Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Most people at SOPA knew better than to cross Park Jihoon before 9 a.m.

He wasn’t mean—just loud. Brash. Didn’t sugarcoat things. If your pirouette was off, he’d tell you. If your breath control sucked, he’d say it. Teachers loved his rawness; students were either terrified or obsessed.

Lee Haechan? He was the opposite. Cocky. Flashy. Always walked like the hallway was a catwalk and the floor owed him rent. He was the golden boy of the theater department—too talented to hate, too smug to love.

They clashed like oil and fire. Every. Damn. Time.

“Someone needs to tell your department to stop screaming in the hallways like it's a damn soap opera,” Jihoon snapped one morning, wiping sweat from his neck after early practice. Haechan, leaning against the doorway of the dance studio with a lollipop in his mouth, grinned. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of your overachieving.”

“You stalking me again?” “Please,” Haechan scoffed. “This hallway just happens to look better when I’m standing in it.” Jihoon snorted. “You’re so full of yourself, I’m surprised you haven’t burst.” “Admit it, you’d miss me if I stopped showing up.” “I’d throw a party.”

Their classmates pretended to be annoyed, but most secretly looked forward to it—Haechan and Jihoon’s hallway arguments were practically student-body entertainment. They were like two sides of the same mirror: arrogant, talented, competitive.

But what Jihoon didn’t know?

Outside SOPA, Haechan had another Jihoon.

“Wait, so does this Jihoon have a personality disorder or what?” Yizhou asked, blinking at Haechan as they scarfed down tteokbokki after cram school one night. Haechan paused mid-bite, idly watching Yuna steal all of his sauce as if he won't notice. “…Huh?”

“You were just talking about Jihoon’s pout. But earlier, you said Jihoon elbowed you during roll call.” Ryujin leaned in. “So…?” “Oh,” Haechan said casually, “not the SOPA Jihoon. I was talking about Hanlim Jihoon.”

“THERE’S A SECOND JIHOON?” Yuna looked up from her plate, which showed she’s also listening to the gossip. It did give Haechan time to hoard his sauce on his side, far from Yuna. “Yeah.” He shrugged, almost smug. “Hanlim’s Jihoon. Also named Park Jihoon. Born March 2000. We're childhood friends. Have I never mentioned him to you at all?"

"Maybe. Most of the times you don't name your friends and relatives in your stories, you just expect as if we should know." Chaeryeong deadpanned from across the table. Haechan shrugged, "Fair."

Minjeong narrowed his eyes. “So you’re telling us there are two Park Jihoons. One that makes your blood pressure spike, and one that makes you sound like you’re about to write fanfiction.” “That’s an overreaction.” “You literally said, ‘His voice makes my brain go fuzzy.’” “That was yesterday. And I mean that in a platonic way.”

“Well, I’m sorry we’re confused, Haechan,” Ryujin said dryly. “You only ever complain about 'Jihoon from music,’ and then suddenly you’re all like, ‘Jihoonie~’ with sparkles in your voice?!”

Haechan waved them off. “Different Jihoons. Totally different. One’s emotionally constipated and probably dreams in push-ups. The other lets me bite his shoulder when I’m sad.” “…What?” “Anyway,” Haechan stood, dramatically tossing his empty cup into the bin. “Keep up. Or don’t.”

They didn’t.

Three days later, SOPA Jihoon found out.

He’d just wrapped practice and was walking ahead of Haechan toward the front gate. It was late—sun dipping behind clouds, students trickling out in twos and threes.

Then he heard it.

Behind him, Haechan’s voice dropped into a soft, syrupy tone. “That’s why I like you so much, Jihoonie~”

Jihoon froze. He spun on instinct, expression caught between shock and horror. “What—”

Haechan blinked at him, mid-step, an AirPod slipping from his ear. “What?”

“…What did you just say?” Jihoon asked, tone sharp. “Uh,” Haechan frowned, pulling out his other AirPod, as his brain caught up with him. “That… wasn’t for you.”

“Then who the hell was it for?” Jihoon demanded, now entirely facing him. His face was flushed—not embarrassed, just aggressively confused.

Haechan stared at him, then snorted. “Oh. My bad. You thought I was confessing to you?”

“You said my name.”

“Yeah,” Haechan said slowly, drawing the word out like a smirk. “But not about you.”

Jihoon’s mouth opened. Closed. “That doesn’t even make sense. What, you got a fantasy version of me you daydream about after class?”

“No.” Haechan popped his gum. “Just a better version.” Jihoon narrowed his eyes. “You’re insane.”

“I’m selective.”

“Then go bother this other Jihoon instead of haunting my hallway like a musical theater ghost.”

“Maybe I like watching you scowl.” Haechan’s voice turned syrupy again, but this time mockingly. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

Jihoon looked ready to commit murder. “Try that again and I swear—” “What?” Haechan stepped closer. “You’ll spin me into a coma?”

Jihoon shoved past him, muttering, “God, even the nice Jihoon must be a masochist. If he does exist.”

But he didn’t walk away completely. He paused at the school gate, turning just enough for Haechan to catch the line of his jaw in the twilight. And Haechan—damn him—just grinned. 

Haechan wasn’t supposed to be out of bed.

It was Sunday. It was 11 a.m. The sun outside looked like it had just woken up, too, and he had absolutely no plans to move until at least one or both of his pillows fell off the bed.

Then came the text.

[assertive puppy jihoonie 🐾] 10:47 AM

gym near u. third floor. dumbbells.

don’t ghost me.

[assertive puppy jihoonie 🐾] 10:48 AM

bring iced coffee or ur dead to me

“Insufferable. Why am I friends with this bastard?,” Haechan groaned, but he was already out of bed. Throwing on the first clean-ish hoodie and sweats he could find, he grabbed a bottle of water and left, hair still a mess, mind foggy. The gym wasn’t far—it was their usual spot whenever Hanlim Jihoon was visiting his cousin who lived nearby.

The third floor was dim and quiet. Half the cardio machines were unoccupied. The rest of the room was a yoga mat corner and some racks of weights, mostly untouched.

Haechan spotted a familiar figure near the dumbbells, but instead of walking over like a normal person, he took a deep breath and yelled across the room:

“PARK JIHOON WHERE ARE YOU, YOU ABSOLUTE SICKO.”

A dumbbell clinked in the distance.

“I hope you know,” Haechan declared theatrically as he walked through the gym, “that I was about to nap. Like an innocent, pure civilian. But you just had to text me when the bags under my eyes were finally settling into peace.”

Hanlim Jihoon, calmly lifting weights in the back, tilted his head and grinned when he saw him. Didn’t even blink. They’d done this routine a dozen times.

“I swear,” Haechan continued, still not close enough to see Jihoon’s face clearly, “who goes to the gym at eleven a.m. on a Sunday? What are you training for, the apocalypse? Are you planning to outlive the rest of us?”

He got closer, dropping his water bottle onto the mat beside the dumbbell rack. “Also, if you ever text me again with ‘don’t ghost me’ like you’re my toxic ex, I’m blocking you—”

“Do you always yell names when you walk into rooms?”

The voice came from behind him. Haechan turned—and froze. 

It wasn’t just his Jihoon in the room. The jerk Jihoon is also here. Towel around his shoulders, arms crossed, standing just behind the yoga mat section.

Oh no.

“Oh,” Haechan blinked. “I didn’t see you.”

“No shit.” SOPA Jihoon looked unamused. “But you did scream my name across a public gym like we’re in a domestic drama. Nearly got into a heart attack until I recognized your voice.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” “You shouted my full name.” “It’s not your full name. It’s a shared name. Public property, really,” Haechan said. “Also, I said it in his direction.”

SOPA Jihoon narrowed his eyes. “So you just... have a second Jihoon you scream at in your free time? That imaginary Jihoon again you just use for excuses?”

Hanlim Jihoon—still quietly curling dumbbells—lifted a hand in a casual wave. “That’d be me. Sorry for the confusion.”

SOPA Jihoon stared at the other guy. “…You’re real?”

Hanlim Jihoon beamed. “Unfortunately.”

“And you two are just—what, gym buddies?”

“Something like that,” Hanlim Jihoon said lightly.

“Something like—” SOPA Jihoon looked at Haechan, mouth parted like he couldn’t quite decide whether to yell or leave. “You mean to tell me you’ve been yelling that voice, that nickname, in public this whole time—and it wasn’t about me?”

“What, do you want it to be?” Haechan shot back, arms crossing now, tone snappier. “Because it’s not.”

SOPA Jihoon stepped forward. “You know what’s confusing? For a guy who loves attention, you’re terrible at clarifying when you’re not flirting.”

“I didn’t flirt with you. I antagonized you. There’s a difference.”

“You said Jihoonie~ behind me at school.”

“I was on the phone, talking to this Jihoon!”

“I didn’t know that!”

“Well, maybe don’t assume you’re the center of the universe,” Haechan snapped, eyes flashing. “Especially not mine.”

The air between them buzzed—sharp and bright, like something had cracked open and refused to be put back. From the dumbbell corner, Hanlim Jihoon let out a low whistle and whispered, mostly to himself, “Ohhhh, this is delicious.”

“Shut up,” both Haechan and SOPA Jihoon barked, in perfect unison.

Hanlim just grinned. “Matching responses. I see no difference between you two.”

SOPA Jihoon groaned and grabbed his towel. “I’m done. Have fun with your other Jihoon. I hope he’s more patient than I am.”

“Oh, he is,” Haechan called after him, too irritated to filter. “He doesn’t walk around acting like I stepped on his shadow every time I breathe.”

SOPA Jihoon paused mid-step. Turned his head, not enough to face him, just enough to say:

“Yeah? Maybe I wouldn’t if you weren’t so good at making people feel like shadows.”

And then he was gone.

Silence returned to the gym, awkward and lingering. Haechan sighed. Hanlim Jihoon tossed him a towel. “I mean. If you wanna go run after him, I’ll allow it.”

Haechan caught it. “I’m not in love with him.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“I’m not.”

“...Sure.” Hanlim smirked. “Anyway, spot me?”

“Gladly,” Haechan muttered. But his eyes drifted, just once, toward the hallway SOPA Jihoon had walked out of.

No one said a word when Jihoon returned. Not the gym staff. Not the girl mid-sit-up. Not the treadmill couple who barely looked up from their sweat and heartbreak playlists. Not Haechan, who was stubbornly stretching his hamstring with the kind of tense, overacted nonchalance only he could pull off.

But the other Jihoon noticed.

The knapsack still resting by the yoga mat gave it away—SOPA Jihoon had come back, maybe for the bag, maybe for something else. His eyes didn’t wander. But his ears? Sharpened the moment the door hissed open.

And Haechan? Haechan made a point of not even flinching.

Hanlim Jihoon nudged him lightly with his foot, grinning around the straw of his iced americano. “Your boyfriend’s back.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Haechan hissed.

“Sure he’s not,” Hanlim replied cheerfully. “Anyway, I already got my coffee. You can go with him now. Looks like he missed you.”

Haechan kept glaring at his head like he could burn a hole through it.

Hanlim Jihoon raised an eyebrow, then, with a casual shrug—like he was just stretching his legs—he pushed himself back and gave Haechan a firm, deliberate shove.

Haechan yelped and stumbled—Right into Jihoon. Without skipping a beat, SOPA Jihoon caught him like he was hoisting up a stray backpack. With a grunt, he hefted the smaller boy over one shoulder like luggage.

“What the hell!? Jihoon why did you push me to him?!” Haechan squawked, flailing like a startled cat. “Put me down, you idiot—this isn’t legal!”

“Be quiet,” Jihoon grunted. “You’re lighter when you’re quiet. This is a logistical decision.”

Hanlim Jihoon beamed. “Take care of the sleepy potato. He gets cranky if he doesn’t nap.”

“I'm not a potato!” Haechan screamed over Jihoon’s back. “I’m a national treasure!”

“Yeah, one of those cheap ones from the tourist trap gift shop,” SOPA Jihoon muttered.

Hanlim jogged over and, grinning, slipped a folded piece of paper into the side pocket of Jihoon’s gym bag. “In case he tries to fake a coma and you need help. Jihoon to Jihoon diplomacy.”

SOPA Jihoon didn’t even question it. He just adjusted Haechan on his back like a sack of warm rice and walked out of the gym, sighing audibly.

The car was hot. Jihoon turned on the air conditioning and dumped Haechan in the passenger seat with zero ceremony.

Haechan flopped down like a damp towel, arms over his chest, lips still parted from ranting. Jihoon slammed the door and walked around to the driver’s side, annoyed and embarrassed and wondering how the hell this became his Sunday.

He got in, adjusted the mirror, started the car. “I’m not your chauffeur,” he muttered. “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you on the sidewalk like a delivery box.”

No response. Jihoon glanced over. And blinked.

Haechan was out. Like asleep. Mouth slightly open, hoodie pulled up over half his head like a little blanket, one hand curled into a loose fist on his chest.

The audacity.

Jihoon blinked again. “Unbelievable. That’s why he got heavier on the way out. The damned gremlin fell asleep. What the hell?" He stared at him for a long moment, stuck between annoyance and something… less hostile.

Haechan's brows twitched, as if dreaming of a rebuttal he couldn’t deliver. Jihoon sighed. Loudly. “You better not drool on my seat.”

Reaching back into the gym bag, Jihoon dug around for a protein bar—and his fingers brushed something folded and papery. He pulled it out. Hanlim Jihoon’s note. Scrawled in quick but neat writing:

> “Thanks for dealing with this one.

If he bites you, it’s probably affection.

Text me when he’s alive again — J² [+82-XXX-XXXX]"

Jihoon stared at it. Then at Haechan. Then back at the note.

“…I’m surrounded by idiots,” he muttered, but he didn’t throw it away. He folded it again and slipped it into his wallet.

Outside, the city moved on—cars, people, clouds. Inside, the only movement came from the rise and fall of a chest, and the distant hum of a boy who argued until he collapsed.

Jihoon rolled his eyes. “Sleep all you want. But if you snore, I’m opening the windows.”

But he didn’t. He just sat there. Waiting for the sleepy potato to wake up.

Haechan stirred with a twitch of his nose, face smushed against the car window and hoodie still bunched around his ears. He blinked slowly, hazily registering aircon, dashboard, silence.

“...Jihoonie?” he mumbled, soft and sweet in the way he reserved for sleepy mornings and people he liked.

A pause. Then:

“Wait. You’re not my Jihoonie.”

SOPA Jihoon didn’t even glance over. “Do I look like your Jihoonie?”

“No,” Haechan groaned, stretching like a cat in the passenger seat. “You look grumpier. Edgier. Like my Jihoonie’s evil twin who eats carbs after midnight.”

Jihoon scoffed, eyes still locked on the road. “Then next time, maybe don’t nap in my car like it’s your therapy blanket.”

Haechan ignored him. “Ugh. I really need a way to differentiate you and my Jihoonie. I mean—two Park Jihoons in my life? Feels like a sitcom setup.”

“Call me the handsome Jihoon,” SOPA Jihoon muttered dryly.

Haechan gagged immediately. “No thanks. My Jihoonie’s actually handsome. You’re just… cute. Ish.”

Jihoon went quiet. Stone-faced. In the deepest corners of his chest, something stung—but only for a second.

“Cute is average,” Haechan added casually, checking his reflection in the side mirror. “And I’m already the cutest, so you see the problem.”

“Unbelievable.” Jihoon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Anyway. You’re in my car. I know you don’t have one. So unless you want me to drop you in the Han River, where are you going?”

Haechan blinked once. Then slowly—very slowly—a mischievous glint spread through his gaze.

Jihoon noticed instantly. And regretted everything.

“My apartment,” Haechan chirped.

“You’re kidding.”

“Two buildings away from school,” he added, just to twist the knife. “Perfect view of SOPA. High student foot traffic.”

Jihoon groaned into the steering wheel. “This is social suicide.” The day he decided to be kind, fate decides to bite his ass?

“Yours,” Haechan corrected, smirking. “I’ll be fine.”

The car rolled to a stop near the base of Haechan’s apartment building. The area was not quiet.

Six students were loitering inside the 7/11 next door, snacks in hand. Three more students had just entered the building lobby. And across the street, eight girls were standing under the shade of a cherry blossom tree, sipping drinks and talking loudly about someone’s midterm solo.

And then—just in time, as if summoned by Satan himself—five more students appeared, walking past SOPA Jihoon’s car just as Haechan rolled the passenger window down.

The world seemed to slow down.

Jihoon barely breathed. Haechan didn’t miss a beat. He leaned an elbow against the car door, stretched, then turned toward Jihoon with the softest, sweetest whine he could muster.

