and his skin prickle with discomfort.

That was why, this term, Sieun knew he couldn’t afford to falter.

He had to thrive, to leave no room for doubt or disappointment. There could be no mistakes, no vulnerabilities that might invite another humiliating intervention. He needed to prove—to his professors, to his mother, and maybe even to himself—that he was capable of standing on his own merit.

So, he pushed. Past the limits of sleep, of reason, of peace.

By the end of the week, completely drained, Sieun found himself passing out on his bed.

Not asleep, though. Despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs, he couldn’t fully rest. Not with the last remnants of anxiety still clinging to his chest.

What he didn’t expect was a video call request from Keum Seongje.

The taller boy had texted, “Can I call you real quick? Need to show you something about my bruise.”

Sieun had groaned and replied, “Just send me a photo.”

But apparently, a photo wasn’t enough. Seongje insisted he had to show it in motion because—according to him—his muscles were “weirdly tensing,” and a picture couldn’t capture it. When Sieun told him to just send a video then, Seongje claimed the lighting changed when he moved, and it wouldn’t be the same.

It was an endless spiral of nonsense until Sieun finally gave in.

He was annoyed by the act. But at the same time, a part of him didn’t mind the distraction.

So now, here he was, staring at Seongje’s biceps over a video call. After a thoroughly unnecessary inspection of the bruise—which looked perfectly fine, by the way—Sieun told him as much.

Last week, Seongje’s condition had clearly warranted concern. He was bruised and bloodied. But now the man was healing just fine, and Sieun had no idea why he was suddenly acting like he still needed a full medical evaluation.

“You’re being dramatic,” Sieun deadpanned. “It’s just a little discoloration.”

“Excuse you,” Seongje gasped. “This discoloration hurts. Don’t you care?”

Sieun rolled his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

Seongje only grinned. “Ouch. So cold.” At last, he shifted the conversation. “So… how did exams go?”

The question made Sieun pause. It had been a week since he’d helped Seongje after the beating near his apartment. And, true to form during exam season, Sieun hadn’t been able to focus on anything but studying, including Seongje’s texts.

“They went… okay, I think,” Sieun answered.

“You look exhausted.” Seongje tilted his head slightly, frowning.

“It’s just been a long week.” Sieun rubbed at his eyes, suddenly self-conscious of the way he looked on camera.

“I’m sure you did great,” Seongje said, suddenly soft. “You’re going to make a good doctor.”

Sieun froze. He had never heard that before, not once. Not even from his mother, who was obsessively determined to shape him into the perfect doctor of a son.

"I can see it in the way you took care of me last week.” The last statement from Seongje came with more of a teasing tone, which Sieun responded to with his usual nonchalance.

“My mom forced me into med school.”

“Well, regardless,” Seongje said, “you’re clearly good at it. Have you thought about what specialization you’ll take?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll decide later, once I start my internship. Get a feel for things first.”

“If it were up to me, I’d make you my personal doctor.”

Sieun didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked away from the screen, and he pressed his lips together like he was holding something back. “…Don’t want. You’d be a difficult patient,” he mumbled eventually.

Seongje kept doing the talking. Something about his low voice—unhurried and steady—slowed Sieun’s life after the relentless pace of exams. It seeped into the quiet of Sieun’s room like a calming hum. It smoothed the tension from his shoulders, softened the edges of his thoughts.

And finally, at some point during the call, Sieun fell asleep with the phone still resting in his hand.

━━━━━━━━━

Post-exam, all students didn’t have to go to campus anymore. Technically.

All classes had already ended. Most students had practically declared and claimed the start of their holidays, busy preparing for year-end parties and winter getaways.

Unfortunately, Sieun was an exception.

He needed to finalize his research paper and meet a looming deadline. The paper was set to be published early next year, and he'd originally planned to finish it before exams. But Professor Hwang—his advisor for the paper—had been unnecessarily hard on him. Sometimes, it felt almost personal, like the professor had a grudge Sieun didn’t understand.

He told himself it was just him being a critical professor for Sieun’s own good, but somehow, the scrutiny always felt sharper when aimed at him.

And today, it seems like the suspicion formed into something real.

Sieun stepped into Professor Hwang’s office room, where he asked him to meet up.

He had come expecting a routine one-on-one consultation. After revising the chapters for weeks—refining every paragraph the Professor had asked him to revisit—his research draft was nearly finished, only a few citations and additions away from being ready for formal submission.

But, the room is occupied by another presence. An unfamiliar faculty member sat across the table beside Professor Hwang. A printed copy of his draft—or what looked like it—lay on the table.

"Mr. Yeon," she said, gesturing to the chair. "Please, take a seat."

The air hung heavy, like it had absorbed every word spoken before he entered, clearly from a conversation that had already been had without him.

Sieun took his seat hesitantly.

The woman introduced herself and continued. "We appreciate your time," in a tone that was measured to be kind. "Unfortunately, this isn’t a routine check-in. We need to address a serious concern regarding academic authorship."

Sieun didn’t say anything. His thoughts tossed behind the calm exterior, eyes fixed but unfocused, waiting for the shape of the conversation to reveal itself.

She slipped forward another copy of the document. "A paper was submitted last week by one of your peers, Jeon Youngbin. Its contents bear extensive similarities to the working draft you shared with your mentor."

Sieun still hadn’t said a word. He stared at the printed pages, his eyes tracing familiar lines of text as if seeing them for the first time.

Jeon Youngbin. One of his classmates. He had written something strikingly similar to what Sieun was writing. At least in the core idea.

It seemed like there were just a few differences in supporting data and the method he used. But it was obviously drawn from the same foundation, too similar to be coincidence.

"I don't understand," he said at last. "That’s my paper. But I haven’t submitted it yet. I was still finalizing the conclusion."

"Yet, I’m afraid Mr. Jeon’s already been submitted and published officially," the woman replied. "This is going to be difficult, Mr. Yeon. Do you have evidence showing your prior authorship? Notebooks, emails, anything that predates his submission date?"

Sieun faltered. "I have notes, yes, and the version history in my laptop. And my emails to Professor Hwang."

“I understand. I would like to ask you to share all of that with me, please.” The woman’s tone remained polite but distant as she extended her name card, the university’s crest embossed in silver above her neatly printed email address.

Sieun took it in silence.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Yeon,” she continued, her voice more formal now, “but because of this allegation, we will need to postpone your publication.” She didn’t flinch. “I’ve spoken with Professor Hwang. The university will conduct a review to determine the original author of the material in question.”

Sieun felt the blood drain from his face.

“Since Mr. Jeon Youngbin has already published his,” she added, “it puts you in a very difficult position. I sincerely hope the evidence you present will be substantial.”

A difficult position. That was how they were calling it. Neatly phrased. But it meant his credibility, his work, his name were now under scrutiny. Sieun’s fingers clenched slightly around the card.

Sieun glanced at Professor Hwang, searching his face for clarity, maybe even support, but the mentor said nothing. Not until the woman who had interrupted them finally left did he speak.

His voice was calm, but the words landed like a blow. He confronted him directly. “If what I heard is true, that you referenced Jeon Youngbin’s ongoing research without proper attribution…”

Sieun’s pulse surged. “I didn’t plagiarize, Professor,” he replied, trying to steady his breath. “You saw me writing the paper. I consulted with you.”

But the professor didn’t back down. “It’s not that I want to doubt you, Sieun. But… I can’t ignore the fact that you might’ve had access to Youngbin’s draft all this time.”

The words cut deeper than an accusation.

A silence fell between them. Then, finally, Professor Hwang exhaled and softened his tone. “I want to believe you. For now, just compile every version of your draft. Organize everything. We’ll deal with this properly.”

Sieun nodded, but a quiet sting of betrayal laced with exhaustion was tightening inside him. He’d done everything by the book. He’d worked late nights, adjusted based on his input, even second-guessed his own instincts to meet the professor’s standards.

And yet here he was. Presumed guilty, his integrity called into question by the one person who should’ve known better.

Back in his apartment, Sieun sat at his desk with a folder of evidence open on his screen. Dated drafts, screenshots of messages with Professor Hwang, even photos of his old handwritten notes. He was attaching them to email when his phone lit up.

Omma.

Of course. He had told her yesterday that he’d submit the paper today. She must be calling to check in.

He sighed and picked up.

“Hello?”

“There you are,” she said brightly. “Did you finish? You submitted it, right?”

Sieun hesitated, then replied, “No… Not yet. Something happened.”

“What do you mean something happened?” she asked sharply.

“There’s been an accusation. Someone else submitted a paper that’s very similar to mine. He published first. Now they’re reviewing both papers to see who had the original idea. So mine’s being postponed for now.”

The line went quiet for a moment.

“What?!”

Her tone was cold and unforgiving.

“Are you telling me someone accused you of plagiarism?”

“I didn’t copy him,” Sieun blurted, scrambling to defend himself. “I’ve got all the evidence. Early drafts, messages, timestamps. I’m pulling everything together now to prove it.”

“Oh my god, Sieun,” she snapped. “How could you let this happen? Do you realize what this means?”

“It’s just a complicated situation. He probably saw an earlier version of mine—”

“I don’t care how complicated it is! If he published first, then you’re the one who looks like you copied him!” she said, her voice rising. “You said you were submitting this week. You said it was almost done!”

“I was. It was done.”

“And now it’s being reviewed for plagiarism? Are you serious? If you don’t get this published before early next year, you won’t have enough material for your SNU Hospital application. You know that! No one’s going to recommend you without a publication. What are you going to do for your future, Sieun?”

“I know,” he said, his voice sharp now.

“No, I don’t think you do!” she lashed out. “You should’ve submitted it earlier. You should’ve been more careful. What were you thinking? How could you be this careless when everything depends on this?”

Her voice sounded like shattering glass in Sieun’s ears.

“Let’s hope your evidence is enough to fix this. Because no one’s going to give you second chances, Sieun. Especially not SNU.”

Sieun should’ve been used to this by now.

He should’ve expected this reaction.

But still, it hurt.

Still, the weight of her words cut deep in his chest like a dull blade.

If only she knew. If she ever bothered to know.

How many hours—months—had Sieun poured into that paper.

Even after all this time, Sieun had stayed loyal. Loyal to the process, to the system, to the expectation. Loyal to show his mom all the effort, all the discipline, all the restraint he’d held onto like a lifeline.

He never asked for applause. Never needed to be the center of attention. But somehow, even the smallest gesture of appreciation from her felt impossible.

Even if the results didn’t always match her standards, it was already the very best he could give. Pushed out of him with everything he had left. Couldn’t she see that? Couldn’t she just recognize it, just once?

That it was his hard work.

And yet somehow, when someone else violated that—stole from him, took credit for what he bled for—it’s still on him.

The outrage is always on him. Not on his behalf.

No words of support. Not even a fake gesture to show she felt bad for him.

She didn’t care whether he had actually plagiarized or not. The truth didn’t matter. What mattered was how it looked. What people would say. What this would do to his transcript, her reputation, their name.

“Call me again when you’ve taken care of this.”

Sieun felt betrayed. Sieun felt like all his efforts had been betrayed.

Click.

And just like that, she hung up.

Sieun didn’t move.

The screen glowed in front of him, the cursor blinking like a silent metronome.

The ticking clock beside him wasn’t just time passing. It was a countdown. A constant reminder that something inside him was winding too tight, too fast, and it wouldn’t hold forever. A slow, steady march toward the moment he would finally break.

That any second now, he might just lose it.

That any second now, he might just die.

Maybe death was the best way out.

Then he wouldn't have to deal with this anymore. Wouldn't have to try anymore. Wouldn’t have to wake up to the same silence, the same disappointments, the same gnawing sense that no matter what he did, it was never enough.

Maybe if he disappeared, the weight would finally lift.

Maybe if he's dead, it would free his mom from the need to raise an impossibly perfect son.

Maybe, the world will just be in peace.

And just as he was about to slam his head against the desk, just as the tears started to sting the corners of his eyes, he saw it.

His phone lit up. Again. Bright and sudden.

The lockscreen displayed his weekly schedule and the current time. But no notifications came in. As if someone just pressed the power button for him.

His heart stopped.

The realization hit. The reminder.

Something that had been lurking just at the back of his mind for days. Buried under stress and anxiety for his finals, his mom, and his research paper.

They’re back.

The hacker. Not in the room, but present. Living deep inside the one device he carried everywhere.

Sieun felt rage claw its way up his chest. His hands were trembling as he grabbed the phone, fingers locking around it so tightly like he wanted to tear the phone in half.

He stared at the screen like it was something alive. Something he could kill if he glared hard enough.

“You fucker.”

The words came out low and cracked. He didn’t care how insane he looked, talking to a screen like it was a person. No one was looking anyway. And he wasn’t in the mood to soften the blow with this sick fuck right now.

“Jeon Youngbin. Is that you?”

Silence.

The screen stayed as it was, but Sieun kept his eyes fixed, waiting. Daring it to move.

And then, the screen unlocked by itself. Opened the notepad. And Sieun watched, breath held, as a single word began to type, one letter at a time.

No.

Sieun’s breath hitched. His eyes went wide.

This was real. He’s witnessing it. How the hacker has full, real-time access.

And they were interacting with him. Right now.

“Who the fuck are you? What do you want from me?”

Sieun could taste the venom in his own voice.

Again, the phone moved by itself. Shaping words that twisted through his brain, impossible to fully comprehend.

I don’t want to hurt you.

What in the fucking hell even was that? This person is literally violating his privacy and had the audacity to convince him he means well?

“Did you do it? You hacked my drive and gave my paper away?”

A word appeared for the second time.

No.

“Then what the fuck do you want?!”

Sieun had no patience left. His mind was fraying, his body tight with rage and despair, and everything in him screamed. He felt like he wanted to kill and die at the same time.

Letters began sliding across the screen again, spelling out something new.

I just wanna be close with you.

Sieun stared at the screen, utterly bewildered. Of all the things he expected, this was the last. What does that even mean? Why would someone want to be close with him?

But Sieun is sure of one thing.

This person was clearly sick. No sane individual would invade someone’s life like this and then have the audacity to call it closeness.

And yet, Sieun couldn’t tear his eyes away from the words now burned into the screen.

