Chapter Text

Prologue

The Genie With A Bottle

“Of course, I’m the evil incarnate. You made me human. It does not mean I’m one.”

The gods like their irony dressed as justice. They called it providence when they cursed me into this role—luck, some said. Luck, to be chosen as a genie. Luck, to be chained to a life of servitude. Luck, that I should spend eternity answering the groans and hiccups of men too drunk to remember their own names.

But genies don’t have bottles. That’s a story humans told themselves because they like tidy endings and small containers. No, I am bound by something heavier. I live in intoxication itself. I am woven into the moment when desperation and liquor mingle—when a wish slips from a mouth too loosened to be guarded. That’s where I dwell. That’s where I thrive.

Three wishes. Always three. The gods weren’t without a sense of humor.

It was Keria—half-blood, half-broken—who reminded me, centuries ago, that this is a curse. “The gods say we are condemned, and they made sure it felt like one,” he told me, staring into his cup as though the answer were at the bottom. “But you, Oner… you live for it.”

He said it like a verdict. And maybe it was.

Because granting wishes is the only time I feel sober. The intoxication that weighs on me, that blurs me, that drowns me—it clears when I scheme. When I twist someone’s desperate plea into the shape it was always meant to take. When their lips curl around the words I wish… and I get to deliver exactly what they asked for, never what they meant. That’s when the fog lifts. That’s when I breathe.

Keria laughed at that once, long ago. A dry sound, brittle as the glass he nursed. “You’ve made peace with hell,” he said.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I have.

The last of his laughter had melted into the clink of bottles, leaving only me and the echo of the curse we both carry. And still, I did not hate it.

So I wait, always, for the moment when someone drunk enough calls me out. Because their intoxication is my doorway. Their desperation is my key. Their ruin is my sobriety.

And I have all the time in the world.

Chapter One: Not Drunk Enough

The bar reeked of cheap spirits and sour breath—the kind of place where wishes fermented.

Geonwoo was already gone. His laughter cracked too loudly, too late, and his glass was half full only because his hand shook too much to tip it cleanly back. His friends cheered, jeered, then slumped against each other in drunken camaraderie. It was a chorus Oner knew by heart: liquid courage unraveling into naked desperation.

He felt it before he heard it. The tug. The slow coil in his chest that meant someone was about to slip, about to whisper the raw shape of what they truly wanted. Oner slid into the space like smoke, unseen, uninvited, inevitable.

Geonwoo’s head bowed over the rim of his glass. “I just… I just want him back,” he muttered. His voice cracked like a boy, not a champion. “The nights, the laughter—hell, just one more chance.”

The words caught, slurred, and tangled. To anyone else, it was nonsense. To Oner, it was the spell. The wish. The opening.

He smiled, sharp and slow, and leaned in close enough that his whisper could thread into the man’s ear.

“Then say it properly.”

Geonwoo flinched, blinking into the haze. He never saw Oner. They never did. But the wish stirred on his tongue, and Oner waited, patient, certain. The thrill sobered him, washing the curse from his veins.

Then—

The door slammed open.

The air shifted. Not with another drunk stumbling in, but with something stranger. A man walked through—pretty, steady, utterly clear-eyed. His gaze cut through the smoke and landed straight on Oner. And held.

Oner stilled.

Impossible. The sober never saw him. They couldn’t. Not unless—

The man tilted his head, just slightly, like he’d caught a street performer mid-act. Not alarmed. Not impressed. Just… curious.

“Who are you talking to?” Hyeonjoon asked, voice low, cutting into the moment like a blade.

Geonwoo slumped, choking on half a wish. The thread snapped. The fog of desperation dissolved. Oner’s chance vanished.

And still, he didn’t move. He was too busy staring at the only sober man who had ever looked straight at him.

The man—Hyeonjoon—didn’t flinch under Oner’s stare. Where others would have looked away, or blinked confusion into their drink, he held eye contact like it cost him nothing. There was no arrogance in it. No hostility either. Just calm curiosity, the kind a child might give a trick of light.

“I asked,” Hyeonjoon repeated, softer this time, “who are you talking to?”

Geonwoo groaned, head collapsing onto folded arms. His breath rattled, soaked with liquor, already past remembering what he almost wished for.

Oner straightened, slipping into the sharp smile that usually unsettled mortals. “You shouldn’t be able to see me.”

The man blinked, then tilted his head. “But I do.”

It was said simply. Not as a boast. Not as a challenge. Just as a fact. And that was what unsettled Oner most—he couldn’t feel the haze of intoxication around him, no tug of desperation, no weakness. He was… clean. Too clean.

Hyeonjoon stepped closer, careful not to jostle the broken circle of empty bottles littering the table. He moved like he’d been here before, though his steps carried no drunken stumble.

“Stay back.” The words came harsher than Oner meant, but he needed the distance. No human had ever closed it.

Hyeonjoon frowned slightly, not offended, just confused. “I’m not here to bother you. Just… making sure my friend doesn’t choke on his own regrets.” His tone was gentle, steady. Genuine in a way Oner didn’t recognize.

And then it happened.

As Geonwoo shifted, Hyeonjoon reached past him, steadying the glass before it spilled across the table. His hand brushed against Oner’s wrist.

Contact.

It was only a heartbeat, a blink, but the world cracked open inside Oner. Heat surged through him—not the familiar haze of intoxication, not the burn of divine punishment—but something sharper, rawer. It lit every vein like lightning, and for the first time in centuries, he felt the weight of his body, the density of breath filling his chest.

Human.

The realization slammed into him. A genie could not be touched, not truly. His form was made to slip through hands like smoke, intangible, untouchable. The gods never wrote a law about what would happen if it did—because it was never meant to. No mortal had ever crossed that boundary.

And yet.

Warmth lingered where Hyeonjoon’s skin had met his. Too solid. Too real.

Hyeonjoon pulled back quickly, expression soft with apology. “Sorry,” he murmured, steady as ever. He slid an arm beneath Geonwoo, lifting him with practiced ease. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Oner stood frozen, watching as Hyeonjoon guided the drunken man toward the door. No accusation. No suspicion. Just that same genuine calm as if none of this meant anything. As if he hadn’t just shattered an unbreakable rule.

The door closed behind them.

And Oner staggered.

The shift tore through him—his essence folding in, compressing. His reflection on the cracked bar mirror no longer flickered with smoke or shimmer. Flesh. Bone. A pulse pounding in his ears.

Fingers trembled against the wood of the table. His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps. He hadn’t needed air in centuries. He hadn’t had lungs in centuries.

For the first time since the gods bound him, Oner was not just sober.

He was alive.

Oner gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale against wood that suddenly felt solid. Too solid. His reflection in the cracked bar mirror was wrong—too flesh, too bone, too alive. His chest rose and fell in ragged pulls of air, lungs burning with every breath he shouldn’t have had.

“This isn’t real,” he rasped, voice catching. “This doesn’t happen.”

No law forbade a genie from turning human because no law had ever needed to. It was impossible. Unwritten. Unimaginable.

But the mirror didn’t lie.

And there was only one creature who might know what to make of this.

He pressed his palm flat against the tabletop. A sigil flared faintly in the grain, the kind only Keria would recognize—a mark of their cursed kinship. Oner muttered the invocation through clenched teeth. The words felt heavy in his human throat, raw, but the magic answered all the same. The air thinned, warped, as though straining to carry a voice across a veil.

“Keria,” Oner hissed, the syllables fraying with something dangerously close to fear.

A pause. Then laughter, faint and sharp, spilling from nowhere and everywhere at once. “You don’t call unless you’re desperate,” Keria’s voice teased. “So what did you break this time?”

Oner’s fingers tightened. “Not what. Who.” He swallowed, tasting the strange ache of it. “A human touched me.”

Silence crackled across the space between them.

Then Keria’s tone shifted, the mirth thinning into something weightier. “That’s impossible.”

“So am I,” Oner snapped, dragging his sleeve up to bare an arm that was no longer smoke but skin. “And yet here we are.”

The silence stretched again, heavier this time. Finally, Keria’s voice returned, quieter, threaded with something Oner had never heard in him before. Awe. Or maybe dread.

“You’re human?”

Oner stared at his trembling hands. “I don’t know what I am.”

The silence stretched, heavy and unnatural, before Keria finally spoke. “Stay where you are.”

And then he was gone. The line between them snapped, leaving Oner alone in the bar with his own pulse screaming in his ears.

Keria didn’t come right away. But when the air rippled again, Oner blinked and found himself somewhere else—an apartment. The walls were warm, lined with photos and shelves of neatly stacked books. Coffee lingered in the air, shoes by the door, three bedrooms branching off a tidy hall—a steady, lived-in space built for study and survival.

It was so human Oner nearly gagged.

By the window stood Keria. Or at least, the version of him that belonged here. His usual otherworldly shimmer was gone. In its place was a young man with delicate lines, luminous in a way no curse-born creature should ever look. Small, sharp-boned, almost too beautiful to pass as ordinary. Even his hair—messy, falling across his forehead—gave him a softness Oner didn’t recognize.

“Keria?” Oner rasped.

The half-genie’s mouth tightened. “Not here,” he said quickly. 

Before Oner could laugh at the absurdity, a door creaked open down the hall.

Footsteps. Solid, unhurried. And then he appeared—broad-shouldered, tall, built like a bear, but with eyes so kind they softened everything about him. His presence filled the space in an instant, steady and grounding, as if this whole apartment bent around his orbit.

“Minseokie, here you are,” the man said warmly, his deep voice carrying no suspicion, only relief. He padded closer, barefoot, tugging a sweatshirt over his sleep-ruffled hair. His gaze landed on Oner, curious but gentle, the way one might look at a stray cat on the doorstep. “And you brought a friend?”

Keria, now called “Minseok”, smiled faintly, careful and rehearsed. “Yeah. Just… someone passing through.” His eyes flicked to Oner, sharp with warning: not a word.

Oner said nothing. He couldn’t.

Minhyeong’s hand lingered briefly on Minseok’s shoulder before he stretched, broad frame filling the narrow hall. “I’ll be in our room, got some reading to do,” he said with an easy smile. “Nice to meet you, man.” His voice was gentle, warm—nothing like the desperate men Oner usually haunted.

Oner gave a curt nod, still not trusting his new human voice.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Minhyeong added with a playful glance at Minseok. “Class at nine.” Then he disappeared into the back, the quiet weight of textbooks and late-night study already clinging to him like a second skin.

The moment his door clicked shut, Minseok’s smile dropped.

“You shouldn’t have called me like that,” he said, voice low, clipped. He crossed his arms, and though he looked like a boy, his eyes held centuries. “This is the one place I can’t risk being… me.”

Oner sank into the couch, staring at his hands, the way they shook like they belonged to a stranger. “You’re the only one who’d understand.”

A pause. Minseok exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “What happened?”

Oner swallowed hard. “A human touched me.” He forced the words out, his throat still raw from using it like it was new. “And now—” He held out his arm, flesh, veins, solid. “I don’t know what I am.”

For a moment, Minseok didn’t speak. His gaze flickered toward the closed door at the end of the hall, then back to Oner.

“Then you stay here,” Minseok said finally, voice quieter, steadier. “At least until we figure it out.”

Oner let out a laugh, dry and disbelieving. “Here? With your boyfriend?”

“My classmate,” Minseok corrected sharply. “And my… cover.” He leaned in, voice dropping further. “You want answers, Oner? Then keep your mouth shut and play along. No one here can know what you are. Not even him.”

The words rang louder than the silence that followed. Oner pressed his palms together, flesh against flesh, as if trying to reconcile them.

A genie in hiding. A curse rewritten. A human life he’d never asked for.

And all he could do was nod.

The quiet stretched thin. Minhyeong’s pen scratched faintly in the other room. Minseok didn’t move.

Then a door opened. Slow. Unhurried.

The third bedroom.

And out stepped the boy who should never have been there—the same one who had brushed his skin, undone a law older than gods. His hair was sleep-mussed, his face unbothered, yet still pretty. But Oner felt the echo all over again, that impossible spark that still hadn’t left him.

Hyeonjoon.

Chapter Text

Hyeonjoon blinked at the light, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh,” he said softly, voice still dipped in sleep. “Didn’t know we had company.”

Ordinary. Simple. Nothing in his tone carried the weight of what had happened.

Oner stared. The sound of it—the casual way he spoke—was wrong. His chest was tight, his palms damp. He’d met countless desperate men, drunk and begging, but never like this. Never someone who had touched him, unbound him, rewritten him with nothing but a brush of skin.

“Yeah,” Minseok answered quickly, too quickly. “A friend’s crashing for a while.”

Hyeonjoon nodded, easy as water. “Cool. I’m Hyeonjoon,” he offered, a small, genuine smile flickering across his face before it slipped into a yawn. “Welcome, I guess.”

Oner’s throat ached. He could not make his tongue form words. He only dipped his chin in something like a nod, though it felt more like surrender.

Hyeonjoon gave a little wave and padded past them, the floor creaking under his weight, into the kitchen. The clink of a glass, water streaming smoothly from a half-full bottle. He drank slowly, like someone who had never needed anything more than that.

And Oner sat frozen on the couch, the sound carving him open.

The boy who broke the law of gods.

The boy who didn’t even know it.

Hyeonjoon returned a moment later, glass in hand, leaning lightly against the doorframe. His smile was small, unassuming, but steady—the kind that felt like it belonged to someone who never needed masks.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet. “Who’s our guest?”

Minseok didn’t miss a beat. “Friend of mine,” he said, tone smooth, practiced. Then, with a tilt of his head toward Oner: “Introduce yourself.”

Oner’s throat locked. His mind—usually sharp with tricks, schemes, words slipped like smoke—was empty. A thousand names he’d stolen over centuries, and yet staring at this boy’s doe eyes, he couldn’t summon even one.

Except—

“Hyeonjun,” he blurted.

The name caught like a stone in his mouth. He realized it too late—it was Hyeonjoon’s.

Hyeonjoon blinked, surprised, then laughed softly, not unkindly. “Really? That’s my name too.”

Minseok’s lips twitched. He lowered his gaze, shoulders shaking once in the silence before he forced them still. “Oh, that’s… nice. Two Hyeonjoons. How convenient.”

Oner burned. His palms itched, his chest felt tight, and he had no idea why he couldn’t look away from the real Hyeonjoon. Pretty. That was the word that came unbidden, the one that made no sense and yet sat sharp on his tongue. No man had the right to be that—soft, dreamy, impossible.

Hyeonjoon, oblivious, just smiled again. “Guess that makes us name twins.” He leaned a little against the doorframe, casual, unguarded. “Good to meet you.”

Oner stared back, stiff as stone. Flesh and bone. Human warmth. A thing he could never risk again.

He forced himself to nod instead, words dry in his throat. “Yeah. You too.”

Minseok watched them both, silent, his grin hidden in the dip of his mug. 

The spare room smelled faintly of dust and fabric softener. A stack of books sat untouched on the desk, a couple of jackets hung behind the door, and a suitcase leaned in the corner as if waiting for its owner to return. Minseok had explained—Dohyeon, their senior, and Hyeonjoon’s friend, was in China for an exchange program. The room was his, but for now it was Oner’s.

The door clicked shut behind him, and at last the quiet pressed in.

Oner sat on the edge of the bed, hands flexing uselessly in his lap. Flesh. Blood. Veins that pulsed with something heavier than magic. He tried to remember the rhythm of being a genie—the way desperation burned like fuel, the way granting a wish snapped the intoxication away. That had been his clarity, his purpose.

Now?

A boy’s face burned in his mind. Doe-eyed. Soft. Impossibly pretty. Of all people, it had to be him—the human who broke a law older than gods.

Oner pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He wanted to laugh, but it caught in his throat instead. A genie turned human by accident. A genie sleeping in a university kid’s room, in a three-bedroom apartment that smelled of coffee and books. A genie with a heartbeat he couldn’t silence.

And right on the other side of the wall—Hyeonjoon.

The thought sent a jolt through him, sharp and unwelcome. He clenched his jaw, dragging the blanket over his head as if the fabric could drown out the weight of it.

This was temporary. It had to be.

It had to be.

Now, the room was too quiet. Oner lay flat on the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the blanket tangled at his waist. His body felt wrong in its stillness. No drunken calls pulling him into the night, no desperate hands reaching for promises. Just silence.

Until—

A sound, muffled through the wall. Soft. Steady.

Hyeonjoon’s voice.

Not words, not quite—half a hum, half a low murmur, as if he were talking himself to sleep. A tune with no shape, a thought with no audience. It threaded through the plaster and into Oner’s chest, fragile, ordinary, and yet it rooted him in place.

He pressed a hand over his sternum, where the beat refused to quiet.

This boy—this beautiful boy—had undone him with a single touch. But why? How?

Then it hit him, sharp as broken glass.

Geonwoo. The friend who had been moments away from spilling his wish when Hyeonjoon walked in. The wish interrupted. The ritual cut short.

Maybe it wasn’t the touch at all. Maybe it was the break.

Oner sat up, a sudden clarity in his chest. If he could find Geonwoo, hear what he was going to wish for, retrace the steps—maybe he could fix this. Undo whatever twist of fate had rewritten him into flesh.

And the key to that was Hyeonjoon.

Oner lay back down, fingers tracing the edge of the blanket. His mind refused to settle. Every hum from the other side of the wall, every soft scrape of Hyeonjoon moving around, pressed him further into thought.

He could almost see it—replaying the scene, the magic, the sudden intrusion, the way it had undone centuries of rules in an instant.

He drew in a slow breath, letting it fill the hollows left by panic and disbelief. One thing was clear. If he wanted answers, he had to see Geonwoo again. But he couldn’t walk up to him blindly. He’d have to involve Hyeonjoon, carefully, naturally. Ask questions without raising suspicion.

Oner pressed his palms against his eyes, letting the quiet of the apartment press in around him, letting the hum fade into the background. Tomorrow, he will figure it out. Step by step.

But for now, he stayed still. Listened. Calculated. Learned what it was to be human in the smallest increments—breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

The morning light slanted across the apartment, soft and unassuming, but it pressed against Oner like a weight. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, hands folded awkwardly. Flesh. Warm. Solid. Human. Still felt wrong.

From the other room came the faint scrape of a chair and the low hum of Hyeonjoon moving about. Oner’s stomach clenched. He needed to inquire about Geonwoo. Without letting Hyeonjoon suspect he might be scheming something.

Minseok’s voice floated in from the kitchen, smooth and practiced. “Breakfast’s almost ready. I made too much, so join us.”

Oner nodded, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He followed the hall, past Keria and Minhyeong’s open door, careful not to stumble. And then he saw him—Hyeonjoon—already at the table, sunlight catching the soft lines of his face as he poured himself a glass of juice. Ordinary. Human. Wrong.

“Morning,” Hyeonjoon said without looking up. His voice had the same ease as last night, calm and unselfconscious.

“Morning,” Oner croaked, voice stiff. He dropped into the chair opposite Hyeonjoon, keeping his hands folded, trying not to fidget.

Minseok slid in next to Oner with a plate of toast. “So,” he said lightly, glancing at Hyeonjoon. “You two have met before?”

Oner froze. Met before? He forced himself to nod slowly, mind racing for something casual. “Uh… yeah. Sort of. Back when—well, nothing serious. Just… friends of friends,” he said, vague enough not to reveal anything.

Hyeonjoon’s eyes flicked up, curious, unassuming. Then a small, thoughtful smile tugged at his lips. “Wait… I remember. The bar, right? When Geonwoo was—drunk. Yeah, I remember you there.”

Oner stiffened slightly. That was it—the instant memory, now a thread he could follow. He forced himself to nod, careful. “Yeah… that night.”