“You’re not even gonna walk me up?” he pouted, voice dipped in honey. “Wow… not even one kiss goodbye?”

Jihoon stared at him like he was watching a war crime unfold.

Outside, the five students froze. Heads tilted. The girls under the tree stopped mid-sentence. Two of the guys from 7/11 actually pressed up against the glass. Some were recording. Others were already probably typing into SOPA’s unofficial gossip site.

Jihoon’s soul left his body. And Haechan? Haechan smiled like he was starring in a drama, hair slightly mussed, hoodie falling just right off one shoulder.

He swung open the door with flair.

“Thanks for the ride, Jihoonie~” he sang as he stepped out. And then—then—he didn’t walk across the street to the apartment.

No. Of course not. 

He turned back toward the open window. Blew an audacious flying kiss with both hands. And winked.

“Oh my god,” someone whispered outside.

“Did he just—?”

“Was that Park Jihoon in the driver’s seat?!”

Inside the car, Jihoon’s brain blue-screened.

“ARE YOU—HAECHAN, YOU LITTLE—BASTARD!” he swore, loud enough to be heard outside.

But Haechan was already sauntering toward the building, hips swinging, a smug little bounce in his step like he hadn’t just detonated his classmate’s entire social image in under twenty seconds.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

He could already hear the chaos forming in his wake.

Haechan kicked open the door to his apartment; backpack on the floor, hoodie half-off, shoes flung somewhere into oblivion. He made a beeline for his bed, flopping onto it with a satisfied sigh. His phone buzzed—he didn’t even need to guess. He unlocked it and typed three letters into his browser.

[sopa.talk.freeboard]

The unofficial but very much alive school site.

And there it was. Top post. Pinned by mods. Already over 700 views in under an hour.

“IS THAT PARK JIHOON DROPPING LEE HAECHAN OFF??? IN A SUNDAY EVENING??? DID THEY COME FROM A DATE????”

Haechan choked on his own laughter. The comments were unhinged.

> [♥] 09:11 PM: is this real??? are they like… together??

[♥] 09:12 PM: THE FLYING KISS WTF

[♥] 09:14 PM: h-h-h-he called him “Jihoonie” and pouted 😭

[♥] 09:17 PM: Not Park Jihoon cursing like he was a victim LMAO we know you love it

[♥] 09:18 PM: NO WONDER THEY’RE ALWAYS BICKERING… ENEMIES TO LOVERS?

He didn’t even try to stop himself. He cackled, hand over his stomach, feet kicking the blanket.

Screenshot. Screenshot. Screenshot. All of it—sent in rapid fire to Hanlim Jihoon, who responded with the same energy.

[assertive puppy jihoonie 🐾] 9:24 PM

BRO

BRO.

THIS IS CINEMA

[assertive puppy jihoonie 🐾] 9:24 PM

Look at this one LOOOL

"they act like an old married couple i knew it”

how do they not know he was 3 seconds from vehicular manslaughter

Haechan snorted so loud it echoed through the room. He swiped back into the site and typed “Park Jihoon” into the search bar.

At least five new posts. The screenshots. The zoom-ins. The speculation. There's even one extremely dramatic edit of them in black and white with a Taylor Swift song.

He couldn’t breathe. He FaceTimed his best friend immediately. The screen picked up with Jihoon already half-laughing. “Hyungnim, I bow to your superiority, hyungnim!!”

“You saw that one with the caption 'Caught in the Act?’” Haechan wheezed. “The comments! Someone said, 'they’ve probably been dating for months and keeping it a secret like a drama'—like Jihoon doesn’t look like he wants to launch you into orbit.”

“I blew him a kiss.” Haechan wheezed. “He actually looked like he’d combust on the spot.” Jihoon wiped a tear. “You’re a public menace. I love it.”

“But wait—wait—look at this edit!” Haechan flipped the camera to show his screen. “Tell me I don’t look like the flirty lead and he’s the bodyguard with anger issues.” “I mean. Lies were not told.” They laughed again, voices overlapping, until Jihoon suddenly paused.

“Oh, oh. I forgot.”

“What?”

“Guess who texted me just before you logged in.”

Haechan blinked. “Who?”

Jihoon exited from the full videocall to use the screensharing of his phone to show his messages, then read aloud with dramatic flair:

> [Park Jihoon (SOPA)] 8:47 PM:

Keep your Haechan in check. He’s insufferable.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Haechan screamed. “HE DID NOT.” “He did,” Jihoon said proudly. “Capital K. K-e-e-p your Haechan. Like you’re mine.” " WHAT DID YOU SAY BACK?”

Jihoon grinned like a cat who’d knocked over three wine glasses and blamed the wind.

“I said, ‘Well, he’s my friend. Aren’t you the boyfriend? He’s your responsibility, isn’t he?’”

Haechan fell off his bed. Face down. Dying from cackling so hard. From the phone, Jihoon could only hear muffled sounds of pain and glee. He grinned wider. “You good?”

Haechan rolled over, hair in disarray. “You’re evil. I love you. I’m saving that message forever.”

Jihoon sipped from his drink. “I’m just saying… if we, you, get him to snap publicly, you might win an acting award.”

Haechan squinted. “Think he’ll snap at school tomorrow?”

“Definitely not. He’ll keep it in like a repressed period drama lead. I don't know, you have to relay it to me since you're the one going to school with the guy.”

“Oh, good,” Haechan said, wicked again. “More fun for us.”

They both sat there. On separate ends of Seoul. Phones in hand. Cackling into the night like the world’s most dangerous PR duo.

The whispers started before Jihoon even reached the main gate of SOPA.

“Do you think he’s mad they got caught?”

“No way, he’s just intense—maybe he didn’t want it public.”

“But he dropped Haechan off right there, like, in front of everyone. And the kiss? Like???”

Jihoon rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain. He knew this would happen. Of course it would. SOPA students were theater kids at heart, no matter their department. You drop one chaotic boy into a car with the most emotionally repressed dancer on campus and suddenly you’re living a fanfic written in real time.

And Haechan—God, Haechan—was probably basking in it right now. Sipping juice like a housewife, giggling behind his sleeve while the school melted around him.

Jihoon was not going to let him get away with it. Not this time. Not when his name was the one being dragged into dating rumors just because some gremlin couldn’t control his flair for the dramatic.

He found Haechan exactly where he expected to: in the middle of a crowd, surrounded by students from various departments, looking effortlessly radiant.

He was sitting on a courtyard bench like it was a throne, one leg crossed, gesturing with a half-eaten bread roll while telling some story that had everyone leaning in, wide-eyed and laughing.

Jihoon barely made it three steps toward him before two students flanked him like concerned assistants.

“Jihoon-hyung,” one of the acting juniors said gently, “maybe go easy on him today? He’s probably overwhelmed…”

The other one nodded. “I mean, with your relationship getting exposed and all, Haechan’s been so sweet about it. Don’t make him feel worse.”

Jihoon’s jaw dropped. “Exposed—?”

“Yeah, like… the video from yesterday.”

Jihoon’s mouth moved for a full five seconds before any words came out. “We’re not—!”

But the moment he raised his voice even slightly, another girl passing by frowned and muttered under her breath, “Don’t scold him in public…”

Jihoon wanted to scream. Instead, he marched over to the center of the chaos.

“Haechan.”

The crowd went silent.

Haechan looked up. Very innocent. “Jihoonie~!” he chirped, eyes sparkling but only Jihoon could see that he was dangerous while everyone 'aww'-ed.

“Can we talk. Alone.” Jihoon said, rather than asked. 

But before Haechan could even respond, someone near him whispered a scandalized, “He’s so mad…”

“I told you he wouldn’t take the outing well.”

Another student added in a low voice, “It must be hard being in a secret relationship here… poor Haechan.”

Jihoon could feel his blood pressure spike.

Meanwhile, Haechan had the audacity to give him a soft, trembly smile and nod. “Of course, Jihoonie. Whatever you need.”

Then—then—he stood and slid his hand onto Jihoon’s arm, clinging like he was seeking comfort from the very person he was mentally demolishing.

Jihoon stiffened.

Haechan leaned in and whispered, “Say one word too loud and they’re going to accuse you of being emotionally unavailable.”

Jihoon turned his head slowly, face blank, and met Haechan’s twinkling eyes.

He wanted to shove him off. He wanted to shout the truth.

But Haechan tightened his hold, tilted his head a little, and gave him the exact same look of wide-eyed loyalty he’d probably practiced in the mirror that morning.

And suddenly, Jihoon felt the weight of every single pair of eyes on them.

He was trapped. Again.

“Fine,” he said, voice thin with restraint. “Let’s talk inside.”

They walked together down the hallway, Jihoon’s arm still in a death grip, students parting around them like the hallway was a red carpet.

By the time they made it to the central atrium, Jihoon had had enough.

He yanked his arm free, turned to face Haechan, and hissed, “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Walking with my sweet, sweet boyfriend,” Haechan replied brightly.

Jihoon stared. “We are not dating.”

“Well, you know that,” Haechan said, gesturing vaguely. “But they don't know that and I don’t know how to break it to everyone. They seem so invested. I mean, are we going to ruin their day over semantics?”

Jihoon opened his mouth. Shut it. Breathed in through his nose.

Haechan smiled like a cat who just knocked over a crystal vase and blamed gravity.

“I hate you,” Jihoon said with sincere exhaustion.

“I think that’s part of the appeal,” Haechan replied, all sunshine.

Jihoon had never experienced rage so profound it felt like enlightenment.

And yet. Something sparked in the back of his brain. A thought. A strategy.

If he couldn’t end this… maybe he could control it.

So he stepped in.

Close.

Too close.

Haechan blinked. “Jihoon?”

And Jihoon—in full view of the surrounding hallway, with five first-years pretending not to stare from behind a stairwell—leaned forward…

…and kissed Haechan’s forehead.

A beat passed.

Another.

Jihoon stepped back, satisfied, already turning to leave, convinced he had finally, finally flustered him.

And then—

“Bye honey, I love you~!” Haechan called out, chipper and bright, in the middle of the hallway.

Gasps. Actual, audible gasps.

Jihoon’s eyes widened. He stopped in his tracks.

People turned. Someone dropped their water bottle.

And Haechan just stood there, beaming like a heartthrob in a rom-com.

Jihoon turned slowly, like a man regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

Haechan waved with both hands, too happy, too smug, too proud.

Jihoon didn't say a word.

He turned back around, gritting his teeth, and walked out of the hallway with his entire soul on fire.

He didn’t look back.

He wouldn’t look back.

Because if he did, he might see Haechan wink again. And that would be the end of himself. Or him. He doesn't know. All he knows is it would end in strangulation.

Chapter Text

There was no safer place for chaos than the recording studio.

The drama rooms were too open, the dance studios too full of reflective surfaces, and the café on the third floor was practically a stage. But the recording room—quiet, low-lit, sound-sealed—was Haechan’s personal mischief den.

And right now, it was also the only place he could cackle like a villain on a live call without alerting the entire student body.

He shut the thick door of the control room behind him, locking it with a twist, then collapsed into the nearest spinning chair. He reached for the mic toggle instinctively—muscle memory from voice practice—but stopped himself just in time.

Phone in hand. Face aglow. FaceTime connected.

“Okay. From the top ,” Haechan hissed, already laughing. “ You have to hear this word for word. I’m not exaggerating—I swear on my Americano.”

Hanlim Jihoon—half-dressed in his hoodie with one earbud still dangling—was lounging in a library stairwell with a smirk. “I cleared ten minutes for this mess. Let’s go, Lee.”

“Ten minutes? ” Haechan clutched his chest. “ Tragic. This is theatrical gold, Jihoon. I’m about to be nominated for best lead in a psychological romance thriller.”

“Speed it up, Shakespeare.”

And so Haechan did. Word for word.

From the second SOPA Jihoon entered the courtyard—shoulders tensed, eyes murderous—to the whispers floating around them (“they probably got caught!” “he’s so scary but like, hot about it”) and the way the students intervened, defending him like a beloved romcom lead wronged by a villain boyfriend.

He did voices. Mimicked facial expressions.

He pouted, “Jihoonie~” into the call at least twice.

And when he got to the part where he called SOPA Jihoon “honey” in front of a full hallway and waved goodbye like they were in a K-drama finale? He nearly fell off his chair from laughing.

“You should’ve seen his face ,” Haechan wheezed, wiping his eyes. “ He thought kissing my forehead would throw me off—like I wasn’t born from the ashes of chaos itself.”

On the other end, Hanlim Jihoon clutched his ribs. “You are insane.”

“I’m effective.”

“You’re cursed.”

“Same thing.”

Haechan leaned back, still giddy—but then quieted slightly, voice softening.

A pause.

“…Hey.”

Jihoon raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“…Sure.”

Haechan glanced away from the camera for a second. Picked at the frayed edge of his sleeve.

“So, uh. I’ve been thinking. ” He laughed, a little breathy this time. “ I think I wanna stop calling you my Jihoonie.”

Hanlim Jihoon blinked. “What? Why?”

“Because— ” Haechan scratched the back of his neck. “ I think I wanna call the other Jihoon that. Just to really mess with him. You know, break him down emotionally. Affectionate psychological warfare.”

Jihoon blinked once. “Right.”

“But ,” Haechan added, sitting straighter, “you’re still mine. I mean—look at your name on my phone.” He flipped the screen to show his contact list.

Jihoon squinted.

[assertive puppy jihoonie 🐾] 

“…Of course, ” Jihoon deadpanned. “ That makes so much sense.”

“You’re my puppy, ” Haechan declared. “ Assertive. Loyal. Bitey.”

“Haechan—”

“Which is why you’ll still be mine ,” Haechan continued with a grin. “ Even if I toss ‘my Jihoonie~’ around like a sparkly nickname grenade.”

A short silence.

Then Hanlim Jihoon looked directly at the screen, tone lighter than his expression.

“…Is it really for teasing? ” he asked quietly. “ Or is it because you want to call him yours?”

Haechan’s smile faltered. Just a little.

He blinked. Looked down. His feet tapped once against the studio floor.

“I—”

The call ended.

Haechan blinked at the screen. “Did you just hang up on me?”

He set his phone down, staring at the wall for a second, cheeks slightly warm—Unaware. Completely, blissfully unaware—that Jihoon (SOPA) had been sitting on the floor inside the adjacent glass-walled recording booth, back hidden by the angle of the panel and mic stand, hearing every word.

He hadn’t meant to spy. Really. He’d just wanted to scream into a pillow privately somewhere on campus after the morning chaos.

And the glass studio was quiet. Private. At least… until Haechan had come bounding in, locking the outer control room and dumping verbal napalm into a FaceTime call.

Jihoon had frozen the moment he heard his name.

Then he stayed.

And heard… everything.

Every mimicry. Every smug laugh. Every giggled “Jihoonie~”.

And then—he heard that last part.

The part that hadn’t sounded like a joke.

The part that sounded like Haechan had actually thought about it.

Not the teasing.

Not the scheme.

But the wanting.

Jihoon’s heart was thudding in his chest.

He sat there, knees pulled in, watching Haechan laugh into his now-ended phone like nothing was wrong, like the whole universe hadn’t just tilted sideways.

And for the first time in the madness of this accidental fake relationship, Jihoon wasn’t sure who had the upper hand anymore.

Because suddenly…

He didn’t really mind being called his Jihoonie.

— [start of mild 🔞] 

Haechan spun lazily in the control room chair, foot tapping the floor, his eyes scanning without urgency—until they landed on a familiar sight.

A knapsack. Slumped near the base of the mic stand inside the adjacent glass-walled recording booth.

He stopped spinning.

Squinted.

Knapsack. That knapsack. The one with the embroidered patch.

Jihoon’s.

Fuck.

His entire body went still as his eyes trailed the floor beyond the mic stand and cables. He scanned slowly—no shoes in the usual chair, no coat on the side hanger, no shadow standing awkwardly near the lyric sheet stand.

So.

He was on the floor.

Inside.

Listening.

To everything.

Haechan exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing like a villain detecting prey. His hand hovered over the speaker toggle. He clicked it on with a little flourish, leaning toward the mic as his free hand reached lazily toward the console.

The red light blinked.

The connection activated.

His voice would now echo only inside the recording booth. No one outside, no one in the hallway—just the person sitting on the booth floor would hear it.

He didn’t even say anything at first.

He just dragged the mic a little closer.

And with one sharp SLAP of his palm against his thigh, the silence shattered.

Another slap. Louder. He adjusted the input gain.

Then—

A whimper.

High-pitched. Whiny.