It was deranged, laughable even, and still it struck something in him, something so hollow and starved it didn’t know whether to recoil or reach out.

In this world so full of noise and indifference—a world that always seemed to hate him for who he was, or look right through him like he didn’t exist—there was something unsettlingly gentle in those words. A strange sincerity.

Like someone, somewhere, was finally trying to reach him.

And as much as it terrified him, a part of him wondered.

If he comes to this person, will he be able to feel something different?

So after a long, slow war in his head, he voiced out his choice.

“Well, you know what? My life fucking sucks. So if that’s what you want? Just take me. I don’t care anymore.”

His voice cracked. “I don’t want to live this life anymore.”

No new words appeared on the screen, and Sieun felt a brief, inexplicable wave of disappointment bloom in his chest. So he spoke again.

“This is your chance. Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore.”

At last, after a silence heavy with Sieun’s last hope and the kind of desperation he swore he never felt before, the cursor began to move again.

Three sentences. Simple and measured in their finality.

Come to my place. Lucent Park Tower B. I’ll see you in the lobby.

━━━━━━━━━

Sieun didn’t know which one was more absurd. The fact that his stalker was living a luxurious life in this apartment, the kind he’d only seen in dramas and never actually stepped foot in, or the fact he was willingly, consciously, handing himself over to this sick bastard.

Yeah. He’s definitely broken. Or gone numb.

He was waiting in the lobby. Tucked off to the side, half-hidden beside a towering decorative planter. His posture was stiff and uncertain.

The luxurious lobby felt like a cold stage set, sterile and distant. He felt like he was floating in the middle of someone else’s dream. He had no idea what he was doing or why was he doing it in the first place.

But right now, his life felt like a cage he desperately wanted to escape. A simulation he was no longer connected to. He wanted something—anything—that felt different.

Something untouched by his mother, by his professors, by the suffocating weight of expectations. Something detached.

He didn’t care what would happen to him anymore.

If this person turned out to be a serial killer, then so be it.

He’d end up dead, as he wished.

He stood there for minutes that felt suspended in unreality.

He didn’t know exactly what he was waiting for. A person, a sign, some shift in the air that would tell him where to go.

Each pair of footsteps that echoed across the marble floor made his spine straighten. Every passerby, every stranger, instantly became a possibility.

Where is he?

And just as Sieun was beginning to wonder if the hacker had lost his nerve—backed out at the last second like a coward, leaving him stranded in this unfamiliar, gleaming lobby with nothing but his own spiraling thoughts—a figure approached him.

A tall guy layered in black. A hoodie, a cap pulled low over his brow, and a mask hiding the rest of his face. His features were obscured, but his posture was straight.

He walked closer and closer, until he stood directly in front of Sieun.

Sieun wasn’t sure if this was the person he was waiting for or not. But if it was, he didn’t look like what Sieun had imagined. He’d pictured someone older. More pathetic-looking.

But this guy—aside from his clear attempt to cover himself with suspicious disguise—almost looked normal. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Young.

His hands remained tucked casually in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders a bit tense but still giving off a deceptive ease. Like someone so used to watching, so used to hiding, who is now finally stepping into the open.

“Follow me.”

The man spoke only two words. No explanation. No confirmation of his identity. His voice sounded intentionally lower than natural, like he was disguising it on purpose.

Wait.

It was familiar. Faintly. Like a voice Sieun had heard before but couldn’t quite place.

He was just beginning to search his memory, trying to attach the voice to a face, when the man turned without waiting and walked off toward the elevator hall.

Sieun followed.

He watched as the man pulled out an access card and tapped it against the sensor. The elevator doors opened instantly.

Inside the elevator, Sieun took a closer look at him through the mirrored door in front of them. He didn’t move, but he studied the stranger’s reflection. His sharp profile, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands remained perfectly still at his sides.

When they arrived at their floor, the man stepped out first, then guided Sieun toward one of the units. Sieun glanced around and noticed there were only two units on this floor.

How expensive did this place have to be?

Opening the door to his, the man let Sieun walk in first.

And for the first few seconds, Sieun was stunned by the view. The apartment was massive. The ceilings were high, the lights soft and ambient. But what pulled his breath away was the full-length window wall, revealing a breathtaking skyline view of Seoul, the city lights glittering just above the silver curve of the Han River.

Not lasting long, his moment of awe got shattered by a faint sound behind him.

Click.

A locking sound.

An automatic, airtight sound of a security system that this building must have embedded into every door.

Sieun turned around sharply.

The man was standing in front of the door.

And at almost the exact same moment, he reached up, removed his hat, then pulled off his mask.

A face revealed from that slow, composed motion.

Like peeling away the last layer of a lie, exposing a secret the man had worn too long against his skin, unfolding a truth he had kept hidden.

Sieun felt his heart seize and then plummet. A freefall through his chest that left nothing but ringing silence and the sharp taste of disbelief in his mouth.

That face.

A familiar one. One he had started to grow comfortable with. One that had recently shown a few too many teasing, cocky, and smug grins. One that made his heart beat a little too fast sometimes. One that had offered him warmth in the middle of his loneliness. One whose presence he had secretly started to look forward to, without even realizing it.

Keum Seongje.

Chapter Text

A full week without seeing Sieun in person was already starting to gnaw at him. Worse—there’s been almost no text. Just a few sparse replies he can count on the fingers of one hand.

Seongje, of course, stayed consistent with his messages. And usually, Sieun would always reply. No matter how late, no matter how dry. Every text from him had gradually become Seongje’s line of heartbeat, the only thing making him feel alive in an otherwise hollow stretch of days.

But Sieun seemed like the kind of person who couldn’t focus on anything else during exam week, so he tried to be patient.

Their brief video call—one Seongje had insisted on—offered a slight comfort. Sieun said he just had a few more things to wrap up on campus before the holidays. 

Seongje was excited. 

Winter in Seoul already made everything feel softer, like the whole city was conspiring to make people fall in love. The streets sparkled with warm twinkle lights, soft carols spilled out from stores and cafes, windows along the streets were fogged like a lover’s breath against skin. It made him think of dating spots and all the romantic Christmas couple activities he and Sieun could go to.

Only to lose all that excitement not long after. 

It slipped away as if trying to build a snowman, only for the sun to rise too soon and melt it before it could ever take shape.

In the end, he could only watch as Sieun’s life quietly fell apart.

It was a cruel, shitty thing. Unfair. Sieun was accused of stealing from others, when it was the very thing he had poured so much of himself into. Seongje’s chest tightened with fury, his jaw clenched with a kind of helpless rage. 

Jeon Youngbin. Professor Hwang. He’d deal with those two bastards later. 

But right now, there is something far more urgent—far more important.

He has to take care of Sieun.

The smaller had crumbled into a breakdown after that call with his mother. And this time, it felt different. Worse than any of the episodes Seongje had seen before. Her words had triggered something Sieun had barely managed to hold together. As if her voice alone had reached into the most fragile part of him and shattered it.

So when he watched the entire scene unfold through the cams, all Seongje wanted was to be there. For Sieun, right then and there. 

When Sieun finally looked straight into his phone’s camera—eyes locking with him for the very first time through the screen—something in Seongje stilled. 

And finally, when Sieun offered himself to Seongje—whatever that truly meant—his brain wouldn’t stop turning. 

At that moment, Seongje considered every possible option. All the what-comes-nexts.

He had wanted to take Sieun, of course. All to himself. But it was a shame it had to happen like this, when the boy was at his lowest.

It wasn’t how he pictured it. Not his ideal way, not one he’d ever dreamed of finally being completely himself and honest to hold Sieun. 

It wasn’t how he planned it. He didn’t want to reveal the truth to Sieun this fast. It was supposed to unfold slower, just when their bond was stronger—when Sieun was softer, more open, more willing, more his.

But the look in Sieun’s eyes showed something dangerous. Something on the verge of collapse. A quiet kind of desperation. As if, without Seongje to hold him, he might spiral out of control and break himself. Get rid of himself.

A surge of panic—something that never comes to Seongje, who’s always calm and composed—filled him.

No. He can’t lose Sieun.

So he tried to put himself together and told Sieun to meet him at the lobby of his apartment.

Seongje had covered himself well when he met Sieun down at the lobby. Something instinctive told him that the reveal—the unmasking of his true self in front of Sieun—had to happen in private. In his unit. Not with anyone else’s eyes. 

Partly because he would like it to be an honest, unfiltered moment between just the two of them. But also because he was afraid that Sieun would run and disappear without warning once he learned the truth.

Sieun is in a fragile mental state right now, and Seongje knew, from the very beginning, that Sieun carried the same quiet recklessness he did. The same streak of madness. 

He’s someone like him. Someone unpredictable. Someone you don’t get to treat carelessly without consequences.

So even though his head had been full of considerations earlier, he made up his mind and moved with terrifying determination and certainty.

He spotted Sieun the moment he stepped into the lobby. His figure looked small and scruffy against the vast, open, and pristine space. He's only wearing a gray jacket on top of black t-shirt and worn-out jeans.

He stood there stiffly, uncertain, waiting for someone he didn’t even know. Seongje could see the redness in his eyes, the exhaustion written on his face—and it made his heart ache. He's sure when it started, but Sieun had softened something in him.

After Seongje instructed Sieun to follow him, the smaller did just that along with an awkward but rather peaceful silence. That meant he still hadn’t figured it out.

It kind of surprised Seongje. With Sieun’s sharp and fast brain, Seongje had thought that Sieun could recognize him even only with this vague figure and masked facade. It seems like the stress is really getting to him.

Once they reached his room, Sieun looked around slowly, like he had never imagined that a place like this could be the hideout of his hacker.

Before Sieun could take another step, Seongje took a steadying breath to gather himself, bracing to meet whatever storm was about to come. Without a word, he locked the door. 

Then, like a final blow, he removed his hat. His mask. And looked at Sieun. 

Right in the eyes.

Their eye contact felt like a crack of thunder in the silent room.

“You—” Sieun’s eyes widened. 

“You?!” He repeated again. Pure disbelief.

Seongje watched as Sieun’s honest gaze fractured, shifting into a cascade of emotions. From shock, to fear, to hurt, to rage.

And then, he moved.

Sieun lunged forward without thinking, without planning. Just pure instinct, pure fury.

“You sick freak—!” His voice cracked as he slammed his hands into Seongje’s chest, trying to shove him, claw at him, hit something—anything—to make this moment go away. To undo the truth unraveling in front of him. 

“You hacked me? You watched me? You knew?” His fists struck Seongje’s shoulders, his arms, frantic and uncoordinated. “And you acted innocent in front of me? All this time—all this fucking time?”

But Seongje didn’t flinch at first. Didn’t protect himself.

He took every blow like a wave washing over him. His hands stayed loose at his sides for a moment, as if he was letting Sieun let out his anger before losing his strength.

Then, with precise timing, his right hand caught Sieun’s wrist, the other landing firmly at his waist, pulling him off balance. Sieun stumbled forward and suddenly Seongje had him trapped, spine half-pinned to the wall, his breath sharp from the shock of being overpowered so easily. 

Seongje didn’t even use his full strength. He held back, always careful. He used just enough to overpower the smaller, to keep him from doing anything reckless.

“Let go of me,” Sieun hissed, trying to jerk free, but his wrist was locked tight in Seongje’s grip. “Let go!”

Seongje only looked at him, forcing himself to stay calm and handle the situation with control. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quietly. His grip didn’t loosen. “I never was.”

“Stop saying that bullshit.” Sieun’s chest rose and fell with quick, furious breaths. “You lied to me,” he spat. “You watched me like some—some fucking psycho—!”

“Sieun, calm down first.”

“No. You did all that and had the audacity to act heroic in front of me? Like you were helping me? Pretended to be on my side? What a fucking joke.” Sieun threw the piercing words at him one by one. “Don’t act nice when all you did was fool me and take advantage of me. Go fuck yourself.”

Sieun’s words stung more than Seongje expected. And in that moment, something deep and choking crawled its way to his chest—regret. 

Yes, he had lied to Sieun. It was fair to say he’d fooled him.

But when he started all of this, it was never out of malice. He only ever wanted to admire Sieun, watch over him, and to carve out a place in his world where he believed he could belong. 

He had never, not for a second, thought of himself as being above Sieun. If anything, he’d always known Sieun was the one standing higher—the one worth protecting, admiring, chasing.

Not once had he realized—until now—that it was hurting Sieun.

And now that Sieun had finally said it aloud, it was tearing into him like guilt with teeth.

But even with all the anger building quietly at himself, a faint sting of disappointment lingered toward Sieun. Out of everyone, he had thought Sieun would be the one to understand. To see through the madness and grasp the intention beneath it. To understand him.

If he ever wanted to hurt him, he could have done it a long time ago. And after everything, Seongje had thought their bond—however twisted, however fragile—should’ve been proof enough that he loved Sieun.

But again, everything had unraveled at the worst possible time. None of it gave them the chance they needed.

Seongje tried to ignore the twisting in his chest, but it shook him enough to make him drop his guard for just a second.

And with that, Sieun kicked him hard in the upper thigh.

The hit landed clean. It made Seongje stagger, and in that moment, his grip slipped just enough for Sieun to pull free.

Sieun ran straight for the door. Only to panic when the knob wouldn’t turn. The lock Seongje activated earlier apparently works for both sides of the door, and Sieun didn’t really know how to open it. He yanked at it again, breathing hard, but it wouldn’t budge.

As Sieun’s fright and agitation built up, Seongje became more attentive with his own moves. With deliberate care, he stepped closer.

Sieun backed away in a mix of dread and rage, eyes scanning the room for anything he could use.

Seongje followed his gaze. It landed—of all things—on a flower vase. Out of glass, delicate, sitting harmlessly on the corner shelf of Seongje’s clean, modern living room as a decor piece. 

“Stop now—”

But Sieun had already moved, doing his best to outrun Seongje’s voice. He reached out for the vase, grabbed it, and with both hands, hurled it at Seongje with full force.

Seongje instinctively shielded his head and moved back. The vase missed him by inches, crashing onto the floor behind him with a sharp, splintering crack. The sound ringing in both their ears like a warning bell.

Sieun ran toward the kitchen, hands scrambling through drawers and shelves, looking for anything. Anything at all to arm himself.