He hesitated, then asked cautiously, “Are you… going to see Geonwoo today? Could I… tag along?”

Hyeonjoon’s smile widened, easy and unconcerned. “Sure. I was actually on my way to return something to him anyway. Guess you can come with.”

Oner let out a silent breath, careful to keep it unobtrusive, but a faint pulse of anticipation ran through him. One step closer. One question answered. One observation at a time.

The air outside carried the faint dampness of morning, streets still half-asleep as Oner followed a step behind Hyeonjoon. The human boy walked lightly, casual, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, unaware of how much weight Oner carried in every step. Every glance at him was a reminder: the law broken, the bond twisted, the thread Oner couldn’t cut.

Geonwoo’s place wasn’t far, tucked inside a well-kept building, the kind with polished floors and flowerpots on the balconies. Hyeonjoon rapped gently on the door. It cracked open a moment later, revealing Geonwoo—eyes swollen, hair a mess, his entire frame sagging like he hadn’t slept.

“Oh,” Geonwoo muttered, forcing a crooked smile when he saw Hyeonjoon. “Didn’t expect you this early.”

“Just dropping something off,” Hyeonjoon said softly, lifting the bag in his hand. “And, uh, brought a friend along.”

Geonwoo’s gaze flicked past him, landing on Oner. Suspicion stirred, faint but sharp, though he said nothing as he let them in.

The living room was small, crowded with bottles on the table, takeout containers stacked half-finished beside them. Oner felt a pulse of recognition—the scent of desperation clinging to the air, the remnants of half-formed wishes left unsaid. His chest tightened. Yes. This was the familiar feeling.

They sat. Hyeonjoon eased into the couch like he belonged, gentle and steady. After setting the bag down, he excused himself lightly—“I’ll just get us some water”—and disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment the sound of cupboards rattled faintly down the hall, Oner leaned forward, sharp and deliberate.

“So,” he drawled, smooth as ever. “Seems like last night hit hard.”

Geonwoo tensed, jaw tight. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“You almost said something.” Oner’s eyes narrowed. “Something important. A wish, maybe?”

Geonwoo froze. His fingers curled into fists on his knees, eyes glossing with something raw. “Don’t,” he whispered.

Oner tilted his head, feigning confusion. “Why not? People don’t drink themselves half-dead unless they’re clinging to something. You wanted release. Or maybe…” He smiled thinly. “…someone.”

In the kitchen, Hyeonjoon caught only fragments—Geonwoo’s low, pained voice and Oner’s too-smooth tone. He hesitated, uneasy, but by the time he returned with three glasses in hand, the tension in the room had already snapped taut.

“You don’t know anything,” Geonwoo spat, voice breaking. He shoved past the table, grabbing his jacket with trembling hands. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Geonwoo—” Hyeonjoon set the glasses down quickly, but the door had already slammed shut behind him.

Silence.

Hyeonjoon turned slowly, disbelief heavy in his face. “What just happened?” His voice wasn’t loud, but steady—controlled. Concerned, but not cruel. “He’s hurting, and you… you pushed him.”

Oner didn’t flinch. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Relax. I was just messing with him.”

“Messing with him?” Hyeonjoon’s brows knit, frustration breaking through his usual calm. “Do you even hear yourself? He’s hurting, and you turned it into a game. He trusted us enough to let us in, and you treated him like…” His jaw tightened, the smallest flicker of disappointment shadowing his expression. “…like he didn’t matter.”

Oner opened his mouth, a dozen retorts forming—schemes, justifications, excuses—but the words tangled when Hyeonjoon stepped closer. His anger wasn’t fire, it was steady rain—measured, unshaken, and all the more unbearable for it.

“Don’t do that again,” Hyeonjoon said, voice soft but unwavering.

The space between them shrank. Oner shifted, a careless move, and their feet tangled against the low table.

The next second collapsed into chaos—Hyeonjoon stumbled forward, Oner caught his arm, momentum pulling them both down onto the couch cushions.

And then—

A brush. A slip. Lips against lips, fleeting and unintentional, yet sparking like fire through Oner’s veins.

The world stilled.

Hyeonjoon froze above him, eyes wide, breath caught between them. Oner’s chest hammered, every instinct screaming to twist it, to use it, to claim it—yet for the first time in centuries, he didn’t move.

Just a heartbeat.

Just a touch.

Just enough to unravel him.

Hyeonjoon was the first to move. He pushed himself upright, breathing unevenly, his hand dragging over his mouth like he couldn’t quite believe what just happened. For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with the echo of what they hadn’t meant to do.

Then his gaze found Oner’s, steady despite the faint tremor in his chest. “You can’t do that,” he said softly, but every word was edged with hurt. “Not to Geonwoo. Not to anyone.”

Oner stayed sprawled on the cushions, the smirk he usually wore slipping into something thinner, weaker.

Hyeonjoon’s brows drew together, his anger quiet but resolute. “He’s my friend. He’s already carrying more than enough, and you—” his voice faltered, then steadied, “—you pushed right into the very thing that’s breaking him.”

Oner opened his mouth, but nothing came. The words tangled, dissolving before they could leave his tongue. For once, he had no sharp retort, no sly defense—only silence pressing heavy in his chest.

Hyeonjoon let out a quiet breath, the sharp edge of his anger fading, though the hurt lingered. “I don’t get you,” he said, voice low but steady. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, or why you think that’s okay. But… if you’re going to be around us, can’t you just—” he searched for the word, almost weary, “—be decent? That’s all I’m asking.”

The simplicity of it landed heavier than any curse. No shouting, no anger—just disappointment, calm but absolute.

Oner felt it settle like a weight he couldn’t shrug off. For once, he didn’t have a clever answer waiting on his tongue.

The walk back was quiet. Hyeonjoon didn’t say much, only offered Oner a small nod when they parted ways, the kind of gesture that said “we’re fine” but carried a thread of distance Oner couldn’t quite ignore.

Alone again, Oner sat in the dim light of his room, fingers digging into his palms. Something inside him was restless, coiled, like smoke pressing against glass. He shut his eyes, and for the first time since his fall, he felt it—power. Not whole, not steady, but flickering. His skin rippled faintly, the barest trace of shimmer crawling up his arm before vanishing. Twenty-five percent of what he used to be, maybe less. But it was there.

And it hadn’t been there before.

His mind circled back, unwilling, to that moment on the couch. The stumble, the brush of lips. The warmth that had lingered long after. He clenched his teeth. No. Impossible. But the thought refused to leave: somehow, that accidental kiss had cracked something open.

Later that night, he found Keria leaning against the railing outside, a bottle of soda in hand. The younger man raised a brow at Oner’s approach. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Worse,” Oner muttered, glancing around before lowering his voice. “Something happened.”

Keria frowned. “What kind of something?”

Oner hesitated, then lifted his hand. A shimmer flickered briefly across his skin, vanishing just as quick. Keria’s eyes widened.

“You’re…changing back?”

“Not fully. Barely a fraction.” Oner exhaled, jaw tight. “But it’s more than before. And I think—” He cut himself short, the words tasting bitter even as he forced them out. “I think it’s because of him. Hyeonjoon.”

Keria blinked. “Wait. Hyeonjoon-hyung? What did he do?”

Oner’s lips twisted, part frustration, part disbelief. “He’s the reason I’m stuck like this. He’s the one who…touched me. Turned me human. We accidentally brushed lips earlier,” His voice dipped, quieter now, like admitting it out loud might seal it in stone. “And now, somehow, he’s the reason pieces of me are coming back.”

Keria nearly choked on his soda when Oner said it. “Wait, wait, wait—” he sputtered, laughing between words. “You’re telling me… you both kissed, and that magically unlocked your powers? Are you serious?”

Oner scowled. “I’m not saying it makes sense. I’m saying it happened. You saw it—” he lifted his hand, letting the faint shimmer ripple before fading again, “—this wasn’t there before.”

Keria slapped his thigh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. Centuries of lore, entire tomes about genie contracts, celestial bindings, divine curses—and here you are telling me it was a kiss?” He leaned closer, grinning wide. “What’s next, true love’s first sneeze?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Oner snapped, but his voice cracked with the effort of convincing himself. “There’s… something about him. Something different. I don’t know what yet.”

Keria waggled his brows. “Oh, I can tell you what’s different—”

Oner jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t. Say. It.”

And just like that, they were two ancient beings, reduced to squabbling like schoolboys—hands flailing, voices dropping to exaggerated whispers, arguing over possibilities with all the seriousness of children debating monsters under the bed.

That was when Minhyeong appeared in the doorway, tilting his head. His lips curved into a slow grin as he took in the scene—Keria gesturing wildly, Oner half doubled over in laughter. “What on earth are you two doing? You look like kids arguing over trading cards.”

Both froze. Keria shot Oner a look. Oner only smirked, unbothered.

“Nothing,” Keria muttered, folding his arms.

“Definitely nothing,” Oner echoed, fighting the corner of his lips from curving.

Minhyeong chuckled, stepping in. “Right. Whatever you say.” His gaze slid toward Oner, curious but not unkind. “So… you’re the new guy?”

Keria straightened, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yeah—guess I should do this properly now that you’ve got a name.” He clapped a hand on Oner’s shoulder, grinning like it was some inside joke only he understood. “Minhyeong, meet… Hyeonjun. We’re all the same age”

Oner stiffened, shooting him a glare sharp enough to cut. Keria only snorted, utterly pleased with himself.

Minhyeong raised a brow, a small laugh slipping out. “Seriously? That’s his name?”

“Seriously,” Keria said, smirking ear to ear.

Oner dragged a hand down his face. Perfect. Just perfect.

Minhyeong chuckled again, shaking his head. “Well… welcome, I guess, Hyeonjun. Hope you survive this circus.”

“Thanks,” Oner muttered flatly, though his ears burned at the sound of that name being tossed around so casually. Keria was still smirking, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

Later, when the apartment quieted, Oner found himself wandering without thought, pulled by the faint rustle of fabric. The laundry room door was half-open, a stripe of warm light spilling through.

Inside, Hyeonjoon was folding clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair falling into his eyes as he worked. The rhythm was simple—crease, smooth, stack—but Oner’s chest tightened with every movement.

He told himself it was still a test. Calculation. If touch was the key to unlocking what he’d lost, then proximity was required. That was all.

But the moment he stepped in, the air shifted. Fresh detergent, warm fabric—and beneath it, Hyeonjoon. Clean, sweet, wholly distinct. Not perfume. Not borrowed. Just him.

Oner moved without thinking, breath catching as his shadow fell over Hyeonjoon’s shoulder. His nose brushed skin, and in the same moment, his lips grazed the curve of Hyeonjoon’s neck. Fleeting. Accidental. Yet it seared through him like flame on dry wood.

Hyeonjoon stilled, then laughed softly, tilting his head just enough to glance back at him. “What—are you sniffing me? Trying to figure out my perfume or something?” His tone was light, teasing, like he’d caught Oner in a clumsy secret.

Oner’s throat tightened. He couldn’t answer. His hands flexed at his sides, heat curling low in his gut.

Hyeonjoon’s smile lingered, faint but steady. “Well?” he asked, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

The words landed like an opening, casual yet charged. Hyeonjoon’s teasing was human, almost innocent—like imagining the possibility of something close, something real.

But in Oner’s chest, it ignited something dangerous. Not calculation. Not curiosity. Hunger. The kind of want that had nothing to do with perfume, nothing to do with play. The kind of want that could swallow a world whole.

Hyeonjoon didn’t turn back to his shirts. Instead, he shifted slowly, meeting Oner’s gaze head-on. His eyes searched, steady but unguarded, as if trying to piece together the shape of the man standing too close. Something flickered there—curiosity, interest, the quiet spark of wanting to understand someone he barely knew.

Oner’s breath hitched. For a heartbeat, he almost believed Hyeonjoon could see through him—into the hollowness, the storm, the hunger clawing for release.

And as Hyeonjoon held his gaze, caught between puzzlement and something warmer, Oner stood undone—imagining not the careful beginning of something human, but a pull vast and consuming, dangerous enough to unmake them both.

Chapter Text

The silence stretched, too long, too heavy. Oner forced himself to step back, to breathe, to mask the tremor in his chest. A smirk almost covered it, almost made it a joke. Almost.

But when Hyeonjoon finally looked away, Oner heard himself say it, low and uneven—words he had never spoken in centuries.

“I’m… sorry.”

At first, he didn’t even know who it was for. For Geonwoo, for the cruel prodding earlier, for treating a wound like entertainment. For Hyeonjoon too—for dragging him into it, for letting the mask slip. Maybe for all of it.

Hyeonjoon’s head turned just slightly, enough to meet him again, this time with gentleness instead of spark.

“Thank you,” he said simply. No sermon. No judgment. Just that.

Oner didn’t know what to do with it.

The next few days passed strangely. Oner had faced kings, queens, gods, and demons without a flicker of hesitation, but with Hyeonjoon, hesitation followed him like a shadow.

He hovered—though he told himself it wasn’t that. He was testing. Measuring. Every brush of an elbow, every casual bump into Hyeonjoon’s space, every time their hands almost touched while passing something across the table.

Nothing changed.

Except everything did.

Sometimes, when their fingers grazed, Hyeonjoon let the touch linger a heartbeat longer than necessary. Sometimes, his eyes stayed just a shade too long, as though trying to read Oner and never quite succeeding—but not minding the mystery.

And in those moments, Oner felt something coil hot and reckless inside him, like power straining against a lock. It wasn’t just touch. It was want. The kind of want that could blur into magic if he let it.

One night, Oner sprawled across the couch, watching the screen without caring what was on it. Hyeonjoon padded back from the kitchen, bowl in hand, and nudged Oner’s leg.

“Move. You’re hogging the space.”

Oner didn’t move. “Make me.”

Hyeonjoon rolled his eyes, but instead of arguing, he perched half on the armrest, half against Oner’s thigh.

Oner’s body betrayed him instantly—pulse surging, skin prickling where their hips pressed. He tilted his head back, hiding the sharp inhale with a smirk.

“Comfortable?”

“Not really,” Hyeonjoon admitted, settling in anyway. His smile was careless, but the weight of him, warm and solid, pressed Oner into the cushions like a brand.

Oner’s fingers twitched, aching to trace the line of Hyeonjoon’s thigh. He didn’t. Barely.

And Hyeonjoon, as if sensing it, glanced sideways at him with a half-smile—too fleeting to pin down, but carrying the unmistakable spark of curiosity.

Oner swallowed hard. If this was only proximity, only chance contact, then why did it feel like a wish whispered straight into his veins?

Later that week, in the kitchen, it happened.

Hyeonjoon teased him again for burning the rice, shaking his head with an easy grin.

“I just wish you’d try harder sometimes.”

The word cracked like lightning.

Wish.

Oner froze, pulse slamming against his ribs as heat stirred in his veins. The air felt charged, thick with something old and dangerous. He covered it quickly with a scoff.

“Careful throwing that word around,” he muttered, voice too low, too rough.

Hyeonjoon chuckled. “Why? You gonna grant me three, like some genie?” He nudged Oner’s arm playfully, utterly unaware of the knife buried in the joke.

Oner’s lips parted, but no answer came. Only silence.

And when Hyeonjoon brushed past him to reach for the cabinet, their bodies pressed together briefly, too close, too warm. Oner didn’t move. Couldn’t. His breath hovered at Hyeonjoon’s ear, and for a single dangerous second, he let himself imagine leaning down, catching his mouth, and testing just how much power a kiss could really hold.

But he didn’t. He forced himself still.

Oner was pacing the small balcony, the city lights flickering below, when a familiar voice called from the doorway.

“Hey,” Keria said, leaning casually against the frame, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a mug of something steaming. “Look at you. All broody and restless. Hyeonjoon-hyung must’ve left a mark bigger than I thought.”

Oner stiffened, but didn’t turn. “I’m not broody.”

Keria smirked, taking a slow sip from his mug. “Sure, sure. ‘Testing a hypothesis,’ right? That’s what you’re calling hovering in his orbit now?” He tilted his head, eyes sharp beneath the messy sweep of his hair. “You’ve got that… glow again. Something’s stirring.”

Oner’s jaw tightened. He knew what Keria meant—he could feel the pull of his own essence, a tendril of something old and dangerous tugging inside him. He stepped closer to the railing, trying to ignore it. “It’s nothing. Just… thinking.”

Keria’s grin widened, clearly not buying it. “Right. Thinking. About that boy who doesn't even know what he’s holding in his hands?” His tone danced on the edge of teasing, but the warning was unmistakable. “Oner… something’s coming back. And it’s not a coincidence.”

Oner’s hand curled into a fist around the railing. “It’s… proximity. That’s all.”

“Proximity,” Keria echoed, mockingly precise, “or maybe the little careless words he drops, huh? Did you feel it when he said it? That… wish thing? I felt it from here, and I’m only half-genie.”

Oner froze, heat prickling at the back of his neck. He didn’t answer.

Keria stepped closer, leaning over the balcony, lowering his voice. “Listen carefully. You’ve got a tether now. Every word he whispers, every tiny desire… it touches you. And if he ever—ever—wishes fully for something aimed at you, well… that’s when you’re truly bound again. Not human anymore. Not free.”

Oner swallowed hard. “And if he doesn’t…?”

“Then you fade,” Keria said flatly, eyes meeting his. “Or worse. You hover in limbo, caught between human and… what you were. It’s why you can’t just play with him. You can’t just flirt and brush close for fun.”

Oner let the words sink in, chest tightening with something heavier than desire. “I… I know.”

Keria’s face softened just a fraction, playful grin returning. “Still, you look ridiculous doing it. Like some lovesick teenager. And for centuries-old you, that’s saying something.” He tapped Oner’s shoulder lightly. “But… be careful. I don’t want to have to patch you back together when he finally figures out what he’s holding.”

Oner’s eyes flicked down, jaw clenching. He wanted to say something sharp, something witty, but the gravity of Keria’s warning pressed against him. He could feel Hyeonjoon in every corner of his mind, the casual warmth of him lingering like a brand.

“And one more thing,” Keria added, smirk turning serious, voice low, “if he ever gets the idea—really—the three wishes aren’t just metaphor anymore. One word from him could tether you forever. You understand?”

Oner nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I understand.”

Keria straightened, took a last sip of his mug, and smirked. “Good. Now go figure out how to survive that… without melting every time he smiles.”

Oner turned back toward the apartment, heart racing, chest tight, every inch of him alert. Hyeonjoon was out there somewhere, unknowingly holding the key to his existence. And the pull—the vast, consuming, impossible pull—was only growing stronger.

That night, Oner lay awake with one truth pressing against him like a blade.

The three wishes weren’t gone.

They had never left.

And now, in Hyeonjoon’s careless words, in his laughter and his nearness, Oner realized the cruelest part of it all:

The boy who didn’t even know what he was, who touched him without fear, who smiled at him like he was just another man—

Hyeonjoon was the one holding his tether.

If he wished enough, Oner could live.

If he didn’t… Oner would fade.

And for the first time in centuries, Oner found himself afraid.

Not of fading.

But of wanting to stay.

And worse—of wanting more. Of wondering what would happen if Hyeonjoon’s next wish wasn’t careless, but whispered against his skin.

Extra: Hyeonjoon’s Side

Hyeonjoon lingered near the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame, eyes tracing the outline of Hyeonjun’s profile as he moved through the apartment. Hyeonjun was tall, shoulders broad, the kind of presence that filled a room without even trying. There was something almost unreal about him—too striking, too carved, too effortlessly magnetic to be just another man.

Even funny, that they share the same name.