“Ahh—Jihoon… ” he breathed into the mic, sugary and obscene, “ Jihoonnieee~”

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The rhythm was unmistakable.

Inside the glass booth, SOPA Jihoon was staring at the floor like it owed him an apology for being real.

His knees were pulled in tight, elbows resting there, face in his palms.

And his lower body—the real traitor—was reacting faster than his brain could keep up.

No. No no no.

This was Haechan. The worst person alive. This was Haechan, knowing exactly what he was doing, saying the one name Jihoon didn’t want to hear like that.

And Jihoon’s body—useless, cursed—was buzzing.

Back in the control room, Haechan kept going.

His voice now breathy and near-broken:

“Ugh—Jihoon-ah—so rough, I can’t—”

Slap. Slap.

Then a stifled moan and a long exhale that ended in a choked, “You feel so good today~”

Jihoon almost launched his water bottle at the wall.

Instead, he buried his face deeper into his arm, glared at the traitorous tightness below his waist, and seethed.

It wasn’t even real. He knew it wasn’t real.

But his brain wasn’t cooperating.

Because somewhere deep inside his skull, a voice whispered: It could be.

Back at the mic, Haechan finally stilled.

The slaps stopped. The moans faded into a self-satisfied exhale.

Then—

“See? ” Haechan purred, tone laced with smug glee. “ If you’re gonna eavesdrop, I might as well put on a show.”

Inside the booth, Jihoon inhaled slowly through his nose.

This was fine.

He would not kill Haechan.

He would not murder anyone today.

But he would walk out of this studio with his head held high… and figure out exactly how to flip this game.

Because he couldn’t take this anymore.

He needed a win.

Haechan just declared war.

---

The silence persisted.

No shuffle.

No door creak.

No angry yell of “Haechan, what the hell?!”

Just heavy, deafening quiet between the two studio spaces.

And that was confirmation enough.

Haechan leaned closer to the mic again, lips grazing the mesh, voice dropping into that mocking bedroom low that sent shivers in all the wrong directions.

"If you're not coming out ,” he murmured breathily, “ I’m gonna assume you want me to join you there on the floor, honey."

Another long pause.

Still—nothing.

Not a sound.

No movement.

Not even the desperate, flustered retaliation he expected.

Haechan’s grin widened like a predator spotting a wounded deer in the open.

“Okay ,” he whispered, voice pure mischief. “ Let’s play, then.”

He stood up from the chair, flicked off the speaker channel, and reached for the buttons of his SOPA uniform top with absolutely no shame.

One. Two. Three.

Unbuttoned.

He shrugged the yellow jacket off one shoulder first, letting it drag, dramatic. Then peeled it off completely and tossed it aside like a stage prop. The white tee he wore underneath clung just enough to suggest, not show.

He knew Jihoon was watching.

He could feel it.

He opened the door slowly, steps light and deliberate, crossing into the glass-walled booth like it was a goddamn confession chamber.

Inside, the air felt warmer.

Tighter.

Jihoon was exactly where he expected—half-sitting, half-sprawled, back pressed against the wall under the mic stand, hoodie tugged halfway over his face like it could hide the betrayal of his very obvious situation below the belt.

Haechan let the door click closed behind him, slow and soft.

Then he leaned against the inside wall, arms crossed, tilting his head like a cat batting at a cornered mouse.

“I didn’t think you were the shy type,” he mused aloud, letting his eyes drop—blatantly—to Jihoon’s lap.

He didn’t miss the twitch of Jihoon’s thigh muscle. Or the way Jihoon shifted subtly, trying and failing to find a position that hid anything.

Then—Haechan stepped closer.

Three steps. Four.

Jihoon didn’t move.

His knuckles tightened around the hem of his hoodie, jaw clenched, as if sheer willpower alone could erase the last ten minutes of auditory warfare and humiliation.

Unfortunately for him, Haechan had zero intentions of letting that happen.

He crouched. Right in front of him. Balanced on the balls of his feet with his chin resting on one palm.

“Y'know ,” Haechan said sweetly, “ if you wanted me to shut up, you could’ve just walked out.”

Jihoon didn’t answer. His eyes stayed glued to the opposite wall like it held the answers to life.

But his ears were red. So red.

That was enough.

“So ready and spread out just for me?” Haechan grinned wider, letting the words fall like molasses.

Jihoon flinched.

His head turned, glare sharp—but his pupils were dilated, breath a little too fast to be casual, and his body…

Still betraying him.

Still humming under Haechan’s gaze.

“Go to hell,” Jihoon muttered.

“I think I’m already there ,” Haechan hummed, “ and you’re the temptation that got me sent here.”

Jihoon groaned. Not in defeat. Just despair. “You’re not even trying to make sense anymore.”

Haechan tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “I don’t need to. I’ve already won.”

“You’ve won nothing.”

“Really? ” Haechan gestured broadly. “ Then why are you still on the floor, Jihoonie?”

At the nickname, Jihoon visibly twitched. He opened his mouth—then closed it again.

Because somewhere, buried under all the annoyance and sharp glances, he didn’t hate this.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

Haechan leaned in just an inch closer. Not touching, not yet. But close enough to feel the tension spark like static between them.

“Want me to leave?” he asked, voice dropping to something strangely, sincerely quiet.

Jihoon met his eyes then—finally.

“…No.”

Haechan blinked. And then, CRASH.

Because if there was one thing Jihoon had learned in his years of life, it was that Fate had a personal vendetta against him.

And apparently, she had a sense of humor, too.

The earthquake came without warning. It just came; a full-blown, bone-rattling quake that shook the entire recording booth.

The mic stand clattered. The floor trembled like a kicked stage. And Jihoon barely had time to gasp before—

THUD.

Haechan landed squarely on top of him.

And not just on top of him.

On top of the worst part.

Jihoon's cursed, still-reacting, treasonous lower half.

And worse?

Much, much worse?

As Haechan's body collapsed into his—chest flush, hands splayed instinctively on either side of Jihoon's shoulders—he let out a completely startled, utterly genuine, high-pitched moan.

Right.

Into.

Jihoon’s.

Left.

Ear.

“Ah—fuck!”

It was breathy. Sharp. Unintentional.

And Jihoon’s brain did exactly what it had no right to do.

Short-circuited.

His spine arched. His grip flew out. He shoved.

Haechan let out a surprised yelp as Jihoon pushed him off with full force, the two of them stumbling like tangled limbs and bad decisions.

But not before Jihoon, in a split second of pure, reckless retaliation, grinded.

Just once. A quick, cruel little slide of his hips.

A revenge move. A payback. A silent “you wanna play, Lee Haechan? Then let’s play.”

Haechan froze for a beat. Eyes blown wide. A beat behind in catching himself from groaning. And then he grinned, like the devil just got handed an extra tail. And maybe it did.

"You’ve got moves, Jihoonie," he purred, winded but smug.

Jihoon groaned, covering his face, already regretting what he had done. “I hate you so much.”

“No, you don’t.”

— [end of mild 🔞] 

Then, mercifully—or maybe not so mercifully—they both heard it.

Faint, but unmistakable through the now-still air: the building’s speaker system crackling to life.

“All students, please evacuate in an orderly manner—this is not a drill—repeat, this is not a drill.”

Right. Earthquake. Of course.

Because the only thing better than getting semi-crushed by a chaos demon was being late to evacuation and looking like you just rolled out of a very compromising situation.

Haechan jumped to his feet, ruffled and breathless, uniform half-untucked and shirt a mess. He reached out a hand.

Jihoon hesitated.

“Jihoon ,” Haechan deadpanned, glancing at the door, “ unless you want to literally die in this box with me, grab my hand.”

Jihoon sighed through his teeth, grabbed Haechan’s wrist, and let himself get pulled up.

And that—that—was what sealed their fate.

Because Haechan didn’t let go.

Not when they bolted out the booth.

Not when they ran through the hallway, dodging fallen clipboards and unsteady students.

Not when they reached the stairwell, two steps at a time.

And certainly not when they emerged, panting, into the front courtyard where—

Oh . Oh no .

They were the last ones out.

Three hundred students.

One hundred staff and professors.

Every soul present had already gathered in neat clusters. Some taking attendance, some checking their phones, most half-bored—

Until they looked up.

Until they saw them.

Jihoon and Haechan.

Messy hair. Shirts wrinkled. Haechan’s jacket gone entirely. Jihoon’s hoodie slightly askew. Both boys’ faces flushed.

Holding hands.

There was silence.

Then whispers.

Then the snap of phones being raised.

And, because the universe has absolutely no chill—

“OH MY GOD THEY CAME OUT TOGETHER—!”

“Oh my god literally came out—”

“They were in a room together, weren’t they?!”

“Wait is Haechan not wearing his uniform jacket??”

“WHY IS JIHOON’S HAIR THAT MESSED UP—”

Jihoon blinked.

Haechan grinned.

“Oh no ,” Jihoon whispered, already trying to let go.

“Oh yes ,” Haechan replied, tightening the grip and pulling him further into the crowd.

“Lee Haechan, I swear to—”

“We can’t break the illusion now, Jihoonie~ ,” Haechan said under his breath, winking as they passed a stunned group of juniors. “ They’ll think we’re fighting. Again. You wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings after our first time, right? Remember, that was just earlier, baby.”

Jihoon choked. “Bab—”

“Earthquake ,” Haechan shrugged. “ The building shook, babe. You know what they’ll think.”

And Jihoon knew he was doomed.

And somehow—somehow—Haechan looked more alive than he’d ever seen him.

---

The warning tremor came like a whisper—barely a flicker beneath their feet—but the second one was a full shove.

It lasted only seconds. Ten, maybe fifteen. Just long enough for the building to rattle and the crowd of SOPA students to still in collective fear. Teachers shouted for calm. A few screamed. Someone dropped a megaphone.

Jihoon stood among the organized chaos, jaw tight, arms crossed, trying to regain some semblance of control after being manhandled into emotional oblivion by Lee Haechan not five minutes ago. His heart hadn’t slowed down since.

And then Fate, that two-faced god, struck again.

A sudden jolt rocked the pavement—and Haechan stumbled.

Not gracefully. Not with dignity.

The boy tripped over his own foot and launched forward like a wind-up toy, catching himself not on the ground, but on Jihoon's feet.

Of course.

Jihoon looked down.

Haechan, now crouched awkwardly, one knee down, both hands braced against Jihoon’s shins, blinked up with the dazed, startled innocence of a fallen cherub. His hair was windswept, his uniform shirt half-untucked, lips slightly parted like he hadn’t just orchestrated the most absurd reputation assassination in school history.

Jihoon, internally: Of course. Of course.

He glanced around, eyes scanning the crowd. At least four hundred students were out here. Staff too. Professors. Department heads. A few admin officers.

Witnesses. Everywhere.

If he shoved Haechan to the ground now—which he wanted to do with every fiber of his soul—he'd be the one who got called into the guidance office for "excessive roughness toward a classmate."

So instead, Jihoon crouched. Fast. Controlled. Perfectly stable.

He grabbed Haechan by the elbow and hissed under his breath, "Get. Up."

But Haechan didn’t move right away.

No. No no no no no . 

No, he looked up at Jihoon with the biggest, softest brown eyes in his arsenal, and trembled. Like a leaf. Like a goddamn baby fawn in a storm.

"Sorry ," Haechan said, just loud enough to be overheard. " I didn’t mean to stumble like that, Jihoonie... I’m so clumsy..."

Jihoon flinched at the nickname. Again. His entire body vibrated with barely restrained disbelief.

And that was when he noticed it.

He could feel it—the hundreds of narratives forming in real-time. The entire courtyard writing romantic fanfiction with their eyes.

He glanced down at Haechan—who, despite the hushed voice and timid posture, had a glint of pure evil glee hiding in those big, brown eyes.

The little shit knew.

And he was loving this.

Jihoon exhaled through his nose. Slowly.

His glare said: I hate you.

His soft grip on Haechan’s wrist said: I can't be mean to you in public.

And his forced, polite expression to the crowd said: I’m trying so hard not to get suspended for emotional damage.

"Are you okay?" he asked, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

"Mm-hm ," Haechan nodded earnestly. He even sniffled. Sniffled. " Thank you for catching me, Jihoonie."

Jihoon was going to be sick. Or arrested.

Or both.

Because now, now the crowd was buzzing.

A group of students from the film department were whispering loudly.

"Did that feel like a scene rehearsal to you?"

"No, dude. That was peak main character energy."

"Haechan literally fell like he was paid to look fragile."

"If they aren't dating, they're wasting so much chemistry."

And then came the flashes. Someone took a photo. Then another. Then five. The shutter sounds cascaded like falling dominoes. Jihoon wanted to die. Right there. On the cement.

He stood up, dragging Haechan with him. The boy stumbled again—on purpose, clearly—and Jihoon had to catch him again, steadying him with both arms like some tragic romantic lead in a weekend K-drama rerun.

"You're still shaking," Haechan murmured, voice low, sugary sweet.

"Because I want to throw you," Jihoon muttered back.

"Mm ," Haechan smiled. " Romantic."

Jihoon considered fleeing the city. You know what? Maybe even the country.

But instead, he took one very sharp, very pointed step back and let go of Haechan entirely. If the boy wanted to collapse dramatically, he could do it solo.

"Don’t fall again," Jihoon bit out.

Haechan just rocked on his heels, humming innocently.

"You’re blushing, Jihoonie."

"Because I’m overheating from rage."

"Oh ." Haechan looked thoughtful. " Still cute, though."

Just one strangle, Jihoon pleaded in his mind. One strangulation. He wouldn’t squeeze too tight.

—

They were approached by a pair of teachers moments later, neither of whom looked particularly pleased. One of them gestured for the two to stand aside, and Jihoon, wary, followed.

"We understand it’s been a tense morning ," said the acting department teacher. " But let's not make a spectacle of ourselves, even during natural disasters."

"We're not—"

"It's fine, Jihoon ," the music teacher cut in with a gentle smile. " We know it can be embarrassing having everyone looking, but affection between students is natural. Just... be mindful, alright?"

"But we're not dating," Jihoon tried again, eyes wide with desperation.

Both teachers nodded understandingly—with the same exact expression adults make when kids try to lie about eating cookies before dinner.

"Of course. Just tone down the PDA, alright?"

Haechan beamed. Jihoon nearly combusted.

---

And online? Of course it was trending. The SOPA unofficial forum was on fire.

💥 “Did Park Jihoon Just Catch His Boyfriend During an Earthquake or Am I Hallucinating?” 💥

Posted by: OP: shse_main

Timestamp: 8 minutes after the second tremor

---

Top Post Description:

okay so remember when lee haechan blew a kiss at park jihoon outside his car and we all thought “oh maybe they’re like. lowkey dating?”

WELL. GET A LOAD OF THIS.

i was recording the quad bc i thought the building would crack or something and I CAUGHT THIS WHOLE SCENE. timestamped. natural disaster edition.

attached media (in order):

🎥 video of haechan stumbling dramatically onto jihoon’s feet

📸 screenshot of jihoon crouching like a war hero and helping him up

📸 photo of haechan holding jihoon’s sleeve like he was in an angsty webdrama

🎥 slow-mo zoom on their hands laced as they walk away

📸 still of jihoon visibly saying “are you okay?” while looking like he was trying not to combust

📸 the exact same voice crack of haechan saying “thank you for catching me, jihoonie~”

---

Top Comments:

🔹 “They soft-launched their earthquake era???”

🔹 “First the flying kiss, now earthquake handholding? Someone call Netflix.”

🔹 “You can literally SEE Jihoon’s soul trying to escape but his heart’s like ‘nah bro we’re in too deep.’”

🔹 “Haechan falling during an earthquake and still pulling romantic tension is legendary behavior.”

🔹 “Not me watching this like it’s a drama teaser. WHEN IS THE FULL EPISODE?”

🔹 “Jihoon was fuming. But also gently holding him. THE DUALITY.”

🔹 “So… they’re not denying it. They’re just… causing tremors and leaving no comment???”

🔹 “Idk if Jihoon knows he’s in a relationship. But Haechan knows. And that’s enough for him.”

🔹 “Boyfriends who evacuate together stay together.”

---

Replies in the Thread:

👤 dramamajor99:

> “I’ve worked with both of them on showcases. Jihoon’s literally the scariest perfectionist alive and Haechan’s the chaos element. The fact they’re a thing now? I’m so scared. And intrigued.”

👤 cinnamontoastie:

> “You guys realize we’ve now seen Jihoon pick Haechan up bridal style AND catch him mid-earthquake. They’re accidentally building a romcom résumé.”