He grabbed a glass and threw it too, making another mess across the tiled floor.

“Yeon Sieun,” Seongje’s voice was lower now, his expression hardening, “don’t make me do something I don’t want.”

Sieun’s eyes landed on a knife. But it seemed like fear held him back. Sieun was never that kind of person anyway. So instead, he grabbed the next thing he saw and probably felt more manageable. A fork.

He turned around and faced Seongje, holding it out like a weapon. His arm shook, but he kept it pointed between them.

“Don’t come close,” he said. His voice cracked, but his eyes stayed locked on Seongje. He was panicked, cornered, and desperate to survive whatever this was.

Seongje continued his steps toward him. Sieun raised the fork once more, hand trembling but firm.

Seongje met his gaze with steady and unhesitating eyes. “Just do it,” he said softly. “Stab me. Even with a knife—I don’t care.”

Sieun looked at him like he was completely insane. “Cut the bullshit.”

“I’m serious.” Seongje’s voice didn’t waver. “If it’s you, I’m okay with it.” Then his eyes darkened. “But one thing I will never, ever do—no matter how many times you ask—is walk away from you.”

And he meant it. Every word.

Seongje had always lived alone in the world.

Even when he used to live in that big house filled with housemaids and bodyguards, loneliness was his only true childhood friend—the one constant that grew up alongside him.

He had long felt like he had nothing to lose. Nothing that truly mattered.

Even now, with all his wealth, with the luxury most people could only dream of, he couldn't buy true happiness. Couldn't touch anything close to it. He used to wonder what happiness even felt like. 

Smoking and drinking had become his quiet companions—tools to dull the ache of solitude, to stir a sensation in the void, to silence his restless mind long enough to immerse himself in lines of code.

But ever since he saw and came to know Yeon Sieun, everything’s gradually changing. He smokes less now. He doesn’t drink anymore.

And for once, he felt like he had a purpose to exist—to worship, protect, and take care of Yeon Sieun.

Seongje wasn’t sure about the exact reasons, how his initial interests had developed and transformed into this bleeding obsession. Apart from Sieun’s undenying beauty, everything about him made Seongje sink further into the feelings.

Maybe it was the quiet in Sieun’s eyes, the way he held himself like someone trying not to crack. Maybe it was how Sieun never asked for help, even when he clearly needed it. Or maybe it was how Sieun reminded him of the same emptiness he'd carried for years. A trace of his wound in him.

Whatever it was, he realized now that it had carved his love for Sieun deeper and deeper every second.

To the point that if Sieun ever hurt him, he’d take it without protest. He wouldn’t rage. He wouldn’t resist. Sieun could wound him, ruin him, break him apart, and Seongje knew that he would still love him just the same.

But there is one thing he could never endure. 

Sieun running away from him. Or asking him to stay away. 

Because Seongje is certain, he’d rather bleed than be abandoned. 

He’d rather be destroyed by Sieun’s hands, than be left behind by them.

Sieun was now cornered. His back hit with a soft thud, trapped between the wall and Seongje’s presence.

Sieun’s fear-filled eyes met his, wide and trembling, and for a moment, it made Seongje’s chest tighten. 

Wordlessly, Seongje reached out and wrapped his fingers around Sieun’s hand—the one gripping the fork—and guided it upward, until the metal tips hovered just above his chest.

Sieun’s expression shifted, panic giving way to confusion.

Then Seongje pressed forward. The four dull tines of the fork sank into his skin, breaking through with stubborn resistance. 

The damage a fork could do to skin could never match the clean violence of a knife, but its blunt ends made the stab even more painful, with four parallel punctures spreading throb unevenly. Worse that it was on his recently healed bruise, as if recalling a bad memory of his skin.

Sieun’s eyes widened in horror. “Stop it, you crazy bastard.”

By then, small blotches of red had begun to seep through Seongje’s shirt, darkening the fabric over his heart.

Sieun’s free hand flew to Seongje’s arm, gripping tightly to stop him. Seongje’s breath slowly hitched as he pulled out the fork gently and let it clatter to the floor. 

He refused to look away from the spreading bloodstains on Seongje’s shirt. His breath quickened. Tears had already begun to rise, now pooling fully in his eyes.

“Why is it…why you—why did you—” His voice cracked, the words spilling out in shaky fragments between caught breaths, each one more broken than the last.

Seongje had always thought Sieun looked beautiful with tears. And to be honest, right now, he does. But the fact that those tears were falling down for an ugly reason from him—that he was the one who hurt Sieun—formed something bitter in his chest.

He stepped forward without thinking, arms reaching out. Sieun flinched instinctively at first, but the moment Seongje’s warmth wrapped around him, he surrendered—his body folding into Seongje’s like it was the only safe place left.

“Sorry,” Seongje whispered into his ear. “I’m so sorry…for everything.”

Sieun’s sniffles turned into broken sobs. Seongje could feel the warmth of his tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt, followed by the tremble—small at first, then shaking Sieun’s entire frame—as he clung to Seongje and cried harder.

Seongje held him tighter, gently stroking his back, the other hand threading into his hair in a slow, comforting motion. His fingers weaved through the strands like he was trying to hold Sieun’s pieces together with touch alone.

They stayed like that for a moment. The world had shrunk down. Nothing but their breathing and the thud of their hearts in the vast room. 

Then, slowly, Seongje leaned back just enough to look at him. His hands came up to cradle Sieun’s face, thumbs brushing over damp cheeks. His palms curved around the fragile shape of him like he was sculpted from glass. He pressed their foreheads together.

Sieun’s eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, but softer now. Even though there are still remnants of anger and sadness, at least they look less frantic now. Less like a ticking bomb.

The tears are still there, trembling on his lashes, clinging stubbornly as if saying they weren’t done yet. The tension in his shoulders had lessened slightly, but his body still held the memory of collapse.

Seongje inched forward, gaze fixed on the shimmer beneath Sieun’s eyes. He moved slowly, steadily, until his lips hovered just above the corner of one eye. He kissed it with the softest possible press of mouth to skin.

Sieun flinched, but didn’t move away. His breath caught in his throat as Seongje’s lips lingered there for a moment too long, tasting the faint salt left behind.

And then, Seongje licked.

A slow, deliberate stroke of tongue along the curve of Sieun’s lower eyelid. He lapped at the wetness, warm and slick, and when his tongue reached the corner of Sieun’s eye, he flicked upward, chasing the fresh tear pooling there.

Sieun shuddered.

His eyes fluttered shut on instinct, but it didn’t stop Seongje. He started licking the other eye next. Let his tongue drag languidly across the sensitive skin under Sieun’s lashes, catching every last drop before it could fall. His thumbs tilted Sieun’s face to the angle he wanted, as if drinking from him.

“It’s okay,” Seongje whispered, voice husky. “Let it out, baby.”

Sieun’s breath trembled out of him. He said nothing, but his lashes quivered again—and more tears came. A lot had happened these past days, and he needed something to let out his feelings. To let go of the tears he had saved inside for all the hurt all this time.

Seongje moaned quietly at the sight. He kissed one tear as it slid down Sieun’s temple. Then again. And again. Catching every drop.

The taste of salt coated his tongue.

Once the crying stopped, he licked the trail the tears left behind—the skin just beneath his eyes, under his cheekbones, over the bridge of his nose. Worshipful.

“You look so pretty when you cry,” he murmured between licks, and Sieun whimpered softly, twisting his fingers into Seongje’s shirt like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

His face was wet now. But it wasn’t just tears—it was Seongje’s mouth, his tongue, his breath.

When Seongje finally pulled back, his lips were slick, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with need. He stared down at Sieun, breath warm against his cheek.

“I could drink you forever,” he whispered.

They held eye contact for one more heavy second. The weight of everything unsaid passed between them like a storm cloud holding back rain. Then, Sieun closed his eyes.

Seongje took it as a sign of permission. And then, slowly, he kissed him full on the mouth.

His lips molded to Sieun’s, soft and warm, until the tension in both of them began to bleed out. Then his tongue flicked out, teasing, testing the seam of Sieun’s lips.

Sieun’s hands lifted between them, pressing lightly against Seongje’s chest. Not to push him away, but to keep a careful distance. A boundary. Just enough space to breathe. Just enough to not drown too fast.

Seongje respected it. He kept the pace slow. He kissed him patiently, gently coaxing, licking softly until Sieun parted his lips.

When the first moan slipped free—a faint, fragile sound—Seongje finally deepened the kiss. He explored Sieun’s mouth with slow strokes of his tongue, tasting every corner until he coaxed Sieun’s own into moving with him.

Then he took it.

He sucked on Sieun’s tongue, slow and wet, letting the sound of it fill the space between them. “Mmh—Seongje, wait—” a whimper rose from Sieun’s throat as his fingers curled into Seongje’s shirt.

Seongje reached down and gently took Sieun’s hands in his, lacing their fingers together.

Their lips were still wet from everything when Seongje pulled back. He carried Sieun and took them both to his living room sofa. Seongje sat on it and placed Sieun on his lap.

Sieun’s gaze fell to his shirt.

The once small stains had grown. The fabric over Seongje’s heart was now fully darkened, the blood thick and fresh again from their closeness, from how Sieun had clung to him. It bled with the same intensity as everything between them—of pain, need, guilt, and want.

Seongje reached for the hem of his shirt, dragging it upward and off his body in one fluid motion. The exposed skin underneath was smooth in places, scarred in others—but what drew the eye now was the raw wound on his chest. Four puncture marks, red and swollen, framed by still fresh blood.

He reached down, took Sieun’s hand, and slowly guided it upward palm first until Sieun’s fingers were hovering just above the wound.

Sieun resisted at first.

Seongje looked him dead in the eye. “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“You’re still angry,” he whispered. “And I deserve it.”

After one final look in his eyes, Sieun’s palm pressed flat over the wound.

Seongje’s body jolted, a soft gasp escaping him, but he didn’t move away. He leaned into it.

“Harder,” he said.

Sieun grit his teeth—and did it.

He pressed his hand down until Seongje hissed, until the blood welled fresh under his palm and the breath caught in his lungs. Seongje’s back arched slightly, pain blooming and burning—and with it, arousal.

His cock twitched between them.

Sieun saw it, and his eyes widened. “You’re getting off on this,” he muttered, voice shaking. “You’re insane.” And yet, even as he said it, a faint blush of fondness bloomed on his cheeks.

His hand didn’t pull away, it kept dragging along the torn skin, the blood now smeared deliberately—eliciting a louder, broken noise from Seongje.

“Ah—Sieun—”

The sting shot through his chest like a sinking needle, but Seongje welcomed it. It made him feel real. Grounded. Loved, in some broken, twisted way. 

This was Sieun’s anger. It burned with the weight of every unsaid word. And Seongje wanted all of it. Wanted to let it devour him and brand him—proof that he had been touched and claimed by Sieun’s flame.

And to his surprise, Sieun kissed him again.

His mouth crashed against Seongje’s with heat. His lips moved roughly, desperately, with the desire to drown out everything he couldn’t say. Pouring every ounce of betrayal, disappointment, and aching want into his mouth like it was the only place he’d dare to put it.

And all the while, his hand was still pressed to Seongje’s wound.

Fingers digging cruelly into the tender flesh just over his heart. Pressing the bruised skin with purpose, just enough to make Seongje shudder with pain. With pleasure. With something in between.

Seongje gasped into the kiss, but didn’t pull back. He opened to it. Let Sieun consume him.

The kiss was as mad as a punishment. Sieun bit Seongje’s bottom lip. Tugged it. Then pressed in again like he needed to feel the pain in Seongje’s body to match his own.

Seongje is now also bruised on the lips. The second imprint on how willingly he gave in to Sieun’s violent affection. The metallic scent of blood hung between them, mixing with breath and the low sounds of Seongje falling apart beneath him.

Sieun pulled away from the kiss first, panting and swollen. His eyes flicked down to Seongje’s chest.

He froze.

The fury that had been in his body moments ago—burning fast and uncontainable—withered away all at once. What replaced it was a mix of shame and guilt. His hand dropped from the wound.

Seongje watched the shift happen, still breathing heavily. His eyes softened the second he saw Sieun begin to pull away—physically and emotionally.

“Hey,” he said gently, reaching up to catch his hand and squeeze it.

Sieun didn’t look at him. “I shouldn’t have—” he started, but Seongje silenced him with a slight shake of his head.

“No. I asked for it.”

He pulled Sieun in again, slower this time. Their foreheads touched. He let Sieun lean into him while his free hand smoothed up Sieun’s side, rubbing slow circles into the dip of his lower back.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” Seongje whispered. “Just stay with me.”

Sieun exhaled shakily, his whole body slumping forward, cheek resting against Seongje’s bare shoulder. 

Seongje let the silence linger for a moment. He only started moving when he felt Sieun’s thighs shift. It was tense, drawn up slightly from where he straddled Seongje’s lap.

He reached down, his hand gliding along the back of Sieun’s thigh. His fingers dipped into the crease where thigh met hip, then rose again, slipping over the soft slope of Sieun’s stomach. His hands wander all over Sieun as if memorizing the shape of him. At last, his hand moved lower again—until his palm finally settled between Sieun’s legs.

Sieun twitched.

“You’re hard,” Seongje murmured. There was no sign of his usual mockery in it. No smugness. It was just affection and awe.

Sieun didn’t answer.

Seongje cupped him through the fabric—still clothed—and pressed his lips to Sieun’s temple. “Let me help you,” he whispered. “You’ve been hurting too long.”

And then his hands moved. Slow, deliberate strokes through the soft fabric of Sieun’s boxers. Just enough pressure to coax him and make him relax.

Seongje took off Sieun’s gray jacket, unzipped his jeans, and pulled them down. He turned Sieun’s body around—from facing him to facing forward—until his back was resting against his chest. Sieun let himself collapse there, helplessly sinking into Seongje’s hold. 

“Let me take care of you,” he breathed against his ear. Seongje’s left hand wrapped itself around his chest, keeping Sieun close, while the fingers of right hand slipped under the waistband of his briefs now, curling around Sieun’s cock—hot and leaking already, twitching in his grip.

