Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ga-yeong had been dragging her feet about school for weeks. Mornings were slow battles: shirts tugged on backwards, shoes mysteriously missing their pair, tears brimming at the mention of spelling tests. Some days she curled into the couch cushions and declared her stomach hurt, other days she sat silent at the table, cereal going soggy while Gi-hun tried coaxing her with jokes that landed like pebbles in a well.

Since her mother died, the brightness had gone out of her. He tried everything to bring it back.
Jokes. Promises of ice cream. Extra cartoons before bed.
Nothing stuck.

So when she came running out of the school gates one afternoon with her hair flying, hand-in-hand with another girl, grinning so wide her cheeks flushed, Gi-hun nearly dropped the paper cup of vending machine coffee he’d been nursing.

“This is Seo-hyun!” she announced proudly, tugging the smaller girl forward like she was presenting royalty. “She’s my best friend.”

Gi-hun blinked, stunned. Best friend. The word rang in his ears. He crouched automatically to eye level, smiling though his throat was tight. “Best friend, huh? That’s a big deal.”

Seo-hyun ducked her head, smiling shyly. She was neat in a pressed cardigan, shoes tied properly — the kind of careful detail that made Gi-hun’s heart ache, thinking of how often Ga-yeong’s socks ended up mismatched, shoes half-untied, hair escaping its braid.

“How’d you two meet?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended.

Ga-yeong puffed up proudly. “She gave me her crayon when mine broke. And then I gave her my cookie. And then we sat together at lunch.”

Seo-hyun peeked up through her lashes. “She made me laugh. Nobody else does that.”

The words hit him square in the chest. His daughter. Laughing. Trading crayons and cookies. Finding a reason to smile again.

Before he could manage a reply, a voice called from behind.
“Seo-hyun.”

The girls turned, hands still linked. A man approached, tall and composed, his presence enough to make Gi-hun stand straighter without realizing. His suit jacket was slung over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened but not sloppy. Even in that small imperfection, he looked put together in a way Gi-hun never quite managed.

Gi-hun’s breath stuttered.

Seo-hyun let go of Ga-yeong’s hand and ran to him. “Appa!”

The man crouched, gathering her with a steady hand at her back, murmuring something too low for Gi-hun to catch. Then he straightened, gaze cutting toward them. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, but softened slightly when he noticed Ga-yeong clinging tight to Gi-hun’s hand.

“You must be Ga-yeong’s father,” he said evenly.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, that’s me.” Gi-hun scrambled, suddenly aware of the oil stains on his shirt and the scuff on his shoes. His mouth went dry. “Seong Gi-hun.” He stuck out his hand, too quickly, almost fumbling.

The man took it firmly. “Cho Sang-woo.”

For a second, Gi-hun just stared. Sang-woo had the kind of face that looked cut from stone — precise features, sharp eyes — but the way his hand lingered on Seo-hyun’s shoulder was careful, protective. That small gesture made something in Gi-hun’s chest twist.

He cleared his throat, desperate to fill the silence. “She’s been talking about Seo-hyun nonstop. I haven’t seen her this happy since—” His voice cracked, but he forced it steady. “Since her mom passed.”

Sang-woo’s expression flickered, almost imperceptible, but enough that Gi-hun knew he’d been heard. He gave a small nod. “Seo-hyun hasn’t had a best friend before. This… means a lot.”

The girls tugged at their hands, begging for more playtime before heading home.

Gi-hun laughed, messy and warm, letting Ga-yeong pull him forward. He risked a glance at Sang-woo, who was already watching his daughter with the kind of quiet intensity Gi-hun recognized — the look of someone carrying more than he’d ever admit out loud.

And for the first time in a long time, Gi-hun saw it — the brightness, flickering back into Ga-yeong’s smile. Maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

Chapter Text

It started with the lunches.

A week into the girls’ sudden friendship, Ga-yeong came home bubbling with chatter about her new best friend. Gi-hun half-listened, exhausted from work, until one detail made him pause.

“Seo-hyun’s dad makes the prettiest food,” she announced proudly, swinging her backpack onto the couch. “He cuts carrots into flowers, and the eggs look like little hearts. It’s so fun!”

Gi-hun laughed weakly, ruffling her hair. “Fun, huh?”

But that night, the words stuck. His own thrown-together sandwiches were anything but fun. He’d never thought of food that way — as something beautiful, something to delight. To him, lunch was just calories to keep her going.

The next morning, Ga-yeong tugged at his sleeve while he rushed through the kitchen. He’d packed another egg sandwich, the bread a little squashed where the bag had folded.

“Appa,” she said lightly, “Seo-hyun said I can have some of hers if mine’s boring.”

The word landed sharp. Boring. He almost dropped the thermos in his hand.

He forced a smile, but his chest ached. He was already running late — the dog needed feeding, the tools for his morning job weren’t in the truck, Ga-yeong still hadn’t found her other shoe. Bento boxes shaped like cartoon animals? That wasn’t even in the realm of possibility. Still, the sting stuck.

Later that day, as he lingered by the school gates, he overheard Ga-yeong talking to a neighbor kid. Her voice rang with pride.

“Seo-hyun’s dad made me kimbap! The rice had little sesame faces, and the fruit was all cut up in shapes. Look!” She held up the neat little box like it was treasure.

Gi-hun’s gut twisted. The neighbor kid whistled appreciatively. “Lucky.”

That night, guilt drove him into the kitchen long after Ga-yeong was asleep. He laid out a cutting board and cucumbers, determined to prove to himself he wasn’t completely useless. An hour later, his fingers were covered in little bandages, the sink piled high with mutilated vegetables. The fridge was full of uneven chunks — stars that looked more like jagged rocks, hearts that collapsed on themselves. He stared at them until his vision blurred.

The next morning, he shoved another plain sandwich into her bag, muttered a tired apology, and told himself he’d try again tomorrow.

But when he picked her up from school, his heart dropped. Seo-hyun skipped at Ga-yeong’s side, holding two matching bentos. Ga-yeong’s smile was so bright, so careless, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Heat crawled up Gi-hun’s neck. His throat felt tight.

Sang-woo stood nearby, sleeves neatly rolled, watching the girls with quiet attention. His posture was composed, his face unreadable — like this was his place, like he’d always belonged here.

Gi-hun swallowed hard, jaw tightening. He told himself to let it go, to just take his daughter’s hand and leave — but the words burned their way up his throat anyway.

“I don’t need anyone else feeding my kid,” he snapped, the words too sharp, too loud. They cut across the girls’ laughter, silencing it for a heartbeat.

Sang-woo turned toward him slowly. His gaze was steady, unreadable, and the pause before he spoke made Gi-hun’s skin prickle.

Finally, with maddening calm, he said, “She just wants to fit in.”

The calmness stung worse than anger ever could. Gi-hun’s throat worked as he tried to swallow the lump there. He wanted to argue, to claim his daughter didn’t need anything beyond him — but the words shriveled before they reached his tongue.

Before he could recover, Ga-yeong tugged on Sang-woo’s sleeve. With both hands, she held out the empty lunchbox, her face lit with gratitude. “Ahjussi, here! Thank you for the lunch!”

Gi-hun froze. The sound of her calling him that — ahjussi — with such natural warmth made his stomach drop. And the way she handed the box back so easily, like it was routine, hollowed him out.

“Appa, did you see?” she added, practically bouncing. “He made the egg into a heart today!”

The words pierced deeper than any insult. His chest burned.

Sang-woo accepted the container without fuss, brushing a speck from his sleeve as if the moment meant nothing. “You’re welcome,” he said simply.

Gi-hun’s fists curled and uncurled at his sides. He wanted to shout, to snatch the box away, to drag Ga-yeong home — anything to reassert that she was his, not anyone else’s. But what came out instead was cracked and humiliating.