👤 someonestopthem:

> “I love how Jihoon looks like he’s about to scream and cry and throw a desk every time but still grabs Haechan like he’s breakable. That’s romance, baby.”

👤 kdramagurl:

> “There better be a confession scene before the semester ends. I want rooftop declarations. I want hallway confrontations. Don’t let me down.”

👤 keyboardslamd:

> “What if this is all part of Haechan’s long-con to get Jihoon to confess first. I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s unhinged.”

👤 sopaisburning:

> “There were three other people who fell during the earthquake and no one helped them. But Haechan stumbles and Jihoon shows up like the lead in a 200M won-budgeted film???”

---

By the time the final bell for second break rang, Jihoon had officially declared war on Lee Haechan. Quietly. Internally. In an empty second-year classroom with the blinds pulled down and a convenience store's worth of snacks laid out on an empty desk like he was preparing for a stakeout.

He hadn’t planned to spiral. Not really.

He had planned to grab a quick bread, drink water, maybe text someone about how absurd the day had been so far. But the second he sat down and opened his phone? It was over.

It wasn’t even a subtle tag.

💥 “Did Park Jihoon Just Catch His Boyfriend During an Earthquake or Am I Hallucinating?” 💥

Top trending post on the SOPA forum. Over a thousand views already. Dozens of comments piling up. Memes forming. He stared at the screen in mute horror.

The post was long and… disturbingly well-documented. Attached videos. Stills. Slow-motion replays. Dramatic commentary. He scrolled through in cold dread, catching phrases like “They soft-launched their earthquake era” and “Jihoon looked at him like Haechan invented earthquakes” and “Are they performance art??”

He rubbed his face with both hands. “I hate this school.”

But what really killed him—what absolutely murdered his remaining brain cells—was that he recognized every clip. From his worst moments. From angles that somehow made him look tender, fond, hopelessly in love.

“Hopelessly in love, ” he muttered aloud, horrified. “ They think I’m—”

He didn't even finish the sentence.

Instead, he rewound to the fall. Watched himself crouch. Watched himself catch. Watched himself look. He didn’t remember looking like that. Why did he look like that ?

He stuffed a chocolate bar in his mouth and kept scrolling.

---

Three Hours Earlier — Post-Evacuation Clinic Scene

To Jihoon’s everlasting regret, the school hadn’t sent anyone to immediately separate them after the tremor. No, instead, a shaken Haechan had dramatically clung to Jihoon’s sleeve and said, “I think I twisted my ankle.”

He was walking just fine.

But Jihoon, apparently starring in some karmic revenge narrative written by the gods, got ushered alongside Haechan to the clinic.

There, Haechan promptly sat down, put his foot on the table, received an ice pack from a nurse, and sighed as though he’d survived the war.

Meanwhile, Jihoon sat beside him with his arms crossed, jaw tight, trying not to combust as every other student in the clinic gave them eyes.

A giggle from one of the girls in the vocal department. “Oh my god, they’re so domestic…”

Another boy with a sprained wrist tilted his head. “Is he carrying him to class next?”

Well. That part wasn’t exactly a lie. Because as they were preparing to leave, Haechan had the gall to raise both arms like a child.

“Up, please ,” he said sweetly. “ Jihoonie~”

Jihoon stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “You’re literally not even limping.”

“I’m emotionally injured, I might faint,” Haechan said, without blinking. 

Jihoon almost walked away. Almost. But the nurse was watching. The sprained-wrist boy was watching. Half the clinic was watching. So Jihoon bent down, sighed like he was aged by war, and lifted him.

Haechan had the audacity to giggle. And then wave to the nurse like a smug toddler as Jihoon stomped out with him bridal style.

After depositing him—gently, regretfully—in front of the home economics room and ignoring the gaggle of students cooing at the sight, Jihoon turned and walked away like a man who’d seen too much.

---

Back to the Present — Breaktime Crisis

Jihoon crunched into a chip angrily, wishing it were Haechan’s face.

Another comment had just been added:

> “I bet they call each other ‘honey’ in private. You can just tell.”

Jihoon closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled.

He considered replying anonymously. Writing a full essay titled: No, I Do Not Call Him Honey, Please Stop Misinterpreting My PTSD Responses As Love. Instead, he flung his head down on the desk and screamed into his arms.

Which is, naturally, when his phone buzzed.

[MENACE]

saw the thread yet?

Jihoon didn’t respond.

Another buzz.

[MENACE]

if not i’ll send u the link 💖

[MENACE]

you look cute in the slowmo 😘

Jihoon responded this time: I'm blocking you.

[MENACE]

ok but unblock me later i wanna send you more memes

---

Lee Haechan was in his element.

Perched at the center of the long cafeteria bench, legs crossed on the seat like a prince surveying his kingdom, tray of untouched lunch to one side and three phones open in front of him—his own and two of his friends who absolutely gave him their devices so he could scroll through the SOPA forum without refreshing like a peasant.

He had three threads open. One was his. (Well, about him.) The second was Jihoon’s slow-mo earthquake rescue moment. The third was a separate meme compilation someone had made within fifteen minutes of the original post.

He was glowing.

“Oh my god, ” he said around a mouthful of kimchi pancake, “ look at this frame. Look at it, Chaer—pause—look at how in love he looks.”

Chaeryeong dutifully leaned over, squinting at the blurry screenshot of Jihoon’s face mid-crouch, hair mussed, eyes focused on Haechan like the sun was blinding him.

“Why does it look like he’s about to propose,” she murmured.

“RIGHT? ” Haechan grinned, pointing with his chopsticks. “ And this one! When he helped me up, I swear his grip was so soft. Like he thought I’d shatter.”

“But you didn’t even fall hard,” a classmate from afar said.

“I could have ,” Haechan countered. “ And he knew that. That’s love.”

A second-year vocal student leaned over from the next table, wide-eyed. “Wait, are you really dating Park Jihoon?”

Haechan gave a modest shrug, followed by a dramatic sigh and a shy smile. “It’s complicated.”

Which, to his credit, wasn’t even a lie.

“It’s just… he doesn’t like people knowing he’s sweet, you know? ” Haechan said, swirling his rice. “ He’s all gruff and mean and ugh—but when it’s just us, he’s so gentle. Yesterday, the sunday date you saw us with, he helped me carry my tote all the way to the gate. Didn’t even complain.” Lies. They’ll never know the truth.

Someone else gasped. “Jihoon volunteered to carry something?”

“He didn’t say it out loud ,” Haechan said, whispering now. “ But he just… grabbed the strap. Like it was natural. Like it was his job. I almost cried.”

The crowd at the table swooned.

The best part? Haechan didn’t even need to convince anyone. People had seen variations of it.

So of course the idea of grumpy, feral Jihoon being Haechan's secretly whipped boyfriend wasn't far-fetched. It was practically canon.

“He’s so tsundere ,” someone murmured. “ Like, ‘I hate everyone but you’ energy.”

“I know right ,” Haechan beamed, cheeks resting in his hands. “ And I’m like, the only person who gets to see that side of him. He’s not perfect. But he’s mine.”

He bit into his pork cutlet dramatically as everyone around him sighed dreamily, and internally, Haechan was doing cartwheels.

This was working better than he imagined.

He checked his phone again—thread still climbing in views—and texted the devil himself: saw the thread yet?

No reply.

He sent another: if not i’ll send u the link 💖

Still no reply.

Haechan chuckled to himself and took a sip of his milk, texted another one: you look cute in the slowmo 😘

Finally, a response popped up.

[🥰GRUMPY JIHOONIE🥰]

I'm blocking you.

Haechan giggled outright, legs kicking under the table: ok but unblock me later i wanna send you more memes

He could picture Jihoon right now. Stressed. Sweating. Probably hiding somewhere with a fistful of snacks trying to will himself out of existence.

Perfect.

He slid his phone aside, finally picking up his spoon to start on his soup. Around him, the group had now transitioned to rewatching the footage, debating who cried harder—Jihoon internally or Haechan externally.

No one doubted the story. Why would they?

It was Haechan.

He might be dramatic. Over-the-top. Ridiculously theatrical.

But a liar?

Please. Everyone trusted Lee Haechan. He had nothing to gain from lying. Besides, it wasn’t like he was saying they were dating.

He was just smiling when people assumed it.

And feeding the flames.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

{Outside the Home Ec Room — End of the Day}

The final bell rang, setting the usual post-class shuffle into motion. Doors cracked open, shoes shuffled, voices bounced off the walls in exhaustion and excitement alike.

Haechan was slipping his phone into his pocket, zipping his bag up with one hand and swinging it over his shoulder when he spotted the shape just outside the door.

He paused.

Squinted.

Recognized that sullen, hunched-over posture immediately. Bristling shoulders. Arms crossed tight like he was about to bite someone.

Park Jihoon. Waiting.

Haechan almost cackled. Jihoon’s expression said everything: he didn’t want to be there, he was mad he got dragged, and somehow—somehow—he was still standing there. It didn’t even take a genius to piece the story together. Two of Jihoon’s dance department classmates stood to the side, subtly waving goodbye to the taller boy who must’ve been the one who dragged Jihoon along.

Perfect.

This was perfect.

Haechan didn’t even hesitate.

He burst through the door like a protagonist in a rom-com and immediately turned on the biggest, most dramatic beam known to mankind—eyes sparkling with faux infatuation and voice raised like he was about to propose on the spot.

“HONEYBUNCH~~~” he cried, throwing his arms open. “Are you here to take me home, or will we go on a date before we go home?”

Conversations in the hallway stopped.

Three girls near the lockers audibly gasped. Someone dropped a water bottle. A guy from vocal nearly walked into the wall staring.

Jihoon visibly twitched.

His face, already caught in a frown, dropped an octave into full scowl territory. He looked like he was choosing between death by combustion or dragging Haechan by the collar.

“Stop calling me that,” he muttered, voice pitched low enough that only Haechan heard—but the furious pink spreading on his ears betrayed the rest of his emotions.

“But you came here for me!” Haechan sang, skipping over and clutching Jihoon’s arm in both hands. “Awww, you even waited right outside my room~!”

Jihoon made a noise like a strangled groan and subtly turned away from the crowd, muttering from the corner of his mouth, “I got dragged. They made me. Don’t make it worse.”

Haechan tilted his head, eyes wide with faux innocence. “Worse? Baby, this is a milestone. You’re publicly picking me up from class. We’ve basically soft-launched our third act.”

Jihoon looked like he was about to start chewing drywall.

And, of course, someone caught it on camera. A shutter clicked nearby. A flash went off.

Haechan leaned in just enough to whisper dramatically, “They’re gonna eat this up. Look at you, all boyfriend-coded and furious.”

“I’m going to throw you into the nearest recycling bin.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t enjoy it,” Haechan replied sweetly, squeezing his arm tighter.

A group of juniors walked by—whispering, blushing, definitely not being subtle. Someone actually said, “He really waited for him after class. It’s always the grumpy ones.”

Another whispered, “I thought it was a rumor, but—look at them.”

Jihoon was one eye twitch away from self-destructing.

“Let’s go,” he hissed.

“Oh, so we are going on a date,” Haechan beamed, skipping beside him as they started down the hallway. “Say the word, Jihoonie. We could stop by the bakery on the way and feed each other tteok.”

Jihoon didn’t say a word.

But his hand didn’t shake Haechan’s off, either.

---

Haechan wasn’t surprised Jihoon didn’t let go.

Not after the recording room. Not after what happened before the earthquake hit—the way Jihoon didn’t move away, didn’t flinch, didn’t even call him names when Haechan had crossed one line too many.

So this? Walking through SOPA's corridors, whispers trailing behind them like confetti, students gasping and smiling and lowkey taking photos while Jihoon didn’t even shake him off?

It tracked.

Jihoon was tsundere to the core, but there was something cracked wide open under the surface, something that Haechan knew he could poke at. Again and again. It was fun. Like tugging on a tiger’s tail and watching it pretend not to pounce.

But this?

This—this moment where Jihoon pulled his car up not in front of Haechan’s apartment, not near a café, not even some quiet alley to glare at him in peace—

No.

They were in front of Hanlim Arts High School.

And Haechan could already see the hell awaiting him.

[assertive puppy jihoonie 🐾]

Hello my dear confused darling get out of the car babe i’m waiting 😘

Haechan blinked as his phone buzzed, eyes trailing away from their rival school to the text. 

“What the hell,” he whispered.

Before he could even process, (SOPA) Jihoon wordlessly unlocked the doors and stared ahead, eyes on the windshield like he didn’t just drive them across the city to the school of Haechan’s other Jihoon.

“Are we,” Haechan began cautiously, “on a school tour I wasn’t informed about?”

Jihoon remained stone-faced.

“You know this is Hanlim, right?”

Silence.

“Why are we at Hanlim, Jihoonie~?”

No answer.

It was then—of course—that a face popped up in front of the passenger side window. Pressed right up against the glass like an overexcited puppy.

Assertive Jihoon. Hanlim Jihoon. His best friend. Grinning with all his teeth, wicked and way too eager.

“Oh no,” Haechan muttered. “Oh, no .”

He stepped out of the car just in time to be grabbed by the front of his jacket.

“Well, well, well,” Hanlim Jihoon drawled, still smiling. “Look who forgot to update me about his very public earthquake romance.”

“I was gonna—”

“Tell me? When, during our next FaceTime while you’re sitting in his lap?”

Haechan opened his mouth to respond, but (SOPA) Jihoon had finally stepped out of the driver’s side, leaning against the door like he had nothing to do with this. No expression. No guilt. Just full-body stoicism like he wasn’t plotting something.

Which was worse.

“Why are we here?” Haechan asked, glancing between the two of them.

Neither answered.

“What are you two planning?”

Still no answer.

Then Hanlim Jihoon stepped aside, gesturing dramatically toward the school building behind him.

“C’mon,” he said. “I’ve got a break. You’re already trending in one school, Haechan. Why not make it two?”

Haechan gulped.

Because one Jihoon was fun.

Two?

Two Jihoons — the gruff tsundere and the evil puppy, both with vengeance and mischief in their veins?

He might’ve just played himself.

And they both knew it.

---

By the time they were halfway back to SOPA territory, Haechan had his forehead pressed to the car window, mind racing.

He didn’t say anything out loud—he didn’t have to. The situation was spiraling in delicious ways.

Hanlim Jihoon, his grinning devil of a best friend, was lounging in the backseat like he owned it. Still smug about being summoned to this absurd after-school adventure and acting like he was ready to kick off the next arc of a soap opera.

(SOPA) Jihoon, on the other hand, was gripping the steering wheel like it had personally wronged him. Eyes forward. Mouth drawn tight. Probably thinking of five ways to deny the allegations in tomorrow’s gossip thread.

Except he wasn’t doing anything to stop this either.

That was the kicker.

He could’ve dropped Hanlim Jihoon back at his school.

He could’ve ignored the whole situation.

He could’ve at least denied he was helping.

But no.

He drove them straight to Haechan’s apartment building.

As if this wasn’t already a media storm in slow motion.

As if there weren’t at least a dozen SOPA students across the street right now, clustered near the convenience store, pretending not to watch the silver car as it rolled to a stop.

Haechan’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

Jihoon (Hanlim) caught his gaze. They shared a smile. A knowing one.

Oh .

So that’s how we’re playing.

He stepped out of the car before the ignition even stopped, circling around to Jihoon’s (SOPA) side with a skip in his step and a performance-ready gleam in his eye.

“Hyungggg~,” Haechan sang in a sweet whine, tugging open the driver’s door before Jihoon could unbuckle his seatbelt. “Aren’t you walking me home today too? Don’t tell me you brought both my boyfriends here just to leave me?”

He didn’t even wait for a reaction—he reached inside, grabbed Jihoon’s wrist with practiced ease, and yanked. The poor boy stumbled out of the car and nearly bumped into Haechan’s chest.

But Haechan wasn’t done.

He turned sharply and opened the back door, offering his hand to Hanlim Jihoon like some sort of mischievous prince escorting a favored consort.

“Come on, baby,” he cooed, “if he’s not gonna walk me up, you can.”

Hanlim Jihoon laughed outright, taking the hand and stepping out smoothly, slipping into Haechan’s side like this was all planned down to the second. “Of course. Anything for my spoiled Haechan.”

“Oh my god,” someone gasped across the street.

Phones were already out. One girl was visibly shaking from the effort of trying to take a clear photo while squealing.

(SOPA) Jihoon looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t deny it.

In fact, he stayed rooted in place as Haechan tucked himself between both Jihoons, one arm hooked around each boy’s. Haechan rested his head on (SOPA) Jihoon’s shoulder and held Hanlim Jihoon’s hand with his free one, radiating happiness like a cat napping in a sunbeam.