He stroked him slow. Thumb brushing over the tip, spreading the slick. The rhythm was slow and steady, just enough to keep Sieun teetering in that quiet place between tension and release.

Seongje could feel his cock hardening between the soft cleft of Sieun’s ass, separated only by the thin fabric of his briefs. The heat of it throbbed insistently against the cotton barrier while his hands fondle Sieun's.

The smaller whimpered, one hand groping blindly for the sofa’s arm for support, while the other pressed into his mouth to stifle the broken sounds spilling from his lips.

“That’s it,” Seongje whispered. “You’re okay. Just let go.”

After the relentless rubs, Seongje gripped Sieun’s cock fully and added a little more pressure, a few more pushes. 

Sieun whimpered, hips twitching forward, the tension in his thighs coiling tight. His head rolled back against Seongje’s shoulder, breath hitching through parted lips.

As he was getting there fast, Seongje pressed Sieun’s tip with his index finger to hold it, letting them take a little more time.

“A—ahh,” Sieun’s noises kept coming out of his mouth. Seongje kissed his neck gently while he continued the pressure. His breath was warm and constant, a tide Sieun could lose himself in.

His hand slowed again. He let go just long enough to lift his fingers to his mouth, eyes half-lidded as he sucked in a breath. Then he spat into his palm and brought it back down, slicking Sieun’s cock with the new wetness. The slide was smoother now, obscene.

His hand resumed its rhythm, languid but sure, fingers wrapping around him in a grip that was firmer, wetter.  “You’re so close,” Seongje whispered into the shell of his ear, voice low and sinful. 

Sieun let out a choked moan, his knees falling wider apart, his legs trembling slightly as he pressed further into Seongje’s chest. The whole front of his body was flushed and shivering, caught between tension and surrender.

Seongje nuzzled into his throat, open-mouthed kisses dragging across damp skin. “You’ve been holding this in so long, haven’t you?” he murmured, letting his teeth graze just under Sieun’s jaw. “Let me feel all of it.”

Finally, Sieun came in Seongje’s hand with a breathless, broken moan—the sound of it was full of relief. His hips jerked forward once, then collapsed, weight sinking fully into Seongje’s lap.

Seongje held him the entire time.

He didn’t let go. Not even when Sieun’s breathing evened out. He kissed his cheek and cleaned him quietly with the edge of his already bloodstained shirt.

By the time he finished, Sieun had gone completely still in his arms.

Seongje looked down and found him asleep. His body was limp now, heavy with exhaustion, like he’d used the last of his strength just to stay upright.

Seongje stayed like that for a moment. Just holding him.

The throb in his chest reminded him of the pain. The stab wounds warm and wet on his body.

Carefully, he shifted Sieun’s weight just enough to lay him gently on the couch. Sieun murmured something soft in his sleep, but didn’t wake.

Seongje stood up, breathing shallowly, and went to the bathroom.

Under the harsh vanity light, the wound looked angrier than before. The four fork punctures had swollen, red and rimmed with bruising. Dried blood flaked around the edges. Fresh blood had welled in the deeper points.

He ran warm water over a soft cloth, wincing as he wiped the area clean. The pain bit deep under his ribs. Once the blood was cleared, he padded the wound with antiseptic, then pressed a small band-aid over it and taped it down.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

And yet, all he could think about was the boy sleeping in the next room.

He returned to the living room. Sieun was still curled where he’d left him, arms loosely folded and breathing deep.

Seongje crouched beside him and gently swept a hand through his hair.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

Then he lifted him again—carefully, as if he might break under too much pressure—and carried him down the hallway toward the bed.

The sheets were cool and soft when Seongje laid him down. He climbed in beside him and drew the blanket over both of them. Pulled Sieun close.

Wrapped him up like a promise. His hand slid into Sieun’s hair, stroking slow. His lips pressed a quiet kiss to the damp skin of his temple.

And finally, with Sieun’s weight against him, warm and solid and real, Seongje allowed his body to relax. The pain in his chest is still there, but less threatening.

Because Sieun was here. Safe. With him.

And that was enough—for tonight.

He closed his eyes as he drifted to sleep.

━━━━━━━━━

The first thing Seongje registered was the cold.

Not the sharp, winter kind that crept in through windows, but the emptiness beside him. A hollow, biting stillness where warmth used to be.

Even though his apartment is filled with heaters, he could still feel the absence of warmth where someone had slept just hours before. You can feel the difference—the machine heat against his skin could never replace the human warmth he craved that had bled away.

His eyes opened slowly. Each blink dragging like waking from a dream that had already begun to dissolve.

The bed was half-empty.

The sheets on Sieun’s side were rumpled. A faint imprint of his body still remained in the pillow, pressed in like a ghost.

Seongje reached out automatically, hand brushing the mattress.

Cold.

He sat up. The room was still dark.

“Sieun?”

No answer.

He stood, heart stuttering, and moved through the apartment barefoot. He checked the bathroom. The kitchen. The living room. The entryway.

Nothing.

No sign of his clothes. Or his shoes.

He even opened the closet. Part of him hoping irrationally to find Sieun curled up in some corner, hiding like a wounded animal.

But he wasn’t there.

He was nowhere.

A sharp tension coiled in Seongje’s chest, tight and suffocating. It was fear. Real fear. And it was probably the first time he’d felt something like this in his entire life. The kind that creeps in slowly, then takes hold all at once, spreading through his ribs cold as ice.

What if Sieun is truly gone?

What if, after all, he couldn’t bring himself to accept what Seongje had done—how he’d hacked him, watched him, interfered in his life, made decisions that were never his to make?

What if he’d woken up, looked at everything between them, and decided he didn’t want it? That he didn’t want him?

Seongje’s mind raced, grasping for explanations that made sense.

Was last night not enough?

He thought he’d made it clear—what he felt, what he wanted, how much he needed him. He’d let Sieun see everything. The pain. The desperation. The vulnerability.

He’d held him like he was the only thing that mattered, kissed him like the world stopped at his skin. He’d let Sieun hurt him—let out his anger—as a proof of his love.

And Seongje had seen it, felt it, sensed it. How Sieun reciprocated. How he cried into Seongje’s embraces and kisses. How he didn’t pull away. How he let out his sorrow, his rage, his need—all of it.

So why?

Why would he vanish after that?

Seongje tried calling out again, softer this time. The tone of a desperate begging that slipped past his control. Like a plea so hard it sounded more like surrender than a call.

Please, please, please. Please don't leave me.

“Sieun?”

The silence that followed now felt more real and absolute. It wasn’t just stillness.

It was absence.

And absence meant choice. A decision.

A decision to leave him—even after everything they shared last night.

A deep, gnawing ache began to claw its way to his heart.

He rushed to his desk and yanked open the drawer.

The duplicated phones—one connected to Sieun’s main phone, the other to the device Seongje had given him—were displayed side by side, waiting like lifelines.

Both were pitch black.

He tapped the first screen. Disconnected.

Then the second. Again, disconnected.

Both phones were off.

Sieun had turned them off.

Sieun had taken himself offline. From everything. From him.

Seongje’s jaw clenched, but the rest of his body went still. Quiet in a way that felt sickening. His chest ached, but not from the fading wound.

He turned away from the screen, running a hand over his face.

Rather than a heartbreak, it felt more like emptiness—stolen. Like someone had carved him open during the night and grabbed the last thing keeping him whole. Like something precious was taken away from you.

Seongje sank down onto the floor beside the desk, his back hitting the cold wall.

Eyes open, but not really seeing.

He just breathed. Barely.

Will Sieun really leave him behind?

Chapter Text

When consciousness began to stir in him, a welcoming warmth came with it.

It came from Seongje, the pressing presence against his skin. He feels the faint weight of his arm curled securely around his waist, wrapping him in a protective embrace. 

For a moment, he let himself drown in it. The musky, masculine scent clinging to the body next to him, mixing faintly with the scent of clean sheets. The slow rise and fall of a chest against his own. His fingers twitched against the sheets, resisting the urge to reach for more.

With Seongje by his side, still in his deep slumber and his breath steady and quiet, Sieun soothed. It was Sieun’s first time to see him so at ease.

He felt his heart pulse gently. It had been a while—like, since forever—since Sieun had woken up in a state like this. A state so soft and weightless. 

He wished the feeling could last forever.

But as cozy, calming, and comforting the hug was, Sieun’s mind started to function again. His thoughts pushing through the haze—equalizing the dreamlike, blooming heat in his chest with something more frigid, more rational, more resistant.

As charming as he can be, Seongje is the culprit. 

His hacker. Stalker. The intruder in his life. Someone he obviously wasn’t supposed to wake up next to like this, or kiss hard with a burning passion like last night. Someone he wasn’t supposed to allow to touch him with such a disarming gentleness.

Sieun rewinded the scene of last night in his head. How shock waves went right through him the moment Seongje pulled off his hat and mask. The man who had been hanging around him, the one who had been casually texting him lately, the one who was so welcomed and trusted, turned out to be the very one who had hacked his phone. The cruel plot twist of his already tragic story.

He can’t believe it. He really, really can’t believe it.

How could he be so stupid all this time?

Now that the truth had come to light, his mind leapt through memory after memory—pieces of Seongje’s presence since their very first encounter—each one dragging new questions up from the depths.

The repair shop. His lost phone.

Could it be the case that Seongje had staged everything?

Or did a woman really find it, and Seongje just happened to get hold of it and decided to hack it? But why? Why would Seongje hack him? Have they met before? When? Where?

Sieun replayed what Seongje had said when they first met. How he advised him not to go to the police—soothing him, assuring him, convincing him to just sit and watch. The way his tone had been calm but insistent, pulling Sieun into agreement without realizing it. Each word replayed now like a spark in his chest, and the more he remembered, the more anger started to fill in. 

Every sign, every trace that should have roused suspicion—Seongje had brushed them aside as if they were nothing to be worried about.

Sieun pulled back just a few inches away to have a better look. He stared at Seongje’s peaceful, sleeping face in front of him.

This bastard.

He definitely has a way with his words. What a manipulative prick.

Even after all of the chaos crashing down last night, after Sieun learned about his secret and instinctively became hostile, Seongje still had the power to disarm him. To weaken him. To lure him into this fragile, dangerous closeness, against every shred of reason.

His gaze drifted to Seongje’s lips. There was a faint bruise, flushed red with soft, dried flecks of blood on it. A mark he himself had caused, when Sieun bit Seongje as they kissed last night.

Heat rose in Sieun’s cheeks. His mouth went dry, the ghost of the kiss still fresh enough to taste. Haunting him too vividly for something too dangerous to remember. 

He can’t believe he actually did that. It was the first time he’d ever done such a thing, and the way it had happened was something he never would have imagined.

But—wait.

Wait a fucking moment.

The bruise on Seongje’s lips suddenly pulled another memory to the surface. A memory of that night. 

That night when Seongje stayed at his place after being injured. When Sieun took care of him. 

Was that a setup too? 

Fuck. Now it made sense. He’d never experienced or heard of attacks like that happening in their neighborhood. 

Had Seongje intentionally let himself get hurt? 

The thought made his stomach twist. 

If that’s the case, this man is insane. Completely insane. 

And now, looking back, it all lined up. Every clue pointed to Seongje.

Sieun couldn’t help the sting of disbelief in himself. He was so, so stupid.

He wasn’t usually like this. He didn’t usually let his guard down and get played.

But maybe, he thought bitterly, he has to give it to Seongje. How every one of his lies had slipped past Sieun’s defenses like a hidden code, undetected.

And the worst of it all—how his presence had not only intruded on Sieun's life, but also his mind. His calculated maneuver had clawed its way up step by step, slowly but surely, to the depths of Sieun’s heart. A heart so untouched and frozen before.

Sieun had never had a problem controlling his feelings. He was always more of a thinker, prioritizing objective reasoning over emotion.

Never had he found it this hard to think straight. It was the first time his heart had felt so much, almost as if he’d just discovered that a heart could function like this—that there were feelings you could feel like this.

Everything is mixed. Disappointment, hurt, anger, but also—though it’s hard to admit—longing. Because out of everyone, why does it have to be Seongje? Why does Seongje have to be the one who fooled him like this?

He felt tricked. He felt betrayed. Because actually, he had been reaching out to his hacker in the hope of finding someone to resent in all this mess—someone to distract him, someone to fight the pain with pain—only to find out it was one of the few people who recently was closest to comfort, other than his friends. 

Certainly, it was not the kind of pain he had expected.

It didn’t fight his already stinging pain with a different wound. Instead, it felt like it tore the one already there open, laid bare to the raw air and burned, making it throb unbearably harder.

His gaze now wandered to Seongje’s closed eyes, tracing the sweep of his long lashes and the small mole just beneath his right one. The glasses that so often framed his face are now nowhere to be seen. The morning light softened the sharpness of his features, casting him in an almost unreal calm. Looking so angelic, if he had to be honest.

It’s hard to believe. That this —this was the face of a fucking criminal.

Shit. No.

Sieun closed his eyes, trying to force it away from the very view he had been staring at. Still, the image clung stubbornly to his mind. The close proximity had allowed him to take in every detail, and now, they refused to let go. 

No. No. No.

He can’t. He should stop. He should stop thinking like this. Should stop being so attracted to Seongje.

He tried to think of all the wrongdoings Seongje had committed. He broke the law, violated privacy, acted like a creep, and manipulated his way into people’s lives. 

That is the truth. That is the fact. 

And after being so numb and dismissive—Sieun’s pretty sure he dislikes a good amount of the world’s entire population—certainly, surely, Sieun can’t be attracted to this kind of person.

Certainly, his morals are not that thin, right? Even though he probably could be diagnosed with a lot of mental issues, certainly, he won’t sink this far, right?

His mind and heart racing, locked in a relentless battle. He feels overwhelmed by all the thinkings and all the feelings. 

He needs more air. More space. More time away from the fucker beside him that kept making his chest tighten and his pulse quicken against his will.

Slowly, he eased himself out from under Seongje’s arm, moving as carefully as possible so as not to wake him up. Once he was sure that Seongje was still completely asleep, he stepped out of the big bedroom quietly, instantly greeted by the vast living room. 

The full wall of glass spanned wide, and once again the city view spilled in. Of course Seongje hadn’t bothered to close the curtains all night.