Ridiculous, Hyeonjoon thought, a soft laugh slipping under his breath. Ridiculous how much he noticed—the way Hyeonjun’s shirt clung across his chest, the sharp lines of his jaw, the lean grace in every careless movement. Ridiculous how often his mind circled back to the image of Hyeonjun pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, casual and devastating all at once. It was unfair, really, how someone could look both disheveled and ethereal, dangerous and grounded, in the same breath.

His gaze caught the subtle twitch of Hyeonjun’s fingers, the tilt of his head when he concentrated, and the faint curve of a smile that appeared even when he didn’t mean it. Each small detail seemed to tighten something inside Hyeonjoon, leaving the air heavier, charged with a tension he didn’t dare name.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand why he wanted to linger nearby, why the sight of Hyeonjun made him consider leaning a fraction closer, or why a simple glance from those unusual, intense eyes seemed to echo inside him.

And yet, he couldn’t help it. Quietly, he wondered if there was something worth unraveling in this man who had appeared so suddenly, whose presence made the ordinary feel charged and uncertain.

Even more, he realized—without fully acknowledging it—that Hyeonjun’s attention, that strange, unpredictable pull, was something he wanted to return, carefully, cautiously, and entirely without words.

Chapter Text

Oner kicked at the curb, the warm night pressing against his skin, the taste of whiskey still clinging to his tongue. He’d told himself he was fine. He’d reminded himself of all the clever ways he could get what he wanted, of all the tricks he’d mastered in his long, endless life. Three wishes, the power to give anything, and all he could think about was what—who—he might lose.

He wasn’t fine.

“You’re spiraling,” Keria had said earlier, voice sharp as he poured another drink. His half-genie senses flickered under the surface, reading more than ordinary tipsiness. “Drink all you want, it won’t fix this.”

“Maybe not,” Oner slurred, smiling too hard, “but at least it makes it… interesting.”

Minhyeong chuckled, nudging him. “You’ve been saying that for hours, Hyeonjun-ah. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what ‘interesting’ really feels like.”

“Hours are my playground, my friend.” Oner replied, tipping his head back. The city lights blurred around him. The thrill was almost there—the buzz that once threaded his mind with danger—but tonight it skimmed the surface, leaving him hollow. He wanted more, needed more, and he knew it.

That old ache—the one that used to hum whenever desperation and liquor mingled—was out of reach. The intoxication that once fed him no longer answered, leaving him restless in the hollow between human and not. Whiskey alone wasn’t enough.

So he’d stumbled home ahead of them, the familiar walls of the three-bedroom apartment blurring into focus as he pushed inside. The air was cooler here, quieter, but no less charged. His steps slowed, guided by something he refused to name, until he stopped outside a door he already knew too well.

Hyeonjoon.

Oner froze. His chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. The pull was there, raw and unrelenting, stronger than it had any right to be. He could back away. He could crawl into his own room, feign sleep, pretend he hadn’t listened to the quiet tether inside him. But he didn’t.

The door opened before he could knock.

“You’re drunk,” Hyeonjoon said, voice calm, steady as ever.

“Doesn’t stop me,” Oner replied, leaning against the frame, aiming for defiance but tasting the truth of it in the warm sway of his limbs.

Hyeonjoon’s gaze didn’t flinch. If anything, it lingered—on Oner’s shoulders, on the mess of his hair, on the faint curve of his mouth. “And yet, here you are.”

Oner let out a short laugh. “Some things… can’t be avoided.”

The pause that followed was thick, heavy with all the words neither of them had been willing to name. The silence carried a different charge tonight, sharp and breathless, as if the air itself knew how close they stood to something irreversible.

And in that moment, Oner felt it: the intoxication wasn’t just whiskey. It was Hyeonjoon. The tether he couldn’t untie. The danger he thought he could outsmart, the thrill he couldn’t chase away.

“I suppose… this is inevitable,” Oner muttered, almost to himself, stepping closer.

Hyeonjoon didn’t move back. Didn’t stop him.

No words followed—just the quiet electricity sparking between them, the pull of something messy, something vast. And Oner—denying it, fearing it, yet already drawn—knew that this wasn’t just a stumble. It was a tipping point.

Oner’s shoulder brushed the frame as he leaned in, his shadow cutting across the lamplight spilling from the room. Hyeonjoon’s eyes flickered, steady but softer now, like he was weighing whether to move or to let this play out.

“You should sleep,” Hyeonjoon said finally, voice low, even.

“Sleep,” Oner echoed, his lips quirking as he tilted his head. “That’s not what I came here for.”

The words landed heavier than he meant them to, his pulse betraying him in the space between. He expected Hyeonjoon to laugh, to push him back toward his own room with that maddening calmness. Instead, Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, just faintly, his shoulders lifting in the smallest sign that he wasn’t unaffected.

Oner stepped inside, shutting the doors behind him, closing the distance until there was nowhere else to go. His hand rose almost without thought, fingers grazing the line of Hyeonjoon’s jaw. Warm skin. Too warm. It burned through the alcohol haze, sharp and real.

“Why are you letting me do this?” Oner murmured, searching his eyes.

“Because…” Hyeonjoon swallowed, his voice thinner now, unsteady in a way Oner had never heard before. “Because you’re already doing it.”

The air snapped taut.

Oner’s mouth hovered dangerously close, close enough to taste the breath between them. He slid his glasses off, letting them dangle from one hand, but left Hyeonjoon’s untouched—sharp, teasing, maddening. Hyeonjoon’s gaze darted to Oner’s bare eyes, then swept over his face, memorizing every sharp line, every impossible detail.

And then—hesitation broke.

Their mouths met in a rush, not gentle, not measured. It was clumsy at first, hungry, the collision of two people who had circled far too long. Oner’s hand slid to the back of Hyeonjoon’s neck, anchoring him, while Hyeonjoon’s fingers fisted in his shirt like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull him closer or push him away.

The taste was whiskey and something brighter, something that had nothing to do with alcohol. Oner deepened the kiss before he could stop himself, chasing the spark like a man starved.

Hyeonjoon broke away just enough to breathe, his lips still brushing Oner’s. “You’re drunk,” he whispered again, but it sounded less like a warning and more like an excuse he wanted to believe.

“And you’re not stopping me,” Oner whispered back, a dangerous edge threading the words.

The tension tipped. Hyeonjoon pulled him in again, harder this time, his back hitting the doorframe as Oner pressed into him. The electricity between them burned, sparking wild and reckless, their restraint unraveling in the heat of contact.

It wasn’t tender, not yet. It was need, messy and unshaken, both of them tasting the line they shouldn’t cross and stepping over it anyway.

Oner pressed Hyeonjoon down into the mattress, covering him, the fit of their bodies startling in its inevitability. As if this was where he was always meant to end up: here, inside this room, inside this man, losing every careful wall he had ever built.

But then Hyeonjoon shifted. Instead of yielding, he pressed his palms firmly to Oner’s chest, surprising him with the strength behind it. Oner let himself be pushed, rolling off to his back beside him on the sheets. His smirk came automatically, sharp and mocking, though his pulse hammered.

They dragged at each other’s clothes in the blur between breathless kisses—shirts pulled overhead, tossed blindly to the floor, buttons scattering loose in the dark. Oner’s hands found the waistband of Hyeonjoon’s pants, tugging impatiently until Hyeonjoon swatted his wrists away and stripped them off himself with something like defiance. Oner’s own pants followed, peeled down by Hyeonjoon’s quick fingers. The scrape of denim, the heat of bare skin against bare skin—every layer gone made the hunger worse.

By the time they were half-undressed, both of them flushed and gasping, it wasn’t just desire—it was inevitability.

“You think you’re the only one who gets to lead?” Hyeonjoon murmured then, breath hot, eyes dark behind his glasses.

Instead of shoving him again, Hyeonjoon climbed over Oner, straddling him, glasses sliding low on his nose as his eyes raked down. For a moment, he just stared, chest rising fast, lips parted in something closer to awe than hesitation.

Oner felt the weight of that gaze—hungry, reverent—as if Hyeonjoon were drinking him in piece by piece. The hard lines of his shoulders, the cut of his abdomen, the sheer size of him straining between them. It wasn’t vanity that made Oner smirk, but the way Hyeonjoon looked like he might unravel just from the sight alone.

The sound that left Hyeonjoon was half-groan, half-disbelieving laugh. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips, like he couldn’t stop himself. His hand slid up Oner’s stomach, tracing each ridge like he was memorizing them, before curling lower. He palmed him through the thin fabric, fingers pressing along the heavy outline, lingering like he couldn’t believe what he was touching.

“Mmm…” He exhaled, heat and wonder in his voice, lips parting as his eyes devoured Oner. “You’re… so big.”

A hiss tore out of Oner, sharp and unguarded. Hyeonjoon’s eyes flicked up through his lashes, dark and glassy, and for one suspended beat he just held him there, rubbing slow, almost worshipful. His lips parted again, breath shaky, and the faintest glint of drool caught on his tongue before he dragged it across his lower lip.

Before Oner could retort, Hyeonjoon was already sinking to his knees.

The sight alone nearly undid him. Hyeonjoon, disheveled, lips kiss-bruised, glasses sliding low on his nose as he reached for the waistband of Oner’s boxers. Oner’s hands twitched at his sides, wanting to seize back control, but the heat that pooled in his gut told him to let this play.

When Hyeonjoon’s mouth closed around his throbbing cock, Oner’s head fell back hard against the wall. A sound broke from him, raw and dangerous, a sound he hadn’t made in centuries. His fingers clenched white-knuckled in the sheets, every nerve lit aflame as Hyeonjoon’s tongue moved over his hardness—eager, messy, imperfect, but devastating all the same.

He risked a glance down and nearly unraveled. Hyeonjoon’s eyes were on him, wide and daring, glasses slipping but refusing to fall. That gaze pinned Oner harder than any magic could.

“Gods,” Oner hissed, breath shattering. His hips bucked despite himself, his control slipping, his composure in ruins. “You’ll—ruin me like this.”

Hyeonjoon didn’t stop. He took more, deeper, until Oner’s hand fisted in his hair, jerking him back before he shattered entirely. He gagged and choked on Oner’s thick cock, sputtering around it, every desperate suck a chaotic battle with its overwhelming size. Their mouths collided again, Oner tasting himself on Hyeonjoon’s lips, kissing him with a desperation that bordered on violence.

“Enough,” Oner growled against his mouth, voice wrecked. He flipped them with ease, pressing Hyeonjoon flat against the mattress, caging him in. His smirk returned, sharp and dangerous, breath scorching at Hyeonjoon’s ear. Now he could see everything—the flush of his skin, the curve of his back, and the pucker of him, bare and exposed, under Oner’s gaze. Fingers twitching, Oner leaned closer, tracing the rim with a teasing brush of his thumb, making Hyeonjoon shiver, squirm, and whimper helplessly under him.

“You wanted control?” His hand slid down, pressing into Hyeonjoon’s hip, the weight of his body pinning him. “Now it’s mine.”

He pushed Hyeonjoon back onto the bed this time, pinning him there. His own breath shook with restraint as his fingers trailed down the plane of Hyeonjoon’s stomach, slipping lower. He paused—then brought his hand to his mouth, drawing two fingers between his lips. He sucked them slowly, deliberately, coating them with spit. His gaze never left Hyeonjoon’s, glasses askew, eyes wide and unguarded in the dim light.

The sound of Oner’s wet fingers pulling free filled the silence like a promise.

Only then did he press his hand down again, sliding between Hyeonjoon’s thighs. His fingers traced the slick, heated skin, teasing along the folds before slipping inside him, slick and warm. The heat, the way Hyeonjoon’s body clenched around him—it nearly broke him. Oner worked his fingers deeper, steady, spreading him open while his mouth followed every sound Hyeonjoon made, kissing, nipping, swallowing each gasp and whimper like it was his to claim.

“Mine,” Oner whispered against his skin, half a curse, half a prayer.

By the time Hyeonjoon trembled under his touch, pliant and needy, Oner couldn’t wait any longer. He slid his fingers free, slick with preparation, and pressed forward.

When Oner finally pushed into him, slow at first but unrelenting, the air fractured between them. Hyeonjoon gasped, nails clawing into Oner’s shoulders, and Oner bit down on the sound with his mouth, swallowing it, claiming it. Oner’s cock sank deep, stretching him, filling him completely, sliding in hot and thick, each inch pressing, pulsing, igniting fire along Hyeonjoon’s spine. The fit was unbearable in its perfection—tight, hot, a lock Oner hadn’t known he’d been searching for. He moved with a hunger that bordered on feral, centuries of starvation collapsing into each thrust, each push and pull a desperate, messy rhythm of claiming and surrender.

“Perfect,” Oner whispered harshly against his throat, every word breaking on a groan. “You—fit—perfect.”

Then it shattered. Hyeonjoon came first, body trembling, voice strangled as Oner held him down, not letting a single shiver escape unclaimed. Oner’s hands gripped hips, shoulders, jaw, pulling him flush, driving him harder, faster. Oner followed instantly, spilling deep inside with a growl, hips pistoning, teeth grazing shoulder, marking him, taking him utterly. Their cries collided, raw and chaotic, both cumming together, tangled, bruised, slick, each thrust an assertion of possession, every gasp and moan a declaration: he was Oner’s, utterly, irrevocably.

Hyeonjoon clung to him, hair mussed and lips swollen, eyes glazed with something Oner couldn’t name. Every time he tightened around him, Oner lost another piece of himself. Every gasp, every broken sound, dragged him further from the man who once thrived only in intoxication and closer to something far more dangerous—want.

And as he drove them both over the edge, Oner knew with terrifying clarity: immortality had never undone him. But Hyeonjoon could.

And he wanted it.

​​

The room fell into silence, broken only by their uneven breaths, the sweat-slick press of skin against skin. Oner buried his face against Hyeonjoon’s neck, inhaling like he could brand the moment into himself. Hyeonjoon’s chest heaved beneath him, warm and alive, and when his trembling hand dragged down Oner’s back, nails catching, the spark caught again.

Oner felt himself stir, impossibly, hunger clawing back to the surface like it hadn’t been fed at all. He pulled back just enough to see Hyeonjoon’s face—flushed, dazed, lips swollen—and the faintest smirk ghosted across his mouth.

“Again,” Oner rasped, voice wrecked, a promise and a threat all at once.

And the night was far from over.

Chapter Text

Oner woke to the wrong ceiling.

His breath caught, sharp and shallow, as he blinked at the familiar cracks of his own bedroom. Not Hyeonjoon’s. His.

That didn’t make sense. He remembered the heat of another mattress, remembered skin under his hands, lips swollen and desperate against his. He remembered everything.

But the sheets under him were crisp, untouched. His body felt… normal. No ache, no evidence, nothing but the dull thrum of last night’s whiskey.

Like it hadn’t happened at all.

His pulse raced. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, scanning the room as if proof might appear in the shadows. Nothing. Just silence. Just stillness.

And then the air bent, heavy with divinity.

Faker leaned against the doorway like he owned the place, mouth curled into an easy, merciless smile.

“Morning,” the god said, smooth as poured glass. “Sleep well?”

Oner’s stomach dropped. His hands curled into fists. “…What did you do?”

Faker tilted his head, eyes gleaming with the kind of humor only gods found funny. “A gift. I pressed reset. Last night never happened. He doesn’t remember. Only you do.”

Oner’s jaw tightened, anger threading quietly through his words. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to.” Faker’s tone was light, almost lazy, but the precision in it cut like a blade. “That’s what gods do.”

Oner’s chest burned, every instinct screaming, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Faker was untouchable—the god. To lash out would be useless, suicidal. All he could do was stand there, hands hanging useless, his body tight with the wrongness of it.

Faker’s mouth curved, slow and deliberate—a rare, scheming smirk, as if helplessness itself were the move he’d been waiting for. And then—without so much as a ripple—he was gone. 

And Oner was left alone in the silence, the memory of what he’d lost burning sharper than any hangover.

The apartment smelled of coffee.

Oner dragged himself out of his room, every step heavy with disbelief, dread tangled with a confusion that wouldn’t ease. The memory pressed sharp against him, but the world around him carried on as if nothing had changed.

The sound of a kettle whistling reached him before anything else.

Hyeonjoon stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair still mussed from sleep. He moved easily, steady, like every morning before. Like last night had been nothing more than a dream Oner had drunk himself into.

“Morning,” Hyeonjoon said, glancing up, voice calm, casual. He poured hot water into a mug, steam curling upward. “Coffee’s ready.”

The words hit Oner harder than any blade. He searched Hyeonjoon’s face, desperate for a flicker—some trace of recognition, some sign that he remembered the way his lips had parted under Oner’s, the way his body had arched against him. But there was nothing.

Hyeonjoon looked at him like a roommate, like a friend, like just another morning.

“You’re quiet,” Hyeonjoon noted after a beat, setting a mug in front of him with that maddening steadiness. “Rough night?”

Oner swallowed hard. His throat felt raw, scraped clean. “Something like that,” he muttered, forcing the words out. His fingers tightened around the mug—not for warmth, but to keep them from shaking.

The smell of coffee thickened the space between them, bitter and ordinary. Oner stared into the dark swirl, knowing—knowing—it wasn’t ordinary at all.

Last night was gone. Erased. Except for him.

And that knowledge lodged like glass in his chest, sharp with every breath.

He shouldn’t look. He knew better. But when Hyeonjoon leaned over the counter to reach the sugar jar, his shirt pulled tight across his back, and the image of last night—his body pinned beneath Oner’s, breath breaking in gasps—rushed in, savage and vivid.

Oner swallowed, forcing his gaze down. Phantom. Only memory. Only me.

“You didn’t eat,” Hyeonjoon said, breaking through his spiral. His tone was soft but chiding, like he was used to noticing these things. “Want me to make something?”

The casual care nearly undid him. Oner smirked, brittle, masking the crack in his voice. “Since when are you volunteering to feed me?”

Hyeonjoon huffed, amused, brushing past him to grab eggs from the fridge. His shoulder brushed Oner’s arm, light, nothing intentional—except Oner felt it like an echo, nerves remembering what his body shouldn’t.

He froze, fighting not to lean into it.

Hyeonjoon noticed his stillness and tilted his head, curious. “What?”

“Nothing,” Oner said quickly. Too quickly.

But Hyeonjoon lingered in his space a fraction longer than necessary, that maddening half-smile tugging at his mouth. The same one he’d worn last night, lips swollen—Oner bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron.

It was unbearable.

Every small gesture Hyeonjoon made—the way he slid the pan onto the stove, the absent push of his glasses up his nose, the easy laugh when Oner muttered something sarcastic—echoed against the memory of how those same hands had clutched his shirt, how those lips had groaned his name.

Only now, Hyeonjoon carried it all like it had never happened.

And Oner, caught between fury and longing, wanted to shake him, to make him remember.

Because it hadn’t just been lust—he knew that. It was the spark that had caught between them, a bond that felt raw and real. And now, staring into eyes that saw nothing, he felt it slip away like smoke through his fingers.

When Hyeonjoon finally slid a plate toward him, brushing his fingers against Oner’s in the process, it was casual, innocent—kind. But Oner’s chest seized, his breath hitching before he could stop it.

Hyeonjoon glanced up, brows lifting. “You’re acting weird today.”

Oner forced a smirk, sharp enough to cover the wreckage in his chest. “You’ve always thought that.”

Hyeonjoon laughed softly, eyes curving with warmth that didn’t reach memory. That laugh—easy, unguarded—landed like a blade.

The scrape of silverware on porcelain filled the silence. Hyeonjoon had already finished his food and was rinsing his plate in the sink, whistling under his breath. The sound was maddeningly normal, like last night hadn’t been ripped out of existence.