Then he very pointedly looked up and said, “Don’t they look cute together?”

(SOPA) Jihoon opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Not denial. Not protest. Just… a vague wheezing noise of confusion and internal panic.

“Do you guys want to come up?” Haechan asked cheerily, as if everyone on the block wasn’t eavesdropping. “I have leftover cheesecake. We could all cuddle on the couch and choose a movie. Maybe a rom-com! Oh wait, we’re living one.”

“SOMEONE TAKE A VIDEO,” a student whispered fiercely nearby.

Someone else already had.

Hanlim Jihoon chuckled low and leaned his head on Haechan’s. “Sure. I love when you spoil me.”

“Can I sit in the middle this time?”

“Only if you promise not to steal the blanket again.”

“Deal~!”

It was too much.

Too coordinated.

Too convincing.

And when Haechan looked up at (SOPA) Jihoon again, still leaning against his shoulder, he was stunned to see the boy hadn’t pulled away.

His jaw was tense. His expression unreadable.

But his hand?

His hand tightened on Haechan’s waist.

Haechan’s wicked grin twitched wider.

“Aw,” he said softly, just loud enough for (SOPA) Jihoon to hear. “Are you jealous?”

The response came in a low growl:

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t let go.

And across the street, someone shouted:

“OH MY GOD. TRIANGLE RELATIONSHIP CONFIRMED.”

---

Absolutely. Here's the continuation — the walk, the elevator, and Jihoon's descent into silent madness sandwiched between two menaces:

---

They walked together.

Three boys. Two Jihoons. One grinning menace in the middle.

To anyone watching, it looked coordinated. Balanced. Like a perfectly rehearsed routine. Haechan tucked himself snugly between the two boys, one arm around each—radiating warmth, drama, and way too much smug satisfaction.

(SOPA) Jihoon still hadn’t let go of his waist. And Haechan wasn’t surprised.

Jihoon walked like someone who had accepted his fate, but refused to go down without some dignity. He didn’t speak. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. His only betrayal was the subtle way his fingers pressed into Haechan’s hip every time someone on the street squealed or gasped too loud.

Haechan, naturally, leaned in more every time that happened.

They reached the lobby of his apartment, and it was blissfully empty. The chaos outside didn’t make it in. The moment the elevator doors slid open, they filed in like an oddly symmetrical triptych—Haechan on one side, Jihoon on the other…

But it was Hanlim Jihoon who moved first.

Casual as a summer breeze, he skipped a step to the side, nudging himself between the two of them and casually pressing up next to SOPA Jihoon like they’d been doing this forever.

(SOPA) Jihoon blinked.

The movement was seamless.

Calculated.

Dangerous.

Because not even two seconds later, Hanlim Jihoon had the audacity to reach down and interlock his fingers with SOPA Jihoon’s free hand.

There wasn’t even hesitation.

Just ten warm fingers slipping between ten tense ones like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Haechan watched it happen like he was witnessing art. He didn’t grin—oh no, that would give it away. He just exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes sparkling, head tilted away so Jihoon wouldn’t see the full amusement he was choking down.

SOPA Jihoon stared at the hands.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then glanced up—not at Hanlim Jihoon, but at Haechan, as if waiting for the punchline.

There was none.

Just the slow blink of innocent brown eyes and the slight curl of a knowing smile.

Because Jihoon couldn’t yell at Hanlim Jihoon.

He didn’t know him.

They were still technically strangers, save for the basic information: same name, same teenage menace they couldn’t say no to, and the same cursed entanglement of mutual chaos.

“You’re very warm,” Hanlim Jihoon said, still smiling pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just hijacked every last brain cell SOPA Jihoon had left.

The taller Jihoon made a noise in the back of his throat. Something between a grunt and a scream.

“I like warm hands,” Hanlim added, softly.

Another beat of silence.

And then, finally, finally, Jihoon managed to mutter:

“Why.”

Hanlim Jihoon beamed. “So you remember me next time.”

The elevator dinged.

They reached Haechan’s floor.

SOPA Jihoon yanked his hand back so fast you'd think he’d been burned, and Haechan—sweet Haechan—clapped his hands in faux delight and said:

“Let’s go, my boyfriends.”

And stepped out into the hallway, whistling like he wasn’t about to fake a polyamorous soft-launch in front of the entire dorm wing.

---

(SOPA) Jihoon didn’t remember agreeing to this. One moment, he was driving them both to Haechan’s apartment building, and the next—after some weird joint hypnosis or maybe a sugar crash—he found himself on Haechan’s couch, thoroughly entangled. Somehow, somewhere in that hour, the seating arrangement turned into… whatever this was. Hanlim Jihoon had ended up on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, face tucked comfortably against his chest. Haechan, not one to be left out, curled up beside him, head pillowed on Hanlim Jihoon’s thighs with the smugness of someone who’d orchestrated the whole thing. Jihoon didn’t know when his hands started moving, but now his left was stroking through Hanlim Jihoon’s fluffy hair while his right soothed over Haechan’s scalp in slow, idle motions.

They were watching volleyball.

Like, actual volleyball—some high school championship rerun with color commentary and crowd noise and everything. Jihoon had zero investment in the outcome, but he hadn’t changed the channel either. It was something to look at, at least. A distraction from the fever dream he’d wandered into. He kept telling himself he should pull away. He didn’t.

Across his lap, Hanlim Jihoon was grinning like a cat who found the cream.

He wasn’t even pretending to be sleepy anymore. Every now and then, he’d look up at Jihoon’s face just to smirk. There was no verbal teasing yet, but the way he kept nuzzling into Jihoon’s chest, shifting to get more comfortable—it was personal. Strategic. It was payback for the interlocked hand earlier, Jihoon just knew it.

Beside him, Haechan was snorting through his nose.

The little shit had been retelling the day’s entire events verbatim, from his perspective, with theatrical emphasis and exaggerated inflection. He was walking Hanlim Jihoon through the script with flourish, occasionally reenacting lines in different tones to try them out. “And then I went—‘Honeybunch~’—you should’ve seen his face!” he squeaked, clutching Hanlim’s wrist for drama. Jihoon didn’t say a word, eyes on the TV. His hand still moved gently over Haechan’s head.

It was muscle memory at this point.

He kept expecting to snap out of it, to come back to himself and demand everyone move three feet apart. But then Hanlim Jihoon tilted his head a little, letting out a pleased hum, and Haechan made a soft, content sound too—and well. Jihoon had always been good at reading subtext, and right now the subtext was warm and soft and suspiciously nice. The weight of them felt… grounding. Annoying. Weirdly comforting.

The volleyball game carried on.

Haechan was now dramatically describing the exact cadence of Jihoon’s footsteps when he arrived at the school gates that afternoon, comparing it to “a tragic second lead in a historical drama.” Hanlim Jihoon cackled openly, his chest rising with every laugh and brushing against Jihoon’s ribs. Jihoon tried not to react, but his right hand slipped lower and gave Haechan’s temple a little tap. “Exaggerating,” he muttered. It was the first word he’d said in twenty minutes. Neither of them believed he wasn’t listening.

The boys shared a look beneath Jihoon’s gaze.

One from his lap, one from his side. The smugness between them could power a small country. And Jihoon—somehow, inexplicably—felt his shoulders loosen again. He hated this. He liked this. He really, really hated how much he liked this.

Jihoon didn’t move when the episode ended.

He didn’t push them off, didn’t ask questions. He just stayed, watching the screen, one hand in each boy’s hair. And when Haechan mumbled “He’s always like this, soft with me behind the scenes,” loud enough for Hanlim Jihoon to hear, there was no protest. No glare. Just a faint twitch at the corner of Jihoon’s mouth.

---

(SOPA) Jihoon didn’t remember agreeing to this. One moment, he was driving them both to Haechan’s apartment building, and the next—after some weird joint hypnosis or maybe a sugar crash—he found himself on Haechan’s couch, thoroughly entangled. Somehow, somewhere in that hour, the seating arrangement turned into… whatever this was. Hanlim Jihoon had ended up on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, face tucked comfortably against his chest. Haechan, not one to be left out, curled up beside him, head pillowed on Hanlim Jihoon’s thighs with the smugness of someone who’d orchestrated the whole thing. Jihoon didn’t know when his hands started moving, but now his left was stroking through Hanlim Jihoon’s fluffy hair while his right soothed over Haechan’s scalp in slow, idle motions.

They were watching volleyball.

Like, actual volleyball—some high school championship rerun with color commentary and crowd noise and everything. Jihoon had zero investment in the outcome, but he hadn’t changed the channel either. It was something to look at, at least. A distraction from the fever dream he’d wandered into. He kept telling himself he should pull away. He didn’t.

Across his lap, Hanlim Jihoon was grinning like a cat who found the cream.

He wasn’t even pretending to be sleepy anymore. Every now and then, he’d look up at Jihoon’s face just to smirk. There was no verbal teasing yet, but the way he kept nuzzling into Jihoon’s chest, shifting to get more comfortable—it was personal. Strategic. It was payback for the interlocked hand earlier, Jihoon just knew it.

Beside him, Haechan was snorting through his nose.

The little shit had been retelling the day’s entire events verbatim, from his perspective, with theatrical emphasis and exaggerated inflection. He was walking Hanlim Jihoon through the script with flourish, occasionally reenacting lines in different tones to try them out. “And then I went—‘Honeybunch~’—you should’ve seen his face!” he squeaked, clutching Hanlim’s wrist for drama. Jihoon didn’t say a word, eyes on the TV. His hand still moved gently over Haechan’s head.

It was muscle memory at this point.

He kept expecting to snap out of it, to come back to himself and demand everyone move three feet apart. But then Hanlim Jihoon tilted his head a little, letting out a pleased hum, and Haechan made a soft, content sound too—and well. Jihoon had always been good at reading subtext, and right now the subtext was warm and soft and suspiciously nice. The weight of them felt… grounding. Annoying. Weirdly comforting.

The volleyball game carried on.

Haechan was now dramatically describing the exact cadence of Jihoon’s footsteps when he arrived at the school gates that afternoon, comparing it to “a tragic second lead in a historical drama.” Hanlim Jihoon cackled openly, his chest rising with every laugh and brushing against Jihoon’s ribs. Jihoon tried not to react, but his right hand slipped lower and gave Haechan’s temple a little tap. “Exaggerating,” he muttered. It was the first word he’d said in twenty minutes. Neither of them believed he wasn’t listening.

The boys shared a look beneath Jihoon’s gaze.

One from his lap, one from his side. The smugness between them could power a small country. And Jihoon—somehow, inexplicably—felt his shoulders loosen again. He hated this. He liked this. He really, really hated how much he liked this.

Jihoon didn’t move when the episode ended.

He didn’t push them off, didn’t ask questions. He just stayed, watching the screen, one hand in each boy’s hair. And when Haechan mumbled “He’s always like this, soft with me behind the scenes,” loud enough for Hanlim Jihoon to hear, there was no protest. No glare. Just a faint twitch at the corner of Jihoon’s mouth.

---

The game ended. The replays began. Neither boy moved off of him.

And Jihoon, to his own surprise, didn’t mind.

The TV droned on, distant in his ears. Haechan’s hair was softer than he expected. Hanlim Jihoon was unnervingly warm and calm, his breathing syncing too easily with Jihoon’s own. Jihoon stared blankly at the credits for a long minute.

Then, without looking down, he muttered, just barely audible between the static and silence:

“I don’t… know why.”

Two sets of eyes flicked up at him, but he didn’t meet either.

He cleared his throat, fingers still in motion like his hands had dissociated from the rest of his body. “And you better not make fun of me,” he added quickly, voice low and gruff. “I don’t even know you,” he said to the Jihoon on his lap, whose smugness didn’t waver. “But this is... I don’t know. Nice.”

Silence.

Then a deep breath.

And with a softness that betrayed how flustered he actually felt, Jihoon finished, “So if I’m ever stressed or whatever—can I... borrow both of you again? For this. Just this weird cuddle pile.”

There was a beat.

Then: “Borrow?” Hanlim Jihoon echoed, eyebrow raising.

“Jihoon-hyung, that’s the cutest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Haechan beamed, his voice teasing but just a bit too fond.

Jihoon groaned.

He regretted everything immediately.

But when neither of them moved—when the lap under his hand stayed steady, and Haechan leaned in just a little closer—he didn’t take it back.

Not yet.

Not ever. Maybe.

---

Eventually, they all sat up, the cuddling slowly unraveling like a spell that had worn off.

Haechan was in the middle now, Jihoon on his left, the other Jihoon on his right. The TV buzzed quietly in the background, the glow casting soft shadows over three teenage boys suddenly finding themselves in uncharted emotional waters. No one was touching anymore, but something else had settled: an invisible string between all three, taut but warm. Jihoon didn’t look at them. He just leaned back against the couch and exhaled slowly.

Then, Haechan opened his mouth.

“As long as we continue our fake dating, I mean—just us two.”

Hanlim Jihoon moved.

He turned so fast to slap his hand over his best friend’s mouth that the cushions dipped beneath him. “You have no sense of timing—” he hissed, already seeing the look flickering across SOPA Jihoon’s face. The secondhand embarrassment was so strong it vibrated in the air like a radio signal. But—unexpectedly, miraculously—(SOPA) Jihoon just shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Sure,” he said flatly. “But you’re the one explaining the whole three-person walk-of-shame earlier.”

Haechan blinked. “Huh?”

Jihoon gestured vaguely. “Make it very clear that the whole two-Jihoon thing was you being a dramatic gremlin trying to make me jealous, which—by the way—did not work, obviously,” he added, tone very serious. “And also clarify that you two”—he pointed a finger at Hanlim Jihoon now—“are best friends. Nothing else. No triad. No poly-boyfriends. You got that?”

Predictably, Haechan swooned.

“Oh my god, you do love me,” he whispered dramatically, curling his hands into his chest.

Jihoon gave him a look.

Hanlim Jihoon, meanwhile, blinked once… then slowly started to grin.

His expression turned fond, easy. The kind of smile you only reserve for someone you’ve known for years. “Well,” he said, drawing out the word, “as much as I did enjoy the cuddles and the hand-holding…”

He turned to SOPA Jihoon and added, “I do have a girlfriend.”

Jihoon’s brow rose just slightly.

“She knows how clingy Haechan and I are,” Hanlim continued casually, “and she doesn’t mind. She’s used to us acting like a married couple anyway.”

There was a beat.

Then Hanlim’s eyes glittered with mischief. “But yes, Haechan. You really should clarify everything.”

His grin widened.

“Especially since your classmates are already planning your wedding.”

—

Haechan didn’t even bother hiding the grin blooming across his face. His eyes sparkled with mischief, the kind that spelled trouble ten miles ahead. “Well,” he drawled, dragging the word like it was honey, “since the cat’s already out of the bag and I know some SOPA kids are lurking like pigeons outside, I’ll just call Aeri.” Hanlim Jihoon looked up sharply, already sensing the chaos brewing. “So that you, my dear clingy best friend, get to exit the building with your actual girlfriend later,” Haechan added, sickeningly sweet. “Damage control and all.”

Hanlim groaned but didn’t stop him. SOPA Jihoon raised an eyebrow, vaguely intrigued but mostly exhausted. Meanwhile, Haechan had already unlocked his phone, thumb tapping quickly on his screen. The contact name that flashed was dramatic even for him: [Aeri-berry 💅💖🔥🍓]. He hit the call button and leaned back against the couch, voice syrupy sweet by the time it connected. “My most favorite person in the entire world, hello~” he cooed.

The effect on the other two was immediate. Hanlim rolled his eyes but smiled, resigned to Haechan’s theater. SOPA Jihoon glanced sideways at the sudden tonal shift, looking confused and vaguely disturbed. “Can you come pick up our shared puppy from my apartment?” Haechan continued, still dripping with affection. “Don’t worry, I’ll cook dinner—my special dinner, the one you like—before you go home.” The grin in his voice was audible now. “We also have a surprise guest here. It’s kind of a full house.”

There was a muffled response on the other end—sharp, fond, and probably laced with playful insults. Hanlim Jihoon leaned over and made a slicing motion at Haechan’s throat, mouthing don’t say anything weird. Naturally, Haechan winked and doubled down. “Yes, your Jihoon is here. He’s been such a good boy, so docile and well-behaved. I knew you’d want to be the one to take him home,” he added with fake innocence. His best friend visibly twitched.