Sieun stepped closer to it. Unlike last night, the morning view gives a sense of peace. The sky was crisp blue with scattered white clouds. Along the Han River, only a handful of joggers and cyclists passed by, their bodies all covered up to protect from the freezing winter air—a contrast to the bustling crowds of summer and spring in the area.

But still, the peace and calm below him did nothing to quiet the storm in his head.

When Sieun turned around, his attention caught the mess he had made last night, scattered between the living room and kitchen floor. Pieces of broken vase and shattered glass he had thrown so recklessly, twinkling under the morning light.

Sieun looked around but couldn’t find any broom or dustpan. So he crouched down and, with a faint sigh, carefully pushed the sharp fragments to the corner using a stiff magazine he found on the coffee table.

For someone who had been hacked and spied on, he was probably too nice to bother with this. But still, he couldn’t help feeling guilty for making such a mess in someone else’s home. Despite his constant snappy attitude, Sieun is unfortunately still a conscientious person.

And besides, it was dangerous. He’s not sure if he really wanted Seongje to get hurt, even after all his threatening remarks last night.

Only when he had cleared the worst of the mess did his gaze wander again, taking in the apartment itself.

To call the place expensive-looking is an understatement. It’s overflowing with stark luxury. High ceilings, polished floors softened with minimalist rugs, and large pieces of furniture that look grand but also comfortable at the same time. 

At the centered living room, a sleek leather couch sat angled toward a massive flat screen, random magazines fanned out neatly on the coffee table beside it. Against one wall stood a tall, dark bookshelf—but instead of books, it was lined with game cartridges and console accessories.

And despite the large open kitchen, gleaming with glossy black marble surfaces and a complete set of stainless steel appliances, it looked too neat and sterile for a cooking area. Sieun could tell Seongje didn’t use it often to cook for himself.

At this point, surely by now Sieun knows Seongje is not just an ordinary repairman. It was probably just a cover profession. 

With a brain like Sieun’s—so used to calculation—he automatically began estimating the price of everything around him. 

How much did this cost? How could Seongje afford all of this? At his age, how much income could he possibly earn in a month, and since when had he started making money? 

And no matter how he calculated it, no ordinary, legitimate work could ever add up to this. Even the most successful ones.

What does he actually do for a living? Could he be a born billionaire—some son of a conglomerate family—bored with too much money, who just happened to have the ability to hack and decided to toy with people’s lives? Or if it was money he earned himself, was he part of some kind of underground crime organization? Did he steal from banks or something? Or worse—shit, does he kill people for money?

And was he planning to kill Sieun now that he got him—maybe selling his organs to some kind of black market syndicate?

Sieun didn’t really care to be killed just yesterday. But now, learning that the person who could potentially hurt and kill him was Keum Seongje—someone he was stupid enough to find himself drawn to—scares him.

It’s just… different. It feels like it won’t be a peaceful death. It feels like Seongje’s cruel, heartless face will haunt him even to his last breath, to his urn of ashes in the columbarium, and he will just be a restless spirit wandering aimlessly—unable to cross into the afterlife because of a pathetic fucking heartbreak.

But then, Sieun got reminded by Seongje’s words last night.

Just do it. Even with a knife, I don’t care. If it’s you, I’m okay with it. But one thing I will never, ever do—no matter how many times you ask—is walk away from you.

It sounded bizarre. He had never been told something like that by anyone. The words were like a collision of madness and devotion, a paradox of loyalty and obsession that was so selfless, so reckless, so earnest.

Can you call that a love confession?

Was he being serious? Or was it just another of his tricky manipulations?

Deep down, Sieun knows that he wants to believe it. He wants to, but he’s afraid. Afraid of hidden ulterior motives, of strings pulled tight behind it, of falling into a trap.

Fuck it. Whatever.

Whatever it is going on with Seongje, Sieun figures he needs to get out of here first. He needs to think—actually think , with a clear head—about everything. About his feelings. About what he should do. About the consequences. And it’s clear that being near Seongje is not helping him to find the strength to do it. All the emotions are simply too overwhelming, too consuming.

In sharp contrast to the tidy background, he instantly spotted his gray jacket on the couch. Thrown carelessly in a mess, looking so misplaced. He grabbed it quickly, tugged it over his shoulders, and went straight to the door.

The locked door. The one he had tried to open but failed at last night. 

The lock looked far too sophisticated compared to the one he had at his place. Either it came with the apartment itself as part of the luxury, or Seongje had upgraded it even further with his own tech modifications.

He tried to open it again, as if something overnight could possibly undo the lock.

Why would someone even activate double-sided locking, anyway? 

But he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s Seongje. He would definitely do this to lock some unlucky fool in his own lair. Someone like Sieun, for instance.

Nothing about this man could shock him anymore.

He crouched in front of the lock, staring at it. A sleek panel glowed faintly, numbers hovering in digital blue, a small square at the corner. Definitely a fingerprint scan. Just to try, he pressed his thumb to it—failed. Then his forefinger—of course, again, failed. The panel flashed red to indicate rejection.

Sieun let out a quiet breath, frustrated. There has to be another way.

For a second, his mind went blank, with no idea of how he could get out. 

Then, a memory slipped into his head. One stupid night with his friends, the three of them forcing him to sit through some drama. He hadn’t cared for the plot at all, but he remembers scoffing at their silly comments. He recalled one particular comment—Gotak correcting Baku about something he hadn’t known, pointing out that luxury apartments usually have an emergency stairwell—designed for a fire escape or something.

Luxury apartments. Like this one.

There had to be an emergency stairwell.

He spun around, scanning the open space with new eyes. Past the glossy marble counters, almost camouflaged with the wall, he caught the outline of a plain metal door. It was discreet, designed to disappear into the interior. His eyes widened as if he had just stumbled on a new clue.

He crossed the kitchen in quick steps and pushed against the wall—or rather, against what turned out to be a door. It opened with a low creak, and beyond it stretched a narrow passage lit by dim lights. Concrete stairs path their way down the building.

Without a second thought, Sieun slipped inside. The heavy door closed behind him, sealing off the warmth of Seongje’s apartment. 

Cold air rushed up the stairwell, biting into his skin. But he didn’t care. He just kept moving, step after step, down the endless floors until he finally reached the basement parking lot.

The space was dim with expensive cars parked in rows all over. He rushed past them, heading straight for the glowing exit sign. 

And when he finally reached it, Sieun stepped out of the building into a narrow side street, extending his way home.

━━━━━━━━━

Sieun had made sure to turn off both phones. He wanted a truly private moment, without the fear of any unseen eyes lurking behind the camera lens.

Back at his rented room, he headed straight for a warm shower. 

Only then did he realize how careless he had been by going out with just a single thin jacket. It was simply no match for the weather. The snow had shown mercy these past few days, but the moment he stepped out of Seongje’s apartment, it had begun to fall thick again.

Once he got out of the steam, the chill of the room assaulted his damp skin, drawing a violent shiver down his spine. He quickly found and put on the comfortable warmth of a familiar sweater and let himself sink into the embrace of his bed.

And there, in the solitude’s silence, he began to untangle the clutter of thoughts that had been ricocheting within his head—organizing and rearranging them, piece by piece, until they lay in neater rows inside his mind.

First of all, sooner or later, he has to admit it—at least to himself—that he does have some kind of attraction toward Seongje. 

He couldn’t remember when it started, and he sure as hell couldn’t explain exactly why. By looks alone, Seongje is infuriatingly attractive—though he would never, never, absolutely never say it out loud. But what probably allured Sieun in was the kind of charm he carried with himself, that easy confidence that kept you guessing. Like he always has another line ready, another move planned. It left you curious, off balance, and invested in a way you never meant to be.

However, all that attraction should’ve disappeared once he learned that Seongje had hacked him, right? 

It should have. 

That’s where he should’ve drawn the line. Sieun could put up with an annoying, strange, disheveled repairman who was always tossing out teasing remarks and showing up whenever he pleased. But he shouldn’t accept, let alone tolerate, someone who had hijacked his privacy and become obsessed with him to that extent.

Right?

But then why— why did last night feel so right to him? 

Why did it feel like Seongje had actually helped him let it all out and breathe for the first time in weeks?

His mind drifted to the way Seongje had moaned his name, his back arching in pain, his hand clutching at Sieun’s for support—right at the moment Sieun was pressing down hard on his wound, almost cruelly. Why did him hurting Seongje feel like something ordinary between them, as if it were just another way to ease the tension and wind down?

And why did the press of Seongje’s rough, veined hands on him make it all feel so dangerously good? The way those hands had worked up and down Sieun’s cock, each stroke was a caress of bliss, the first time he had ever received that kind of touch.

His body grew warmer at the memory.

All of it edged closer to a dangerous temptation. 

Should he redefine the boundaries he set for himself, blur the edges of what’s tolerable? But why would Sieun do that —for this man?

In the end, he gave up on chasing answers. What comes next out of the thinkings were only question after question. 

So for now, Sieun came down to one conclusion. He knows what he needs first.

The complete truth from Seongje. 

Everything—who he truly is, what he had done, and what any of it truly meant for Sieun. Only then, would he be able to foresee and consider the worst outcome. Only then, maybe, would he be able to decide. Whether he’d give Seongje—and maybe he himself—a chance at whatever this was between them.

But right now, he is just tired. So fucking tired that he needed time before he could muster the bravery and strength to listen to any kind of crap, any excuse or explanation, that might come out of Seongje’s mouth.

All he needs is rest. Rest from the pull of his own feelings. Rest from the weight of last night. 

Seongje would come to him eventually. Once Sieun gathered enough strength to face it all.

And when that time came, they would talk again.

━━━━━━━━━

The next day, Sieun is supposed to go to class. 

But—though he probably feels less like shit now—he’s still not in the mood to drag himself out and interact or even listen to people. And for the first time in his life, he gave in to that lack of will and decided to skip class. 

His fever had worsened overnight anyway. His body feels heavier and his head starts to spin if he stands too long or moves too much. It’s not like he had the capacity to go.

He didn’t even bother drafting a statement about being sick to his professors. He simply let it slide. Just for this once , he thought.

By noon, he finally gathered the nerve—and perhaps the small measure of power—to turn his phone back on. He replied halfheartedly to a few messages from his friends and one from his mother. 

But then, he noticed.

Nothing came from Keum Seongje.

Okay. Good.

Seongje is giving him the silence, the time, the distance he needed. Which, Sieun told himself, is for the best.

Still feverish, he forced down the last scraps of food left in his apartment before swallowing a couple of pills from an old pouch tucked away in the back of a drawer. With luck, they’d be enough to steady him, at least for the day.

He had spent most of yesterday sleeping, and now it feels like he might collapse into dizziness if he tried to sleep again. So, even though he is absent in today’s class, he still pulled his laptop close and opened his notebook on his desk.

It’s not because he feels bad or guilty about skipping the lectures. It’s simply because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. Studying had become his kind of self-prescribed therapy, something that steadies his restless, circling mind at times like this. 

He flipped open to his recent favorite topic—neurobiology basics—and immersed himself for hours. He read as though repetition itself might steady him. The diagrams of neurons and synapses felt strangely soothing, offering a sense of meticulous order for his own fever-clouded mind.

After hours of his mind therapy, his muscles ached in protest, stiff from being bent over too long. Deciding he could finally stop, he stood and stretched, the joints in his shoulders cracking dully as he moved. His throat felt parched, a dry sting clinging with every swallow. He drank a glass of water as though it might wash it all away.

But before long, his hand wandered back to his phone.

Still nothing from Keum Seongje.

And no trace of him outside. No signs of a visit. 

By now, he should have been able to peer in through the camera. He should know exactly where Sieun is. He should have known that Sieun is sick, too. 

And yet, the screen remained empty.

Sieun stared at the phone in his hand for a heartbeat longer than necessary before laying it face down on the desk. It didn’t matter. It’s better this way. 

That means, for once, Seongje respected his privacy. For once, he left Sieun to his own space.

Sieun should feel relieved. He should be grateful that, for once, he was left alone. 

But his gaze drifted toward the door anyway, as though anticipating any faintest knock, any slightest disturbance, any sudden interference. His ears started searching for any echo of footsteps in the hall. 

No. That’s not it.

He shook his head a little bit too violently. 

No. He’s not waiting for anything.

Sieun figured he needed fresh air, so he slipped on his coat—a proper clothing for the weather this time—and stepped outside. 

The late afternoon air pressed cool against his fevered skin. He headed towards the nearby convenience store. The usual fluorescent lights that always surrounded its aisles are seemingly turned off, as if to match the gray, overcast weather outside. 

As he steps inside, he is welcomed with the quiet hum of refrigerators and the rustle of plastic packaging from the cashier.

He began filling his basket with the things he knew would run out soon at his place—soap and face wash, a carton of eggs, another packet of medicine, and a handful of ready meals he could heat with little effort. 

After he paid and got everything, he went straight to his house. He arranged the newly bought items meticulously, putting each into its rightful place. 

The weight of today lingered—cold sweat all over his body, produced from the sickness. He needs a shower. So he gathered his new soap and a fresh towel, moving towards the bathroom.

Just as his foot was about to cross the threshold, he faltered. His eyes fell back across the room. To his desk. To his phone resting on it, to be exact.

After a moment of hesitation, he doubled back, snatched it up, and carried it inside.

Facing the mirror, he propped the phone upright on a narrow shelf fixed to the glass, angling it so its gaze fell upon the shower. 

Thoughts circled in his head like a self-convincing refrain.

It’s not for anything. No intentions.

It’s only so that, if a call came in, he could catch it immediately. He had skipped class today, and if his mother found out, she might call to question him. It’s better to keep the phone close, just in case. For his convenience. For precaution.

He stared at the dark screen, then at the reflection of himself.

He looks like shit, to be honest. The fever has him worn down. His bones aching, his skin clammy, and his every breath weighed down by exhaustion.

He steps into the shower and twists the handle. He lets the water spill over him like caressing rain. Sieun savors the warmth, the way it bathes over his cold sweat–soaked skin, rinsing him clean.

He closes his eyes. 

Irrepressible, the memory of that night with Seongje comes back to his mind.

He wonders—could Seongje be watching right now? Has he ever done it before, catching Sieun in this state without him ever realizing? The possibility coils in his mind, tempting and dangerous. 