“I’ll pay you for it,” he blurted, voice unsteady. “For the food. Please. I can’t just— I can’t let you…” The words trailed off, shame flooding his face hot.

“That’s unnecessary,” Sang-woo said, voice smooth as glass.

Gi-hun flinched. He tried to rally, to pull something sharp and strong back into his tone, but it only came out brittle. “Maybe for you,” he muttered, “not for me.”

Silence pressed heavy between them. Gi-hun couldn’t look at Sang-woo, couldn’t even glance at the neat little box in his hands. His thoughts spun in frantic circles. Of course Sang-woo hadn’t made it himself. A man like him wouldn’t waste time shaping eggs into hearts or cutting fruit into stars. He probably had a nanny, or a housekeeper, or someone on payroll who did it for him. And still — even if it wasn’t his hands — it was his life, his money, his stability that wrapped around Ga-yeong in ways Gi-hun never could.

Then Ga-yeong’s small hand tugged at his, her voice bright as a bell. Seo-hyun joined in, both girls begging to stop at the playground.

Gi-hun let himself be dragged along, his heart pounding, pride in tatters. The image of his daughter’s little hands pressing that bento box into Sang-woo’s — so natural, so thoughtless — burned deeper than any insult could.

Chapter Text

They kept noticing each other-not in the dramatic, fate-driven way of movies-no slow collisions or lingering gazes—but in the rhythm of school mornings. The same gate catching the same slant of light. The same vendor across the street steaming fish cakes in the cool air. The same fathers standing in familiar patches of shade, pretending not to count minutes.

And in that sameness, Gi-hun had a way of being noticed.

One morning he crouched to fix a jacket zipper for a boy who wasn’t his own. The kid sniffled, trying not to cry, until Gi-hun coaxed the teeth back into place. “There we go. Hold still, champ.” The zipper caught clean, and the boy’s relief was instant, awe bright in his eyes.

“Go be ferocious in there,” Gi-hun grinned, ruffling his hair before sending him off.

From a few steps away, Sang-woo felt the corner of his mouth tug despite himself. Parents hurried past small problems all the time. Gi-hun never did.

Another day, the PTA table clogged the hall with papers, pens, and someone’s half-eaten tangerine. Gi-hun hovered awkwardly, then bent down and scrawled his name across every empty slot—set-up, clean-up, whatever they needed. When a volunteer muttered about being short a canopy, he jumped in immediately. “I can borrow one from a buddy at the shop. It’s ugly, but it won’t leak.”

The woman blinked in surprise, then nodded gratefully. Gi-hun left with citrus on his fingers and a streak of grease across the sign-up sheet he hadn’t noticed. Sang-woo did, though—and for some reason, it stayed with him longer than it should have.

By the end of the week, the ground was still slick from rain when a small slip scattered the morning. Seo-hyun went down fast, her knee hitting pavement with a startled oof.

Sang-woo’s body moved before his mind did but Gi-hun was already there, dropping to one knee so quickly his coffee sloshed over his hand.

“You’re okay,” Gi-hun said, voice steady but soft enough to soothe. He kept his hands just off her skin, waiting. “May I?”

Seo-hyun nodded, blinking hard to keep the tears down.

His check was quick, practiced: scraped palms, scuffed knee, ankle fine. “Tough kid,” he murmured, and the way he said it carried conviction, like he believed it about her, not just as comfort.

From his pocket came a battered tissue packet and a little squeeze bottle clipped to his keys.

“Promise it’s just saline,” he said with a crooked grin, trying to lighten the sting. The puff of air he blew over the scrape was exaggerated enough to make her giggle.

“There we go. Badge of honor.” He held his hand out until she met it with a shy high five. “If it bothers you later, tell your teacher, okay?”

Only then did he look up, catching Sang-woo’s eye with something like apology. His voice dipped lower. “She’s okay. I should’ve asked first.”

“It’s fine,” Sang-woo said quickly, though his throat caught on the words. He cleared it, trying again. “Thank you.”

Gi-hun gave a small shrug, holding up the bottle like it explained everything. “I keep this on me. Kids fall. Mechanics too.” His smile faltered at the edges, as if he wasn’t sure it was enough.

Seo-hyun asked if she could still go in, and Sang-woo brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His hand lingered for half a second longer than necessary. “You were very brave.” Then, quieter, almost reluctant: “Thank Gi-hun.”

“Thank you, Gi-hun,” she said carefully, testing the name.

“Anytime, kiddo,” he replied. The word landed warm, heavier than it should have, and Sang-woo felt it lodge somewhere in his chest.

The bell rang again, scattering the moment. The girls ran for the doors, ponytails bouncing, waving like they were practicing for a parade.

When the crowd thinned, Sang-woo finally spoke. “You carry saline.”

Gi-hun huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Used to for cuts at work. Now for… this.” He gestured vaguely toward the building, the playground, the world. “Kids are always skinning something. Easier to fix it before it stings all day.”

Sang-woo studied him. No performance, no flourish-just quiet care, offered without ceremony. It was maddeningly simple.

“It was good,” he said at last, his voice softer than he intended.

Gi-hun’s smile tipped crooked. “She’s a good kid. So is mine. They’re good for each other.”

“They are,” Sang-woo agreed, and the truth of it landed heavy.

They stood another beat, shoulder to shoulder but not quite facing one another, because more would be too much. A bus wheezed. The vendor’s radio scratched out an old ballad.

“I’ll bring the canopy on Saturday,” Gi-hun said, his voice quiet, almost shy. “I’ll get there early.”

“I’ll be there for set-up,” Sang-woo replied, his words clipped, controlled, but not cold.

Gi-hun nodded, eyes fixed on the school doors. “Anything for them.”

When he walked away, hands buried in a jacket that had seen better winters, Sang-woo let his gaze linger a moment too long. Something tugged at him, steady and inconvenient, and it didn’t let go even after the gate had emptied.

By the time he reached home that evening, the image was still with him: Gi-hun crouched low, voice gentle, a bottle of saline in one hand and the word kiddo falling easy from his mouth. Care offered so simply, like breathing.

Sang-woo sat at his table long after Seo-hyun had gone to bed, files open but untouched, and knew with a certainty he didn’t want to name that something had shifted.

Chapter Text

The jacket turned up in Ga-yeong’s backpack one evening, stuffed beneath her math book and a crumpled snack wrapper. Gi-hun pulled it free, the stitched name tag leaving no doubt.

“Why do you have Seo-hyun’s jacket?” he asked.

“She forgot it,” Ga-yeong said without looking up from her coloring book. “I didn’t want her to be cold tomorrow.”

Gi-hun sighed, jacket folded over his arm. He hadn’t planned on leaving the apartment again, but the thought of Seo-hyun shivering through morning assembly tugged at him.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s take it back now.”

Ten minutes later, they were knocking at the Cho apartment, Ga-yeong’s small hand in his, the jacket hugged tight against her chest like a treasure.

When the door opened, Gi-hun nearly forgot why they were there.

Sang-woo stood in the doorway, not in his usual pressed suit but in a plain t-shirt and gray sweats, his hair still damp at the edges. Warm light spilled from behind him, carrying the smell of sesame oil, rice, and broth simmering low on the stove.

Before Gi-hun could find his words, Ga-yeong piped up brightly. “Seo-hyun left this!” She held the jacket out with both hands.

Sang-woo’s expression softened. He bent to take it. “Thank you. She’ll be glad to have it.” His eyes flicked briefly to Gi-hun, a nod that felt both polite and pointed.

Gi-hun cleared his throat. “Didn’t want her out in the cold tomorrow.”

But his gaze drifted past Sang-woo despite himself — to the cutting board lined with vegetables, to the neat steam curling from a pan. A scene that looked impossibly ordered compared to his own cluttered kitchen. “You’re… cooking?”