Oner sat rigid, staring down at the eggs he hadn’t touched. His fork clinked once, twice against the plate. He couldn’t force a bite down.

“Don’t waste it,” Hyeonjoon said over his shoulder, voice mild. He flicked a glance back at him, that small smile tugging at his lips again. “I made it for you.”

The words slammed into Oner’s chest. He had to clench his jaw to keep from breaking. For me. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t—

Before he could lose himself completely, a shadow slid into the doorway.

Keria.

He leaned casually against the frame, coffee mug in hand, hair sticking up like he hadn’t bothered with it. But his eyes—sharp, knowing—cut straight through Oner.

“Morning,” Hyeonjoon greeted, drying his hands on a towel. “There’s food if you want.”

“Pass,” Keria said easily, raising the mug. “Already fueled.”

Hyeonjoon shrugged and padded off toward his room, still half-muttering that same tune, his steps light like nothing weighed on him.

The moment his door clicked shut, the air snapped tight.

Oner set his fork down hard, metal scraping. His voice dropped, low and ragged. “You knew.”

Keria sipped from his mug, unbothered. “Of course I knew. The God Faker walked through here like it was a game.”

Oner exhaled slowly, his hands flattening against the table as if grounding himself, knuckles tight with everything he couldn’t say.

“Only you remember,” Keria added, quiet now, almost offhand. Then, with a wry tilt of his head: “That must sting.”

Oner’s gaze snapped up, sharp and burning.

Keria shrugged, tone light but edged. “I don’t claim to have all the answers. Faker’s moves aren’t exactly predictable. But if he left you with memory, there’s maybe a reason—even if you don’t see it yet.”

Oner’s breath hitched, shallow, but he said nothing.

Keria leaned back, smirk fading to something sharper.

“You ever wonder why I catch the things you don’t?”

Oner’s silence was answer enough.

Keria’s eyes glinted, deliberate. “Faker’s power doesn’t stick to me. Half of me doesn’t bow to him—you knew that much.”

He lifted the mug, casual again. “So when gods play games, I get to keep the receipts.”

His smirk flickered again—half-tease, half-concern. “Guess that makes me stuck watching you choke on them.”

The silence after Keria’s words stretched—heavy, raw, unrelenting.

Oner’s pulse still hammered, his breath sharp in his chest, but the moment was cut by a sudden, steady buzz at the door.

Both of them stilled.

Hyeonjoon’s voice came muffled from his room. “I’ll get it.”

Footsteps padded across the floor. The sound of the lock turning. Hinges groaning.

And then—

“…Jihoon?” Hyeonjoon’s voice softened, startled, something unreadable threading through it.

Oner’s head jerked up, the name a foreign blade.

The air shifted—charged, familiar in a way Oner couldn’t name. Someone Hyeonjoon definitely shared a history with; he could feel it in the silence, thick and sudden, heavier than Faker’s laugh. And the way Hyeonjoon’s voice had softened—like it remembered something Oner didn’t—knocked the balance out from under him.

And as Hyeonjoon froze, caught between memory and surprise, Oner felt the moment twist—like the night Faker erased had been replaced with something far crueler.

Hyeonjoon’s Wish

Hyeonjun slept soundly beside him, lashes casting shadows against his cheeks, lips parted just slightly like even dreams came with stubborn defiance. Hyeonjoon lay with his head against Hyeonjun’s chest, listening to the steady beat beneath his ear, each thud both an anchor and a torment.

The room still smelled of heat and sweat, of whiskey and skin. His own body hummed with the aftershock of it—what they had done, what it meant.

It should have been enough to make him smile. Instead, fear coiled tight in his chest.

What if Hyeonjun woke tomorrow and looked at him with regret? What if he brushed it off as a drunken mistake, something careless and fleeting? What if he broke the fragile, impossible thing that had just begun between them?

Hyeonjoon turned his face toward him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, steady and calm. He wanted to believe in it. He wanted to believe in them.

But the fear was louder.

His hand curled in the sheets, and the wish slipped free—raw, unguarded, human:

I wish… If he’s going to regret it… then let him forget. Let us both forget. Please.

It was clumsy, desperate, nothing holy—just the wish of a boy too afraid to lose what he’d barely found.

The words hung in the dark, unspoken but alive, sinking into the air like smoke.

And somewhere beyond the quiet, beyond the reach of his senses, a laugh curled low and knowing.

Hyeonjoon never heard it. By the time his eyes closed, he was already slipping into sleep.

Chapter Text

The name hit sharp in Oner’s chest.

Jihoon.

He didn’t know the face, but he knew the shift. The air had changed the second Hyeonjoon spoke—softened, warm, like it remembered something Oner didn’t.

The boy in the doorway smiled faintly, shoulders loose with the kind of ease that only came with history. Taller than Hyeonjoon, built lean but steady, his pale skin caught the dim hallway light. He wasn’t trying, but humans might call that good-looking—structured jaw, clean lines, the kind of face people like to look at. Yet it was those eyes, gentling the moment they landed on Hyeonjoon, that made Oner’s gut twist.

“…You’re really here,” Hyeonjoon said, voice low, almost disbelieving.

Jihoon laughed once, soft. “It’s been a while, huh?”

The words meant nothing to Oner, but they struck hard anyway, like a longing they both had to bear. He stood stiff in the kitchen, every nerve on alert, watching Hyeonjoon linger in the doorway instead of waving him in.

It was the way Hyeonjoon’s shoulders dipped, the way his eyes didn’t look away. That quiet pause said more than anything spoken.

When Hyeonjoon finally stepped aside to let Jihoon in, the air between them carried a weight Oner couldn’t touch, couldn’t name—and it gnawed at him, raw and immediate.

Jihoon stepped inside, setting his bag by the door like it was nothing. “Hope you don’t mind me crashing here a few days. Place isn’t ready yet.”

Oner stayed at the table, quiet, his mug forgotten and cold. Keria moved a little in his chair, a half-smile playing at his lips.

“Well, look who it is–Jihoon-hyung,” Keria said, tilting his head. “Didn’t think you’d really come.”

Jihoon glanced over, smile easy. “Minseokkie… been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Keria said, lifting his cup in a lazy salute. “Too long. Guess some people never really disappear.”

The words slid sharp, meant to cut. Oner caught them, but Jihoon only chuckled before turning back to Hyeonjoon.

“Didn’t mean to drop in unannounced,” Jihoon said. His voice softened as he looked at him. “But you look… good.”

Hyeonjoon’s mouth lifted, a twitch between a laugh and something softer.  “You’re the one who looks exactly the same.”

Keria’s eyes flicked toward Oner briefly, sharp and knowing, as if he could read the thought straight from his set jaw. He didn’t say anything, but the curve of his mouth said enough.

Hyeonjoon slid open a cupboard, pulling out another mug. “Coffee? Or are you still into tea?”

Jihoon leaned back against the counter like he belonged there, arms crossed with a grin. “Still tea. You remember.”

Of course he remembered. The line wasn’t even meant for Oner, but it cut all the same.

“Hyung’s picky as always,” Keria muttered, sipping his drink. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Jihoon chuckled. “Consistency’s not a bad thing.”

Hyeonjoon set the kettle on, avoiding Oner’s eyes. “Better than being unpredictable.”

Oner couldn’t tell if that was a joke, a memory, or nothing at all. A roughness scraped his throat.

Keria slouched back, eyes glinting with mischief. “Guess I don’t need to introduce you two, huh? Hyeonjun, Jihoon-hyung. Jihoon, Hyeonjun.”

“Really? Hyeonjoon and Hyeonjun.”

Jihoon’s gaze flicked between them, a polite smile tugging at his mouth. “Hyeonjun-ssi. Nice to meet you.”

The sound of his so-called name in Jihoon’s mouth pressed heavier than it should have. Oner bowed stiffly, muttered a greeting, then sat back down, lips pressed thin.

The kettle clicked off, sharp against the quiet.

Hyeonjoon poured the water, steam curling between them, stalling as if the seconds might shield him. When he slid the mug across the counter, his fingers stayed on the handle a moment too long.

Jihoon’s smile curved, faint but steady. “Still remember how I take it.”

The words pressed against something Hyeonjoon had long buried.

A classroom after hours. Desks cluttered with notes, Jihoon’s voice breaking the silence with jokes that never landed but always made him laugh anyway. That night—the slip, the almost—shoulder to shoulder, then lips brushing lips. A kiss too quick to be called anything, too real to be forgotten.

It had lit something in him. His pulse had leapt, the room had spun—and then Jihoon had pulled back, face set in a calm he didn’t feel.

“…That was a mistake,” he’d said, quiet, final.

And Hyeonjoon, throat caught, had nodded. Pretended it hadn’t mattered. Pretended it didn’t hurt. They promised to stay friends, and they did. But the word mistake clung like a shadow between them, erasing what might have been before it had even begun.

Now, years later, Jihoon’s grin was easy, but his eyes—soft where they lingered too long—betrayed something heavier. Regret, maybe. The kind that came late.

Hyeonjoon, though, didn’t let himself see it. He told himself he was imagining it. That whatever they had, whatever they weren’t, belonged to another time. Not now. Not anymore.

“Some things don’t change,” he said, steady, almost amused.

Jihoon’s mouth curved, softer than before. “Maybe some things shouldn’t have.”

The words caught, heavier than the steam curling in the air. But Hyeonjoon only smiled faintly, taking it as a joke, letting it slide away.

Across the room, Oner felt each word slice clean through him. And Keria, leaning back in his chair, didn’t bother to hide the glint of sharp amusement in his eyes.

Oner tightened his grip around his cup, its weight useless in his hands. He wasn’t supposed to know these pieces of Hyeonjoon, wasn’t supposed to hear the weight behind Jihoon’s voice—or see the way Hyeonjoon chose not to.

It was like standing outside a window, watching a story already written, and knowing he had no part in the first draft.

The silence stretched, hot and unkind, and Oner dragged down a swallow that caught halfway.

The morning came too fast. Oner sat at the breakfast table, pretending to scroll through his phone, though his eyes kept dragging toward the counter.

Hyeonjoon stood there, steady as ever, moving with the quiet focus he carried into small tasks. Jihoon leaned in beside him, laughing at a joke no one else caught. Their rhythm was easy, like a conversation only they could follow.

“Hyung’s still picky,” Jihoon said, laughing as he nudged Hyeonjoon’s elbow. “Look at that—won’t even let me add onions. Same as always.”

“As if you’re not the same,” Hyeonjoon muttered, but his voice was soft, lips curving before he caught himself. “Sit down. You’re in the way.”

Jihoon raised his hands like he was surrendering, grin tugging, and dropped into the chair across from Oner. His bag leaned against the corner of the living room, a blanket and pillow folded neatly on the couch, staking a temporary claim until his new apartment was done. He settled in easily, like he’d never left.

The scrape of another chair cut in. Minhyeong dropped into the seat beside Oner, hair still damp, hoodie tugged half over his face. He blinked once, then broke into a grin. “Jihoon-hyung. Thought you were just a rumor.”

“Yah, what kind of rumor?” Jihoon laughed, leaning over to ruffle his hair. “You’ve grown, Minhyeong-ah.”

“Not enough to stop you from doing that, apparently.” Minhyeong shoved his hand away, but he was smiling. “Guess you haven’t changed either.”

“Consistency,” Jihoon said brightly, like it was the best punchline in the world.

Keria stumbled in next, nursing his cup like it was life support. His eyes swept the room, pausing just long enough on Jihoon to twist into a smirk. “Wow. Didn’t expect to wake up to a sitcom.”

“Go back to bed,” Hyeonjoon shot over his shoulder, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He set down a plate in front of Oner first—scrambled eggs just the way he liked them, soft and fluffy, nothing spilling over. No onions. No fuss.

It should’ve been nothing, but Oner felt the brush of Hyeonjoon’s hand against the back of his chair. Barely there. Maybe an accident. Maybe not. His chest tightened anyway.

Then Hyeonjoon set another plate down in front of Jihoon—toast stacked high, crusts trimmed clean. “Still can’t stand the edges, right?”

Jihoon’s smile softened. “You even remembered that?”

The words cracked against Oner’s ribs.

Keria let out a low hum, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Careful, hyung. He makes it sound romantic when he says it like that.”

Jihoon chuckled. Hyeonjoon only shook his head, muttering, “Don’t be annoying,” the corner of his mouth tugging like it always did when Keria stirred trouble..

Minhyeong leaned forward, grinning. “No, really. This feels like déjà vu. Jihoon-hyung showing up, stealing all the attention.”

“Stealing?” Jihoon echoed, feigning offense. “I don’t have to steal. People just like me.”

“Too much,” Hyeonjoon muttered again, but there was no bite to it.

Jihoon smirked, leaning his chin into his hand. “Reminds me of that field trip—you remember, Hyeonjoonie-hyung? You brought two lunches because you swore I’d forget mine. And you were right.”

Hyeonjoon froze for half a beat, spatula hovering in midair. “That was years ago.”

“Still counts.” Jihoon’s grin deepened. “Saved me from starving. Saved the whole bus, actually, because you know I would’ve complained the entire way back.”

The table laughed. Minhyeong shook his head, still grinning. “So you’ve always been dependent on Hyeonjoon-hyung. Good to know.”

Jihoon only winked. “What can I say? Some people take care of me.”

Oner’s teeth ached from holding still. He stabbed at his food without tasting it, each bite landing with weight. The room hummed with chatter and laughter, the scrape of plates fading into the background. But what cut deepest was Hyeonjoon—full of Jihoon’s past and, by the hands of a god, leaving the night he’d spent with Oner unremembered.

And Oner felt like he was the only one who didn’t belong at the table.

The laughter lingered down the hall even after Oner closed the door. He pressed his palms against the wood, trying to anchor himself, as if that alone could keep the sound away. It didn’t. Jihoon’s voice carried through, warm and familiar. Hyeonjoon’s came after—softer, lighter than anything Oner had heard in weeks.

Something inside him twisted sharp.

He turned away too quickly, nearly stumbling into the desk by the window. His hands braced against its edge, veins rising along. Breathe, he told himself, but the air pressed tighter, heavier, refusing to enter clean. The bulb overhead gave a faint buzz, then flickered once.

Oner froze.

The glass of water he’d left by the bed rattled against the wood. A hairline crack spread across it, thin as a spider’s thread, before splitting the cup clean in half. Water bled onto the floor.

His chest seized. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t even touched it.

It was happening again.

For weeks, he’d been clawing at pieces of himself he thought he’d left behind, wondering if his power could return—if he wanted it to. Now it broke through on its own, raw and violent, answering feelings he shouldn’t even have.

He pressed shaking fingers to his temples. This is wrong. He isn’t yours. He doesn’t even remember.

The thought struck harder than the shatter. Hyeonjoon had forgotten the one night Oner couldn’t. Forgotten because Faker’s trick of magic had buried it. Or maybe because it had never meant the same to him.

And now Jihoon sat in the kitchen, laughing like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

Oner let out a sound too close to a laugh, though it cut bitter in his throat. Right. He’d almost managed to forget—he wasn’t exactly human. He wasn’t what Hyeonjoon needed. He wasn’t anything that could stay.

The air around him felt tight, as if it could burst another bulb at any moment. Shadows crept along the edges of the room.

Oner’s breath came fast, ragged. His fingers trembled around the ruined glass, but he didn’t let go until the shards bit in.

He forced his hand open. Forced the air to steady. Forced himself still.

It worked—barely. The shadows stilled, the silence returned. But the echo inside him didn’t quiet.

He was unraveling. And if he lost the grip again, this apartment wouldn’t survive it.

A week passed without a word.

Oner was gone the next morning—no note, no explanation. Just absence. Keria had been the one to smooth it over, muttering something about a family emergency. Maybe the others bought it. Hyeonjoon hadn’t asked.

For Oner, it was easier this way. Keria arranged a place, and genies had their ways. Wherever he landed, it didn’t matter. The walls blurred one into the next. None of them could hold him steady, not with power slowly clawing back restless beneath his skin, sparking every time his mind circled back to the kitchen table he no longer sat at.

He didn’t see Hyeonjoon. Not once. Not for a week. And he told himself that was good. Safer. Cleaner.

Until he did.

The bar smelled the same—cheap whiskey and burned smoke, the clatter of glasses behind the counter, a low hum of bass under the chatter. The same bar where Hyeonjoon had pulled Geonwoo out of trouble. The same bar where Oner had first felt a human touch cut through every binding he knew.

Now, Oner slumped in the corner booth, head tipped back, bottle at his elbow. He wasn’t himself. Too loud, too bitter, too human.

And then he saw him.

Hyeonjoon, standing at the doorway, scanning the crowd. Oner’s laugh died sharp in his throat.

Of course. Of course he’d show up now, when Oner was at his worst.

Their eyes met. Oner’s chest went tight, not with relief but with something harsher. Because he already knew what he would see when he looked at him—what he couldn’t unsee. Hyeonjoon’s smile at breakfast. The silence where that night should have lived.

Happy. With someone else.

The words weren’t spoken, but Oner felt them like a bruise.

When Hyeonjoon crossed the room, Oner pushed himself up too fast, shoulders squared in defense rather than greeting. He didn’t want his help. Not now. Not like this.

Chapter Text

The bottle was nearly empty when Oner saw him.

Hyeonjoon. Standing in the doorway, caught in the spill of neon, eyes sweeping the bar.

Oner’s laugh—too loud, too bitter—died in his throat.

Not here. Not like this.

He shoved the bottle aside and pushed himself upright, weaving toward the exit before their gazes could lock for too long. He didn’t want to be seen this way. Not by him.

But Hyeonjoon didn’t follow. He just stood there, rooted in shadow, while Oner brushed past, heart hammering.

And then—

A hand clamped onto Hyeonjoon’s shoulder.

Some drunk. Swaying. Grinning too wide. Leaning too close.

“Hey, pretty face. Stay awhile.”

Hyeonjoon stiffened, discomfort plain. He angled away, but the man only leaned closer, breath sour with liquor.

Oner’s steps faltered. He should keep walking. He should.

He didn’t.

Two strides and he was back, sliding between them. His hand caught Hyeonjoon’s wrist, pulling him free with a grip too firm to argue. The drunk muttered something filthy, but Oner’s glare—sharp enough to cut—made him stumble back.

“Come on,” Oner muttered, rough, not letting go until the door swung shut behind them.

The alley outside was narrow, washed in tired yellow light. Trash bins slouched against the wall. The air was damp, heavy with the threat of rain.

Oner released Hyeonjoon’s wrist, though the echo of his pulse still throbbed in his palm. He shoved both hands into his pockets, as if to bury the memory there.

Silence held them. Not empty—charged. Their breathing snagged against it. Hyeonjoon’s gaze stayed fixed on him, steady, searching. Oner looked anywhere else: the wall, the pavement, the flickering lamp. Anywhere but him.

Finally, Hyeonjoon broke it. His voice wasn’t accusing, only raw.

“I was looking for you.”

Oner’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t turn. “Why are you even looking for me?”

No answer, not right away. Just that stare. Unyielding.

And for once, Oner looked back. Letting the silence stretch until it felt unbearable, letting their eyes lock until the ache in his chest broke open. The words scraped out, rough, jagged.

“Don’t look at me like that.” A laugh cracked at the edges. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”

Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look away. “You’re kinda unfair, you know. Staring straight at me… like you know nothing.”

Oner’s jaw stayed tight, locked against everything unsaid.

But Hyeonjoon stepped closer, his voice steadier this time. “I’m not supposed to know you. At least not yet. But are we really supposed to pretend we didn’t feel something between us?”