He begins to imagine it. Seongje’s eyes, hidden behind the lens, fixed on him with unshared attention. Eyeing him like prey. Like a spectacle. Like a private show meant for no one else. 

He feels shy and embarrassed, but also something else. The thought hums through his nerves, making his chest taut. It sends a shiver that is half shame and half thrill. 

He runs a hand through his damp bangs, sweeping the strands off his face, then lets it trail lower—his face, across his chest, over his stomach, until it hovers at his groin. Hesitantly, timidly, he closes his hand around his cock. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just grips himself, caught between restraint and lust.

He looks down. Gazes at his own cock. It’s flushed with a rosy shade of red, twitching hard in contrast with the fluid water sliding down his shaft.

Sieun never really paid attention to his own physical features. Not his face, not his body—especially not this part. But now, with steam curling around him and his heart hammering in his chest, he takes in the sight. At last, he imagines what it would be like if it were seen through another pair of eyes.

If Seongje is watching—if he sees him like this—will he reach out again? Will he take him back?

Slowly, Sieun begins the stroking, hand sliding up and down, trying to recall the sensation of Seongje’s touch—the way his fingers had felt, the way pleasure had flared.

His heart pounds harder. Skin that had been chilled only moments ago now feels flushed, burning—as if Seongje’s unseen gaze could strip him bare.

As the stroking continues, pleasure surges through his body—overtaking him. And he gives in entirely. No more hesitation. No more control in himself. “Hhh–ahh…” His moans echo through the empty bathroom, unrestrained. Filling the quiet space with full desire.

The slick of precum starts to drip down his shaft, making it more slippery, more shamelessly wet in his hand. His hips jolt forward, chasing the rhythm of his hand. Each slide of his fist makes his cock throb harder and swollen.

He continued. Strokes, strokes, and strokes. 

But still, his hand is not Seongje’s. 

His tears start to fall out of frustration. 

Sieun’s hand is smaller. Not as big, not as veiny, not as rough, and simply not Seongje’s. It doesn’t deliver the same pressure, the same weight, the same friction he felt that night. And fuck, he wants it. He craves it. He needs it, badly.

He goes rougher. Not just in the drag of his fist, but in the way he fantasizes. If his hand failed him, then his mind should. All he can picture in his head is Seongje—eyes fixed on him, hands on him, voice heavy with worship as he says his name.

His gaze lifts to the phone propped across the room. It stands against the steam-blurred mirror. He looks straight into the camera, as if saying something. 

Are you watching me now? This is what you want, isn’t it? 

The thought of being seen—of being caught like this by Seongje—makes every movement feel like a performance, his body nothing more than a show put on for Seongje. And that thought drives him to the edge.

And with one final desperate jerk of his fist, he came. Release spills in messy spurts that the water chased down instantly.

The high fades quickly, leaving Sieun standing there with his breath uneven. He quickly grabs his soap and presses it to his skin, working it out into a rough lather. His movements are quick, almost frantic, scrubbing hard as if he could wash the embarrassment away.

━━━━━━━━━

On the third day since he left Seongje’s apartment, Sieun is now burning with annoyance and fury. Seriously, that bastard still hasn’t sent a single text. No sign of him doing anything on his phone—no ghost movement on his screen, no typing in his notes, no traces of exploration. Nothing. He hasn’t even shown up at Sieun’s rent, despite Sieun’s feverish condition.

Before all the chaos at his apartment, Seongje never once missed a day of sending messages. No matter how late or dry the reply was, even when Sieun mostly ghosted him during exam week, his texts were never absent. So why is that not happening now?

So all the things he said—was that all bullshit? He said he’d never walk away from him. He said he’d even be okay with being hurt, even stabbed by him. That he wanted to be closer to him. Was that just another fucking game he’s playing?

Is he mad at Sieun now, because Sieun crashed at his place? Like he doesn’t deserve that? Sieun has every right to be angry at him, be fucking for real now.

So why— why is he ignoring him right now?

Is Sieun really not worthy of being fought for? Not even enough for him to reach out, to offer an explanation, to give him closure?

Not just his thoughts that are boiling with anger, but also his body with the high temperature. His fever is even worse. He’s not sure why the medicine isn’t working. But right now, he doesn’t even have the strength to get up from bed and eat or take more pills. 

His head is spinning with insufferable dizziness, his body trembling from the sharp cold. He just lets the pain swallow him until he drifts into sleep for a while.

When he woke up again, the anger had melted into glooming sadness. Piercing disappointment. 

Where is Seongje, really?

By now, everything seems clearer to Sieun. More obvious. Louder, apparent, and unmistakable. That no matter what fucked-up things Seongje did all this time, Sieun still has this gnawing, irresistible longing for him.

Because all this time, Seongje has been the only person to give him that kind of care. That kind of admiration, to that extent. 

It’s too much for Sieun’s first time—both physically and emotionally—like a void inside him suddenly filled with overflowing affection and overwhelming lust. Love exploding all over him like bombs. And it leaves him starved. Desperate. Craving for more.

All this time, Seongje has been the only one who talked to him every single day. And now, three days without him—without his stupid messages or sudden show-ups—Sieun misses it. He misses Seongje. So much it aches.

And he’s afraid. Afraid that tomorrow he’ll have to face reality—his wrecked college life, the plagiarism accusation, and his mother. Afraid he’ll have to face all of it without Seongje by his side.

His chest tightens until it breaks, and Sieun can’t hold it anymore. The tears come as hot as his body, streaming down his cheeks, soaking his pillow. His throat feels raw from the soundless sobs he tries to choke back. He doesn’t even know if it’s from the fever or the loneliness or both, but it hurts.

With his last remaining strength, he drags his hand across the sheets and fumbles for his phone. His thumb hovers uselessly over the screen. 

He doesn’t text. He doesn’t call. Instead, he lifts it close to his lips, voice shaking, as if the device itself could carry him across to where Seongje is. As if he knows—or at least he hopes—that Seongje is there, watching. Listening.

“Seongje.” His voice cracks on the name.

“Where are you?”

“Seongje… please come.” Sobs.

“Please come here.” More sobs.

“I don’t care, it’s just so hard without you.”

“I want you. Please…?”

The room stays quiet, the only sound is his uneven breathing. 

But he keeps clutching the phone, hoping it might answer back.

Chapter Text

On the day Sieun left, Seongje felt like his life had been ripped out of him.

It’s not like they were always together all this time. Despite Seongje’s relentless attempts to spend as much time as possible with the pretty boy, he knew better than to push too hard. 

Every step of his approach was carefully staged and measured—just enough to feed his own hunger, but not enough to scare Sieun away. He followed Sieun around many times, but only appeared for their interactions when the ache of missing him was too much to bear. 

Other than that, most of the time, he relied on their texts. Exchange of words that reassured Seongje that Sieun was still there, fragments of their connection that still tethered to him. 

But still, only with that, he could feel it. That Sieun belonged to him.

This time—it’s different. Sieun left in a way that filled Seongje with doubt. And the worst kind, at that. The kind that made him wonder if the boy would ever come back to him, ever look at him the same way again. If he would ever accept him. As if Sieun cut the lines that have been keeping them connected to each other.

Moreover, Seongje is dead worried, too.

Sieun wouldn’t do anything reckless, would he? By reckless, anything that would harm himself—he wouldn’t do that, right?

The thought dug deep, refusing to let go. The more Seongje replayed the image of Sieun’s expressions from last night, the more he was certain—the boy must be feeling like absolute shit right now.

Is he eating well? Probably not. Even on good days, when Seongje spied on him through the hacked cam, Sieun has never been a big eater. And right now Seongje just hopes that he at least forces himself to swallow a decent meal.

The urge to run out, to check Sieun’s place, his campus, anywhere, is almost unbearable. He wanted to find him, to make sure he was okay, to give him the best food—anything Sieun likes—to make him feel better.

But what if he’d just make everything worse? He remembered exactly how Sieun had looked at him last night. It was as if his presence was a blow to his face. Though it was all going so well after that when Seongje calmed him, but now that he’s gone, it’s just proof that nothing is resolved. 

And something that Sieun had said before rang in his head like a warning bell.

I don’t want to live this life anymore.

What if showing up would only make things worse? What if it’d trigger Sieun and make him do something dangerous? Seongje will not let that happen. He knows that the only world he couldn’t survive would be a world without Sieun in it.

So, that day, he just stayed in his apartment—suffering in silence, barely eating, spending hours lying down or staring into nothing, thinking only of Sieun. Seongje gave in. It’s time for him to actually give Sieun some personal space. 

Just for a while. Just so that he heals.

And Seongje hopes that the temporary distance will be enough. 

Because sooner or later, he will go back to find him. Because no matter what happens, he will never give up on chasing him. And he is determined to prove that they belong together. That he can help him. That he can save him.

Whatever Sieun probably thinks after he clears his mind—even if Sieun came to the conclusion and decided to hate him and get away from him—he will make him stay. He will offer everything he has. He will convince him. He will make him realize how they are meant for each other. 

He will.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The first night he spent alone after Sieun left, he had a nightmare.

Of the past.

He didn’t know why it came back to the surface. It was long gone. He had moved on and forgotten about it. But somehow, it returned.

It was a memory of those days when he was still living in his father’s household. He was always taken care of by his housemaids. There were a lot of them in the house, but Seongje never really memorized their names and faces. He could feel it—how they never truly cared about him, taking care of him within boundaries, just…professional. Pretentious warmth. Out of obligation.

But there was one name that stood out.

Lee Nayoung.

She worked at his house when he was thirteen. She was the youngest housemaid at that time, probably in her late twenties. She was very caring toward him. Her warmth was different from the other housemaids. She laughed with him, brushed his hair, and stayed close. 

And Seongje, never having grown up with a mother, could say that he was drawn to her feminine and motherly charm.

At first, he felt like she was a sister. Like someone in the house finally treating him like family, not just a responsibility. Not just some unwanted child to be managed.

But somehow the relationship got strange after a while. The woman started getting too touchy with him. Starting with innocent gestures like brushing his hair, then hugging him too often, and caressing his back for too long.

And then, that one night—the first time Nayoung came to his room to accompany him while he slept—the woman was cuddling him with gentle comfort.

But once he was asleep, he felt it. How his pants were taken off. How her hands started stroking his cock.

“Nayoung-ssi?”

“It’s okay, Seongje.” And that was the first time she put his cock inside her mouth and started to suck him off.

At first, Seongje was confused and scared. It didn’t really feel good. It felt weird. He was aware that it was a sexual gesture, relying on whatever knowledge he received from biology class. Young at his age, the questions kept replaying in his head. 

Is this normal? 

Is this something a housemaid does to him? 

But before he could find the answers, Nayoung continued. She kept doing it, almost every day, in his room, before his sleep. 

The comforting presence that Seongje used to feel when he saw her was replaced with fear and uneasiness. When the uncomfortable feeling and exhaustion became unbearable, he tried to resist and fought back—only to be beaten. 

He was slapped, his hair was pulled, and sometimes he would be whipped with the belt he wore to school.

It was shocking.

He never expected that she would do that.

Nayoung was transforming into a completely different person from the one that he knew. She was cruel and violent. 

Then, she was back to being sweet and affectionate. Touching him here and there. 

She kept changing and changing. It was like him facing a person with two different personalities.

The cycle kept going for almost two months. It was initially hell for Seongje, but after a while, Nayoung somehow managed to convince him that she was doing this because she had feelings for him. That he was special, and that he deserved to be taken care of after all the cold shoulder from his father.

Seongje believed it. Or, more likely, he wanted to believe it. So he just got used to it. He started to treat their interactions—every word, every touch, every distorted show of affection from her—as something to rely on. To lean on. Like proof that he wasn’t as forgotten as his father made him feel. 

Until one day, Nayoung left the house, after giving her resignation to Dr. Keum. She was getting married to a man. Chasing a new, bright future, as if everything she had done to him was just a play. Something disposable. And it betrayed every word she had told him about Seongje not being forgotten and not being left behind.

And in that moment, more than ever, he hated the times he had spent with Nayoung. He felt used. He felt broken and abandoned more than he ever had. It hurt even more than when his dad just walked past him like a ghost. It was like finally tasting the long-craved attention, only to discover it was all just a lie.

And since then, Seongje carried that fact like a wound stitched into his skin. 

The touches and whispers—they became all too familiar to him. As a teenager, he threw himself into too many hookups, chasing faceless bodies and fleeting nights. Sex felt like a routine, a way to survive. A language that he knows by memory, without hesitation, etched to his mind through repetition. 

And inside him, lives someone who believes that love and affection were not things freely given, but things you had to earn and chase, even if it meant a little forcing—just like what Nayoung did. 

Inside him, lives someone who learned that once he’s earned it, he needs to protect what is his. Because if he doesn’t, it would vanish. Because affection could be taken away as quickly as it was given. And if he doesn’t hold on with both hands, if he doesn’t cling to what’s precious like a drowning man clutching the last piece of driftwood—he would sink. He would be left behind. He would be bandoned—just like what everyone did.

Just right when the memory of events and feelings surfaced too close and too clear, Seongje’s eyes flew open.

He sat up with a tremble, his skin slick with cold sweat. His chest heaved, breath coming too fast, too shallow. For a long second he just sat there, hunched forward in the dark, sheets twisted around his legs like chains. His fingers were faintly shaking.

He dragged a palm over his face, forcing himself to breathe—inhale, exhale, again and again.

It’s fine. He’s awake.

He’s fine.

But the more he told himself that, the more the words soured. Like he was swallowing rot.

He stood and staggered toward the mirror across the room. His reflection stared back at him. 

And he hated it. He hated how weak he looked. His skin pale, dark crescents carved under his eyes like bruises of exhaustion. He hated how the memory was still affecting him so much, even after all those years.

With a rough snarl, he drove his fist into the glass. He could hear the splintering crash sound as the mirror cracked in an instant, and a spiderweb of jagged lines turned into pieces that rained down onto the floor. 

Pain bloomed across his knuckles as blood started to flow. And while it spilled down—drop by drop, painting the floor with red—he questioned.

Why does it still give that effect on him? Why is he so fucking weak? 

And most of all, why did his life have to be so fucked up?