Haechan ended the call with a little hum, satisfied, and dropped the phone onto his lap. “She’s on her way,” he announced cheerfully. “Give her twenty minutes, tops.” Hanlim Jihoon shook his head with a half-laugh, leaning his head back against the cushion. “You’re dangerous,” he muttered. “I should’ve told her to bring a leash.”

SOPA Jihoon gave him a dry look, arms crossed as he reclined into the armrest. “So just to be clear,” he said slowly, “you staged a fake triangle, summoned a real girlfriend, and now you’re feeding all of this to a rumor mill that thinks I’m your blushing secret boyfriend.” Haechan, smug as ever, tilted his head with a smile that dared either of them to challenge him. “I mean, when you say it like that, it sounds extra,” he replied, clearly not denying it. “But it’s also true.” Hanlim Jihoon snorted. “He’s always been like this. Welcome to my life.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that almost threatened sincerity. SOPA Jihoon looked at the two of them—one best friend too smug for his own good, and one chaos engine disguised as a boy—and sighed deeply. “Fine,” he muttered under his breath. “But if this gets any worse, I’m making you two walk around school with couple rings while I wear noise-canceling headphones.” Haechan perked up. “You’d let me buy rings?” Hanlim just groaned into a cushion.

SOPA Jihoon glared toward the ceiling, visibly regretting every decision that had brought him here. Hanlim Jihoon tossed a pillow at Haechan, who caught it mid-air and hugged it like a trophy. “So,” Haechan chirped, absolutely unbothered, “anyone want brownies while we wait for Aeri?” “Only if they’re not poisoned,” SOPA Jihoon deadpanned. “No promises,” Hanlim replied. And for once, all three of them laughed at the same time.

—

The kitchen had become a synchronized dance of chaos and comfort. Hanlim Jihoon moved around with ease, grabbing pots and utensils like he lived there—which, for all intents and purposes, he kind of did. Haechan was laser-focused, flitting from stove to cutting board, from fridge to sink, each dish becoming a canvas for his drama. He chopped green onions with flair, stirred kimchi jjigae like it was an emotional monologue, and flipped bulgogi with the kind of smugness that only came from knowing exactly how good he was at this. Every now and then, he called for a taste-tester—only one person, of course. “Jihoonie~ open up~”

SOPA Jihoon had stopped resisting after the third spoon.

The first had been an ambush, complete with a ridiculous “say ah~” and a spoon too close to duck from. The second came with gentle blowing, followed by a wide-eyed warning: “It’s hot, baby, careful~”. The third had been delivered with a smug smile and a “You’re my quality control!” while Hanlim Jihoon cackled over the mixing station. By the fourth, SOPA Jihoon just opened his mouth on autopilot, half glaring, half red in the face. And every single time, Haechan looked like he was about to burst into delighted laughter.

Hanlim Jihoon, meanwhile, played bartender like a smug menace.

“Caramel latte for my sweet girlfriend,” he muttered, topping it with delicate foam and crushed toffee. “Iced Americano for the grumpy hyung in the living room.” He raised an eyebrow when SOPA Jihoon grunted in approval. “Melon smoothie for me, of course.” He tasted it, nodded once, then started shaking a final drink. “And sweet iced tea for the drama queen trying to seduce our houseguest via soup.”

The house smelled like heaven and felt like a sitcom set.

SOPA Jihoon remained stubbornly glued to the couch, too tired to escape, too cornered by affection to try. Haechan straddled the couch right in front of him now, bouncing slightly as he held up a suspiciously orange bowl of tteokbokki soup. “This one’s not spicy,” he lied through the most innocent grin. “Cross my heart.” He even had one hand behind his back, fingers very obviously crossed.

That was when the door beeped.

Aeri walked in like she owned the place, because, in some ways, she did. She kicked off her shoes, holding a tote bag in one hand and a phone in the other, mid-scroll. “Puppy, you better be done mixing, I’m hungr—” She froze. Then stared. Because there was Haechan on top of someone (usual sight) who wasn’t her boyfriend (unusual sight), cooing and blowing on a spoon like he was about to spoon-feed them on national television.

Hanlim Jihoon collapsed on the floor in wheezing laughter.

He pointed at the two on the couch without saying a word, just gasping through giggles. Aeri blinked, blinked again, and tilted her head slowly. “I—okay,” she said finally, eyebrows lifting. “Why does Haechan look like he’s halfway through a very elaborate proposal to a stranger?” SOPA Jihoon groaned. “I’ve been held hostage. Emotionally. And culinarily.”

Haechan just beamed.

“Aeri~” he cooed, still bouncing slightly on Jihoon’s lap. “Meet Jihoonie~ not our Jihoonie, but mine .” He gestured grandly toward SOPA Jihoon who looked like he wanted to melt into the upholstery. “He’s shy, so I’m helping him break out of his shell with soup and love.” She just shook her head and found her way to a seat in front of the kitchen, already used to his antics.

Haechan didn’t miss a beat once Aeri was seated. “Aeri Uchinaga,” he announced dramatically, arm draped over the back of SOPA Jihoon’s chair. “My best friend’s girlfriend, my common sense conscience, and the only person in this room smarter than all of us combined.” Aeri gave a graceful little wave, one leg crossed over the other, the perfect picture of calm in a room full of chaos. “She studies at Seoul National University High School,” Haechan continued, gesturing as if unveiling a rare exhibit. “Prestigious, untouchable, terrifyingly good at math and glaring when I sneak into their library uninvited.”

SOPA Jihoon blinked. “You sneak into other schools’ libraries?” Haechan grinned. “What? Their aircon’s better.” Hanlim Jihoon hummed, sipping his iced americano. “He does that a lot. Staff assumes he’s a transfer student with confidence issues. He's done that in Hanlim too.”

Once the introductions were done and dinner was served—bowls of warm jjigae, plates of sushi, the smell of bulgogi filling the space—Haechan launched into his favorite pastime: storytelling. “So it all started Sunday,” he began, pointing his spoon. “I went to the gym to annoy my best friend, naturally, and got a message from our Jihoon.” He turned to Aeri, who nodded knowingly. “Anyway, I thought he was there, and never thought that this Jihoon would also be there, so I came in yelling ‘PARK JIHOON’ like I was summoning a final boss. Turns out this Jihoon,” he nudged SOPA Jihoon, “was already in the room.”

SOPA Jihoon sighed mid-chew. “It was an ambush.” Aeri covered her mouth to hide her laughter, while Hanlim Jihoon calmly popped another piece of sushi into his mouth. “And then,” Haechan continued, “we had a moment. Not a romantic one, obviously.” He winked. “But it looked like one.”

From there, Haechan recapped every moment with great detail—the post-gym confusion, the spontaneous potato-sack carry, the cursed car drop-off at his apartment, the hand-holding exit during the earthquake, the infamous stumble on Jihoon’s feet during the aftershock, and, of course, the escalated chaos of fake jealousy and the not-a-triad. The only thing he didn't mention was the recording room, that was too intimate for Haechan to even share. Aeri leaned forward, elbows on the table, visibly entertained. “You little menaces,” she said fondly. “The whole internet thinks you’re a walking love triangle. I ship it.” Haechan clasped his hands like a monk. Hanlim Jihoon choked on his bulgogi, gaping at his girlfriend.

SOPA Jihoon finally set his chopsticks down and spoke. “Okay but… are you sure you’re fine with all of this?” he asked Aeri, expression deadpan but genuinely curious. “I mean, the thread’s been leaked beyond SOPA. It’s on every high school forum in Seoul now. Including SNU’s.” Haechan’s head whipped around in panic, hand shooting toward Jihoon’s mouth, but he was too late.

Aeri just laughed. Her laugh was bright, unbothered, and completely sincere. “I’ve known these two since we were babies.” she said, smiling as she gestured to Haechan and Hanlim Jihoon. “Our families go way back. If I lost sleep every time these two fake-flirted, I’d be dead.” She sipped her latte. “I trust my boyfriend. And I’m not afraid of Haechan.”

“In fact,” she added, setting her cup down with flair, “there will be times when Haechan and I are also clingy.” She looked directly at SOPA Jihoon with a raised brow. “He’s a built-in heater, and winter is coming.” Haechan beamed, flattered. “Fake dating or not,” Aeri went on, “can you handle that?” SOPA Jihoon froze, mouth slightly open. Hanlim Jihoon looked way too amused.

The four of them sat at that table, warmth from the food and the banter thick in the air. Haechan leaned back in his seat, gaze shifting between the two Jihoons and his favorite third party. “So... we're all good then?” he asked, half-cheeky, half-serious. Hanlim Jihoon gave a lazy thumbs up. Aeri nodded, content. SOPA Jihoon reached for his drink and muttered under his breath, “As long as no one else tries to feed me soup while straddling me in front of many people, sure.”

—

True to his chaotic but strangely sincere nature, Haechan made the official clarification post that Tuesday evening, just a couple of hours after his guests had left. The SOPA forum lit up once again, this time not with scandal, but with what everyone considered a romantic, grounded explanation from the source himself. In the post, Haechan wrote (with dramatic flourish, of course) that yes, his Park Jihoon and he were very much together. He added, with just enough smugness to sound smitten, that the other Park Jihoon—the one that fans had suspected was part of a love triangle—was actually the long-time boyfriend of the Aeri Uchinaga from SNU High School. “If you don’t know her, your future job will,” he quipped. And because Haechan’s reputation was less ‘attention-seeker’ and more ‘chaotic but honest menace,’ no one doubted him.

Naturally, it made waves.

The school forums blew up with a mixture of relieved sighs, new ship names for just Haechan & SOPA Jihoon, and praises of how respectful Haechan was for setting the record straight. That Wednesday morning, the courtyard felt different—as if the collective student body had finally settled into the reality of their newest power couple. Haechan had arrived earlier than most, chatting animatedly with his friends on the front steps, sun catching the honey-brown in his hair as he laughed. “Professor Qian is cooking something intense,” one friend said. “I heard it’s Sondheim this time,” another added. “Into The Woods?” Haechan just grinned wide, “If I don’t get to belt onstage this semester, I’ll personally rearrange the piano.”

They were in the middle of dissecting musical theory when a low murmur rippled nearby.

Jihoon had arrived.

Not in a grand entrance sort of way—just quietly, like he always did, slinking through the growing crowd with his hands in his pockets and the weight of a few too many stares on his back. He didn’t say anything when he reached Haechan. Just sat behind him on the steps and placed Haechan’s bag beside his own, like they’d done this every morning for months. To anyone watching, it looked like casual, quiet devotion.

To Haechan?

It looked like victory.

He tilted his head back slightly, enough for Jihoon to catch the knowing little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re late,” he whispered. Jihoon rolled his eyes, then nudged Haechan’s shoulder with his knee. “I’m five minutes early.” “Exactly,” Haechan chirped. “You’re late for me.”

Despite having absolutely zero context about the musical discussion, Jihoon didn’t move when Haechan kept talking.

He sat there, enduring the jokes and banter from Haechan’s friends, offering only the occasional shrug or grunt, which the crowd immediately interpreted as him being ‘cool’ and ‘mysteriously supportive.’ When one girl pointed out that they looked cute together, Jihoon blinked, then sighed in such a tired tone that the group laughed like he was just embarrassed. “He’s being shy again,” Haechan giggled, leaning back and bumping his head against Jihoon’s knee with practiced familiarity. Jihoon didn’t push him off. Instead, he handed Haechan his timetable, neatly folded and already matched with the one Haechan sent last night.

With two minutes left before the bell, Jihoon stood and slung both his and Haechan’s bags over one shoulder.

He didn’t say a word, just offered a hand to Haechan who took it like it was the most natural thing in the world. The entire front courtyard practically shimmered with adoration and poorly concealed stares. “See you guys later,” Haechan waved to his friends with a dramatic wink, walking alongside Jihoon. “My Jihoonie’s walking me to class~” he sang. Jihoon muttered under his breath, “You’re lucky I’m pretending.”

But it didn’t matter if Jihoon was pretending or not. To everyone else, the theater kid and the dance major were written in the stars.

They didn’t talk much as they walked to class, which wasn’t unusual—Jihoon didn’t waste words unless he had to. But just before they reached the hallway that split toward their separate departments, Jihoon’s hand casually reached out and took Haechan’s. No warning, no teasing smirk. Just a quiet, deliberate interlock of fingers like it was nothing special. Except it was, and Haechan short-circuited for a full second before covering it with a bright grin. “You’re really committing to the bit, huh?” he said, voice light, teasing.

Jihoon didn’t answer, just kept walking.

And to every other student in the hallway, it looked like a boyfriend showing a rare soft gesture—grumpy tsundere showing warmth only to his sunshine partner. There were at least five audible sighs from girls nearby. A couple guys clapped Jihoon’s shoulder in passing like he just unlocked a new boyfriend level. One of Haechan’s juniors actually whispered, “They’re getting serious now, huh?” loud enough for Jihoon to hear. Jihoon didn’t even flinch.

Haechan, meanwhile, was fighting a full-body reaction to how normal it felt.

He was used to being the one in control, the one who teased, led, poked, and pushed. He wasn’t used to Jihoon doing something first—especially something that could be taken as affectionate. And so, instead of teasing him for it like he usually would, Haechan kept quiet. He just grinned wider, exaggeratedly swinging their interlocked hands between them. Like he was holding a flag of victory.

But that wasn’t the whole story, not really.

Because even if it was just a little win in their fake-dating scheme, it still flustered him. A part of him wasn’t sure if Jihoon did it to keep up the act—or if it had quietly stopped being an act at some point. That little maybe crawled into Haechan’s chest and sat there, a ticklish thing. But he didn’t poke at it. Not yet. Instead, he leaned a little into Jihoon’s side and hummed like he was walking in a rom-com montage.

“Swing it higher,” Haechan chirped under his breath, voice playful again.

Jihoon sighed but didn’t resist as Haechan made a whole scene of swinging their arms like overexcited toddlers on a sugar rush. The students behind them laughed softly, one girl filming it on her phone while whispering, “They’re so in love, aren’t they?” Haechan grinned wider, teeth and all, keeping his gaze straight ahead so Jihoon wouldn’t see his ears tint red. Jihoon, for his part, didn’t let go. He didn’t smile either, but his steps synced perfectly with Haechan’s exaggerated bounce.

When they reached the door to Haechan’s class, Jihoon let go of his hand wordlessly.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just gave Haechan’s forehead a flick and turned around to head to his own department. “See you later, sunshine,” he tossed over his shoulder, tone flat but not unfriendly. Haechan stayed frozen for two seconds before breaking into a wide grin. Victory was his—but it felt oddly…earned. And warm.

Warm enough to last until lunch.

—

Lunchtime always promised chaos at SOPA, but Haechan hadn’t expected to find the epicenter of it swirling around his Jihoon. He stood frozen by the cafeteria’s double doors, tray in hand, as a cluster of overdone, too-loud cheerleaders—both male and female—hovered around Jihoon like moths to a flame. They were talking over each other, voices shrill, whining, pushing, demanding. “You’re not really dating that airhead, right?” one girl asked, flipping her hair with enough force to smack the poor freshman behind her. “Come on, Jihoon, you can do so much better.” Haechan raised a brow. Airhead? Oh, honey, he was flattered.

But even from across the cafeteria, he could see Jihoon wasn’t having it.

His shoulders were tense, jaw tight, one hand still stubbornly clenching the plastic bottle of his untouched iced americano. He wasn’t confirming anything—Haechan knew that body language too well—but he wasn’t denying it either. Jihoon’s friends were around him too, helping him shove persistent bodies away, reclaiming his space like an act of war. One friend even barked, “You don’t talk to him like that.” Still, the group refused to scatter.

That is, until Jihoon looked up and locked eyes with Haechan.

Something shifted in an instant. Jihoon straightened, lips curling ever so slightly—not a smile, but something close. Then, loud enough to carry across the cafeteria but not theatrical: “Love, over here.” He patted the now-cleared bench beside him with two firm slaps. It wasn’t even for show—Jihoon looked dead serious, daring anyone to question it.

Haechan floated across the room like a rom-com protagonist entering his final act.

He was halfway to the table, tray steady, pride swelling in his chest when it happened—shove. A male cheerleader who clearly didn’t know when to quit pushed him from the side, sending him sliding unceremoniously onto the bench. Haechan’s tray clattered, his iced tea tipping, the chopsticks bouncing off the table with a loud clink. His knee hit the edge, thankfully he's already wearing knee pads from the previous class and didn't remove it. The entire cafeteria gasped while Jihoon froze for only a beat, and then he exploded.