The words landed like a blow. Oner’s chest clenched, but his reply came clipped, bitter.

“Sorry. I don’t feel anything—except you being Ker—Minseok’s roommate. I’m just a stranger passing through. Don’t make it into something more than that.”

He shifted, forcing his voice lighter, almost mocking.

“Besides—you’ve got your boyfriend now. Jihoon, right? Looks like he knows what to do with someone like you.”

That hit harder than anything else.

Hyeonjoon’s lips parted, but no words followed. His sleeve brushed the wall as if steadying himself, chin tilting slightly upward to mask the weight pressing against his chest.

Silence thickened again, heavier than before. The lamp buzzed above them, steady, relentless.

Oner turned first, needing to move before his control cracked. But as he reached the mouth of the alley, Hyeonjoon’s voice came after him—quiet, breaking.

“Then why did you come back for me? … Next time, if someone’s trying to talk to me… or wants me—don’t come back.”

Oner froze. His back stayed rigid, but he didn’t turn. The words cut deep, slicing through where he kept every soft thing hidden. He wanted to answer—wanted to tell him why—but he couldn’t.

So he walked. His shadow swallowed the light.

Behind him, Hyeonjoon stayed where he was, the hum of the alley filling the space Oner left empty.

And as Oner disappeared into the night, the lamps overhead flickered—then burned brighter. The glow sharpened, shadows retreating just enough to hold Hyeonjoon safe. He wouldn’t notice. He’d think it was a trick of the bulbs. But it was Oner’s doing, quiet, unseen—his last refusal to leave him unguarded.

The lamps buzzed steady in his periphery, but Hyeonjoon barely registered them. His chest still hurt with the weight of Oner’s words. He stayed there, breathing against the silence, and when it got too heavy, his mind pulled him back.

One week ago.

The boy named Hyeonjun had vanished. No warning. No explanation. No chance to ask why. His door was locked, the room stripped with its transient owner. No note, no trace. Just gone.

It shouldn’t have mattered this much. They weren’t close—not really. Just two people sharing space. That’s all it was supposed to be. But the emptiness left teeth. Hyeonjoon found himself listening for footsteps that never came, glancing at the door like he’d forgotten something vital. Like a part of him had been carved out while he was still awake.

Why did it ache this much?

Why did someone who shouldn’t matter feel like he’d taken something deeper with him?

No answer. Just the hollow. Just the missing.

At the rooftop, a few nights later. Jihoon beside him, legs dangling, a can of beer sweating in his hands. He was talking about their school days, about how Hyeonjoon had always been steady, about how much it meant. His voice was warm, familiar. Safe.

But Hyeonjoon’s mind wandered. His eyes kept tracing the sky, searching the dark like it might give him back what he’d lost. The ache refused to fade.

“Hyeonjoonnie-hyung,” Jihoon said softly.

He blinked, pulled back. Jihoon was looking at him, not angry—something heavier. Something that made his stomach knot.

Jihoon’s breath left slow. “You’re not even here with me, are you?”

“I…” Words failed. How could he explain? That he didn’t know why it felt like heartbreak over someone he barely had? That he didn’t know why that boy’s absence hurt worse than anything else?

Jihoon smiled, thin, fraying at the edges. “I think I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“That I’m too late.” No bitterness. Just quiet resignation. “You’re already somewhere else. With someone else. Even if you don’t see it yet.”

The words cut deep. Hyeonjoon wanted to argue, to deny—but nothing came. Only the ache. Only the truth.

The next morning, Jihoon lingered at the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Take care of yourself, hyung,” he said, and the smile that followed was small, already letting go. Then he turned, steps steady, and this time the goodbye stayed. 

The memory faded, leaving just the night air.

Back in the alley, his hand pressed to the brick, rough under his palm. The lamps hummed steady overhead, but every flicker seemed to carry Hyeonjun’s shape. Proof he’d been there. Proof he wasn’t.

The ache stayed. Insistent. Merciless.

Oner could feel it again—the thrum of magic that once bent the world at his hand. Not all of it. Not yet. But enough to taste. Enough to remember who he’d been before that cursed apartment, before Hyeonjoon’s gaze stripped him raw.

It was time, he told himself. Time to return to what he knew best. Granting. Twisting. Feeding on desperation. For nights he’d haunted bars, slipping into shadows, drinking down the prayers that clung to every sigh. Stale, pathetic, intoxicating.

Tonight was no different.

He leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing on a man drowning in his fifth shot, muttering about debts and mistakes. A wish clung to him like smoke—please, just one chance, just one way out. Oner’s lips curved, a smile he hadn’t worn in weeks. All he needed was a thread to pull, a word to push.

So he moved closer. Hunger sharpening each step. His power stretched toward the drunk like a claw, slow, deliberate, coaxing the wish to rise. He could taste already how it would twist, how the man would beg, how the deal would lock.

This was who he was.

Not a fool chasing warmth.

Not someone worthy of Hyeonjoon.

He’d prove he hadn’t changed.

The drunk’s eyes lifted—wide, desperate, ready. Oner’s fingers twitched, about to snap.

And then—

A laugh. Low. Sharp. Wrong.

A snap.

The bar dissolved.

Oner staggered, the taste of desperation ripped from his tongue. His vision steadied in his own place, shadows crawling walls that weren’t his.

And there, lounging like he owned the room—Faker.

“Really?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Scraping scraps already? I thought you had higher standards than drunks and debts.”

Oner’s chest burned with the ghost of the wish. He wanted to deny, to snarl. But Faker was already peeling him open with that look.

Silence stretched. Heavy. Exposing.

Finally, Faker spoke. “You talk as if the curse gives you strength, yet every chain you add looks more like fear than power.”

Oner’s jaw clenched. “Spare me your riddles.”

Faker smiled, slow. “Then plain. Do you know why Hyeonjoon forgot?”

The words hit hard. His chest froze. “Forgot…?”

“That night. The one bleeding you dry. The one you drink yourself blind to bury.”

Oner’s teeth ground. “He forgot because you tampered.”

“Oh, I tampered.” Faker’s grin curved, eyes flat. “But not like you think.”

Oner bristled, but Faker only lifted a hand, palm shimmering as if it held smoke.

“It wasn’t me he asked. It was him. Sweet, terrified Hyeonjoon. Wishing in the dark that you’d both forget.”

The air tore open. Oner saw it—himself asleep, chest rising slow and steady. And Hyeonjoon, curled against him, wide awake, face pressed into his skin like he was clinging for dear life. His lips barely moved, the words slipping out softer than breath:

I wish… If he’s going to regret it… then let him forget. Let us both forget. Please.

The sound gutted him. A blade straight to the ribs. Oner staggered, breath snapping short, because he hadn’t felt it then. He hadn’t known.

“He thought it was a mistake. Like before.” Faker’s voice coiled through the vision, soft, sing-song, cruel. “That boy with the shy kiss who called it a mistake—he carried that fear forward. So he wished. Innocent. Fragile. Human.”

Oner’s fists curled, nails cutting so deep his palms burned. His voice ripped raw from his chest.

“You’re lying.”

Faker tilted his head, amused, and the vision blew out like ash on wind.

“I don’t lie. I twist. And this one—this one needed no help. That wish should’ve chained you to him. No escape. But I—” his smile went knife-sharp, “I cut the cord. Left you free. Or so I thought.”

Silence roared.

Faker’s gaze lingered, cruel in calm. “And yet… look at you. Spiraling anyway. Drowning in a boy’s absence like you’ve never known hunger before.”

His smile softened, almost curious. “That’s the part I didn’t expect. You, of all creatures, feeling like this. So desperate. So undone. So… human.”

Oner said nothing. His chest knotted tighter.

Faker sighed, fingers drumming against an arm of a chair that wasn’t there. “You know what? Enough of this spiral.” His tone snapped sharp. “You want him to remember? Fine. I’ll give you what you crave.”

Oner’s head shot up, but Faker was already grinning—merciless.

“You thought forgetting was worst? No. Worst is remembering. I’ll give him back that night—the one he begged to erase. His first wish.”

Something in Oner cracked. “Don’t—”

Too late. Faker rose, shadows shimmering. “Now the chain is forged. You’re tethered to him. Genie, his bond, his shadow, his curse. Now, he has two wishes left.” His grin widened. “Good luck surviving that.”

A snap. Shockwave.

Faker was gone.

Silence crashed in. Heavy. Final.

And then—Oner felt it. Something snapping into place. Searing, invisible. A pull deep in his chest.

The chain.

It burned. Then steadied, humming like a second heartbeat. He gasped. The world tilted. He was no longer alone.

Hyeonjoon stirred in half-light, caught between dream and waking. His head throbbed, memory breaking through in sharp, unbearable shards. That night. The ones he thought were only glimpses of his own imagination. The heat. The press. Hyeonjun’s mouth on his.

His chest lurched.

And then he saw him.

Not the Hyeonjun he remembered—not the boy drowning in alcohol and bitterness, weighed by cynicism. That boy had already been unbearably good-looking, unfair in ways Hyeonjoon had tried not to notice. 

But this man was different. Magnificent. Ethereal. Dark eyes steady, yet softened when they found him, heavy enough to crush. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, every line composed, impossible to look away from. He didn’t need light—he made it.

Hyeonjoon’s breath caught. “Hyeonjun…?”

The other tilted his head, faint smile cutting through the gravity of his stance. His voice came low, resonant, unearthly.

“No. Not Hyeonjun.” A pause, soft but damning. 

“Your genie. Bound to you, from this night forward.”

Chapter Text

The room felt too small for what stood inside it.

Hyeonjoon’s head still pounded, memories cutting sharp where emptiness had been. Shards of that night—bodies pressed close, heat and taste, the unbearable truth that it hadn’t been a dream—slotted back too vividly. And now, in the dim light, he saw him.

Hyeonjun. Or someone who had worn that name.

The boy had always been unfairly beautiful. Too much for dingy bars, too much for the smoke and alcohol he drowned himself in. But the man standing there now was different. Magnificent. Ethereal. Leaning against the wall like he’d been carved into it, dark eyes fixed steady, softened only by something Hyeonjoon couldn’t name.

His throat worked. “Hyeonjun…?”

The faintest smile curved, sharp against the stillness.

“No. Not Hyeonjun.” The voice rolled low, unearthly. “Your genie. Bound to you, from this night forward.”

The word genie snagged in Hyeonjoon’s mind like glass under skin. He sat up too fast, knocking over the half-full glass on his nightstand. Water bled into the sheets, shattering the silence.

Oner didn’t flinch. Arms crossed, stance unreadable. “I should’ve told you earlier. But here we are.”

Hyeonjoon’s hands shook as he righted the glass, clinging to the act like it could patch what had just broken. “You’re… what? No. That’s not real.”

Oner tilted his head—a cruel habit from another life, though the voice held no cruelty. “It’s real enough. You wished. And now I’m chained.”

The word landed between them. Heavy. Final.

Hyeonjoon blinked, chest tightening. He remembered every second of that night now—and that Oner had carried it while he forgot.

The silence stretched. Oner’s gaze stayed steady.

Hyeonjoon shook his head, glass trembling in his grip. “No. I didn’t wish for this. I couldn’t have. That’s not—” He laughed, sharp, humorless. “Genies don’t exist. This is insane.”

“Insane,” Oner echoed, almost amused. “And yet, here I am.”

His pulse thundered. “Then undo it. If you’re really—whatever—you say, undo it.”

Oner pushed off the wall, steps deliberate, too graceful for a man. “That’s not how it works.” He stopped just short of the bed, air drawn taut. “A wish spoken is a chain forged. You spoke. I’m bound.”

Panic spiked. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t even know.”

“You didn’t have to.” Calm, cruel in its certainty. “Ignorance doesn’t spare you. Intent doesn’t save you. A wish is a wish.”

Hyeonjoon swallowed hard. “And what—you’re stuck with me now? Forever?”

The mouth curved, not a smile. “Not forever.”

The pause bled long before Oner’s voice cut sharp with amusement.

“You have two wishes left. Use them, and the bond seals.”

“Bond?” Hyeonjoon laughed, brittle, shaky. “That’s absurd. I don’t need anything. If this is real—if you’re real—then fine. But I don’t want to bind you. I won’t wish.”

Slow. Cruel. His head tilted, eyes on him like prey pretending to be predator.

“Oh? That’s adorable. Thinking you can resist. Thinking you’re above desire. You, of all people.”

“I mean it,” Hyeonjoon pressed, firmer now, though his hands shook against his knees. “I don’t need—”

“Don’t need?” The laugh cut low, cruel. “Funny. Didn’t you already prove you did? That night you whispered for it all to be erased—me, you, every touch. You begged the dark to take it back.”

The smile twisted. The eyes stayed cold.

“Tell me, Hyeonjoon. Was that not a wish born from need?”

Pale now, his breath stuttered. He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Oner only watched, still as stone. Then, deliberate, he stepped forward. His hand closed around Hyeonjoon’s wrist, tugging him upright to the tip of the bed.

“You’ll cave long before then. Because boys like you always want. They can’t help it.”

The words lingered, velvet wrapped over venom. Oner leaned back again, arms crossed, as though the matter were already settled.

But the tether had its own will. That night, long after Oner dissolved into shadow, Hyeonjoon lay awake. The dark wouldn’t stay still. Lamps hummed too loud, window glass rippled like a man’s outline. Every time his eyes slipped shut, he swore he felt breath against his ear.

No wish, he told himself. I won’t.

But the silence only gave him Oner’s voice—cruel, certain—echoing in his skull:

“Boys like you always want.”

Oner reappeared in the nothingness between walls, the airless dark that had always been his home. His breath came too fast, chest heaving, hands clawing at the place where the tether pulsed.

Fuck.

The chain had latched.

He could already feel it—threaded through his ribs, curling up into his throat, iron and fire all at once. A bond made to drag, made to break.

If Hyeonjoon didn’t wish, the curse would force him. Hallucinations. Nightmares. Whispers in the dark. All the little cruelties genies were made of, turned inward this time. The tether would bleed him dry until Hyeonjoon screamed the words just to breathe again.

Oner pressed his palms over his eyes, a laugh breaking loose, jagged and wrong. “No. Not him. Anyone but him.”

He had twisted a thousand masters before, fed on their desperation and delighting in every crack. But Hyeonjoon—he didn’t want his bones carrying that weight. Didn’t want him tearing through madness just to spit out I wish.

And yet, the curse didn’t care.

Oner doubled over, nails biting into his skin, because the truth was sickening: whether Hyeonjoon spoke a wish or not, one of them would break.

By morning, Oner was there again. He hadn’t been called, hadn’t been asked—just appeared, unannounced, as though the tether itself dragged him back. His presence filled the room, sharp and steady, and Hyeonjoon hardly reacted. He was too tired from the night before to protest, too dulled by the weight of revelations to argue. He sat on the edge of the bed, hair falling into his eyes, and listened while Oner laid out the rules with the precision of a sentence being read aloud.

“You can wish for almost anything,” Oner said quietly. “Wealth, beauty, escape, power. But not death. Not resurrection. And never blood on your hands by mine.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Hyeonjoon let out a faint, humorless breath. “Everything but the things that matter, then.”

Oner’s jaw tightened, but he went on, voice stripped of its usual bite.

“The rest is fair game. But each wish carries weight—its own cost. Nothing comes clean.”

His gaze cut sharp, deliberate.

“And all you need to summon me—” he paused, as if the words themselves were chains, “—is to think it. Just the words I wish. Out loud, whispered, or only in your head. The tether will drag me to you. Every time.”

Hyeonjoon only nodded. The explanations seemed to fall around him like rain on glass, heard but not absorbed, his stillness a kind of resignation. And Oner, who had once taken pleasure in twisting wishes, felt no satisfaction in saying any of it.

The shift came quietly.

For three days, Oner lingered in silence, waiting—half-expecting the tug, half-dreading it. Nothing came. Hyeonjoon kept his words, his thoughts, to himself. The tether stayed still.

And then, one evening, the words slipped from Hyeonjoon’s mouth without thought—“I wish”—and Oner was pulled through the tether only to find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, the smell of garlic and oil curling in the air. Hyeonjoon glanced at him, unbothered, as though summoning a genie for dinner was the most natural thing in the world.

“Sit,” he said, sliding another plate onto the counter. “Genies eat, right?”

Another time, the pull yanked Oner into the living room, where Hyeonjoon was sprawled across the couch, the blue wash of the television flickering over his face. No words at first, only a glance toward the empty spot beside him. Then, softer:

“Just… watch with me.”

And it kept happening—small, ordinary invocations. In the quiet hours of the morning, Oner would be summoned to find him leaning on the balcony, mug of coffee in hand. In the lull of late night, pulled again just to sit in the silence of Hyeonjoon’s room while he pretended to read. Wishes that weren’t wishes at all. Invitations, fragile and unspoken, to be there.

So, Oner stayed in his human form after that night. Magic was too dangerous a temptation, too sharp an edge to press against Hyeonjoon’s temper. Better to look like a man, breathe like a man, walk among them like nothing had changed.

The others adjusted quickly.

Keria was half-amused, half-concerned, watching him the way you’d watch a tiger pretending to be tame. He never called Oner out, never said much, just smirked like he knew the story behind the silence.

Minhyeong was simply thrilled. “You’re really staying?” he asked, tugging Oner into dinners and lazy nights, just glad the house felt whole again.

And Hyeonjoon—

He was the strangest part of all. Acting normal. Too normal. He ate at the same table, passed the remote across the couch, leaned against the same balcony railing without a word. If the revelation of nights ago weighed on him, he hid it well. Oner almost preferred that silence. Almost.

Except then came the moments. Small, deliberate, impossible to ignore.

A night on the balcony, city lights stretched below them. Hyeonjoon leaned in close enough for shoulders to brush, tilted his head back just so, exposing the clean line of his throat to the glow. Not a word. Just the curve of skin, sharp and tempting, like bait.

Another time, afternoon sun slanting across the living room, Hyeonjoon blinked fast, rubbing at his eye. “Something’s stuck,” he muttered, and before Oner could question it, he leaned in, eyes wide, lashes fluttering. “Blow it out for me?”

The ridiculousness of it should’ve made Oner scoff, but his breath still stirred the air between them, close enough to feel warmth.

Each encounter left Oner more off-balance than the last. Too subtle to call out, too sharp to ignore. He told himself it was nothing. He told himself Hyeonjoon was simply reckless, careless, oblivious.

But deep down, Oner knew better.

The tug hit Oner mid-breath, the tether pulling taut in his chest. Hyeonjoon had whispered the words again. I wish.

And in the next blink, Oner was there—steam curling over his skin, water drumming hard against tile. Hyeonjoon stood beneath the spray, bare, unguarded. Hair slicked back, eyes locked steady on him. No surprise. No startle. Just that burning look, as if he had been waiting all along.

Oner froze. He knew what this was. What it meant. He shouldn’t. Every law, every chain inside him screamed no. But instinct was a sharper master than duty, and Hyeonjoon’s gaze cut straight through every defense he had ever built.

Slowly, as if betraying himself with each move, Oner stepped forward. His hands dragged at his shirt, then his belt. Cloth hit the floor with a wet slap, swallowed by the rush of water. And then he was under it too—heat, steam, skin against skin. Hyeonjoon’s silence felt like an invitation Oner could no longer resist.

They stared. Water pounding between them, steam thick as breath. Neither moved at first. A standoff of hunger, a dare held in silence.

Then it shattered.

The kiss came hungry, all restraint collapsing into teeth and heat. Wanting. Desperate. The kind of kiss that carried weeks of restless silence, sidelong glances, memories too raw to name. Every unspoken ache broke open in that instant—longing flooding like stormwater, reckless, unashamed.