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

After forcing calmness onto himself, Seongje rushed out of his apartment. His heart is still pounding with anxiety and anger, but he reins it in as best as he can.

He needed to get out. At least taste some fresh air. And do a few things.

He moved swiftly through the basement and reached his car. A BMW M4 Cabriolet, in red color.

Yes, he owns a car. Though he doesn’t always use it. Sometimes he drives, other times he switches to public transport. And if you ask why—well, it’s just one of his inexplicable habits. Because sometimes he has to run errands that would simply look ridiculous if he shows up in a fucking sports car. Also, it’s just a smarter way to commute in a crowded town like Seoul city.

After all, if he had relied solely on the car, he wouldn’t have met Sieun on that bus that day. So what’s there not to like about public transport?

He got away as the engine rumbled low, the car sliding out onto the street like a beast released. He drove through the streets of Seoul, leaving behind the glamorous district where his apartment stands, and headed toward a more modest, unadorned neighborhood. It is the kind of middle-class area crowded with narrow alleys and aging buildings, where students and young office workers typically rent small rooms. 

He slowed down when he reached the road at the end, near the narrow alley where Sieun rents his place. He parked at a spot that wouldn’t draw too much attention, slightly hidden in a corner of stores. It’s nearly impossible, though. The car is too flashy and conspicuous for a neighborhood like this. 

He stayed where he was for like almost three hours. Just watching the building where Sieun lives. He didn’t know what else to do, and he’s not sure if he would get to see the doe-eyed like he wished, but he just waited. Like a shadow.

Until he saw him.

Sieun was walking out weakly from his rent. Seongje sat straighter in the driver’s seat, his chest tightening, his heart breaking a little at the sight.

Sieun looked calmer than before, calmer than when he was in his apartment. His eyes hold a quieter weight now, softer, steadier. And for that, Seongje is grateful.

But he knows Sieun is not in his best condition. The pale of his skin—the lack of color draining his face—gave it away.

Fuck—is he sick?

He watched as Sieun took his small steps toward the convenience store. Seongje eased out of the car, moving quietly. He trailed down the steps, then inside the store. He was wearing his cap, an attempt to disguise himself as a regular store visitor. He kept his distance while he observed as Sieun collected a few food ingredients and a pack of medicine. 

The ache surged. It was so hard to hold himself from reaching out. He wanted to run to him, grip that frail shoulder and steady it. To keep him warm, if he’s cold. To take his groceries for him, if he’s too tired. 

But he reminded himself—space. Sieun needs that, something that Seongje actually has never given to him with all his spying and stalking.

At least, for now, he knows that Sieun is taking care of himself with the food and medicine he was buying. And he needs to rest to recover soon.

So that’s exactly what he will let him do.

After making sure Sieun slipped inside his rent safely, Seongje turned and walked back to his car. 

He turned on the engine before he drove the car to his next destination. His repairshop. 

He has some other things to do. An unfinished task waiting on his list. A task called Jeon Youngbin.

━━━━━━━━━

The clicks and clacks of the keyboard echo through the closeted, cold room. The air inside Seongje’s hacking room is faintly reeking of dust, but he didn’t care. His eyes cut with a focus he hasn't allowed himself in weeks.

He succeeded in breaching it—his current target, Jeon Youngbin’s phone.

He hacked into the device by taking advantage of a badly built banking app that wasn’t updated properly. The app had a mistake in its coding that let him sneak in and give himself more control than he was supposed to have. Once inside, he installed a hidden spyware so he could keep coming back.

In the end, he now has full access to everything on the device—messages, emails, files, records. And he went through everything. 

When he made his way through Youngbin’s drive, the truth presented itself—Sieun’s original draft for the research paper.

Of course this smug little parasite had plagiarized Sieun’s work. It’s written all over his face. A pampered, silver-spoon bastard who has never earned anything except through deceit and purchase. The worst kind of losers.

It’s not like Seongje is a good person. He’s not trying to pretend to be righteous—never been, never will. He helped plenty of people like Youngbin before. Faceless clients with fat wallets who paid him to tilt the game in their favor, thriving solely on shortcuts and manipulation. He has played his part in the dirt. It’s part of the job.

But ever since his path crossed with the doe-eyed boy, his moral compass seemed to point to only one star—Yeon Sieun. The rest of the world could cheat, lie, betray, and rot in their own filth. He wouldn’t care. But the moment someone laid a hand on Sieun, the moment someone tried to mess with him, Seongje would become the knife at their throat. He would be the first person to gut their reputation, strip their dignity, and if necessary, burn their fucking life without hesitation.

He lurked deeper through Youngbin’s phone. He knew exactly what he’s after.

Youngbin’s messages with one particular name. Professor Hwang.

Seongje had always thought there was something off about Sieun’s tutor. Hwang’s constant nitpicking and endless negative remarks never made any sense. The criticisms felt forced, arbitrary, like obstacles placed to hold him back.

And the messages confirmed it.

[Hwang Donghwi – 03:54 PM]

(sent a file)

Here’s the last section. You’d just need to change some stuff for a bit as I noted in the doc.

[Jeon Youngbin – 04:22 PM]

Nice. Well done, Professor. I’ve transferred you the money.

Seongje went through all their chats for the past few weeks. 

This is it. Youngbin’s been paying this Hwang bastard to sabotage Sieun’s work, and all of Sieun’s original drafts were forwarded for his advantage.

Seongje closed his eyes to feel the rage building in his chest. In his mind, he resurfaced all the memories of Sieun’s hard work, ones he witnessed through the hack cam all this time. The way his eyes were so focused, the expression of concentration whenever he was working in front of his laptop, books and piles of notes. The quiet anxiety showed in his furrowed brows while he was stubbornly refining, revising, rewriting. For that paper. And these bastards had the audacity to steal it.

Seongje’s fingers tightened around the mouse he was holding, his knuckles itched. He imagined Youngbin’s smug face under his fist, again and again, until the skin split and teeth scattered across the floor. And Hwang—he’d take pleasure in breaking his fingers one by one, the same fingers that had typed up Sieun’s stolen words for bribes. He’d carve their arrogance out of them, piece by piece.

Youngbin and Hwang might be thinking that they’ve won their dirty game, but their glory will be short-lived. It’s about to come to an end. Because now Seongje holds every piece of evidence he needed to bury them both.

He screenshot their texts and transfer the proof of bribery, then send them to the academic committee email—the address that Sieun had been instructed to send his evidence—under the cover of an anonymous email account. With this, Sieun would finally clear his name, and his hard work would be the one acknowledged, published, and rightfully credited.

But of course, Seongje is not satisfied with simply setting the record straight. 

He dug deeper and uncovered more evidence of Hwang’s past dealings. The old bastard had fed Youngbin and other pampered students the answers to exams, leaked assignments before deadlines, and twisted their grades in exchange for cash. So he’d send that too. He wanted to make sure this parasite to lose not only his job, but his entire credibility in academia.

As for Youngbin, Seongje planned a few other punishments. He was thinking of uploading the proof on his social media—like what people would politely call social sanctions—for revenge. And maybe a little something more. Maybe he could find something embarrassing about the boy on his phone. So for that, he began to lurk through Youngbin’s phone gallery, searching for anything humiliating, anything to strip the golden boy mask off his face.

The gallery was filled with party photos and expensive dinners. But, then, he found something that he didn’t expect at all.

Are these pictures of Sieun?

His teeth ached from the lock of his jaw as he saw the pictures of Sieun. They were all taken without his knowledge around campus. Shots from the side in class when Sieun was focused on his notes, in the library while he was reading, and even in the hallway. Some were angled low—catching his body when he bent to pick up a book, or the curve of his hip from behind as he climbed the stairs. Through the pictures, he could clearly see the way Youngbin looked at Sieun. It was predatory and vile.

What in the fucking fuck.

He quickly deleted all of Sieun’s photos, then traced the location of the phone—or more like, the location of Jeon Youngbin. The spoiled brat is currently at one of the most well-known clubs in Seoul. Thinking about the bastard having the time of his life, laughing, drinking, and wasting money after everything he had done to Sieun made Seongje’s blood boil.

He rushed out to grab his coat, put it on, and went out to enter his car.

Seongje’s really gonna kill him now. He’s gonna fucking kill him.

━━━━━━━━━

When he stepped into the club, everything felt assaulting through his senses. His ears caught the bass reverberating like a drum beat in the air. His nose picked up the thick, suffocating mix of sweat, alcohol, and perfume. And his eyes—they felt like they were stabbed by the fluorescent lights, piercing straight into his skull. 

Contrary to popular belief, Seongje does not enjoy going to clubs. He thinks the crowd, the noise, the dance, the heat—everything about it is stupid. He doesn’t get why people like it. Even when drinking or smoking, Seongje prefers to do it alone. 

Before he knew Sieun, he used to only go to bars to find his hookups. Sometimes the straight ones, sometimes the gay ones. He’d prefer the more relaxed setting. Though, he doesn’t do it anymore lately.

So when he first arrived, he sneered at the chaos—already bored with it. He immediately made his way to the bar and the bartender glanced up at him in an automatic greeting—something the man seemingly does to every new visitor, like muscle memory.

“Drink, my man?”

“Whiskey,” Seongje said flatly.

His purpose here is not to get drunk, but fucking Jeon Youngbin is driving him mad. 

He didn’t expect to discover Youngbin’s sick obsession for Sieun while he did his digging on his phone. Not that his own stalkish behavior is any better, but, no one else except him has the right. No one can lay their eyes on Sieun like that. No one can save pictures of Sieun. No one can feed their hunger to Sieun’s pretty face and body. Except him. And the fact that this trash is doing it—on top of stealing Sieun’s work, at that—made his blood boil.

So, might as well let the anger loose and swallow some liquor down his throat.

The bartender slid the glass across the counter. Seongje seized it and threw the drink down with a swallow. The burn tore down his throat, his face falling into a grimace for a second before he set the half-empty glass with a thud.

He dropped his weight on the seat in a lazy manner. Then, he fished a cigarette pack from his pocket, lit one of it, and pressed it to his lips. Smoke tore down his throat, burning hot as it settled in his lungs. It had been a while since he let the nicotine eat him—he was too busy with his first addiction, the second one was slipping away. But now the poison hit just right. Harsh and bitter, reminding him that he’s alive to want more.

As smoke drifted out of his mouth, his eyes began to scan the room. The place is full of loud young people. It’s one of the flashiest clubs in Korea, so Seongje figured these brats came from wealth, only to know how to spend it in a stupid place like this instead of making something of themselves. 

Then, he found him. Jeon Youngbin, at a corner table, circling with his lackeys and a handful of stupid girls. They look like they’re playing some trivial game, lame ass shit going on. Seongje scoffed at how pathetic he is. What a loser.

At first, he took his time just watching his target, until his cigarette finally burned out. He then threw away the stub, took another measured sip of whiskey, and pushed himself to his feet. He cut his way toward the corner, ignoring the shove of shoulders and the bursts of drunken laughter around him. As soon as he reached the table, all the heads turned toward him, abandoning the game they had been playing.

Seongje let a greeting smile curl at his lips, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Jeon Youngbin!” he greeted in a fake, laughing voice while he tapped youngbin’s shoulder.  “Mind if I join your little circle?”

Youngbin stared back at him, brows arched in confusion. “Do I know you?”

Seongje faked his startle and parted his mouth in a slight O shape. He continued in a mocking, false apologetic tone. “Right, right, pardon my lack of manners. You must be confused. Let me introduce myself.” Seongje put his hand on his chest, imitating a polite gesture. “I’m Keum Seongje.”

He raised two fingers in a lazy salute to his forehead, his gaze sweeping over Youngbin’s companions at the table. Then, Seongje extended his hand across the table. Youngbin hesitated, suspicion was obviously shown in his eyes, but he still took it.

Seongje tapped his arm a few times. “Yahhh, look at you. What a fit body. I heard you study meds, too. You must think your life’s so perfect, huh?” He let out a laugh. It was low, dragged too long so it lasted longer than it should. The unsettling, intimidating kind. The kind that made you shiver and certain the one laughing is not right in the head.

“The fuck is your problem?” Youngbin tried to shove him away, but just a second before he could, Seongje’s hand on his arm twisted it upward. A second later, his body was already slammed hard against the table.

Seongje’s fist shot forward, smashing into Youngbin’s jaw. Strikes by strikes followed, from his cheek to his ribs. Youngbin staggered, choking, trying to push back, but Seongje’s hits came fast and hard, no pause in between.

A train of shocks ran through the table. The girls scream. The drinks splashed. The guys stood up to attack him.

Two guys came at him together. One swung at his face while the other tried to grab him from behind. Seongje ducked low and kicked the one in front hard in the stomach. At the same time, he threw his elbow back into the ribs of the one behind him. The first dropped to his knees, gasping for air. The second staggered, but Seongje spun, grabbed his arm, and twisted it up until it cracked. The man screamed before Seongje shoved him down to the floor. 

The crowd around them pulled back to watch from a safe distance. The music is still blasting, but the sound of blows, howls, and shrieks drowned it out.

Seongje turned back to the main target, Youngbin. He was trying to gather his strength to stand up from his earlier beating to fight back. When he charged, Seongje met him by smashing his forehead into his nose. Seongje barked out a laugh, then grabbed his hair and slammed his head into the table. Bottles fell and broke as Youngbin dropped to the floor.

Seongje grabbed him again by the collar and slammed him into the wall. His hand pressed at his throat, choking him against the concrete.

“Yeon Sieun.”

Youngbin’s face lost its color at the mention of the name.

“You better leave him alone and stop taking his work.” A punch to the mouth. “And don’t fucking take pictures of him again.” Another punch to the nose. “Stay away from him at school, and watch your ass.” Another punch, the hardest this time, and blood spraying from Youngbin's nose.

Youngbin’s face was now all covered in red. Blood dripped from his nose, leaked from the cuts and swelling on his face that Seongje made with his fists. Seongje’s grip tightened on his collar. “If you mess with him again, I’ll gouge your eyes, break your nose, snap your arms. I’ll fucking kill you. And I’ll make it long.”

He leaned closer, his eyes flashing madness he couldn’t and didn’t bother to hide, maniacal and wild. “Do you understand?”