Without hesitation, Jihoon pushed the guy—flat-palmed, right in the face—with a brutal shove that sent the cheerleader stumbling back several steps. Jihoon’s glare was pure ice, no hesitation, no apology. “Touch him again,” he hissed, “and I’ll break your wrist.” Silence followed. Even the usual loudmouths had nothing to say. Jihoon turned his back to the shocked crowd without another glance and crouched down to Haechan’s level.

“You good?” Jihoon asked, not softly but not unkindly either. He reached to grab Haechan’s tray—what was salvageable, anyway—and then extended the other hand to help him up. Haechan didn’t say anything, just blinked in stunned silence as Jihoon dusted off his knee. “That asshole dropped your food,” Jihoon muttered darkly. Then to his friends, “We’re leaving these garbages here. Grab the food. Search for a table far away from these trashes. We’re ordering again.”

And that was how Haechan found himself led across the cafeteria like royalty.

Jihoon on one side, Jihoon’s two friends flanking them, arms full of drinks and salvaged sides. The rest of the cafeteria parted for them like they were Moses and the Red Sea. Haechan could hear murmurs trailing them, louder now: “They are dating,” “I wish someone protected me like that,” “That guy’s about to get suspended, but worth it.” Haechan couldn’t stop grinning. Jihoon pulled out a chair for him when they found a new table and said, “Sit. I’m ordering again. You’re not eating food touched by them.”

And despite everything, Haechan felt oddly warm.

It wasn’t just about protection. It was Jihoon choosing him, in front of everyone. Not even pretending. Just choosing. And for once, Haechan didn’t say anything clever—he just stared after Jihoon with a dumb, lovesick smile on his face as the whispers around him morphed into worship.

---

Haechan barely waited five seconds after Jihoon left the table before whipping out his phone like a man on a mission. His fingers flew across the screen, typing up the blow-by-blow in the private group chat with (Hanlim) Jihoon and Aeri. The chat was originally just for roasting their families’ weird generational quirks, but somehow had morphed into their own mini intelligence hub. =  YOU GUYS. MY JIHOON CALLED ME “LOVE” IN THE CAFETERIA. Someone tried to push me and he almost committed a war crime in front of 100 students. No, I didn’t cry. Yes, he wiped me down with a towel like a K-drama ML.

(Hanlim) Jihoon’s reply: We ride at dawn.

Aeri, of course, just sent laughing stickers.

When Jihoon returned, he did so with quiet efficiency and a fresh tray loaded with Haechan’s comfort food. Kimchi jjigae steaming gently, sweet iced tea balanced with extra honey packets, and two red bean jelly packets because “you sulk without dessert,” apparently. Haechan beamed up at him, ready to tease—but stopped short at the sight of Jihoon rifling through his backpack. From it, Jihoon retrieved a soft hand towel and began wiping down Haechan’s arm, shirt, and sleeve, meticulously checking for any stray tea stains. “Don’t move,” he muttered, voice sharp but hands gentle. Haechan didn’t dare blink.

He knew what this was—Jihoon fussing, because fussing was safer than saying “I was worried.”

It wasn’t like Jihoon wanted the entire cafeteria to think he was Haechan’s doting boyfriend, but clearly that ship had sailed—and maybe sunk dramatically like the Titanic, too. Still, Jihoon didn’t pause, didn’t flinch, just wiped, then sat down with a clenched jaw and eyes that dared anyone to say a word. His friends across the table—Woojin and Minhyun—had the grace to pretend they weren’t watching the full domestic display. They were already discussing contingency plans for when the cheerleaders inevitably twisted the story. “We’ll say they were crowding Jihoon first,” Minhyun muttered. “Then pushed Haechan.”

Woojin scoffed. “They don’t even have a case.”

Jihoon barely looked up. “Cafeteria’s full of witnesses. I didn’t say anything when they were throwing words.” He grabbed his drink, stirring it with a straw. “They laid a hand on him. That’s it.” It was said so simply, so flatly, as if it were just a matter of universal law. Haechan tried not to melt on the spot.

That didn’t stop his cheeks from heating up, though.

Because Jihoon wasn’t pretending to be pissed. That protectiveness? That wasn’t an act. Jihoon’s tone wasn’t for performance—it was possessiveness that snuck out like a reflex. “You didn’t have to do all that,” Haechan muttered softly, but Jihoon didn’t respond, just nudged the honey packet toward him like it was the final word. And maybe it was.

Haechan ripped it open and stirred it into his tea.

He peeked at Jihoon from the corner of his eye, half-smiling as he chewed on his food. “You’re lucky I love being doted on,” he whispered. Jihoon didn’t answer. But Haechan caught the slight twitch in his lips, the kind that always preceded a scoff or a sigh or some insult wrapped in concern. He kicked Jihoon’s shin under the table. Jihoon kicked him back.

Everything felt weirdly… normal.

Even his friends weren’t blinking anymore; they just accepted the dynamic like it had always been this way. Haechan chatted between bites, occasionally texting updates in the group chat while keeping his foot lightly pressed against Jihoon’s under the table. Jihoon let it happen, didn’t kick again. Woojin passed a salt packet across the table, muttering, “You two are giving me a headache.” Minhyun only grinned. “You think they’re soft in public? Imagine what they’re like alone.”

Haechan almost choked on his jjigae—and Jihoon absolutely choked on his drink. Jihoon hissed at his older friend under his breath. “Shut up.” But the damage was already done—Haechan had recovered faster than anyone expected, straightening in his seat with a devilish glint in his eye and fluttering his lashes like some lovesick ingénue in a sitcom. Jihoon tried to ignore it, really tried, but his hand betrayed him by reaching across the tray and dumping more bulgogi into Haechan’s plate like muscle memory. The little shit giggled and murmured, “Aw, you do love me,” before biting into his food with a hum. Jihoon rolled his eyes, muttered something about “choking hazard,” and resumed eating.

His friends just snorted into their drinks like this was routine now.

Minhyun leaned closer to Woojin, nudging him. “He always does that with his mom too, y’know. Tries to pretend he’s all gruff but then ends up plating everyone’s food.”

Woojin nodded sagely. “Love language is through food. Bet you five bucks he offers dessert next.”

They both turned to watch the scene unfold like curious researchers studying rare animals in the wild.

Haechan noticed, of course he did, but he pretended not to.

Instead, he leaned closer to Jihoon, barely keeping his laughter in. “You’re so generous today, Jihoonie.”

The other students seated at surrounding tables were whispering too, unable to look away.

Rumors already painted Jihoon as the tsundere boyfriend—Haechan being the dramatic sunshine-type only amplified the fantasy.

Someone snapped a discreet photo of Jihoon mid-action, hand halfway through passing Haechan a honey packet.

Another pair of girls giggled behind their hands as they typed on their phones, probably posting about how “he spoils him so much” or “Haechan’s doing the Lord’s work taming Jihoon.”

It was kind of insane, honestly, the power this fake relationship was developing.

And it didn’t help that Jihoon, again, didn’t deny a damn thing.

Even Haechan was starting to wonder if Jihoon forgot they were pretending.

“I should get hurt more often,” Haechan teased, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at Jihoon dreamily.

“Don’t push it,” Jihoon replied without heat, but he didn’t move away either.

Their trays were emptying steadily, but neither seemed in a rush to get up.

Around them, the cafeteria buzzed with the kind of energy that only high school gossip could stir up.

Photos were circulating. The thread was probably already updated.

It was only a matter of time before they hit the front page of the forum again.

Haechan pulled out his phone and refreshed the SOPA thread.

Sure enough, a new post was rising in the comments.

“They’re sharing food in the cafeteria now?? He’s feeding him tteokbokki!!!”

“SOMEONE TAKE VIDEOS.”

He grinned wickedly and didn’t even try to hide it.

“Hey, Jihoon,” he murmured, voice all sugar, “you’re trending again.”

Jihoon’s eye twitched, but his chopsticks were already picking up another piece of meat for Haechan.

“Then at least let me feed you something spicy this time so you shut up.”

He held the bulgogi up, eyebrows raised in silent challenge.

Haechan parted his lips dramatically. “Aah~”

Across the cafeteria, a collective squeal erupted.

Jihoon shoved the meat into his mouth and sighed. He was going to lose his mind.

—

The bell rang, echoing through the halls with its usual sharp finality. Students buzzed, scattering into classrooms like ants under sunlight, but Haechan was not in a rush. In fact, he was walking the opposite direction of where his class was, trailing beside Jihoon with a spring in his step and hands stuffed in his blazer pockets. Jihoon kept throwing him side-eyes like he was trying to calculate how much brain cell Haechan was sacrificing just to be here. “You’re late,” Jihoon murmured, finally breaking. “You walked past your literature room, I saw Minjeong’s face.” Haechan just grinned and nudged him with his elbow.

“Consider this repayment,” he replied airily, “for defending my honor.”

Jihoon didn’t say anything to that, but he didn’t stop walking either.

His strides were slow enough for Haechan to keep up, and even if his face was blank, Haechan could tell he was thinking.

Probably wondering why this felt so natural.

Probably reminding himself they weren’t real.

Haechan didn’t care. He walked his fake boyfriend like it was the most obvious thing to do after lunch and bullies and bulgogi.

By the time they reached the music wing, the hall had thinned to stragglers.

Professor Kim’s door was open, and the faint notes of a piano drifted from within.

Jihoon slowed, glancing at Haechan with a face that clearly said, Go now, you idiot.

But Haechan only stepped closer, reaching up to brush Jihoon’s shoulder lightly with his hand.

Then, with practiced innocence and precision, he leaned in and kissed Jihoon’s cheek.

Just to the left, out of Professor Kim’s line of sight, but perfectly within the cheerleaders’ view.

The gasp that followed was delicious.

Haechan didn’t look, didn’t gloat, didn’t even laugh—just smiled up at Jihoon with those wide, cherubic eyes that he knew made Jihoon’s life harder.

Jihoon blinked like he’d been electrocuted. His hands had already moved, catching Haechan’s blazer and pulling him slightly forward, an instinct he hadn’t meant to reveal.

It was only a second. But it was a second too long.

He let go quickly, the touch falling away like water, but the weight of it lingered.

And then—hell, why not—he bent down and kissed the top of Haechan’s head, lips brushing messy strands of brown.

Haechan didn’t linger.

He turned on his heel and bolted, muttering something about Professor Bae murdering him if he hit the five-minute mark.

Jihoon watched the blur of black hair and limbs disappear around the corner, chaos trailing behind him like confetti.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, ran a hand through his hair, and then turned toward the classroom.

The cheerleaders hadn’t moved. Their eyes were round, mouths open, and whispers already beginning.

Jihoon didn’t give them the satisfaction.

He walked straight past their row, straight to the front.

Front row seats, right under Professor Kim’s line of sight.

It was territory Jihoon usually avoided like the plague—it was where students who wanted to be called on sat.

But right now? He wanted to be as far from the peanut gallery as possible.

He dropped into the chair next to three students he knew were dating each other, all of them too preoccupied with their own soap opera to care about his.

It was safe here. The chaos could rot behind him.

From behind, he could still feel the stare of one of those cheerleaders named Ruby burning into the back of his head.

And maybe it was in his imagination, but he swore he heard someone whisper, “He kissed his hair, did you see?”

Jihoon pulled out his notebook and pen, flipped to a blank page, and forced himself to focus.

He ignored the flutter of warmth in his chest.

He ignored how natural it felt to tug Haechan close.

And most of all, he ignored the smile tugging at his lips.

—

The echo of bouncing volleyballs filled the SOPA gymnasium, the sound weaving in and out of the low roar of student chatter. Jihoon stepped into the space without much fanfare, moving almost instinctively toward the bleachers where he knew Haechan’s circle usually congregated. He spotted Minjeong first, her platinum blonde hair practically glowing under the gym’s harsh lights. Ryujin, Yuna, Chaeryeong, and Yizhou flanked her, all watching the game with fierce, focused energy. Jihoon slipped in beside them without saying anything, just nodding once when Yuna scooted over to make room. “They’ve done five match points already,” Yizhou whispered, not looking at him. “It keeps tying. Haechan’s team is gassed, but he won’t stop.” Jihoon didn’t reply, only shifted forward to rest his arms on his knees as he scanned the court. Sure enough, there he was — Lee Donghyuck, dancing on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on the ball like it owed him rent.

The second their eyes met, Haechan lit up like a thousand-watt bulb. He grinned like he’d just been handed the final puzzle piece to win the game, then waved so enthusiastically his entire arm looked like it might detach. Jihoon blinked once, then begrudgingly raised his hand halfway, just enough to acknowledge him. His ears burned as Ryujin let out a barely concealed squeal beside him. “God, he’s so obvious,” Chaeryeong whispered with a grin. “Can you blame him? Jihoon came to watch him,” Yuna added, dreamy-eyed. Jihoon stared forward, jaw clenched, pretending he didn’t hear that. Haechan turned away from the bleachers and doubled his efforts, taking over the game like he had rockets in his shoes. Jihoon didn’t say a word, but everyone around him could see it — the faint twitch at the corner of his lips. The one that meant he was proud.

The match roared back to life, students cheering louder with every point Haechan's team closed in. His limbs moved with a kind of liquid sharpness, grace married to ferocity, the kind that turned a high school game into a stage performance. His teammates practically gasped for air between plays, but Haechan was sprinting, diving, spiking like it was his only job. The other team couldn’t keep up. When they finally hit 72 points, the bleachers practically vibrated from the noise. Then, just as Jihoon leaned forward again, Professor Chittaphon paused the game, raising his mic to his lips. “Lee Donghyuck,” he said into the gym’s speaker system, “you’ve got an unnatural amount of energy. Drank something special before this set?” There was a stunned silence — the implication of doping hung like smog. Jihoon’s eyes narrowed, and the girls next to him all straightened like pulled threads.

Haechan’s face didn’t fall, but it froze. For half a second, he looked like someone had slapped him — then the mask slid back into place, smile sharp like a blade. Minjeong stood first, clearly about to shout, but Ryujin grabbed her arm and shook her head. It didn’t matter — other students were already shouting back. “Don’t accuse him of cheating!” “He’s just good!” “Unfair, sir!” Jihoon, still seated, only said five words: “That was wildly unprofessional, sir.” But the tone in his voice carried through the chaos like a knife through silk. The gym stilled for a moment. Professor Chittaphon muttered something and gestured to resume. No apology. Jihoon stared, blank-faced, even as Haechan nodded once and got back into position.

The final set was brutal. Jihoon counted every point like they were clock ticks. Haechan didn’t stop — he was relentless, like he had something to prove. When it ended at 75–68, there was no roaring celebration. Haechan fist-bumped his team, grinning tightly, already wiping sweat from his forehead. Jihoon stood quietly as the class was dismissed, only a few students lingering around the bleachers and exits. He knew Haechan would go shower, so he waited. He didn’t think about why he was waiting. Not until he noticed Yuna flinch, body pressed against Minjeong’s side. Jihoon’s gaze followed hers and found a group of seniors — both male and female — closing in like vultures. Ryujin had already stepped in front, but they were crowding the girl anyway.

Jihoon didn’t hesitate. He rose from his seat, stepped over the row, and placed himself firmly between Yuna and the approaching seniors. “Problem?” he asked, voice calm and quiet. One of the boys sneered. “Don’t butt in. You already have a boyfriend, don’t you? Let someone else have the pretty girl.” Jihoon didn’t even blink. “She's seventeen. You're nearly nineteen. Try that again, and I will make it a problem.” The group quieted. Minjeong gave him a proud smirk, but Jihoon kept his eyes on the retreating figures until they vanished. Yuna mumbled a thank-you and Jihoon waved it off. “They touch you again, I’ll break fingers,” he muttered, walking back to the row.

By then, the gym doors burst open again. In came Haechan, towel draped around his neck, skin flushed pink from heat and steam. “Sorry, sorry! Took forever,” he panted. Then he beamed when he spotted Jihoon, bounding over without shame. “Honey~ You waited~” he chirped like they were in the middle of a rom-com. Jihoon raised an eyebrow, already reaching for the towel. He didn’t even fight it when he started drying Haechan’s hair for him, fingers carding through damp strands like it was second nature. Minjeong cooed, Yizhou giggled, and Chaeryeong snapped a picture that she’d definitely post later. Ryujin whispered something about “soft boyfriends” and Jihoon caught none of it — or pretended not to.

“You’re feeding the rumors,” Jihoon muttered, rubbing the towel against the back of Haechan’s head. Haechan leaned into the touch like a smug cat. “I’m feeding your soul,” he said with a wink. Jihoon sighed, but didn’t push him away. “Fake or not, you’re stuck with me now,” Haechan added. Jihoon snorted and finally stepped back. “I regret everything.” “No, you don’t.” Their friends didn’t interrupt. Why would they? This wasn’t fake to them. This was just Jihoon and Haechan being hopelessly — obviously — in love.