“Dinner,” Sang-woo said simply. “And tomorrow’s lunches.”

The words threw him. “Wait. You make all those bentos yourself?”

“Of course.” Delivered flatly, as though no other possibility existed.

Gi-hun swallowed. He’d assumed there was a nanny, or a shop where everything came prepackaged. But no — it was Sang-woo, sleeves pushed back, hands practiced at this kind of work. Somehow that image hit harder than anything else could have.

“They’re… too perfect to be homemade,” he muttered, and instantly hated how small it sounded.

“Practice.” Sang-woo’s voice carried a quiet conviction. “She deserves the effort.”

The words sank like stones. Gi-hun looked down at his scuffed shoes, shame heating his throat as he thought of squashed sandwiches and bruised fruit.

“I should pay you,” he blurted, grasping for footing. “For the lunches. I can’t just let you—”

“That’s unnecessary.” Smooth. Final.

“Maybe not for you,” Gi-hun pushed, his voice cracking. “But for me—” The rest collapsed in his throat, half-formed and already broken.

The silence was heavy, filled only by the soft hiss of broth on the stove. Then quick footsteps pattered across the floor. Seo-hyun appeared, her face lighting as soon as she saw Ga-yeong.

“Ga-yeong!” she chirped, tugging her toward the table. In an instant, the two girls were bent over backpacks, laughing, voices rising and tumbling over each other like nothing else in the world mattered.

Gi-hun stayed rooted in the doorway, jacketless, chest tight. The smell of sesame and rice wrapped around him, pulling him toward a scene that looked so ordinary — warm light, vegetables in neat rows, two children giggling — and felt impossibly far away.

He cleared his throat. “Ga-yeong. Time to go home.”

She pouted up at him. “Already?”

“Already,” he said, gentler now. He held out his hand, and she slipped hers into it reluctantly, murmuring a quick goodbye to her friend before stepping back to his side.

Gi-hun kept his gaze low, but Sang-woo’s voice came after a beat, softer than before. “Good night, Gi-hun.”

There was a pause, just long enough to make it clear he was waiting for an answer.

Gi-hun’s mouth went dry. For a moment, he nearly walked away without speaking. Then, awkwardly, haltingly, he looked up. “...Good night, Sang-woo.” The words stumbled out uncertain, but they were all he could give.

Sang-woo’s hand lingered on the edge of the doorframe a second longer than necessary before the door closed. Not slammed, not rushed — just firm enough to leave Gi-hun standing in the hallway with the warmth of the apartment still pressing against him.

Beside him, Ga-yeong swung his hand, chattering about Seo-hyun’s pencils. Gi-hun barely heard her. His chest was too tight, the smell of sesame clinging to his jacket, the glow of that kitchen still alive in his mind.

For the first time, he realized he hadn’t been giving Sang-woo enough credit.
And for the first time, he realized just how much he wanted to look at him.

Chapter Text

The next week, they ended up side by side at pickup again, leaning on the chain-link fence while the girls tore across the playground.

Ga-yeong and Seo-hyun had invented some elaborate game of tag that seemed to involve more squeals and collapsing giggles than actual chasing. Every time one stumbled, the other hauled her up, both of them wheezing with laughter before darting off again. Neither looked anywhere close to ready to go home.

“They’d play until dark if we let them,” Gi-hun said, half-smiling. His hands disappeared into the frayed pockets of his jacket as he watched his daughter shriek with joy. His voice dropped without him meaning it to. “That’s the happiest I’ve seen her in a long time.”

Sang-woo followed his gaze. Something flickered across his face and it was not envy, not quite relief, but recognition. “It’s good for Seo-hyun, too,” he admitted. “She’s always been… careful. Too careful. This is the first time she’s had a real best friend.”

The quiet between them stretched, filled with the scrape of sneakers and the clatter of swings.

Gi-hun leaned a little heavier on the fence, watching the girls shriek with laughter. “You’re here every day,” he said after a moment, surprised. “I figured a guy like you would be… too busy.”

Sang-woo didn’t flinch. His hand rested steady on the rail. “I own my firm,” he said, clipped and precise. “I can set my hours when I need to. I work from home a lot after Seo-hyun goes to sleep to catch up on anything needed, especially paperwork and things. That’s why I can be here. I used to be a workaholic, running on cigarettes and fumes. Once I got sole custody of Seo-hyun, I realized she deserved a dad that was available and not raised by some nanny.”

The words hung between them, neat and final. After a beat, Sang-woo asked, quieter, “And you? You’re here every day too.”

Gi-hun let out a slow breath, shoulders rising, then dropping again. “After her mom died, Ga-yeong had a hard time. She was so little, and everything changed all at once. For a long while she couldn’t sleep unless she was in bed next to me, curled right up against my side.” His voice was gentle, touched with memory rather than complaint. “I didn’t mind. She just needed to know I was there.”

His eyes stayed on the playground, where Ga-yeong stumbled and Seo-hyun hauled her upright, both of them shrieking with laughter. “That’s why I make sure I’m here when she gets out. Every day, no matter what. I want her to know she’ll always find me when she needs me. Money comes and goes, she's more important. Thankfully my friend I work for is understanding of the situation and lets me have some flexibility. I'll go in on weekends if we need extra money and she'll come with me and hangout in the bay.”

For a long moment, Sang-woo didn’t answer. He studied Gi-hun’s profile instead — unpolished, hair sticking up at the crown, jacket frayed at the cuffs — but speaking with a conviction that made something in his chest tighten.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than he intended, almost rough. “That’s… good. She’s lucky to have you.”

Gi-hun blinked, then gave a sheepish little laugh, embarrassed by the praise. “Yeah. Guess so.”

The girls came barreling toward them then, cheeks flushed, hands clasped like they’d been stitched together. Breathless, they begged for five more minutes.

Sang-woo opened his mouth to refuse, but when he caught Gi-hun’s helpless grin, he let the words die in his throat.

As the girls ran off again, Sang-woo leaned back against the fence. His gaze lingered on Gi-hun longer than he meant it to, and all the while, the words replayed in his head like a refrain: She’ll always find me when she needs me.

For the first time, he wondered if maybe there was something in Gi-hun he had been too quick to overlook.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Ga-yeong and Seo-hyun burst from the school gate like fireworks, hair flying, laughter bouncing across the playground. They looped around benches and swings in a blur of arms and legs, until they collapsed in the grass, breathless and tangled together.

“They’d play until dark if we let them,” Gi-hun said, leaning against the fence. His smile tugged uneven but warm, and his voice softened without meaning to. “That’s the most I've seen her smile in a long time.”

Sang-woo’s eyes stayed on the girls, though something unreadable flickered in his expression. “It’s good for Seo-hyun, too. She’s always been careful. Too careful. But lately…” He paused, watching her squeal as Ga-yeong tugged her back to her feet. “She’s lighter.”

The girls spotted them and came barreling over, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to their foreheads.

“Appa, can we get ice cream?” Seo-hyun gasped, tugging at Sang-woo’s sleeve.

“Please, Dad?” Ga-yeong echoed, gripping Gi-hun’s hand with sticky determination.

Sang-woo arched a brow. “Before dinner?”

Both girls nodded furiously, wide-eyed, perfectly in sync.

Gi-hun chuckled, already caving. “How do you say no to that? All right, just this once.”

“You’ll spoil them,” Sang-woo murmured, but the warning had no bite.

“Maybe,” Gi-hun said, grin crooked. “But happy kids eat better anyway.”

That earned him the faintest twitch at Sang-woo’s mouth — not quite a smile, but closer than before.

They walked together down the block, the girls skipping hand in hand ahead of them toward the vendor cart. Strawberry for Ga-yeong, chocolate for Seo-hyun. Within minutes, both cones were dripping faster than the heat could melt them, little hands and mouths smeared with sugar.