Hands dragged through hair, down jaw and shoulder, gripping like they could anchor each other before the world tore them apart.

Hyeonjoon’s hand slid between them, closing tight, dragging their cocks together. The slick friction ripped a shudder from both, steam clinging heavy, turning every gasp louder, sharper. Oner thrust into it, wild and hungry, chasing every drag.

Then he seized control—catching Hyeonjoon’s wrist, twisting him against the fogged glass. The pane rattled as Oner pressed in, chest to back, breath hot at his ear. Their cocks slid together, wet, aching, every thrust leaving Hyeonjoon trembling. Oner’s hand clamped his hip, forcing him to take it, restraint already fraying.

The glass steamed white around them. Weeks of hunger broke loose, collapsing into raw need. Oner snapped. He dragged his cock down the curve of Hyeonjoon’s ass, slick and demanding, grinding until he found the tight press of his hole. And then he drove forward—no warning, just force. The wet crack echoed against glass, Hyeonjoon’s cry muffled as his cheek hit the pane. His body jolted, muscles straining under the sudden stretch.

Oner didn’t stop. He stayed buried, grinding until the thick head slammed against Hyeonjoon’s prostate, tearing another sound from him. Each withdrawal slow, punishing—only to slam forward again, harder, bruising, staking claim. His grip was iron, dragging him back onto every thrust. The glass shook, rattling with the certainty Oner wasn’t just inside him, but carving himself deep.

Hyeonjoon’s gasps broke into half-sobs as pain blurred with pleasure. His palms skated helpless across the glass, streaking condensation in wild lines, searching for anything to hold. His knees buckled, but Oner’s grip hauled him back, demanding everything.

Steam thickened, trapping every groan, every slap of skin. Oner crushed against his back, voice guttural, breaking low at his ear.

“Try to forget me now.”

The words broke him. Hyeonjoon’s body seized, vision blurring as Oner drove him deeper, harder, until every thrust burned into memory. A hand slid up, clamping around his throat. Pressure built sharp, suffocating, pinning him. His cry cracked into a strangled gasp, chest heaving under the choke. Pain streaked bright, shocking—and still his body clenched harder, surrendering to it.

Oner’s growl vibrated against his skin as he thrust deeper, faster, holding him choking, claiming not just his body but his breath. Hyeonjoon’s hand slipped down, desperate, stroking himself to Oner’s rhythm, cries cracking hoarse as his body trembled on the edge.

Hyeonjoon broke first. His cry strangled as release hit, heat spilling across his hand, smearing the glass. His body shuddered violently, knees giving, climax ripping him apart—blinding, brutal, leaving nothing but sensation.

Oner didn’t stop. He drove deeper, grinding into the tight clutch until his own release tore through him. He came with a raw, feral cry, hot inside him, teeth sinking into Hyeonjoon’s shoulder—marking, claiming, holding him upright through the wreckage.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing—only heat, only the steady rush of water against tile.

And then it struck him, sharp as the glass rattling in its frame: he hadn’t cornered him at all.

He’d walked straight into the boy’s calm, into the storm he thought he commanded, and found himself the one bound.

Silence quivered with what they’d done. Breath ragged, uneven. Steam pressing down, heavy.

Hyeonjoon sagged against the glass, trembling, body twitching with aftershocks.

Oner caught him before he slid, arms firm as iron, lifting him like nothing. Steam clung, soap and sweat sharp in the air, as he carried him out without a word.

He laid him on the bed, careful, smoothing damp hair back. With a flick of power, the water vanished, the heat eased. Sheets cocooned him, warm, faintly scented of linen and skin. Another breath of power slipped from Oner’s fingers, soft as smoke, easing the sharpest edges of ache, dulling the soreness in muscle and bone.

But it didn’t erase him. The ghost of his weight lingered deep inside, a tenderness laced with burn, as if Hyeonjoon’s body refused to forget what had been claimed there.

Oner tucked him in, gentleness almost jarring after the storm. Then, without hesitation, he slid beside him, bare, burning, chest pressed to his back. One arm wrapped tight around his waist, holding him close.

Hyeonjoon stirred, lips parting, a faint sound spilling—relief and surrender woven together, memory pulsing beneath the calm.

Oner closed his eyes. For once, there were no claws, no chains, no hunger. Just the silence of two bodies fitting against each other, raw and undone, their skin the only shield they needed.

**edited

Chapter Text

Hyeonjoon woke to silence.

The sheets still held warmth where a body had been, the air faint with steam and salt. For a heartbeat he wondered if he’d dreamed it—until his eyes adjusted, and the room unfolded in pale silver.

There.

Across the room, Oner lounged on the couch, naked save for a strip of white silk thrown careless across his hips. Moonlight cut through the window, washing him in cold glow. His body looked sculpted—muscle and bone carved sharp, marble come alive. A god, or maybe a ruin given breath again.

One hand dangled over the side, a glass caught loose in his grip. Amber swirled slow, catching the light before he tipped it back. The way he drank was unhurried, practiced. Like he’d sipped eternity long before tonight, and would keep sipping long after.

The sight punched the air out of Hyeonjoon’s chest. His breath snagged, sharp in the quiet.

Oner turned his head. Dark eyes found him, unreadable. The glass hovered near his lips, catching the shine of the moon. He didn’t speak. He only watched, steady and intent, taking another slow sip. Moonlight traced the cut of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the slow rise of his chest—too perfect. Unreal.

Hyeonjoon pushed up before he even thought about it, the sheet slipping down his waist.  His muscles hummed with faint soreness, a ghost of the storm in the shower, and yet—like some cruel trick—Oner’s magic had smoothed the edges, left him healed but not spared. His body wanted more even as his mind reeled, the ache lodged deeper than flesh. And there Oner sat, untouched by time, dangerous in stillness, carved in shadow and moonlight like a figure of desire who knew exactly what he’d done.

“You—” The word broke out small, breathless. He didn’t even know what he meant to say.

Oner lowered the glass, turning it slow in his hand, whiskey gleaming molten. “Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was low, velvet dragged over stone.

“I thought—” Hyeonjoon swallowed, eyes snagging on the long stretch of thigh, the pale silk barely covering him. “I thought you’d left.”

A curve touched Oner’s mouth, cruel and tender at once. “Would you have wanted me to?”

The question burned. Hyeonjoon didn’t answer. Instead, he swung his legs from the bed, bare feet landing quiet on the floor. His body moved before his mind caught up, pulled toward something he couldn’t name. His breath grew louder than the hush of night with every step.

Oner leaned back, one arm slung along the couch, glass still loose in the other. He didn’t cover himself. Didn’t look away. Just let the silence thicken, dangerous, as Hyeonjoon came to stand before him.

The sheet slid lower. His pulse thundered.

“Sit,” Oner murmured. A command dressed as invitation.

Hyeonjoon obeyed. He straddled him, thighs bracketing Oner’s hips, silk sliding cool between them. The glass clinked faintly as Oner set it aside. Both hands were free now. Oner dragged up Hyeonjoon’s back, slow, deliberate, sculpting him from flesh. The other caught his jaw, tilting his face until he had no choice but to meet those endless black eyes.

“You look at me,” Oner said, voice low, unshakable. “Like you’ve already forgotten the ache I left in you.”

Heat rushed through Hyeonjoon’s chest. His breath trembled. “I haven’t.”

Oner’s smile cut sharp. “Good.”

Then he kissed him. No hunger this time—at least not at first. It was slow, devastating, lips parting with patience, whiskey-sweet and smoke-soft. But it built, it always built, until teeth clashed and breath broke, until Oner’s hand fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, making him take it.

The silk slipped away. Flesh met flesh, hot, straining, grinding in the narrow space between them. Oner’s cock pressed hard against him, slick heat already sparking where they slid together.

Hyeonjoon gasped into his mouth, hips jerking helpless. “Hyeonjun—”

The name cracked fragile on his tongue, and Oner swallowed it whole, a secret he’d never correct. His hand slid down, grabbing hard at his ass, grinding him closer, forcing every thrust deeper. The couch groaned, the whiskey glass rattled, the whole room bent to the rhythm they drove into each other.

Oner’s grip tightened, dragging him down harder, forcing the desperate grind of their cocks together. Slick, frantic heat built fast between them.

But Oner wanted more.

He tore the silk aside, baring himself fully, cock hard and flushed in the moonlight. The sight alone made Hyeonjoon’s breath catch, body clenching around nothing.

“Wait—” The word barely left his mouth before Oner’s fingers slid between them, pressing, testing. No patience. No pretense. Just enough spit slicked across his hand before he pushed two fingers in, forcing Hyeonjoon open.

Hyeonjoon’s gasp cracked sharp, his body jolting forward, forehead pressing to Oner’s shoulder. The stretch still remembers the ache from the night before, but Oner’s voice curved against his ear, velvet and command both.

“Take it. You wanted me here—so take all of me.”

No time to argue, no room to breathe. Oner lined himself up, the thick head grinding against the tight ring of muscle. And then he drove forward, hard, relentless.

The sound ripped out of Hyeonjoon—half cry, half moan—as Oner buried himself to the hilt, cock slamming deep in one brutal thrust. His whole body trembled, torn wide, but Oner only held him there, grinding deep, making him feel every inch.

“Look at you,” Oner rasped, hand fisting in his hair to yank his head back. His thrusts began slow, punishing, hips snapping up as Hyeonjoon’s thighs quivered around him. “Already fucked open, already mine.”

Each movement drove in deep, sharp, catching at nerves that lit Hyeonjoon’s body in shuddering bursts. His cries broke ragged and raw, hands clawing at Oner’s shoulders for balance, but there was none—just the relentless drag and slam of cock inside him, tearing pleasure out of pain.

The couch groaned beneath them, moonlight cutting across slick skin, sweat and whiskey clinging heavy in the air. Oner’s pace grew feral, hips pistoning up, dragging Hyeonjoon down onto him again and again, until the only sound was the slap of skin and the wet choke of his voice breaking on every thrust.

“Please—” Hyeonjoon gasped, not even knowing what he begged for, body clenching harder around the thick length spearing him.

Oner’s laugh curved cruel against his throat. “Please what? For me to stop? Or to ruin you deeper? Because this time—” his teeth grazed skin, voice dropping to a rasp, “—I’m not going to let your body forget how I’ll ruin you.”

The next thrust answered for him—hard, brutal, cock driving straight into his prostate. Hyeonjoon cried out, head thrown back, body shaking as pleasure ripped through him. His cock jerked untouched between them, leaking, smearing slick across Oner’s stomach with every desperate grind.

Oner’s grip on his hips turned bruising, slamming him down faster, harder, until the rhythm broke ragged. “You’re going to come like this,” he growled, voice rough and unholy. “On my cock, riding me like you were made for it.”

And Hyeonjoon broke. His climax tore through him, heat spilling mess across their stomachs, body clamping hard around Oner’s cock. His scream split the night, raw and wrecked.

Oner drove deep, one final thrust before he spilled hot inside him, teeth sinking into his throat to mark. His growl vibrated against skin as he emptied, holding him down, making sure every drop stayed buried where it belonged.

For a long moment, the world stilled. Just their breath, ragged and uneven. Just the moonlight catching on sweat, on the gleam of spilled whiskey still trembling in the glass.

Oner leaned back, cock still buried deep, watching Hyeonjoon tremble above him. His thumb brushed slow across his jaw, deceptively tender.

“Men built gods to kneel before,” he murmured. “But my kind? We make mortals beg. And look at you—already offering worship with your body.”

It had been three days.

Three days since Hyeonjoon last touched him.

The silence pressed thick, heavier than the nights they spent tearing into each other. It wasn’t distance—Oner knew distance. This was something sharper. Deliberate. A blade held in stillness.

Hyeonjoon called it discipline. I’m not avoiding you, he’d said once, voice flat, eyes already on his books. I’m just trying to graduate. I’m busy with school.

But the words didn’t soften the ache that lingered.

Oner lingered too.

Not vanishing into the ether like he could, not storming off like he should. Instead, he stayed in the corners of the boy’s world, heavy with presence—on the couch, at the desk, stretched bare in bed when morning light cut cold through the blinds. Waiting. Watching.

He told himself it wasn’t waiting. He had never waited for anyone in all his years. Once, he would have twisted silence into opportunity, bent moments until a wish slipped free. But now—now he only stayed, patient in a way that felt foreign, aching each time Hyeonjoon moved past him without looking.

The air still reeked of smoke and sweat and the ghost of whiskey on his tongue, and Oner didn’t know how humans could burn like that and then smother it, pretend the fire wasn’t there. He didn’t know why Hyeonjoon hadn’t called him again. Why his voice hadn’t breathed I wish.

So Oner stayed. Cunning creature, cruel thing, bound by tether—yet now restless, tethered in ways he couldn’t twist free from.

Not a predator. Not a creature in the night.

Just a shadow waiting for the boy to summon him again.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“How long have you been twenty-two?” Hyeonjoon’s voice cut sharp in the quiet.

“A while,” came the low reply.

“I know what you are.”

“Say it,” Oner urged. “Say it… out loud.”

The silence snapped—

—with Keria howling on the couch, smacking his knee as Zeus practically doubled over beside him. “Dude, that was so bad!” Keria wheezed. “What was that? That joke’s like, one hundred years old.”

“More like a hundred and twenty-two,” Zeus grinned, tossing his hair back like a parody idol. “Besides, I’m more of a JakeWard anyway.”

That was the moment Oner stepped through the doorway. Unimpressed. Shadow spilling long across the floor. His expression spoke clear: boredom, sharpened with the faintest edge of menace.

Of course Zeus didn’t flinch. The God of Thunder and Lightning never did. What were the odds, after all, that Keria and Oner—two creatures born of different laws—would end up entertaining him? And gods, when bored, sought theater anywhere they could.

Keria leaned back against the armrest, still grinning. “Jakeward, seriously? That’s your pick?”

Zeus just smirked and raised a hand. In an instant, a storm cloud curled into being above Keria’s head, sparking with lazy blue-white lightning.

“You wanna run your mouth?” Zeus drawled.

Keria yelped, blinked out of sight, reappearing by the counter with a grin.

“Gonna have to be faster than that, grand myth.”

The cloud crackled, chasing him as he teleported from chair to table to floor. Each bolt snapped a second too late, scorching the air but never quite catching him. Zeus roared with laughter, the room alive with thunder, Keria’s laughter ringing sharp against it.

Then the door opened.

Hyeonjoon froze in the frame, grocery bag slipping from his hand. His eyes caught the stranger first—tall, radiant, unknown. Then the storm over Keria’s head.

Minseok. His roommate. His roommate for two years, dodging lightning like it was a game.

The sound dropped out for him. Just the crackle of power in the air and the realization that he’d been living with something not even human from the start.

The bag hit the floor.

No one moved. Then Zeus snapped his fingers. The storm fizzled into mist, leaving ozone sharp in the air. He leaned back, unbothered, like Hyeonjoon’s stunned arrival was part of the show.

“Oh, perfect timing,” Zeus drawled, lifting his glass in toast. “Now we’ve got a real audience.”

Keria and Oner exchanged a look—half weary, half resigned. Right. This was a god too. Mad, dazzling, and with no concern for whatever fragile sense of plot the universe was supposed to follow.

Zeus tipped back the last of his drink and stretched like time belonged to him alone.

“Well, this is fun. But I’ll leave you three to… catch up. I’ll be back later.”

His grin cut wide as he brushed past Hyeonjoon in the doorway.

“Nice to meet you, hyung.”

And then he was gone—no thunder, no light, no spectacle. Just gone, like the air swallowed him whole.

Silence settled in the space he left behind. The sharp sting of ozone clung to Hyeonjoon’s nose.

Oner didn’t move, his stare fixed, unreadable. Keria lingered by the counter, breath still uneven though the storm had already faded. He hadn’t meant to let it get this far. Once, he’d been careful—guarding both lives, keeping every edge sharp. But since Oner arrived, caution had frayed. He got careless.

Hyeonjoon shut the door slowly. The grocery bag sagged forgotten at his feet as he turned toward them. His eyes found Keria first—his roommate, his friend. The boy he’d trusted for two years. The boy who wasn’t even human from the start.

The silence stretched tight until Keria spoke. His voice, soft. Careful.

“Hyeonjoon-hyung…” A pause, then steadier: “Can we talk?”

Hyeonjoon gave a small nod, though his gaze stayed hard. He still looked at Keria like the younger brother he’d always known—but behind it was disbelief, confusion, the sharp edge of betrayal he hadn’t yet put into words.

Keria slid open the balcony door and stepped into the night. Hyeonjoon followed, though the air between them weighed heavier than the city sky.

Neon bled across glass towers; the streets below hummed with voices and engines. For a moment, only the wind touched them, cool against their skin.

They stood at the railing. Silence stretched long.

Keria broke it first.

“I’m like Hyeonjun,” he said, voice low, steady. 

“Or not exactly. I’m half-genie. My father’s an angel. I’ve been running from him most of my life.” His mouth bent into something between a smirk and a wince. 

“Guess I’m not great at family reunions.”

The wind shifted cold. Hyeonjoon stayed quiet, grip whitening around the railing. 

Keria’s shoulders moved restlessly.

“You’d think knowing what I am would make it easier. But it doesn’t. Half-genie, half-angel—caught in between, never enough of either. The human world was supposed to be simple. Just a backdrop. A place to clock in, grant wishes, keep my distance. Like an office.” His laugh came thin, humorless. “I told myself I was only visiting. That none of this belonged to me.”

He leaned forward, gaze sweeping the sprawl of city light.

“But I don’t fit anywhere. Not in heaven. Not in genie courts. Not here either. And still…” His voice thinned, catching. “I want it to be here. With people who don’t look at me like a mistake stitched between two worlds.”

He hesitated, throat working, before forcing the next words out.

“Until Minhyeong. That’s when the backdrop shifted. The human world stopped being an office. It started to feel like a home. Real. Messy. And terrifying, because I had no idea how to live in it—I still don’t.”

His eyes flicked to Hyeonjoon at last.

“And you, hyung. You’re part of that. You grounded me. Like an older brother, an anchor, someone who cared even without knowing the truth. That mattered more than I can explain.”

The wind stirred again, carrying rain’s faint scent. The city’s fractured light painted their faces in shards of color.

But Keria wasn’t finished. The confession pressed forward.

“Hyung…” His voice deepened, steady, more serious now. “About your wish.”

Hyeonjoon’s brow tightened.

“You may not see it,” Keria said, watching him, “but it’s chaining you. I can feel it. The thought of it circles in your head like a knot—you try not to pull, but it only cinches tighter. That’s how it works. Wishes aren’t just ideas. They grow heavy. They push. They demand.” His voice gentled. “You can’t run from it forever. You have to wish. That’s the nature of it.”

Hyeonjoon turned away, eyes sinking into the blur of headlights below. His grip on the rail tightened more until his fingers went pale.

“It’s not that I don’t feel it. I do. It’s a weight pressing on me every time I see him. But…” He let out a breath, jagged. “I don’t know what I’d even wish for.”

Keria waited, silent, letting him find the shape of his words.

“I want to understand,” Hyeonjoon said finally. His voice cracked raw. “Not just the rules. Not just your world. Him. I want to understand him. If I rush into wishing, then what? Our time ends sooner. And I…” His jaw set, eyes flickering with something he couldn’t bear to name. “I don’t want it to end before I know what any of this means.”

The silence after was different. Not brittle. Heavy. Truer.

Keria leaned on the railing, eyes tilted up toward the stars, weighing words older than he had any right to carry.

“I get it. You want to hold on. Stretch this out.” His mouth lifted in a sad half-smile. “But not wishing, hyung… that can be just as dangerous.”