Youngbin’s voice comes out a raw, tattered whisper. “Y-yes.”

Seongje holds the stare a beat longer, then releases him, letting the boy slide down the wall to the floor, panting and bleeding. He crouches down in front of him. “Lastly, advice for your own good. Stop acting so full of yourself. It just makes you look pathetic.”

Seongje pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of Youngbin’s bloodied face, like it was proof of his victory and needs to be registered.

━━━━━━━━━

On his way out, Seongje grabbed a bottle of liquor from the bar without a word and paid. He carried it to his car. The cold air outside was in contrast to the heat of the club, cutting through him while the remnants of adrenaline were still buzzing in his veins. 

He drove back to Sieun’s place. His car stopped in a spot just below the old rent building. Snow had started to fall heavier again, covering the street in white silence.

Seongje sat inside his car, pulling his coat tighter, sinking into it for warmth. His eyes never left Sieun’s window. The light is on, indicating that Sieun is inside.

He twisted the cap off the liquor bottle and drank straight from it.

He misses Sieun. So, so much. But now, sitting here in the cold, even though they’re not physically together, just knowing the fact that Sieun is closer made it easier to breathe. The light in Sieun’s window was enough to calm the tension inside him. 

It made him less anxious. Gave him a quiet sense of relief, like he was still doing something for him, even if Sieun never knew. Watching from a distance made him feel steady, like he was keeping guard. He felt less alone, less lost. It made him feel like he was still protecting him, still watching over him.

He kept drinking, one swallow after another, his breath fogging the glass as he leaned against the steering wheel. Every drag of alcohol felt like fuel to keep the engine of his heart beating, keeping him alive. 

As the alcohol consumed him, his eyes grew heavier and heavier. Warmth spread through his body, leaving him now loose and relaxed. His gaze stayed fixed on Sieun’s window, but the alertness slipped away as drowsiness crept in. 

And not long after, he drifted into sleep in his car.

━━━━━━━━━

Seongje woke up in his car, rough and groggy. The sun stabbed through the window into his eyes, even though the cold air was still as biting. His head pounded. His throat dry, begging for water. Hangover sat heavy on him, waking him up with a sour taste in his mouth. 

He got out of the car and stretched, his joints stiff and numb after a whole night sleeping in a sitting position. He walked to the convenience store near Sieun’s place and grabbed a cold bottle of fresh water and a sandwich. After wolfing them down for breakfast, the pounding dulled. He felt a little better.

He walked back to his car. Once he reached it, he looked up to Sieun’s window again. The luminescence is no longer there, the light’s probably turned off at some point last night. Sieun’s probably still in there, though.

Okay. Seongje admitted that he’s starting to act like a homeless man. Maybe it’s time to go back home.

So he got inside again. But just before he could turn on the car’s engine, he heard it.

“Seongje.”

His blood froze.

…Sieun?

It was Sieun’s voice.

What the hell? Was he hallucinating? Had he missed the boy so much that he was hearing things?

“Where are you?” Now Sieun’s voice is getting clearer. He must be going crazy. He must have wished for Sieun so much that his head is starting to make things up. 

But the voice kept going. “Seongje… please come.”

Wait. It wasn’t in his head. 

It was coming from his pocket.

He fumbled quickly, he reached something inside his coat’s pocket and pulled out the duplicate of Sieun’s phone.

There he is. On the screen, Sieun’s face appeared—lying in bed, cheek pressed against the pillow, eyes showing an expression Seongje knew he would never forget. Longing, sad, and hopeful all at once. For the nth time, Seongje felt like he fell in love again. Because Sieun looked so fucking adorable like that.

Wait. So Sieun had turned his phone back on? Since when? Why? Seongje had been so caught up with hacking and beating Youngbin that he hadn’t even noticed. He didn’t think Sieun would ever turn it back on after their fight. He hadn’t checked.

Sieun’s voice was muffled against the pillow. “I don’t care… it’s just so hard without you.”

“I want you. Please…?”

Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. Is this real? Did Sieun really just say that? That he wanted him? That he wanted Seongje?

Joy slammed into him so hard it almost knocked the hangover out of his skull. His chest felt hot, his throat tight, like he couldn’t breathe from how badly he wanted to grab Sieun right now. It was dizzying in a good way. Really good, better than any alcohol burn. Sieun actually wanted him.

Seongje stumbled out of the car, but he paused. He probably reeked of the heavy smell of alcohol and cigarettes. Fuck. Should he go home, take a shower first, and come back?

No. He can’t. Not when Sieun had just called his name like that. Not when Sieun sounded like he needed him.

So he moved with a more convinced step and headed into the building, up the stairs to the second floor, and pressed the bell outside Sieun’s room. From inside, he heard a faint sound.

The door opened.

Sieun stood there in a soft sweater and comfortable pants. His face was pale, his lips dry and a little chapped. It made Seongje want to kiss them just to wet them, soften and moist them. 

But what struck him most were Sieun’s eyes. His eyes looked pleading.

Seongje’s first instinct was to pull him in, hug him, and tell him it was okay. That he’s here. 

But like a sudden thunder, Sieun’s expression changed. His nose twitched, catching a scent. His brows furrowed and gaze is starting to sharpen into disbelief.

“Did you go out drinking?”

Oh. Right. He did. Of course Sieun noticed.

Seongje froze, not sure how to answer. Sieun looked extremely pissed. What could he possibly say to not worsen his mood?

Still, Sieun stepped back and opened the way. “Get in.”

Seongje walked in. The room was just like he remembered—clean, tidy, everything in its place.

Sieun closed the door and came up to him. Close. Really close. They were standing just right in front of each other now, and because of their height difference, Sieun had to tilt his head back to look at him.

Seongje had to admit, when upset, Sieun has one of the sharpest gazes he’s ever seen. The kind of gaze that told you he doesn’t care who you are—if you’re bigger, stronger, or higher. He wouldn’t hesitate to fight if he had to. It was almost far-fetched, how such sharpness came from those soft, sad eyes. How the shimmering orbs could form a cutting so deep.

And Seongje loves that feisty side of him. Just like how he loves everything else about Sieun.

He still looked sick, though.

“Are you still sick?” Seongje lifted his hand and pressed the back of it against Sieun’s forehead. His eyes widened. “Sieun, your fever. It’s high.”

But Sieun scoffed and slapped his hand away. Seongje stared at him, confused and expectant.

“Still sick?” Sieun’s tone was sharp, pissed and disappointed.

…Yeah? Sieun was sick, right? He saw him the other day.

“You knew I was sick, and you went out to drink?”

Oh. 

He did. 

But it wasn’t like that. Sieun’s words made it sound like Seongje didn’t care about the smaller boy.

Before he could form the right words to explain himself, Sieun brushed past him, shoulder hitting Seongje’s side on purpose. Seongje just followed him with his eyes until Sieun sat down on his bed.

“Take your coat off. And come here.”

Seongje’s brows lifted.

Okay? Sieun’s demanding tone was… kinda hot.

He didn’t expect to enjoy being ordered around by Sieun like this, but then again, what wouldn’t he like about Sieun?

So he did just that. He took off his coat and put it on Sieun’s .., then stepped closer to the bed and stood stiff in front of him.

Shit. He must look stupid right now.

Seongje couldn’t remember the last time he felt nervous. He was always the assertive one, always the one in control of every situation. He also felt that way about Sieun most of the time. 

But this time, it’s different. He’s not sure what Sieun is thinking. He’s not sure what Sieun wants. Their whole situation made Seongje feel like he’s walking on eggshells. He’s becoming cautious of his words and actions, desperate in holding on to the last thread that could protect his relationship with Sieun.

Still, it’s another thing Seongje loves about him—this unpredictability. Sieun can switch his mood and behavior as if he has a flipping switch button, and Seongje can’t help but think how it weirdly matches his own playful, adventurous nature.

“What? You’re just gonna stand there? Sit.”

Okay. He’s just gonna follow what Sieun is playing now.

Seongje sat on the bed. 

Sieun’s gaze followed him, never leaving.

Then, he heard the smaller’s breath catch as he spoke. “I must be out of my mind.”

Just after the words went out, Sieun pushed Seongje down. Seongje’s body fell and his back hit the mattress softly.

Sieun crawled on top of him. His eyes wavered. They look hesitant, but desperate. 

With his soft little hands, he reached the end of Seongje’s sweatshirt. He was clutching it for a moment, until he slid it upwards to take it off. Seongje lifted his body to help him, and now he’s shirtless.

Okay? Now it's getting obvious what Sieun wants.

Then, Sieun unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down to the line of his lower abdomen—just enough to reveal the shape of his cock. It was strained against the thin fabric of his briefs, the outline jutting upward, desperate to break free but trapped beneath the cloth.

Under him, Seongje could see the way Sieun bit his lip. His eyes stare at him with want, he could be drooling any second. And Seongje thought, fuck, fuck, fuck… he’s so pretty. And hot.

For quite a long time, he had always thought he was the hornier one. But here Sieun is, looking down at him, carrying that same hunger in his eyes. 

And it rattled him in the best way.

Seongje now looks up at him, looking expectant. He can’t wait to see more of this side. Can’t wait to see his next moves. 

But after a moment, Sieun still didn’t move one bit. He completely froze there as red started to bloom on his pretty face. 

“Sieun?” he questioned.

“I don’t know… what to do.”

Seongje left out a scoff at his response. But not in a mocking way. In an amused way. Softly. Affectionately. Lovingly. 

Because—see that? He’s changing again. Like there’s a switch button. 

Despite being the one who initiated it, Sieun now looks flustered after only seeing a bit of Seongje’s body. He looks clueless, as if reality had just caught up to him—that he’s the inexperienced one here. It’s absolutely adorable. And it was enough to bring Seongje’s confidence surging back. 

Seongje raised a hand, cupped Sieun’s face, thumb brushing over his soft, round cheek. “You know what you want. Just do it.”

With that encouragement, Sieun seemed to force the guts inside him. 

His gaze dropped to Seongje’s cock again. He tugged the briefs lower, and the strain finally gave way. Seongje’s cock sprang free, slipping out despite its weight. 

Sieun’s already big eyes widened.

Seongje has always known that he’s big in size, but seeing that mix of shock and awe across Sieun’s face filled his chest with pride like never before.

Sieun finally lowered himself, leaning in until his face hovered just above Seongje’s cock. Closer and closer, until his lips brushed against the flushed tip. He pressed his mouth to it softly, puckered as if kissing it.

From above, Seongje watched with a low groan. “Put it inside, baby.”

Obediently, Sieun wrapped his fingers around the base, guiding it slowly past his lips. Then, his mouth closed around him.

Fuck, it’s so warm. 

Sieun started with tentative suckles, lips closing around just the tip. Seongje’s hips lifted a bit—demanding, urging him to take more. Sieun slid further down, his mouth stretching to accommodate, tongue pressing and swirling in slow circles.

A soft hiss escaped Seongje’s mouth. His hand tightened in Sieun’s hair, guiding him into a steady rhythm. Soon, Sieun was bobbing his head, drawing him in and out with slick friction that pulled low groans from Seongje’s throat. 

Seongje’s fingers threaded through Sieun’s soft strands, stroking and petting. His body language spoke for him—there you go, that’s it, just like that.

While the movement continued, Seongje noticed how Sieun’s eyes were becoming more hazy and glassy. Tears began to pile up along his lashes before spilling down. The sight didn’t break the moment. Rather, it only sharpened it. It made him look even prettier, stoking a deeper arousal inside Seongje.

“I’ve missed you so much. So, so much. Have you missed me, too?”

Sieun whimpered faintly around him, a sign of yes, and the sound vibrated against Seongje’s cock.

“Fuck… show it to me, baby. Show me how much you’ve missed me.”

It seems like Sieun likes it if Seongje talks, because he’s becoming more aggressive. As if Seongje’s words motivated him.

He stretched his lips wider, his jaw straining as he slid down further. Drool began spilling past the corners of his mouth. It formed into wet strings, dripping down his chin and onto Seongje’s thighs, making everything messier, filthier.

Seongje’s grip tightened in his hair, holding him steady, eyes locked on the obscene sight below. Each time Sieun pulled back with a gasp, a slick strand of spit hung around between his lips and the flushed tip before breaking and dripping onto his skin. 

Seongje has never seen anything hotter. Sieun’s mouth stretching wide for him, with tears piling up across his lashes and his chin shining with dripping spit.

He sat up—not only to see better, but also to move better. He is now holding Sieun’s face in place, and rocking his hips forward in sharp thrusts that smeared more saliva along Sieun’s mouth and face.

“Hmm, messy little mouth. So good for me,” Seongje rasped, his voice now heavy with lust.

His precum started to leak, and now it mixed with Sieun’s saliva, coating everything in a slick mess. His dick was getting thicker with it, and Sieun started to look so full of it. The cheeks around his mouth bulged with every push, stretching tight around him. Sieun doesn’t move his head anymore—doesn’t have the energy to—and just let Seongje fuck into his mouth like a toy.

Muffled moans spilled out of Sieun’s full mouth. 

He looks completely satiated. Drunk with Seongje’s cock. Cockdrunk.

And Seongje is more than happy to satisfy his need.

Seongje’s thrusts grew rougher. His grip in Sieun’s hair tightening as his release built. He let out a growly groan, like an animal. And with one final push, he aimed at Sieun’s throat, the tight heat squeezing him until he lost control—his climax ripped through him.

Hot spurts painted across Sieun’s face—his cheeks, his lips, his lashes. Thick white streaks marked him everywhere, dripping down over the spit already shining on his skin. The sight made Seongje groan deep in his chest.

The view is a fucking art. Seongje would picture this as a painting. Sieun’s ruined, tear-streaked face is a soft canvas that is now covered all over in his white cum—claimed by him completely.

Seongje pulled out and grabbed some tissues. He took his time wiping the streaks off Sieun’s cheeks, lips, and chin. 

When his face was clean, Seongje drew him in, pressing him close against his chest. Sieun slumped into the embrace. He looks thoughtless, empty-headed, as if every bit of strength had been grasped out of him.

Too bad—already?

Seongje’s mind, instead, could only itch with curiosity.

If his mouth feels that good, how would it feel to be inside his hole?