Gi-hun crouched automatically, napkin in hand, swiping chocolate from Seo-hyun’s chin like he’d done it a hundred times. “There you go, champ.”

Sang-woo blinked, startled at how natural it looked — as though Gi-hun had always been part of their routine.

Then Ga-yeong thrust her half-melting cone up toward him. “Papa—oops—Sang-woo-ssi, want a bite?”

The word stopped him cold. For the smallest second, something flickered sharp in his chest, showing in the stiffness of his shoulders before he smoothed it away. Gi-hun noticed — the quick blink, the too-even exhale — but said nothing.

Sang-woo crouched, steadying Ga-yeong’s hand so the cone wouldn’t topple. “No,” he said calmly, “you eat it. It’s yours.”

Gi-hun laughed, warmth creasing his eyes. “She does that to me too. It’s her way of sharing.”

Seo-hyun, still working through the last of her cone, piped up matter-of-factly: “Appa only likes green tea ice cream.”

That earned her a dry look, though the corner of Sang-woo’s mouth betrayed him, twitching upward.

“Oh yeah?” Gi-hun asked, amused. “Green tea? Figures.”

Sang-woo tilted his head. “And what would you pick?”

“Vanilla,” Gi-hun said without hesitation. “Classic. Can’t go wrong.”

Sang-woo huffed, not quite a laugh, but near enough that Gi-hun’s grin widened.

By the time the cones were gone, both girls were sticky and red-faced, crashing back into the grass with dramatic groans. They sprawled out side by side, pointing at clouds and arguing over which one looked more like a dragon.

Gi-hun lowered himself onto the curb, elbows braced on his knees, jacket bunching at his back. After a beat, Sang-woo joined him, the silence companionable, their shoulders angled toward the patch of grass where the girls lay.

Their laughter carried, stubborn against the heavy air, bright enough to cut through the hum of traffic and the dipping sun. For a moment, the world hushed — just two men sitting side by side, watching their daughters breathe easy.

Neither said it aloud, but the thought pressed close against both their ribs:
this felt a lot like family.

Chapter Text

By now, the rhythm was familiar. Every afternoon, Ga-yeong trotted out of school with her hair sticking up and an empty bento box clutched proudly in her arms. She always delivered it back to Seo-hyun’s father without fuss, like it was just another part of the day: girls run, laugh, eat, hand the box back so it could be filled again tomorrow.

Gi-hun had learned to live with it. His own sandwiches and bruised fruit came home untouched more often than not. She wasn’t ungrateful — she was just a kid, and Seo-hyun’s dad’s food was better. Still, every report of little sausages cut into octopuses or omelets folded into perfect layers left him raw around the edges.

So when Sang-woo extended a second bento at drop-off one morning, Gi-hun froze.

“This one’s for you,” Sang-woo said. His voice wasn’t clipped the way it usually was. It was quieter, almost tentative, and it startled Gi-hun more than the box itself. His tie hung loose, his sleeves rolled, and the faint smell of sesame clung to him. He didn’t look like the untouchable professional who swept in and out of the schoolyard. He looked… ordinary. Approachable.

Gi-hun blinked at the box. Stainless steel, snug compartments, the lid still faintly warm. “Me? No, I—what? I can’t—”

“You skip meals,” Sang-woo said. Not sharp. Not judgmental. Just noticing.

“I don’t skip,” Gi-hun tried, but his stomach betrayed him with a growl that made his ears burn.

The corner of Sang-woo’s mouth twitched, and it wasn’t disdain this time but something gentler. “Then… humor me. Ga-yeong deserves a father who isn’t running on fumes.”

Gi-hun stared at him. Sang-woo didn’t talk like that. Not to him. Not ever. The gentleness was out of place, startling enough to knock the breath out of him. He muttered, “Thanks,” low and awkward, and clutched the box like it might burn him.

He almost didn’t open it.

The bento sat on the counter at the garage all morning, too neat, too self-contained, looking far too good for a man like him. He told himself he might save it until later, maybe bring it home so Ga-yeong could pick at it too. But by noon his stomach was a hollow ache, and he finally gave in.

The lid clicked open with a soft snap. Inside: tight rolls of kimbap, glossy pear slices, tamagoyaki folded golden, and a wedge of marinated beef, seared just enough to shine.

His breath caught. Nobody had made him food like this in years. Not since—

“Damn,” Jung-bae’s voice cut across the garage, a low whistle following. He leaned against the doorframe, wiping his hands on a rag. “That’s not convenience store kimbap. Somebody put time into that.”

Gi-hun hunched a little over the box, like a kid caught with contraband. “It’s nothing. Just—Ga-yeong’s friend’s dad.”

Jung-bae raised a brow. “Then that dad must care, making lunches for you too.” He clapped Gi-hun’s shoulder as he passed. “Looks good on you, man. About time someone made sure you ate.”

When he was gone, Gi-hun shoved a piece of egg in his mouth too quickly, cheeks hot. Balanced, warm. Not just fuel — care, shaped into every bite.

Before he knew it, he was halfway through. Chopsticks clicked frantically against the box. He devoured it like a man starved — which, in a way, he was.

When the last grain of rice was gone, he sat back hard on the stool, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, embarrassment burning in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy it this much. Wasn’t supposed to feel this… looked after.

The empty box sat on the counter beside him like evidence.

He turned it over in his hands half a dozen times before pickup. He’d cleaned it, polished it as best as he could, the lid snapping shut too neatly for a man like him to be carrying.

It was just a lunchbox, he told himself. Just a favor. Nothing more. But as the minutes dragged, it felt heavier and heavier in his palm.

When he finally walked up to Sang-woo, the girls darting ahead toward the jungle gym, he felt twelve years old again — awkward and unprepared, trying to hand in homework he didn’t quite deserve credit for.

“Here,” he said quickly, thrusting the box out like evidence. “Thanks for… you know. It was really good.” His voice cracked embarrassingly on really.

Sang-woo’s eyes flicked from the bento to Gi-hun’s face. He took it with steady hands, fingers brushing Gi-hun’s for a fraction too long. “Good,” he said quietly. “I’m glad.”

Gi-hun shifted on his feet, cheeks hot. “You don’t have to keep—”

“I’ll keep making them,” Sang-woo cut in smoothly. No hesitation, no room for argument. His gaze softened, steady and certain. “Let me take care of you.”

Gi-hun blinked, throat going dry. He meant to argue, to push back, to say something about pride or fairness. But the way Sang-woo was looking at him — calm, unwavering, almost warm — stole the words out of his mouth.

Instead, what came out was a small, shaky laugh. “You’re… stubborn, huh?”

That earned him the faintest twitch of a smile. Sang-woo tucked the empty box under his arm and, before turning to call the girls, reached out to rest a hand briefly on Gi-hun’s shoulder. The touch was light, but firm.

“Eat properly,” he said simply.

And then he was gone, striding across the playground toward Seo-hyun, leaving Gi-hun standing there with his heart tripping over itself, the ghost of that touch burning through his shirt.

That night, the image wouldn’t leave him.

He stood in his own kitchen, staring at the half-crushed loaf of bread and the bruised fruit rolling in the bowl, and thought of the neat folds of egg, the careful rows of kimbap, the steady voice that had said Eat properly like it mattered.

And Jung-bae’s words needled in after it: About time someone made sure you ate.

And beneath that, Sang-woo’s voice, quieter, out of character, impossible to shake: Let me take care of you.

Pride twisted in his chest. He didn’t want to need this. Didn’t want to feel beholden, pitied. But another part of him — the part that had scraped the box clean before realizing he meant to save some — knew it wasn’t pity. It was care. Quiet, deliberate, inconvenient care.