Hyeonjoon turned sharply. “Dangerous how?”

“The longer it lingers, the more it coils,” Keria said evenly. “A wish denied doesn’t fade. It warps. Twists into something else—something you never meant. I’ve seen it. People think they’re buying time, but really they’re handing control to the thing itself.”

The words sank like stone. Fear flickered across Hyeonjoon’s face, silent, betraying him.

Keria sighed, softer now. 

“And it’s not just you. The urge to wish… it chains us too. The longer you resist, the weaker your genie becomes. That bond you think you’re holding onto?” He shook his head, almost regretful. “It breaks. First little by little, then all at once. And when it’s gone—so is he.”

The night pressed closer around them, quiet but merciless, leaving Hyeonjoon with the weight of knowing his silence wasn’t just his own burden to bear.

Keria’s fingers drummed against the railing, his eyes lifting to the bruised sky as if searching for answers there. “You know what’s funny? Sometimes I think the gods are just… laughing at us. Playing their little games.” His lips twisted, caught between irony and worry. “Because you turning Hyeonjun human? That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not in any story I’ve ever heard.”

Hyeonjoon’s head snapped toward him, startled. “What do you mean?”

“He’s both now,” Keria said quietly. “Genie and human. That never happens. Not unless there’s…” He trailed off, shaking his head, the half-smile gone. “Well, not unless you’re someone like me. I’ve got angel blood. That’s what lets me cross lines. But Hyeonjun—he wasn’t meant to live in both worlds at once. And that makes him an outlier.”

The word hung heavy, foreign in Hyeonjoon’s chest.

Keria’s gaze slid to him, softer now. “I don’t think you knew it when you first saw him, but you’re the reason he’s standing here like this. Human, bound, fragile in ways he’s never been before. And if that balance tips too far…” He exhaled, sharp and uneasy. “I don’t know what happens. I don’t think anyone does.”

Hyeonjoon’s throat worked as he tried to swallow, but the weight of it pressed hard against him. “So because of me—”

“No.” Keria cut in firmly, shaking his head. “This isn’t about blame. You didn’t trap him, hyung. You gave him something he never had—a choice. A taste of being human. But…” His voice dropped, edged with a warning he didn’t want to give. “Rules shift when you drag things out too long. Sometimes new ones appear. And if that’s the case…” He looked out into the night, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. “It could be more dangerous than either of us realize.”

The words hung there, swept away by the wind yet sinking deep into Hyeonjoon’s chest. His fingers locked tighter around the railing, as if that alone could steady him. His pulse hammered, mind tearing at the edges, too many truths hitting all at one–each one heavier, sharper than the last.

The silence that followed didn’t feel hollow. It pressed down, thick and electric, the kind of stillness that comes right before the sky splits open.

And when they finally turned back inside, nothing about the apartment felt the same.

Hyeonjoon lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, thoughts circling until they pressed against his chest like iron. Answers blurred with half-truths; guilt threaded through every breath. He ached, though for what—he couldn’t yet name.

Smoke thickened at the edge of the bed. Oner appeared, sharp, silent.

“Knock next time,” Hyeonjoon muttered, voice flat.

The genie vanished in a curl of smoke. A pause followed, then three deliberate knocks sounded at the door.

Hyeonjoon didn’t move. Didn’t answer. But silence stretched, and silence itself became an invitation.

Oner slipped back inside, slower now. His gaze lingered on Hyeonjoon—shadowed, careful, aware. He said nothing, only crossed the room and lowered himself onto the bed. Then, wordless, he gathered Hyeonjoon into his arms.

It wasn’t like before—not the hungry, possessive way Oner had held him. This was different. Gentle. Steady. An anchor in the quiet.

Hyeonjoon didn’t resist. He didn’t ask. He only let himself be drawn in, cheek pressed to Oner’s chest where the smoke still clung faint and sweet.

No questions. No answers. Just Oner’s arms around him, tight and certain, as if even a creature born of fire and trickery knew this was the only way to keep him from breaking.

Oner’s chin rested against his hair, his breath steady but weighted. For a long while, nothing. Then, at last, low and certain:

“Oner.”

Hyeonjoon stirred, tilting his head as if he hadn’t heard right.

“My name,” Oner murmured, tightening his hold a little. “It’s Oner.” A beat passed, smoke curling soft through the room. “But I like ‘Hyeonjun’ more. Because it’s ours. You gave it to me first.”

The words fell quiet, yet cut deep. Hyeonjoon didn’t know why his chest hurt, why heat blurred his vision until a tear slipped free. He didn’t brush it away. Instead, he pressed closer, curling into Oner’s hold like it was the only place he could breathe.

“My Hyeonjun,” he whispered, the words spilling without thought, without guard.

Oner stilled. Then his arms closed tighter, as if the name—claimed, returned—had become a promise between them.

Chapter Text

The morning light came soft, spilling through the curtains as if even the sun had decided to tread lightly after last night.

The table was crowded, not with tension but with plates—toast stacked high, fried eggs cooling too fast, a bowl of fruit Minhyeong swore he’d cut with “artistic intention.”

“Artistic, my ass,” Minseok muttered, stabbing his fork into a lopsided slice of apple. “This looks like someone lost a knife fight.”

Minhyeong gasped, hand over his chest. “Excuse me? That is cuisine.”

“Cuisine that could kill me.”

“Kill you?” Minhyeong scoffed, leaning across the table. “Please. I’ve literally watched you eat ramen that expired two years ago.”

“That’s survival,” Minseok shot back, deadpan. “This is attempted murder.”

“You ate three bowls.”

“And regretted it the entire time.”

Their voices overlapped, clashing but not really. It was less an argument than a rhythm, like an old song—edges blunted by familiarity.

Hyeonjoon smiled before he could stop himself, the soundless kind that slipped out small. He pressed it down quickly, but not quick enough.

Across from him, Oner caught it. And didn’t look away. Not once.

It should have made Hyeonjoon flinch, buckle under the weight of that stare. Instead, his hand moved on its own. He nudged a plate closer, voice flat but giving him away in its care. “Eat.”

Oner tilted his head, smirk curling slow at his mouth. “Yes… my Hyeonjoonie.”

The room froze.

Minseok nearly inhaled his apple. Minhyeong’s fork clattered out of his hand.

“What did you just—” Minseok started, but Minhyeong cut him off, eyes wide. “Wait. Did he just—”

“Yes, he did!” Minseok threw his hands up. “Finally! It’s not just me seeing it, right?”

“I told you,” Minhyeong said, triumphant. “I told you they were a thing.”

“They’re not a thing,” Minseok argued, feigning ignorance as he stabbed at the fruit again. “That’s not… Are you guys a thing?”

Hyeonjoon froze. Ears burning, skin flushed, silence louder than any denial he could have given.

Oner leaned back, unbothered. His eyes never left Hyeonjoon. When Minseok muttered something about how “gross” it was, Oner only shrugged, voice cutting through with cool certainty.

“Why? He’s mine.”

The words landed heavy. Not a joke. Not a bluff. Just fact, sharp and final.

The table went still, noise collapsing into silence. Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his chest tightening until words refused to come.

Minhyeong spluttered. Minseok groaned. None of it mattered.

Because Oner kept looking at him, and only him. And that gaze—steady, unflinching, almost too much—was what made Hyeonjoon’s pulse race harder than anything else.

Later that day, Hyeonjoon was folded into the usual campus noise—circles of classmates clustered tight, laughter spilling louder than whatever lecture still clung to the air. He was mid-discussion, pen tapping absently against his notebook, when Hwanjoong slipped into the room.

“Hyung, someone’s looking for you.”

Hyeonjoon frowned, half a mind to brush it off. “Who?”

He didn’t need the answer. The room had already shifted. Heads turned. Whispers rose, quick and restless, like bees.

Oner stood at the door.

Not hidden in smoke, not slipping through shadows—just there. Flesh, bone, and far too much presence for one space to hold. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned, as if propriety hadn’t been worth the effort. His gaze cut through the crowd, fixed only on Hyeonjoon.

Every eye followed. Every breath snagged.

Hyeonjoon froze. Pulse stuttering, shock tearing through him harder than he could mask. He’d expected… anything but this. Not Oner, bold in daylight, unbothered by the weight of a hundred stares.

And yet, here he was.

Here—for him.

The whispers kept climbing, sharp and hungry, when another voice cut across the tension.

“Hyung.”

Hyeonjoon’s head snapped toward the door. Geonwoo stood there now, backpack slung over one shoulder, brows knit at the scene he’d just walked into. His gaze flicked from Hyeonjoon to Oner—recognition flickering, though not familiarity. He’d seen him before, yes, but only in passing. A vague memory, tied to a time Geonwoo hadn’t been himself.

Still, Geonwoo dipped his head politely. “Hey. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Kim Geonwoo.”

Oner didn’t miss a beat. One hand slipped into his pocket, his stance loose, easy, like even the silence bent in his direction. He wore a smile that wasn’t really a smile at all—more a blade wrapped in charm.

“Moon Hyeonjun,” he said. As if the name had always belonged to him in full. Then, with a glance at Hyeonjoon that burned heat all the way to his ears:

“Hyeonjoon’s boyfriend.”

The word dropped like glass shattering.

Chairs scraped. Gasps broke. Someone choked on their drink.

Hwanjoong blinked, Geonwoo froze, the rest of the room dissolved into stunned noise. Hyeonjoon’s pulse thundered so loud it drowned the room, his breath catching like it couldn’t decide whether to stay or leave.

The classroom stilled.

And yet the weight of Oner’s claim pressed heavier than every stare combined.

Hyeonjoon didn’t wait for the whispers to die down. He muttered something—goodbye, excuse me, anything—and seized Oner by the wrist, dragging him down the hall, past the stares that clung like burrs.

They didn’t stop until they hit the stairwell, the noise of campus muffled by concrete. Only then did Hyeonjoon drop his grip and spin around.

“What was that?” His voice cracked sharp, panic bleeding louder than anger. “When—since when are you my boyfriend?”

Oner tilted his head, as if the question itself was odd. “Since I decided.”

“You can’t just—” Hyeonjoon broke off, a hand pressing to his forehead. His pulse was still racing, breath catching uneven. “That’s not how it works.”

“Why not?” Oner leaned back against the wall, unbothered. His shirt hung loose, collarbone a sharp cut of bone, eyes steady on him. “I want you. I’m here. Everyone should know.”

So simple. Too simple. As if the words weren’t heavy enough to snap rules as old as time. The ground tilted under Hyeonjoon’s feet.

“It’s not that easy,” he said, softer now. “You can’t just bulldoze into my life and— and decide things. People don’t do that. Relationships don’t…” His voice faltered, ears hot, the word sticking like it weighed too much. “They don’t work like that.”

“People,” Oner echoed, almost amused. “Maybe. But I’m not people.”

Hyeonjoon looked at him then. Really looked. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Oner burned with the kind of certainty mortals couldn’t afford—like this wasn’t a risk, but a fact. Like once it rooted, there was nothing left to question.

It should’ve made him angry. Instead, it hollowed into an ache.

“I don’t even…” His throat tightened. “I don’t even know what I feel yet.”

Oner moved closer, not rushing, but sure enough that the air itself shifted.

“Then take your time,” he said. “I’ve already made up mine.”

The words sank too deep, too fast. Hyeonjoon had no shield for them. He could only stand there, torn between the instinct to run and the pull to stay.

Hyeonjoon didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He only stared, caught in the pull of Oner’s eyes.

It wasn’t doubt. Not really. He knew—had known from the very first moment. Something in Oner’s presence had hit him like a drug, heady and impossible to shake, and it hadn’t let go since.

But he didn’t want this to flare and vanish. Not a fire that burned hot and quick, leaving only ash behind. He didn’t want to wake up hollow, clutching a memory like the aftermath of a hangover.

He wanted it whole. He wanted him—completely, irrevocably.

The truth sat heavy in his chest, terrifying in its sharpness. He bit down on it, held it there, and when he finally spoke, the words came softer than he meant.

“…Then let’s go out. On a date.”

The words landed before he could snatch them back, rooted themselves in the air, stubborn and irreversible.

Oner’s eyes lit—not surprised, but certain, as if this was exactly how things should unfold. That maddening certainty he wore like a birthright.

“Now?”

“Now,” Hyeonjoon said. His pulse was already running wild, his mouth quicker than his sense. Still, he didn’t take it back.

An hour later, they were on a half-empty train. Plastic seats. Windows smudged by countless hands. The steady rattle of steel underneath, carrying them out of the city. Sunlight cut across their faces in sharp, blinding stripes each time they passed another stretch of track.

“This is it,” Hyeonjoon said, arms folded loose over his chest, trying to sound casual. “The date.”

“This?” Oner glanced around the carriage—the peeling ads, the scuffed floor, the lone man snoring two rows down.

“Ummm. You don’t get it.” Hyeonjoon tapped the window with his fingers, watching the blur of buildings streak by. “It doesn’t matter where it goes. Just being on it. Watching everything pass. Feels like freedom.”

Oner didn’t answer. He just watched him, lips curving faintly. Hyeonjoon didn’t want a dinner, didn’t want a movie date, didn’t even think of what dates were supposed to look like. But Oner found himself indulging it anyway—because the way Hyeonjoon’s eyes tracked the world outside was already more captivating than any of those things.

They got off in a small town no one really noticed, streets half-asleep, convenience stores humming with faint neon. They walked until the houses thinned out, until grass spread wide beneath their feet, until the night itself felt larger than the world they’d left behind.

At a vending machine, Hyeonjoon loaded his arms with snacks—chips, canned coffee, the sort of food that fit a student’s pocket. He carried it up a hill and dropped it on the grass like it was the finest picnic spread ever made.

“This is the kind of date I wanted,” he said, ripping open a bag of shrimp chips. “Simple.”

Oner folded himself down beside him, all long limbs and sharp lines, studying even the sound of plastic tearing like it meant something. “Simple,” he echoed, though the word felt strange on his tongue.

By nightfall, the sky had turned stubborn. Clouds swallowed the stars whole, leaving only faint glimmers behind.

Hyeonjoon tilted his head back anyway, defiant.

“Figures. The one night I bring someone here.”

When he glanced over, Oner wasn’t watching the sky at all. His gaze stayed fixed on him. Then, with a movement so casual it almost seemed careless, he lifted his hand.

The clouds began to split. Stars blinked awake, one after another, until the sky wasn’t just full—it was alive. Constellations shifted, brightened, reshaped into things no chart had ever claimed: a dog suspiciously like Hyeonjoon’s pet back home. A scene from this morning’s breakfast. Even a bunny smile, cheeks puffed, crescent eyes, as familiar as his own reflection.

Hyeonjoon froze, chip forgotten halfway to his mouth.

“What—”

“You gave me a date,” Oner said, as if the answer should have been obvious. “So I thought I’d give you a sky.”

The magic wasn’t loud. No fireworks, no spectacle. Just the soft press of grass beneath them, the cool bite of night air, the low hum of crickets. And above them—a sky rearranged for this moment alone.

Hyeonjoon’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, walls crumbling without warning. Because this wasn’t just Oner giving him a date. This was Oner giving him more.

And strangely, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt inevitable.

He eased back onto the grass, eyes following the constellations bent out of the universe for him. His fingers dug lightly into the earth, as if holding on could stretch the night longer.

Beside him, Oner watched in silence. The same thought flickered in his gaze—neither of them daring to voice it.

That this night felt too rare, too good, to ever let end.

By the time they made it back, the apartment had gone still. A hush so thick it clung, as though even the walls meant to keep their secrets.

Oner drifted into his room and sat at the edge of the bed, the dark folding in around him. For once, he didn’t crave noise, or mischief, or chaos. The memory of Hyeonjoon’s laugh was enough—bright and stubborn in his chest, refusing to fade.

A knock broke the silence. Soft. Careful.

The door cracked open, spilling a thin ribbon of hall light across the floor. Hyeonjoon lingered in the frame, shoulders tense, like he wasn’t sure if he should step inside. His voice came quiet, nearly lost to the dark.

“Hey. I just… wanted to say thank you. For today.”

Oner said nothing. He only looked at him, steady, unblinking. Watching the way Hyeonjoon hovered, torn between leaving and staying.

The pause stretched. Fingers curled against the frame. Breath caught in the silence. Oner could feel it—feel the current tightening between them, sharp and unbearable.

“Come here,” he murmured.

Hyeonjoon moved before he could change his mind. A step. Another. Until there was no distance left to save him.

Oner rose slowly, gaze never breaking, and the space collapsed. The kiss came soft, deliberate—weighted enough to break them both if it slipped. Not hunger. A bit of ache.

Slowly, Hyeonjoon lifted his hand, hesitating before brushing Oner’s fingers. Just a touch, barely there, testing if the moment would hold. His thumb traced across Oner’s knuckle, quiet but certain.

When he spoke, it wasn’t in one breath. The words fell careful, chosen.

“Tonight…” His grip tightened, steady now. “…make love to me.”

No tremor. No doubt. Only softness, cutting deeper than demand.

Oner kissed him again—slower. No firestorm, no rush. Just the careful press of lips that lingered like every unsaid truth could pass between them.

Hyeonjoon’s hands moved, resting on his shoulders, sliding lower, pulling him close. Nothing hasten. Something steadier, like he was memorizing him piece by piece.

They found the bed in silence, only the rustle of sheets breaking between breaths. Oner lay beside him, not above, watching his face as though the night could be held still. His hand cupped Hyeonjoon’s cheek, thumb drawing the curve of his jaw into memory.

“I want you to know,” Oner said, low and rough. “I’m here. Not because I’m bound. Not because I have to. Because it’s you.”

Hyeonjoon swallowed, eyes closing against the weight of it. The kiss deepened, mouths parting only to find each other again, longer each time, fuller—like neither could bear the loss.

Oner’s lips left his only to wander. Jaw. Throat. A pause to breathe him in before brushing against soft skin. The first kiss was feather-light. The second lingered. The third spread warmth that left Hyeonjoon shivering.

His hand tightened in Oner’s shirt, urging him closer, pulse betraying everything he didn’t say.

Oner eased him back against the mattress, patient, deliberate, like setting something precious down. His mouth traced across his collarbone, kisses slow, careful, until his breath caught unsteady over Hyeonjoon’s chest.

He looked up once, seeking an answer he already had. Hyeonjoon gave it anyway, fingers brushing his face. Soft. Yes.

Oner bent, lips closing around his nipple. The first touch was gentle, the faintest pull. When Hyeonjoon arched, he let his tongue flick, slow circles until a gasp tore loose. The sound startled him, but Oner only deepened, savoring the response.

“Don’t stop,” Hyeonjoon whispered, voice breaking on the plea.

Oner obeyed, sucking harder, slower, before trailing kisses down his chest. Clothes tangled at their waists, then fell away.

Skin to skin. Heat to heat. Oner pressed inside with patience, pausing, steady, watching the way Hyeonjoon clung to him—eyes wide, mouth open in soundless surrender.

“You’re mine,” Oner whispered, voice frayed at the edges. “And I’ll take care of you.”

“Then don’t hold back,” Hyeonjoon murmured, pulling him closer.

And Oner didn’t. His hips rolled slow, steady, each thrust a vow in motion. Not desperate. Not rough. Just deep. Full. A rhythm that said everything he couldn’t.

Gasps spilled between kisses. Nails pressed into his back. Hyeonjoon trembled, but not from fear—from wanting more. From wanting him.

Oner kissed him through every sound, swallowed every cry until nothing existed but the tangle of their breaths. The rhythm slowed, softened, until only closeness remained. He stayed there, still inside him, holding him as if moving would break what they had made.