When they exited the gym together, Jihoon let Haechan drape an arm around his shoulders. “You looked cool today,” Haechan said casually. “You stood up for me.” Jihoon rolled his eyes. “The professor was out of line.” “Still. You came to watch me.” Jihoon didn’t reply, but Haechan felt the shift in his body — softer, more relaxed. “Thanks,” he whispered. Jihoon’s only answer was a hand brushing Haechan’s wrist. Just once. Just enough.

Chapter Text

The car was quiet for a while, just the low hum of traffic and the steady click of the turn signal at every stop. Jihoon wasn’t the best at comforting people — especially when it came to things that cut deeper than bruises. He could see it though. The way Haechan stared out the window, fingers curled just slightly, like he was still holding back something ugly and loud in his chest. Then, without turning, Haechan muttered, “I know he’s just some washed-up performer who ended up teaching because he plateaued at twenty-five, but still…” Jihoon glanced at him once, saw the tension in his jaw, then back to the road.

“I don’t want to hear ‘you were amazing’ or ‘don’t listen to him’ or any of that,” Haechan added a second later. “Just… be here, yeah?” Jihoon didn’t say anything, just tapped the steering wheel once with his finger in acknowledgement. “And technically, there’s no one in the car,” Haechan continued, shifting to lean against the window a little more, “so we don’t need to fake it right now.” Jihoon almost responded — almost — but instead just flicked the turn signal and changed lanes. The silence was comfortable now, not heavy. Haechan reached forward and turned on the car’s Bluetooth, scrolling through his phone.

When the car filled with soft synths and basslines — some dreamy R&B track that matched the atmosphere — Haechan finally relaxed. He curled one leg up into the passenger seat, cheek pressed to the cool window glass, watching Seoul blur past them. Jihoon didn’t ask where they were headed. He didn’t have to. He saw the address when Haechan had input it earlier — a small café tucked behind a quieter street in Yeoksam, known as DREAM Cafe. Jihoon didn’t miss the implication either: the name, the timing, the location. This wasn’t just food. It was where Haechan went to feel like himself again.

Jihoon knew Haechan had cousins — his family tree was tangled, loud, and sprawling — but there were only a few people in Haechan’s life that he considered his. This cousin must be one of them. He didn’t ask, because he didn’t need the details to know Haechan needed this. And Jihoon had learned early on that sometimes presence mattered more than questions. So he drove, careful on every turn, letting the music spill soft harmonies through the car. At one red light, Haechan glanced sideways and said, “Thanks.” Jihoon didn’t reply. Just tapped his fingers along the steering wheel in rhythm.

“Do you want anything?” Haechan asked eventually. “From the café? My cousin usually gives me freebies, and if he likes you, he’ll give you the good cookies.” Jihoon raised an eyebrow. “Cookies?” Haechan grinned faintly. “Trust me, you’ll want them. I’ll tell him you’re my boyfriend so he gives you the best ones.” Jihoon sighed, but it wasn’t annoyed — more amused, resigned. “I thought we weren’t fake dating right now.” Haechan winked. “We’re not. You’re just a friend I’m bribing with lies.”

The car pulled into a side alley lined with blooming planters and soft lantern lights strung above. DREAM Cafe looked exactly like the name suggested — small, cozy, glowing with warm light like a tucked-away secret. Jihoon found parking easily, surprisingly, and killed the engine. Haechan was already unbuckling, stretching out his arms with a quiet groan. Jihoon stared at the front of the café for a second, then glanced back at Haechan. “Do I have to pretend to be in love with you in front of your cousin too?” he asked, deadpan. Haechan only smirked, slinging his arm over Jihoon’s shoulder as they walked toward the entrance. “Only if you want the cookies.”

The warm scent of vanilla, espresso, and baked sugar hit Jihoon the second he stepped in. DREAM Cafe was small — barely enough space for ten tables — but every inch was intentional. Soft yellow lighting, mismatched mugs dangling from hooks, and a slow, jazzy playlist gave it the atmosphere of a hug. Haechan walked in like he owned the place, barely sparing the “Please Seat Yourself” sign a glance. “Mark-hyung!” he called out toward the counter. The man behind it — tall, tanned, dimples out in full force — turned from the register with a knowing grin.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my dramatic little cousin,” Mark Lee drawled, wiping his hands on his apron. “And this must be the infamous boyfriend I’ve been hearing about.” Jihoon looked mildly alarmed. Haechan, of course, just beamed and leaned his entire weight against Jihoon’s arm like he was glued there. “Hyung, he’s shy,” Haechan said, and Jihoon didn’t even get a chance to correct the narrative before another voice from the espresso machine cut in. “We heard you were coming, Hyuck,” said Renjun from behind a cloud of steam, raising one brow without looking up. “Jeno almost dropped a glass from shock.”

Said Jeno — same sharp jaw as Mark, but more high school cool than grown-up warmth — flicked a sugar packet at Renjun, unbothered. “I did not,” he said dryly. “I’m just surprised your Jihoon’s real.” At this point, Jihoon gave up. He sat down at a booth that Haechan half-dragged him to and let his eyes wander. A loud “HAECHANIE!” echoed from the kitchen, followed by the blur of an apron and blond hair — Chenle, no doubt — who shoved his head out of the service window with glee. “You better be staying for dessert!”

“I want cookies,” Haechan declared. “The cinnamon ones with marshmallow goo in the middle.” “They’re not called that,” Chenle yelled back. “They are now,” Haechan retorted before poking Jihoon’s cheek. “See, babe, they love me here.” “Do they?” Jihoon deadpanned, but didn’t shrug Haechan off. At this point, a tall, model-like boy with glass skin and a sleepy expression brought over water and napkins. “Na Jaemin, drinks,” he introduced himself, flashing a flirtatious wink at Jihoon for no reason other than chaos.

“That’s not part of your job,” Jisung muttered as he carried a tray of empty mugs to the back. “You’re going to give him a stroke.” “It’s not fake flirting if it’s beautiful,” Jaemin replied as he sashayed off. Haechan whispered conspiratorially to Jihoon, “Jaemin flirts with everyone, don’t worry. He tried that on Jeno once and Renjun threatened to stab him with a straw.” Jihoon opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by Mark, who appeared again holding a notepad. “Two specials on the house. You both look like you’ve been through hell.”

Jihoon didn’t disagree. He was still recovering from the volleyball game crowd, the cheerleaders, and now this sitcom café staff. “Thanks,” he murmured, a little thrown off by the genuine kindness behind Mark’s teasing tone. Mark just winked and walked away to yell at Chenle to make the cinnamon goo ones fast. Haechan finally sat across from Jihoon with a sigh like he hadn’t orchestrated chaos in under ten minutes. 

“Welcome to my haven,” Haechan said, hands folded like this was sacred ground. Jihoon rolled his eyes, but the side of his mouth twitched — maybe, maybe a ghost of a smile. “So what do you think?” Haechan asked, chin in hand. “Of the café? Of the guys? Of me being universally beloved?” Jihoon stared, blinking owlishly. Haechan laughed, loud and genuine, and the sound made a few heads turn — Jaemin waved dramatically from the drink counter like it was his cue. Jihoon glanced out the window, then back at Haechan. “The food smells amazing, and they do seem to like you.”

“And you haven’t left yet,” Haechan pointed out smugly. Jihoon tilted his head. “You still owe me an explanation for that fake-dating-turned-real-on-the-internet situation.” “Details,” Haechan sang, fluttering his fingers as if that’d dismiss the whole trending scandal. “You’ll get your apology cookies with the tteokbokki later.” “I never said I was staying that long,” Jihoon countered. “But you’re still here,” Haechan said again, this time quieter. And Jihoon didn’t argue — because yeah, he was.

—

“So there I was,” Haechan began, dramatically lifting his glass of iced tea like it was wine at a banquet, “betrayed by gravity, by exhaustion, and by the universe.” He was already halfway onto the table like it was a stage, one hand to his chest, the other sweeping through the air. Jihoon, across from him, was sipping his drink very slowly, eyes half-lidded in what could only be described as regret. Mark didn’t blink, calmly wiping down the espresso machine. Renjun leaned against the counter, chin on his palm, as if this was his weekly sitcom. Chenle peeked out from the kitchen window, already cackling under his breath. Jeno merely sighed and wiped another glass.

“And then I saw him,” Haechan continued with a fluttery gasp, eyes going wide and lip trembling. “The love of my life! Standing in the stands like a deity descended from heaven, watching over me.” Jihoon choked slightly on his drink. Jaemin appeared just to hand him a napkin and whisper, “Brace yourself, it gets worse,” before sashaying away. “It was like a drama!” Haechan went on. “Cue the music, cue the slow-motion zoom into his face. The sparkles. The wind.”

“I wasn’t even in front of a fan,” Jihoon muttered, mostly to himself. “And he raised his hand!” Haechan announced, pointing at Jihoon like he was testifying in court. “My strength returned tenfold. My serves were unstoppable. The crowd was stunned.” “So it was Jihoon who powered you up?” Jisung asked from the dishwashing area, eyes wide. “Like an anime protagonist?” “Exactly,” Haechan nodded solemnly. “He’s my catalyst.”

“I was literally just sitting,” Jihoon said, but it was lost in the applause from Jaemin and Renjun. “Anyway,” Haechan breezed on, “Professor Chittaphon — bless his cute face, honestly, but I think he had a brain lapse — accused me of cheating. Cheating! Me!” “You’re many things, but not a cheater,” Mark added helpfully, flipping a mug onto the rack. “Right? Thank you!” Haechan pointed a triumphant finger. “I’m dramatic, not dishonest.”

“I could feel the crowd turning,” Haechan said, eyes twinkling now as he grabbed a butter knife and used it like a mic. “Boos echoed! Disapproval radiated! The student body chose me.” “Like a revolution,” Chenle supplied from the back. “Like a revolution!” Haechan echoed. “And then,” he whispered theatrically, lowering the butter knife mic, “Jihoon. My savior. My knight in black school uniform.” Jihoon blinked. “I said like one line.”

“But it carried,” Haechan said, not missing a beat. “His voice carried. Like an angel. ‘So unprofessional,’ he said, and the whole gym trembled.” “Because it was quiet,” Jihoon added blandly. “It was impactful!” Haechan whined. Jaemin gave a few solemn claps. “Give the man an Oscar,” Jeno muttered. Renjun nodded sagely. “Best Supporting Tsundere in a School Drama.”

“And then, when the game ended—” Haechan started again, only for Jeno to cut in, “Wasn’t the score 75 to 68?” “Exactly,” Haechan beamed. “A cinematic finish. We collapsed. Triumphant. Exhausted. But victorious.” He leaned dramatically into Jihoon’s side, who let it happen with a long-suffering breath. “That’s when I knew... we had to eat. Thus, this café.” Karina looked up once from her paperwork, raised her hand in vague acknowledgment, then went right back to reading.

Jihoon looked around at the audience. They were not just humoring Haechan — they were entertained. Entirely engaged in the fantasy. And oddly supportive. “You guys do this a lot, don’t you?” he asked no one in particular. “Oh, constantly,” Renjun replied. “Helps him process stuff.” “We edit the facts in our heads,” Jeno added. “But the storytelling’s gold.” Jihoon looked down at Haechan’s proud face, then back at the group. He wasn’t sure what to say. But… it was kind of nice.

Jisung blinked up from his plate of strawberry shortcake, fork pausing mid-air as he asked with the sincerest tone imaginable, “So… how did it all start? You and Jihoon-hyung?” The room quieted in a way that wasn’t awkward — more like collective anticipation. Mark arched an eyebrow, clearly already sensing this was going to be one of those Haechan moments. Chenle leaned out the kitchen door again, grinning, and Jaemin flat-out turned around behind the counter to get a better view. Renjun didn’t even pretend to hide his smirk. Jihoon, beside Haechan, stilled.

Haechan stared at Jisung for two full seconds, then beamed, eyes sparkling with drama. “Oh, it’s very cliché,” he said with a dreamy sigh. “We were rivals first. You know, classic dancer rivalry — tension in every hallway pass.” “Did you hate each other?” Jisung asked with round eyes. “He hated me,” Haechan added, pointing to Jihoon, who didn’t even argue. “I was too charming. Distracted him.”

Jihoon simply sipped his iced americano, saying nothing. That was part of their unspoken deal now — let Haechan spin the yarn, and just play his part without slipping. “I wouldn’t call it hate,” Jihoon said finally, glancing at Jisung. “He was… loud.” That made the table laugh. “You blushed once when I called you cute,” Haechan reminded him. “That’s not hate.” Jihoon’s ears turned red, just slightly. The performance was effortless.

“Anyway,” Haechan continued, now properly in storytelling mode, “The spark started at the gym,” Haechan said proudly, twirling a spoon in his iced tea like it held national secrets. “I was supposed to meet someone else, my best friend Jihoon—you know, Hanlim Jihoon, the assertive puppy—at the gym.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “But I got lost. So I stood there and yelled at full volume: ‘PARK JIHOON, WHERE ARE YOU?!’” A beat. “And fate, being the chaotic god she is, sent me the wrong Jihoon.”

Mark cackled behind the counter. “Wrong Jihoon, huh?” Renjun muttered, already shaking his head. Jihoon (the SOPA one, sitting quietly beside Haechan) just sipped his drink with dead eyes. “I was talking to Riri’s Jihoon. Honest! I didn’t even know he was there,” Haechan said, nudging Jihoon. “He just walked out of the locker room like some k-drama lead who heard his name in the wind.” “And then?” Jaemin asked. “And then he drove me home.”

“You know my apartment is right next to SOPA,” Haechan added, waving vaguely. “There were still students hanging out around the block after gym hours.” His grin widened. “So yes, they saw me blow a kiss at Jihoon while he sat in his car like a shocked, confused rom-com second male lead.” Jihoon groaned softly beside him. “It went viral by the next morning.” “That was Sunday,” Haechan finished triumphantly.

“Then came Monday,” Haechan continued. “We met again at school, obviously.” He waved at Mark. “You know how SOPA is. Tight halls, tighter rumors.” Mark nodded with a resigned expression. “I pulled him into the recording studio to talk,” Haechan said sweetly. “And then I... maybe... accidentally ended up on top of him on the floor.”

“You what?” Renjun choked on his coffee while Jeno blinked twice. “It wasn’t like that,” Haechan defended himself, trying not to laugh. “There was an earthquake, okay?” “Technically, the actual quake happened after the compromising position,” Jaemin pointed out dryly. Jihoon pinched the bridge of his nose but didn’t argue. “He moaned in my ear by accident,” Haechan added with pride. “That’s what did him in.”

“He didn’t even argue when I held his hand outside the building,” Haechan said with a dreamy sigh. “And you know SOPA students—we love to see. Everyone saw. Everyone snapped pics.” He shrugged. “That was our second soft-launch, apparently.”

Jisung’s mouth dropped open. “Wait—so the whole school just accepted that?” “We didn’t deny it,” Haechan said innocently. “And then came Tuesday.” He tapped his nails against his cup. “The cafeteria cheerleader incident.” “Oh, I heard about that,” Karina muttered from her corner without looking up.

“They called me an airhead,” Haechan said with narrowed eyes. “Said Jihoon couldn’t possibly date me.” His voice dipped into something sharp. “So he stood up, shoved the guy that pushed me, and carried me away like I was Cinderella.” Jihoon gave him a look, but again—no denial. “That’s when I knew he was in too deep.” “The love is real,” Chenle teased from the kitchen.

“And then today?” Haechan grinned. “Today was the peak.” His voice took on a performer’s rhythm. “Volleyball match in gym. We were losing.” He paused for effect. “Until I saw him in the stands.”

Jihoon looked mildly betrayed. “What does that have to do with it?” “Everything,” Haechan insisted. “I got a burst of strength. I was spiking that ball like a man possessed.” Renjun whistled. “And then the professor accused him of being on something,” Jeno said, catching on. “Yep,” Haechan said smugly. “And Jihoon—this Jihoon—defended me from the stands.”

“Publicly, loudly, and with so much passive-aggressiveness,” Haechan finished proudly. “It was the cherry on top. Even my classmates booed the teacher and backed me up.” He tossed his hair dramatically. “And that, my dear friends, is how you slow-release a relationship to the public while never confirming anything directly.” Jaemin nodded with mock sincerity. “A masterclass.” “Told you it started with hate,” Haechan said smugly, nudging Jihoon once more.

Jihoon simply sipped his drink again, but this time… he looked suspiciously fond.