He pressed his palms flat to the counter, bowing his head. He told himself not to expect it again. Not to hope. But deep down, he already suspected he’d see another bento waiting for him tomorrow.

And that, more than anything, scared him.

Chapter Text

The schoolyard was thinning out, the rush-hour chaos already fading. Parents shepherded kids toward cars and buses, teachers hovered near the gate with their clipboards, and the asphalt still held the late afternoon heat. Gi-hun lingered by the fence, arms folded, watching as Ga-yeong and Seo-hyun chased each other in frantic circles around the jungle gym. Their laughter carried, bright and shrill, the only sound left in the space.

He was just beginning to think about calling Ga-yeong over when a figure approached from the building.

The man was immaculate — dark suit pressed sharp, shoes gleaming even in the dust of the playground. His posture carried the kind of confidence Gi-hun had always associated with bosses, judges, creditors. He walked like he belonged everywhere.

“Hwang In-ho,” the man said smoothly, offering a hand. “Principal here at Daehan Academy. We haven’t had a chance to talk properly yet. Seo-hyun’s father, right?”

Sang-woo inclined his head, every inch the polished professional. “Yes. Cho Sang-woo.” His handshake was brief, measured.

Gi-hun stayed a half-step back, arms tightening over his chest. He told himself he wasn’t eavesdropping, just waiting. But the words Daehan Academy clanged in his ears like a reminder. Private school. Expensive uniforms, crisp hallways, parents who drove sleek imported cars. Ga-yeong was only here because she’d tested into the scholarship program after her mother died — sharp enough to earn her way in, but still precarious. Every time he set foot on campus, Gi-hun felt the difference in his scuffed shoes and oil-stained hands. He saw the stares that showed he didn't belong, but he dealt with it for Ga-yeong, so she could get the best education. 

“Your daughter’s an excellent student,” In-ho continued, smiling with the kind of warmth that felt curated while his eyes roamed Sang-woo's body. “Polite, focused. A reflection of her upbringing, I imagine.”

Sang-woo gave the barest nod. “She works hard.”

Gi-hun bit back a snort. Classic Sang-woo. A whole speech of praise aimed at him and he cut it down to two words, like compliments slid off before they could stick.

In-ho’s smile curved sharper. He shifted closer, close enough that Gi-hun could see the faint shine of cologne on his collar. His gaze lingered again on Sang-woo — deliberate, assessing, admiring — before he added, almost lightly, “Maybe we could talk more sometime. Over coffee. Just the two of us.”

Gi-hun’s stomach lurched. Coffee? With the principal? He’d been nervous enough sitting across from this man during scholarship meetings, stammering through promises about “supporting her studies at home.” And now here In-ho was, not bothering to hide it — leaning in, eyes fixed, smiling at Sang-woo like he wasn’t another parent but someone worth pursuing.

Sang-woo’s expression didn’t shift, but his voice cooled by several degrees. “That won’t be necessary.”

For a moment, the air tightened between them. In-ho’s smile thinned, but he didn’t step back right away. His eyes held on Sang-woo a second longer than polite, as though waiting for him to change his mind. Only then did he tug at his tie and straighten, recovering the smoothness. “Well. Maybe once we get to know each other better. My door’s always open.” He gave a courteous nod and finally strode back toward the building, suit catching the light as he went.

Gi-hun realized only then that his lungs ached. He let out a sharp breath, pulse pounding, not from the heat but from the way In-ho had leaned in — smooth, practiced, like Sang-woo was a prospect, something to acquire.

And the worst part? He couldn’t deny In-ho was good-looking. Sharp jaw, slick confidence, the kind of man people noticed and respected. The kind of man Sang-woo fit next to without effort.

“Bet you can’t deny he’s good-looking,” Gi-hun muttered, the words slipping out sourer than he meant them, sharp with something closer to accusation than observation.

Sang-woo’s head turned, his gaze snapping to Gi-hun with startling precision. Dark, unreadable, cutting straight through him. “Interesting,” he said evenly. “You’ve never said that about me.”

Gi-hun’s mouth went dry. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. His fingers tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, trying to hide the frayed edge. “I didn’t mean—” The words tripped and collapsed before he could finish.

But Sang-woo had already turned back, calling for Seo-hyun, his tone calm and composed again, as though the moment had never happened.

The girls came running, faces flushed, hands tangled together. Gi-hun stayed rooted to the fence, scuffed shoes pressed into the dirt, shirt clinging damp to his back. His chest tightened, pulse too loud, a single thought rattling in his head like a loose screw:

They did belong in the same circle — Sang-woo and the principal, men with sharp edges and pressed suits, men who moved through this world like it had been made for them.

He was the one out of place. Not them.

“Appa!” Ga-yeong’s voice rang out, bright and oblivious. She grabbed his hand with both of hers, tugging hard until he forced a smile down at her. But even as he let himself be pulled along, the weight in his chest didn’t lift.

Chapter Text

The apartment was loud in all the wrong ways when Ga-yeong was asleep. Pipes rattled in the walls. Traffic bled through the thin windows, headlights sweeping pale strips of light across the ceiling.

Gi-hun sat at the kitchen table in the half-light, elbows pressed to the wood, Ga-yeong’s schoolbag slumped in the corner, her shoes still lying where she had kicked them off mid-stride. He should have been doing something useful. Folding laundry. Fixing the leaky faucet. Sleeping. Instead he sat there with nothing in his hands, just the memory of the afternoon burning a hole in his chest.

Hwang In-ho. The principal. Sharp suit, cologne, that smooth smile. The way he had stood just a little too close to Sang-woo, the way his eyes had lingered, bold as daylight. The words had been light, casual on the surface, but everyone had heard what was underneath: coffee, just the two of us.

Gi-hun dragged a hand down his face. The nerve of the man, in the middle of the schoolyard, with the kids still playing, like Sang-woo was something to claim.

But the part that gnawed at him was not In-ho’s brazenness. It was how easily Sang-woo fit into that world. Of course the principal sought him out. Of course the polished businessman belonged in that circle of sharp suits and firm handshakes. Sang-woo had not even broken stride.

And Gi-hun had not belonged at all. Standing there in his scuffed sneakers, watching, trying not to flinch when the words slipped out of his own mouth: you can’t deny he’s good-looking. Bitter, petty, humiliating.

He bowed his head into his palms, heat crawling up the back of his neck all over again.

He hated how small he had felt under Sang-woo’s gaze. Hated that the look had landed sharper than any insult, as if to say: why now? why not me?

The silence pressed in close.

Gi-hun stared down at his own hands braced on the table, grease still worked into the nailbeds, knuckles scraped raw from the shop. Hands that kept his daughter fed, clothed, alive. But tonight they felt clumsy, out of place, not the kind of hands a man like Cho Sang-woo, or a man like Principal Hwang In-ho, would ever look at twice.

It struck him then, sharp and mean: men like Hwang In-ho looked at Sang-woo that way. Of course they did. Sang-woo belonged in their world. Pressed suits. Steady voices. The kind of confidence that drew people in.

Gi-hun would never be on the receiving end of a look like that. Not from a man like Sang-woo.

He told himself it should have been a relief. Instead, it hollowed him out.

Chapter Text

The apartment was silent after Seo-hyun went to bed, silence broken only by the faint hum of the fridge.

Sang-woo stood at the counter with his sleeves rolled, knife steady in his hand. He told himself he was only making Seo-hyun’s lunch. Just hers. Rice measured, egg folded, strawberries sliced. But when his hands moved past the second box, when muscle memory carried him into preparing a third, his focus slipped.

Gi-hun.

That messy hair falling into his eyes. His reckless grin, too wide, too alive. The body beneath it all—solid shoulders, arms strong from years bent over engines. Hands that looked like they could pin him without effort.