It wasn’t hunger this time. It was devotion.

The storm quieted. Only the warmth of skin, the rhythm of breath, the hush of night remained.

Oner’s arm stayed around him, face buried in his hair like he might never surface again.

Hyeonjoon lay still, fingers tracing idle lines over his chest, listening to the thrum beneath. For once, silence wasn’t empty. It brimmed—warmth, belonging, everything he couldn’t name.

“I wish…” He paused, fingers toying absently with the fabric under them. 

“…I wish my every step could lead to something that helps you, even if I never see where it ends.”

It wasn’t dramatic, not even deliberate. Just a thought slipped free. But Oner felt the air shift the second the words left his mouth. The wish settled into him, real and binding, but it didn’t burn. It bloomed..

Oner froze. The wish sank deep. It should have felt like power, like the old rush he’d chased. Instead it bloomed quiet, unbearably gentle, filling him in ways magic never had. His throat ached, unready for the weight of being chosen like this.

He cupped Hyeonjoon’s face, thumb stroking soft, needing him to see.

“It’s my first sober wish,” Oner whispered, pressing their foreheads together. His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. “And it doesn’t taste like magic. It tastes like you.”

Hyeonjoon’s lips trembled into a faint smile. Oner kissed him before it could fade, sealing the vow in the only language he had left.

Neither named it, but the wish lingered, weightless and unshakable. It stretched farther than either could see, carrying them past this night, past the fragile safety of skin and warmth. A gift disguised as something simple—already reshaping everything that waited ahead.

Chapter Text

⚖️ The Immaculate Law of Divergent Essences ⚖️

As preserved in the Veil Codex. Binding upon all who are mortal or celestial in origin.

Core Principle

No mortal may form a romantic, soul-bound, or enduring emotional tether with a being whose essence is non-human and born of light.

The Law exists to protect humans and celestials from corruption by proximity to infernal or unstable essences.

Scope of Protection

This Law applies to all beings classified as pure in origin:

Mortals (humans)

Angels

Seraphic Constructs

Any creature formed of Light, Breath, or Divine Will

Restricted Contacts

Soul-binding, romantic pairings are forbidden with:

Cursed celestials

Spirits bound to sin (e.g., greed, lust, wrath)

Creatures of infernal lineage, whether partial or complete 

Note: Genies are classified as Infernal-Originated Constructs.

Upon Violation

If a protected being (e.g. a human) forms a romantic or soul-level bond with a divergent essence:

The mortal may be erased from the memory of the divergent being.

Or the divergent will be stripped from the mortal plane, exiled into nonexistence.

Determination is instantaneous. There is no appeal.

Enforcement

Archangels of the Second Veil serve as the Law’s enforcers.

They do not intervene.

They do not warn.

They erase.

The week passed the way dangerous weeks always do—too good, too fast.

They marked each other in every corner of the world they could touch—skin against skin, nothing spared, nothing sacred.

On the couch. The balcony. The kitchen counter. The living room floor—hell, they even did it on the elevator.

Anywhere the light dared to touch them—and places it didn’t.

It wasn’t just hunger anymore. It was devotion learned by body.

Every kiss turned into a language; every sigh, a small confession.

Pleasure blurred into prayer, and prayer into rhythm—an offering whispered to whatever god still bothered to listen.

By Friday, the apartment had grown quiet, complicit.

The air held coffee and skin, laughter rubbed into walls and sheets that had given up pretending to be innocent.

And though neither had yet found the words for what they were or how they felt,

they made sure their bodies said it out loud.

Morning came soft and unassuming, as if the city had decided to forgive them for the nights before.

By the time Hyeonjoon stepped out, the world had already moved on.

The pastry shop was narrow and bright, windows fogged from heat, waffles stacked behind glass. The air smelled like sugar and yesterday. Soft jazz crackled from a dusty speaker—too cheerful for the hour.

Hyeonjoon stood at the counter, blinking at the menu as if it had changed.

It hadn’t.

“One waffle,” he said, then after a beat, “And the cornflake one. Please.”

The barista nodded, already bagging both. His coffee came second, and he took it without checking the lid.

That was the mistake.

He turned too fast. The cup tipped, caught the edge of his coat, and sailed forward—not wildly, but with quiet precision.

It hit the man behind him, soaking the front of his jacket in one long, slow splash.

“Oh—I’m really sorry,” Hyeonjoon said, grabbing napkins, forgetting the bag in his other hand. His voice climbed a little too high. “I didn’t see—”

The man looked down at the coffee. Then up.

He didn’t shake it off. Didn’t scowl. He stood like someone who had never been surprised.

“It’s alright,” he said.

His voice was low and soft, like a line meant only for the person in front of him during rehearsal.

“No, really—your coat—” Hyeonjoon tried again, but the words snagged. The man’s face wasn’t kind, wasn’t annoyed—just exact. Every blink and breath intentional, like he’d learned to leave nothing extra.

“I’ve worn worse,” the man said, as if answering a question Hyeonjoon hadn’t asked.

He was a bit shorter than Hyeonjoon, pale in a way that felt chosen, not frail. His features were clean and calm, like a watercolor left unfinished. Silver hair caught the morning light in feathered strands. He didn’t look local. He didn’t look like he belonged to this city at all.

Hyeonjoon shifted, dabbing the stain with his sleeve before realizing he was making it worse.

“If it helps, I have a clean shirt at home,” he offered. “It’s close. Like—just around the block.”

He meant it practically. He always did. But the way the man looked at him—long, quiet, direct—made Hyeonjoon’s stomach react before his mind could follow.

“I can come with you,” the man said.

The words weren’t loaded. They just felt like they should be.

Hyeonjoon hesitated—not because the man was threatening, but because he wasn’t ordinary. He moved like the air made space for him. Like he didn’t need to take up space to be seen.

“…Alright,” Hyeonjoon said.

He turned toward the door and held it without thinking.

The man followed.

He didn’t ask for directions. Didn’t look back. He walked beside Hyeonjoon with the ease of someone who never had to explain himself.

And Hyeonjoon—who usually hated silence—didn’t want to break it.

Not yet.

The apartment was dim when they stepped in, half-lit by pale light slipping through the curtains. Hyeonjoon dropped his keys on the counter, the sound too loud for the quiet that followed.

“You can wait here,” he said, heading to the bedroom. “I’ll get you something dry to wear.”

The man stayed by the doorway, still. His wet coat hung from one arm—no dripping, no cling—just resting there like water obeyed him differently. The faint smell of coffee lingered between them, sweet and bitter.

Hyeonjoon came back with a shirt. Plain white, softened by years.

“This should fit,” he said, offering it across the short space. “It’s simple, but clean.”

The man took it. His fingers brushed Hyeonjoon’s—cool, startlingly so—but not unpleasant.

“It’ll do,” he said, tone steady, deliberate.

While he changed, Hyeonjoon moved around the kitchen. Running water filled the small space, then the familiar song of the kettle. He reached for eggs and bread out of habit.

“Breakfast?” he called over his shoulder. “You must be hungry.”

The man appeared a moment later, the shirt hanging a little loose on him. On him, even ordinary looked divine.

“I don’t usually eat,” he said. Then, after a pause, “But I can.”

Hyeonjoon smiled, cracking an egg into the pan. “You talk like you’re not used to being asked that.”

“Maybe I’m not.”

They sat across from each other when the table was set—steam rising from the tea, morning light slipping in slow, golden ribbons. The man’s movements were exact. No wasted gestures, no idle glances. He stirred his tea though he hadn’t added sugar.

Hyeonjoon studied him quietly. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Deft,” the man said.

The name seemed to fold into the air. Light, but weighted.

“That’s… not common,” Hyeonjoon murmured.

“No,” Deft said simply. “It isn’t.”

They didn’t need small talk after that. The silence wasn’t empty or tense—just there, pulsing with something Hyeonjoon couldn’t name.

He looked at Deft again, at the stillness. It wasn’t just composure—it was control. Like stillness itself bent to him.

“Do you live nearby?” Hyeonjoon asked at last.

Deft’s gaze moved to the window. “Not exactly.” A beat. “But sometimes I end up where I’m needed.”

Hyeonjoon tilted his head. “Needed?”

Deft’s mouth curved, faintly. “Maybe that’s not the right word.”

For a heartbeat, the air around him shifted—just a little. Like the room let out a breath. Deft felt it too. A low hum, old and familiar. But it wasn’t his.

He glanced back at Hyeonjoon, at the human warmth across the table, and something snagged—like a thread caught on a nail. There was something around him. A veil, thin but absolute. Something—or someone—guarding him.

Deft’s eyes narrowed, almost nothing. So that’s why.

The understanding came quietly. Whatever watched over this boy was strong, intentional… and known to him.

An old friend.

Deft set his teacup down, the sound barely there. His face didn’t change, but his gaze softened—almost amused. “You’re an interesting one, Hyeonjoon.”

“That sounds like something people say before they run away,” Hyeonjoon said, smiling—then paused, wondering if he’d ever told him his name.

“Maybe,” Deft replied. He stood, smooth and unhurried. “I should go.”

“You don’t have to—”

But Deft was already up, calm as ever. “I think someone’s calling for me.”

And in a way, he was right. The air behind him shimmered, light bending into a thin, invisible seam—the infernal realm tugging at him like gravity.

Deft didn’t resist. He let it pull, every step sure. Before the seam closed, he looked back once.

“Take care of that name you keep,” he said softly. “It might mean more than you think.”

Then he was gone.

The apartment fell quiet again, save for the soft hush of cooling tea and the faint echo of something neither mortal nor magic could explain.

Hyeonjoon stood at the counter, the unused napkin still in his hand.

He blinked once, twice.

Another being had vanished right in front of him. Again.

He let out a slow breath, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Great,” he muttered.

The world folded around him.

Not with sound, but with light collapsing inward—threads of radiance twisting into shadow until even the idea of space lost its name. When it stilled, Deft stood at the lip of a realm that breathed in reverse. The air wavered like a reflection trapped between heat and memory. Mountains rose and fell without a sound, made of black glass and ember, pulsing faintly as if remembering fire.

He didn’t flinch.

Deft had been here before, long ago—back when eternity was still new, and its rulers hadn’t yet learned the weight of what they’d made.

And there, waiting as if he’d never left, was Faker—the god of hell, the unkillable demon king.

The god stood at a distance, half-shadow, half-ember. His shape shimmered, an afterimage burned into the void. A crown of thin flame circled his head—not royal so much as unavoidable. Everything about him beat with the soft cruelty of creation unraveled, the terrible beauty of ruin, awake and aware.

Deft moved forward, boots kissing the dark stone. The sound rang once and vanished. Faker turned at that small sound, slow and deliberate—his face unreadable, already knowing.

He had always known Deft would come. Some gravities refused to let go.

Once—before the world had shape or order—they’d breathed the same light, demon and angel intertwined. Now a chasm of sky stretched between them: Faker, a god carved from inevitability and shadowed brilliance; Deft, an angel bound to immaculate law, wings pinned beneath vows he could never unmake.

Yet Deft had already broken one vow.

He had brought a half-angel, half-genie into the world—a being born of light and defiance—and tried to call it destiny rather than sin. Faker felt the old wound stir and hid it well, tucking it behind that calm, all-seeing gaze that had outlasted eras. Even now, the echo of that choice clung to Deft like a secret halo—guilt braided with pride.

Their eyes met. Faker saw more than Deft would admit; Deft, as ever, gave nothing away. 

Faker remembered the brush of feathers against his palms, the taste of forbidden dawn on Deft’s lips. Deft remembered how a god’s voice could split him open and leave him whole.

It was all still there, threaded beneath duty and millennia.

Faker broke the silence first, his tone like a knife hidden inside silk.

“If a bird falls in love with a fish,” he murmured, deliberate and slow, “who inherits the fins—and who surrenders the wings? That’s the paradox. That’s how cruel, and how exquisite, love can be.”

The air trembled, faint—like the realm itself leaned closer.

Deft’s face stayed smooth. No flicker. No ripple. Only a small, deliberate tightening of his wings—marble refusing an earthquake.

Faker’s mouth tipped—somewhere between a smile and a warning.

“Let the human decide,” he said at last, voice lowering to a confessional hush. “It isn’t for gods or angels to choose.”

Deft’s wings shifted again, so slight it could have been imagined.

But Faker caught it at once—filed, sealed, stored behind his gaze.

For one beat, the god let himself a tiny indulgence: remembering what it felt like to be chosen. Once.

The quiet that followed was heavy. It remembered old wars. Older loves.

Above them, the ceiling of the realm burned in slow motion—black fire bending like glass.

Between them, an ancient gravity rolled back to center.

Deft spoke at last, voice even, centuries layered beneath.

“Then the human will suffer for it.”

Faker’s smile deepened—sharp, and somehow sorrowed.

“Not just the human,” he said. “Even things without hearts learn how to break.”

And so they stood, two endless forces balanced in silence—waiting for the fall.

Evening settled slow—its light pooling gold across the couch where Hyeonjoon sat with Oner stretched out beside him, head resting in his lap.

The TV murmured something forgettable; neither of them were watching.

Oner’s hair spilled soft against Hyeonjoon’s thigh, eyes half-lidded, the rise and fall of his chest unhurried.

Hyeonjoon absently combed his fingers through the strands, gentle, lazy—like muscle memory more than affection, though it carried both..

The air smelled like takeout and clean cotton.

A bowl of half-eaten ramen sat on the table. Oner had stolen half the blanket again, and Hyeonjoon pretended not to see.

This had become their pace lately: quiet nights, mismatched socks, small domestic nothings that felt like everything.

The door clicked. Keria’s voice filled the room before he crossed the threshold.

“God, you two are disgusting.”

Oner didn’t lift his head. “Welcome home.”

Keria dropped his bag with a thud, grinning.

“Domesticity doesn’t suit you, genie. You look like you’re about to start clipping coupons.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you either,” Oner muttered, still half-asleep.

“Please,” Keria said, tossing himself onto the armchair. “If I ever go soft like this, smite me on the spot.”

Hyeonjoon laughed under his breath. “You say that like Minhyeong doesn’t find new ways to test your patience every week.”

Keria groaned. “That’s not patience—that’s limit testing dressed up as friendship.”

“Right,” Hyeonjoon said, amused. “Speaking of limits—guess who showed up this morning.”

Keria hummed, lazy. “Another god?”

“Something like that.” Hyeonjoon leaned back, eyes still on the TV though his voice went casual. “Name’s Deft. Silver hair, a little unnerving, politely terrifying. I spilled coffee on him and brought him over to change. Then he just—” he waved a hand, “—vanished. Right in front of me. Thought you might know him. Like the one with the cloud hanging over his head the other day.”

Keria went still. The kind of still that made the air tense.

Oner’s eyes opened too, the drift gone.

For a beat, neither spoke. Then their eyes met over the couch—both hearing the weight in that name.

“Deft,” Keria said at last, voice low, humor stripped out.

Hyeonjoon blinked, surprised at the shift. “Yeah. That’s what he said.”

Before either answered, Hyeonjoon’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen and frowned.

“It’s my class rep,” he said. “Project stuff. I’ll take it.”

He stood and slipped into the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence filled the living room.

Keria let out a long breath, tension setting in his jaw.

Oner pushed upright, blanket pooling at his waist, gaze fixed on the now-empty hallway.

Deft’s name hung in the air like smoke.

The quiet after Hyeonjoon’s steps stretched thin as glass.

The bedroom door latched, and the TV’s hum filled the room like static.

Oner spoke first.

“What is an archangel doing near him?” His voice wasn’t loud—it was cold, the kind that says he already knows it isn’t good.

Keria leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his teeth. “You’re asking the wrong question.”

Oner turned to him, eyes narrowing. “Then what’s the right one?”

Keria met his gaze, jaw tightening. “What the hell is my father doing here?”

The words dropped heavy.

For a moment, even the TV seemed to hush.

Oner blinked. “Your—what?”

Keria’s mouth twisted—not a smile. “Archangel of the Second Veil. Deft. My father.”

He said it like a joke that stopped being funny centuries ago.

Oner sat up fully, disbelief flickering. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” Keria said, softer now—old weariness in it. “Haven’t seen him in a few hundred years. Didn’t plan to.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes sliding to the blank screen, anywhere but Oner.

“Guess running out of heaven doesn’t mean it stops looking for you.”

Oner frowned. “Why would he come to Hyeonjoon?”

“That’s the part I’m trying not to think about,” Keria said. “If Deft’s here, it isn’t for me. It’s because something crossed a line.”

Oner swallowed once. He didn’t need to ask which line.

Keria finally faced him, the humor gone. “You know the Law. The Immaculate one.”

Oner’s jaw set. “Genie contracts don’t break it.”

“Contracts, no,” Keria said, quiet. “But emotional tethers do.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Genie bonds were written as transactions — wishes, exchanges, nothing emotional. But if a genie starts bleeding essence into a human? If the human bleeds back?” He shook his head slowly. “That’s when the Law starts counting.”

Oner’s voice dropped. “You think it’s counting now?”

Keria didn’t answer at once. His eyes flicked to the bedroom door—to the muffled sound of Hyeonjoon’s voice, a small laugh threaded through.

Then, barely above a whisper: “I think the clock already started.”

The TV’s light rolled over them—gold, then blue, then dim.

Oner kept his eyes on the door.

Keria kept his eyes on Oner.

Between them, the silence felt like judgment.

Nine days later, the world reported it like an afterthought.

“At approximately 8:32 PM, a passenger bus traveling through the Seoho interchange in Changwon overturned after a sudden skid on wet pavement.

No major casualties were reported, though one passenger was found unconscious at the scene.

Authorities confirmed the incident was minor, and investigation remains ongoing.”

The voice faded under static, then silence.

Rain. Asphalt. The faint metallic tang of blood.

Oner was on his knees.

Hyeonjoon’s body lay limp against him, breath shallow, warmth slipping fast from his skin. The sirens screamed somewhere too near, too loud—each pulse of sound cutting through the haze.

Oner’s voice broke through the ringing in his ears.

“Hyeonjoon,” he said once — the name barely escaping him. Then again, softer, almost begging. “Hyung.”

He pressed his palm against Hyeonjoon’s chest and reached for magic—instinctively, desperately—summoning the spark that had answered him for centuries.

Nothing.

A faint shimmer flickered at his fingertips, then died before it could form. He tried again, harder, voice cracking from the force of it. But the power stuttered, thin and unsteady, like a candle guttering in rain.

He realized, too late, that he could feel it—his essence thinning, unraveling at the edges.

The contract. It was slipping.

His power had been fading for days now, the delay of Hyeonjoon’s final wish gnawing at the core that kept him bound to this plane.

Still, he tried. Again. And again.

Until his vision blurred and his hands trembled from effort.

The sirens grew louder. Red light washed over the pavement. Someone shouted for an ambulance, for space, for help.

Oner didn’t move. His world was already collapsing inward.

Then the red turned white.

It wasn’t the siren anymore—it was light, pure and absolute, bending the air until sound itself broke.

The ground dissolved. The rain vanished.

Oner blinked into silence.

He was no longer on the street.

The ground beneath him gleamed like glass, reflecting a sky that wasn’t sky at all but judgment given form. Pillars rose from nothing, carved with sigils older than mercy. The air felt sentient—alive and watching.

Hyeonjoon was still in his arms.

Across the boundless floor stood a figure—still, radiant, silver hair glinting like frost in a world that had never known warmth.

Deft.

Oner’s breath caught. His grip tightened around Hyeonjoon’s body.

And somewhere beyond that silence, something vast began to stir—an ancient force flexing its will.

The Immaculate Law had found them.

And judgment was about to begin.