And then Sang-woo wasn’t thinking about food at all.

He imagined those hands gripping his hips, lifting him onto the counter like he weighed nothing. Cold steel biting into his thighs, followed by the sear of heat pressing him down. Gi-hun crowding into his space, chest against his, rough palms spreading him open, the blunt force of him grinding forward until Sang-woo couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but yield.

The fantasy hit low and sharp, his breath stuttering as he pictured being held there—unmovable, rocked hard against the counter until his composure cracked and shattered. Until the precision he lived by was gone, replaced by nothing but the raw need to hold on.

His grip on the knife tightened until his knuckles ached. Too far. He forced himself back into the rhythm, folding egg, pressing rice, boxing dumplings. But the pulse of it lingered in his body, hot and insistent.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t about food. It wasn’t about filling the gaps.

He wanted to take care of Gi-hun. Wanted him fed. Wanted him steady. Wanted him laughing the way he did when the girls tugged him along. Wanted him warm and safe and—his.

Not just anyone. Not anyone at all. Only Gi-hun.

The lid clicked shut on the third box, louder than he meant. His thumb lingered on the clasp, the echo of his pulse running hot under his skin.

He told himself it was only practicality, that Gi-hun would forget to eat otherwise.

But the truth pressed heavy against his ribs, undeniable: he wanted him.

And even worse—he wanted every part of him. The reckless grin and the soft eyes, the laugh that spilled out too fast, the strength of his hands, the devotion he carried in his bones. He wanted Gi-hun’s love, his trust, his body close and unguarded. He wanted the weight of being chosen by him, wholly and without condition.

It was reckless to admit, even silently. But the thought burned through every layer of restraint until it was the only thing left.

I want him. All of him.

Drop-off felt different the next day.

Gi-hun spotted him immediately: Sang-woo by the gate, shoulders rigid, hands buried in his coat pockets. He looked untouched by the morning chill, posture carved from stone.

Gi-hun knew why. He could still see it if he let himself—the principal leaning in, words too smooth, an invitation that felt like a punch in the gut. Coffee, just the two of us.

The memory prickled under his skin. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, hovering a step away. “So, uh…” The words slipped before he could stop them. What was he even trying to say? That he hoped Sang-woo hadn’t liked it? That he was fine? That In-ho was handsome and it made him sick to admit it?

Sang-woo turned his head, eyes meeting his. Not sharp, not soft—just steady, in a way that closed Gi-hun’s throat.

“Morning,” Gi-hun blurted, too fast, too thin.

“Morning.” Sang-woo’s reply was clipped, controlled. His gaze lingered, though, before he reached into his bag and pulled out a small steel box. He held it out, no explanation.

“For you.”

Gi-hun blinked, nearly fumbling Ga-yeong’s backpack. “Me? No, I—”

“You forget to eat.”

Not cruel. Not kind. Just fact, delivered like every word Sang-woo spoke carried weight.

Heat crept up Gi-hun’s neck. He wanted to protest, to insist he didn’t forget, but his stomach betrayed him with a low, traitorous growl.

So he took it. Because saying no to Sang-woo, here and now, felt impossible.

The girls darted through the gate, Seo-hyun turning once to wave before disappearing into the flow of children. Gi-hun stood there with the box in his hands, too aware of its weight, too aware of Sang-woo watching him.

The bell rang, scattering the crowd. Sang-woo turned, stride precise, shoulders rigid as he vanished toward the building.

The lunchbox sat on the workbench all morning, too neat, too careful, too out of place among oil-stained rags and scattered bolts.

Gi-hun told himself he would wait. He wiped his hands, started another job, ignored the ache in his stomach. But the hours dragged, the hunger gnawed, and finally he caved.

He pried it open with grease still on his fingers, too hungry to care. The first bite nearly floored him. Warm. Perfectly seasoned. Like it had been waiting just for him.

He meant to pace himself. Really, he did. But he didn’t stop until the box was empty.

He shoved another dumpling into his mouth, muttering through it, “Hot as hell, doesn’t even know it, and then he goes and does this…” His heart stuttered, hard enough to make him swallow wrong.

And then his mind betrayed him.

He pictured Sang-woo, sleeves rolled, standing close. The calm precision of him leaning over the counter, gaze steady, mouth set in that unreadable line. Only this time, Gi-hun was on his knees, palms braced against Sang-woo’s thighs, taking him in.

He imagined Sang-woo’s mask cracking, that composure finally breaking as Gi-hun dragged him down with nothing but his mouth, the press of his tongue, the hunger he couldn’t hide. He wanted to hear his voice falter, to feel those careful fingers knot in his hair, to see Cho Sang-woo undone in a way no one else ever had.

The thought burned so hot it left him dizzy. He dropped his chopsticks, braced both hands on the bench, breath coming hard.

Because it wasn’t just food. It wasn’t just a lunchbox.

It was care. It was intimacy. It was Sang-woo saying, even when I’m cold, even when I’m clipped—I still want to take care of you.

And God help him, Gi-hun wanted that. Wanted it in ways he’d never dared admit. He wanted to be taken care of, wanted someone to look at him and see the mess and still choose to steady him.

But not just anyone.

Only Sang-woo.

Gi-hun pressed his palms harder into the steel, fighting the heat crawling through him, the ache twisting deep inside.

“You’re screwed, Gi-hun,” he muttered. And he was right.

Chapter Text

The begging started the moment the girls spotted each other at pick-up.

“Please? Just one night.” Ga-yeong latched onto her dad’s arm with every ounce of determination in her small body. “We’ll be so good, I swear.”

Seo-hyun nodded solemnly, adding weight to the plea. “We can watch cartoons at Ga-yeong’s. Her TV is bigger.”

Gi-hun blinked. “Wait, how do you know that?”

Seo-hyun shrugged. “She told me.”

Heat crept up the back of Gi-hun’s neck. He hadn’t realized Ga-yeong carried those little details into the classroom, tiny bits of their messy life handed over so easily. “Right. Yeah. I guess she would’ve.”

Sang-woo stayed quiet for a moment, his gaze flicking from Seo-hyun to Gi-hun. Then, voice steady but not unkind, he asked, “Are you all right with this? Them having a sleepover?”

The question caught Gi-hun off guard. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then gave a crooked shrug. “If you’re okay with it, I’m okay with it. They’ll never let us hear the end of it otherwise.”

Sang-woo studied him like he was measuring the truth of the words, then finally inclined his head.

See-hyun tugged harder at his sleeve, desperate to seal the deal. “Please, Appa, it’s Friday!”

Sang-woo exhaled, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “Fine. One night.”

The squeals that followed nearly split their eardrums.

By the time the girls finally collapsed, Gi-hun’s apartment looked like a storm had ripped through it. Blankets piled in uneven forts, dolls abandoned mid-play, cracker crumbs trailing from the couch to the kitchen. The girls curled together on a heap of pillows, breaths falling into the rhythm of sleep.

The sudden quiet pressed against Gi-hun’s chest. He stood in the kitchen rinsing cups, half on autopilot, when he heard it. A thin, restless whimper.

Seo-hyun twisted in her sleep, her face pinched, her little body restless in the blankets. Something in Gi-hun clenched hard. He didn’t hesitate. His phone was in his hand before he even thought.

Sang-woo answered on the first ring.

Fifteen minutes later, the buzzer sounded.

Gi-hun opened the door and nearly forgot how to breathe.

Sang-woo stood there, hair damp from the shower, a thin white undershirt clinging to his chest and shoulders. The fabric was loose at the neck, stretched enough to expose the sharp line of his collarbone. Gray sweatpants hung low on his hips. Gi-hun’s eyes caught before he could stop them, on collarbone, on chest, on the line that dipped lower, and burned when he couldn’t look away.

Devastating. That was the only word.

But Sang-woo brushed past him, kneeling immediately at Seo-hyun’s side. His voice dropped, soft and rough. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s okay. I'm here.”

She sagged against him at once, tiny fists curling in his shirt. He held her close, steady, until her breathing evened out again.

Gi-hun’s throat worked. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “You should stay. Just in case she wakes again.”

Sang-woo looked up, his face unreadable. Then he nodded once. His hand lingered on Seo-hyun’s back before he added, quieter, “Thank you. For letting her be here tonight.”

The words weren’t much, but the weight behind them pressed heavy in the quiet.

Gi-hun shook his head quickly, fumbling for lightness. “It’s fine. They’d have staged a coup if we said no.”

Something flickered at the corner of Sang-woo’s mouth, almost but not quite a smile.

The couch wasn’t built for two grown men, but exhaustion gave them no choice. They ended up side by side, careful not to brush too close. Silence filled the space between them, not hostile, just heavy. Slowly, the quiet pulled them under.

When Gi-hun woke again, it wasn’t the light that pulled him out of sleep but the heat.

Sang-woo was sprawled across him.

The weight pressed him deep into the cushions, solid and heavy in a way that should have been suffocating, but instead settled into him like it belonged there. A chest pressed hot against his own, an arm cinched around his waist, breath spilling damp against his neck.

Gi-hun’s pulse tripped. He’d known he was attracted to Sang-woo. He’d noticed him at the school gate, sleeves rolled neat, voice clipped but calm. He’d noticed him in softer moments too, collarbones catching the light, hair damp and unstyled, somehow devastating without trying. He’d wanted him. Wanted too much.

But this was different. This was worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide.

The undershirt had slipped loose, baring a strip of pale skin at his side. Gi-hun’s eyes snagged there, helpless, and before he could stop himself his hand lifted. His palm pressed flat, fingertips grazing the ridge of ribs. The skin was warm. Alive.

Sang-woo stirred at the touch, a low sound breaking from his throat, vibrating through Gi-hun’s chest. His hips shifted once, heavy against Gi-hun’s thigh. The pressure jolted sharp, a spark of want that made Gi-hun gasp and clamp his teeth on the sound.

Then, voice thick with sleep, lips brushing the edge of Gi-hun’s throat, Sang-woo mumbled,

“Mm… feels good.”

Gi-hun went rigid. His ears rang. Had he heard that right? Was Sang-woo awake?

He didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe.

But Sang-woo only pulled him closer, arm tightening at his waist. A soft, unguarded snuffle escaped him as he burrowed deeper into the crook of Gi-hun’s neck, a sound so absurdly tender it wrecked him more than the weight of him ever could.

Gi-hun’s chest squeezed. He had never once looked at a man this way. But Sang-woo had undone him without even trying, and now there was no putting himself back together. His body wanted, sharp and desperate, and worse, his heart wanted too.

Something in him cracked. His free hand lifted, slow, careful, until his fingers brushed through Sang-woo’s hair. Straight and fine, faintly damp from the shower, smooth under his touch. He threaded his fingers once, twice, heart in his throat.

Sang-woo didn’t stir. Just held him tighter, breath steady against his skin.

Gi-hun let his hand linger there, stroking lightly, dangerously close to a caress. His eyes drifted down, catching on the loose collar of Sang-woo’s shirt where it had slipped wide, the clean line of collarbone exposed. The sharp cut of it against the softness of everything else made Gi-hun ache.

He wanted to press his mouth there, to give in to the pull of it, but he stopped himself, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, hand trembling where it rested.

So he lay still, awake in every nerve, letting himself feel just this much. Nothing more.

He woke again to the weight still there. For a moment, he nearly convinced himself it had been a dream, the heat, the arm banded tight, the voice against his skin. But his hand was still caught under Sang-woo’s shirt, palm flush to bare muscle.

It had been real.

Carefully, Gi-hun eased back. Sang-woo stirred, his arm tightening once before slackening again, but he didn’t wake.

The chatter of the girls saved Gi-hun from unraveling.

The smell of eggs and rice filled the kitchen.

Sang-woo was already there, calm and precise. He moved with quiet rhythm, cracking eggs into the pan, flipping them clean, pouring juice into glasses.

Gi-hun hovered in the doorway, nerves buzzing under his skin. Every detail of the night pressed sharp against his ribs: the weight of Sang-woo on him, the warmth, the slip of a voice against his skin.

The girls tumbled into the kitchen, hair tangled, eyes still heavy with sleep. They scrambled into chairs, reaching for juice with the energy of kids who had been up too late.

“Appa,” Seo-hyun said matter-of-factly, “you and ahjussi cuddled on the couch.”

Ga-yeong nodded eagerly. “Yeah, we saw! You were all squished together.” She giggled. “It was funny.”

Gi-hun nearly choked on his coffee. His eyes flew to Sang-woo, panic clawing up his throat.

But Sang-woo didn’t blink. He only set the spatula down with measured calm and smoothed a hand over Seo-hyun’s hair.

“Sometimes it’s nice to feel safe,” Sang-woo said quietly.

The words were gentle, almost casual, but they slid under Gi-hun’s ribs like nothing else could. Safe. He hadn’t felt safe in years, not really, and hearing Sang-woo say it — as if he knew, as if he’d meant it for more than the girls — unraveled something deep inside him.

His chest tightened, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He ducked his head, staring hard into his coffee, afraid that if he looked up Sang-woo would see everything written plain across his face.

Sang-woo picked the spatula back up, movements steady, sure.

A few minutes later, he set the spatula down again, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and folded it with precision. His shoulders squared, like he was preparing to leave.

But he hesitated.

His gaze flicked back to Gi-hun. His jaw worked once, the words caught before they slipped free. When they came, his voice was lower than before.

“Do you… want me to stay for breakfast?”

It was almost casual. Almost.

Gi-hun’s chest squeezed. The way Sang-woo’s fingers tightened on the towel betrayed him.

He nodded too quickly, words rushing out before he could catch them. “Yeah. Stay.”

Something flickered in Sang-woo’s eyes, quick and hard to name, before he set the towel aside and turned back to the counter. His movements were steady as ever, but the air between them wasn’t steady at all.

Gi-hun took a shaky sip of coffee, trying to ground himself in the warmth of it, but it only reminded him of the warmth of Sang-woo pressed against him hours earlier.

He couldn’t stop hearing it in his head. Couldn’t stop replaying it.

Do you want me to stay?

Chapter Text

Gi-hun wanted the party to feel special, but not extravagant. A banner taped crooked over the window, balloons he blew up until he was dizzy, paper cups stacked on the counter. It didn’t have to be perfect. Just enough for Ga-yeong to feel celebrated.

The one thing he couldn’t bring himself to buy was the cake.

The bakery prices had nearly knocked him flat. “What are they piping into the frosting, gold?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

At school, he’d mentioned it to Sang-woo. “I’ll just grab something cheap. She won’t care.”

“She’ll care,” Sang-woo said evenly. “Kids know when you cut corners.”

Gi-hun bristled. “Not all of us can throw money at fondant roses, Mr. Office Fancy Pants.”

“I’ll make it,” Sang-woo replied, calm as anything.

Gi-hun had laughed, waiting for him to smirk, but Sang-woo only repeated: “Cake is just chemistry.”

On the day of the party, Gi-hun nearly dropped the folding chairs when he opened the door.

Sang-woo stood there holding a three-layer cake balanced easily in his hands. Glossy ganache gleamed down the sides, rosettes piped along the top, strawberries glazed like jewels crowning the center.

For a moment Gi-hun thought it had to be store-bought. But the warmth still clinging to the base and the rich smell of chocolate told the truth.

“You… made that?” he managed, voice embarrassingly thin.

Sang-woo stepped inside, steady as ever. “Like I said. Chemistry.”

Before Gi-hun could recover, Ga-yeong shrieked so loudly the windows rattled, bouncing on her toes. “Ahjussi, it’s beautiful!”

Her joy left Gi-hun staring, throat tight.

The party descended into joyful chaos. Kids ran wild, chasing balloons until they popped, juice soaking into the rug, frosting smeared sticky across every reachable surface. Mal-soon swept through it all like a general, fussing, scolding, refilling plates, and wiping hands before they touched the walls.

Wrapping paper piled high. Ga-yeong squealed at each gift but always turned first to Seo-hyun, holding it out as if her approval mattered most. Seo-hyun would nod solemnly, then giggle, and the two of them would collapse in laughter before tearing into the next box.

Then came the toy kitchen.

Plastic burners, screws, tiny knobs scattered across the floor as the girls shrieked like they’d won the lottery.

Gi-hun crouched immediately, screwdriver between his teeth, sleeves shoved high. “Give me the instructions,” he said, already sorting the pieces into neat piles.

Sang-woo passed him the paper, but Gi-hun only skimmed before setting it aside. His hands moved fast and sure — twist, shove, hinge forced into place with just the right pressure. His brow furrowed, his mouth firm, his focus sharp in a way Sang-woo hadn’t seen before.

The kids leaned in, wide-eyed, as the frame took shape in minutes. Burners clicked. The oven door swung smooth. Gi-hun sat back on his heels, grinning, screwdriver balanced like a victory flag. “There. That wasn't so bad.”

Ga-yeong squealed. Seo-hyun clapped like it was a magic trick. The girls tumbled into the toy kitchen, pretending to fry eggs on the fake stove.

Sang-woo’s throat tightened. Gi-hun was chaos most of the time — late, rumpled, hair sticking out — but here, with his hands steady and competent, his shoulders squared, his grin boyish and proud, it did something to him. Hot. Too hot.

Gi-hun wiped his palms on his jeans and looked up, catching him staring. He laughed awkwardly. “What? You look like I rebuilt a car in your living room.”

Sang-woo blinked once, his voice lower than usual. “You’re good at this.”

The words were simple, but they landed heavy. Gi-hun’s grin softened, real pride flickering across his face. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

And Sang-woo had to look away, because if he didn’t, the feeling tugging at his chest might show.

From the couch, Mal-soon had been watching. She set her teacup down with a sharp clink and announced, “You two make a good pair.”

Gi-hun nearly dropped the screwdriver. “Omma!”

Sang-woo stilled, gaze flicking to her.

Mal-soon only shrugged, lips twitching. “What? It’s 2025. I don’t care. He takes care of you, you let him. That’s good for both of you.”

Gi-hun groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna die.”

Mal-soon hummed like she hadn’t just detonated the room and shuffled off to fetch more tea.

Sang-woo didn’t respond. He steadied the kitchen while Gi-hun tightened the last screw, but his shoulders had gone rigid, jaw set.

By the time the last crumbs of cake were eaten and the last balloon popped, the apartment was wrecked, but the girls were glowing. Exhaustion finally pulled them into Ga-yeong’s room, curled together in a nest of blankets.

Mal-soon kissed her granddaughter’s hair, pulled on her coat, and with one last look at Gi-hun — pointed, knowing — slipped out.

The quiet after she left was almost deafening.

Gi-hun stacked plates, ears still burning. “I swear she does this just to torture me.”

Sang-woo wiped the counter, movements precise, giving nothing away except the tension in his shoulders.

Gi-hun stepped closer anyway. He reached out, squeezed his shoulder once. Solid. Warm under his palm.

“Seriously. Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Sang-woo froze, then said, voice low, “It was for Ga-yeong.”

“Yeah, but still.” Gi-hun’s voice softened. “It means a lot.”

Neither moved for a long moment. Then Gi-hun muttered something about needing a shower and slipped down the hall. Steam curled out soon after.

Sang-woo

His apartment was too quiet. No Seo-hyun, no chaos, no laughter. Just silence.

He showered, stripped down, lay in bed, but his mind refused to stop.

Mal-soon’s voice: You two make a good pair. It’s 2025. I don’t care.
Gi-hun’s hand on his shoulder, warm and steady. Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.

Sang-woo groaned, dragging his hand down his face. He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. But the ache was already there, heavy and low.

He shoved the blanket down, gripped himself tight, already throbbing, already desperate. His hips snapped up into his fist, greedy, reckless.

And in his mind it wasn’t his hand. It was Gi-hun’s. Rough palms stroking him hard, calloused fingers curling tight, pumping him until his breath cracked.

Then the fantasy shifted darker. Gi-hun’s weight slammed him down, broad chest pinning him to the mattress. Hands grabbed his wrists, forcing them above his head, shoving them into the pillows so tight he couldn’t move. His body flipped, chest crushed into the bed, arms wrenched high, hips dragged back until he was open and shaking.

The first smack cracked across his ass, sharp enough to sting. The second was harder, enough to make his throat rip open on a groan. His cock pressed into the sheets, leaking, helpless.

Gi-hun’s palm soothed the burn for a moment, then struck again, harder, each blow punctuated with a growl. Then those same hands grabbed his hips, holding him wide while Gi-hun shoved inside him raw, relentless, filling him until his body arched and broke.

The bed rattled with every thrust. His wrists were trapped, his face pressed into the pillows, every sound torn out of him.

Gi-hun’s voice rasped filthy at his ear: "Good boy. Take me. All of it. You’re mine."

Every word shredded him further, his body giving, breaking, desperate.

And then, amid the pounding, the filth, the bruising hands, Gi-hun’s voice shifted — lower, softer, unbearably tender:

"The bedroom’s the only place you don’t have to give, Sang-woo. Just take. Let me take care of you."

The sweetness gutted him. His chest seized, his whole body trembling under the weight of it. His hand worked himself faster, chasing the edge, breath shuddering out of him.

And then Gi-hun’s voice in his head went softer still, wrecking him completely:

"I love you, baby. I love you so much."

That was it. His hips snapped forward, orgasm ripping through him violent and unstoppable. “Fuck—” he gasped, jerking hard, release spilling hot across his stomach and sheets, his whole body shaking until it almost hurt.

He collapsed into the mess, chest heaving, wrist slack, heart thundering like it wanted out of his chest.

The filth faded, but those two lines stayed, echoing against his ribs, impossible to silence:

The bedroom’s the only place you don’t have to give.
I love you, baby.

That was what ruined him. Not the spanking, not the bed rattling, not even the bruising hands pinning him down. It was the sweetness layered beneath, the tenderness he craved and never let himself admit.

Because he didn’t just want to be taken apart. He wanted to be loved. By him.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Chapter Text

The girls were off at a classmate’s birthday party — one of those drop-off affairs where no parents stayed, just a clipboard at the door and a promise to be back before cake. With the afternoon free, Sang-woo stopped by to return Ga-yeong’s forgotten doll.

“She left this at our place,” he said, handing it over. “I wanted to drop it off before I take the car to the shop. There’s a noise I need checked.”

Gi-hun’s face twisted like Sang-woo had just insulted his bloodline. “The shop?”

“Yes.” Sang-woo’s tone was calm, factual. “It’s rattling. I’ll have it looked at.”

“You were gonna pay some stranger?” Gi-hun’s voice jumped, sharp with disbelief. “You think I don’t know how to fix a damn rattle?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me?” Gi-hun barked out a laugh, already stomping toward the bedroom. “Unbelievable. You’d trust some guy in a uniform over me? Not happening.”

By the time Sang-woo blinked, Gi-hun was back, zipping into his coveralls. The fabric pulled tight across his shoulders, collarbone flashing where the zipper gaped, sleeves shoved high. He snatched up his keys, muttering about office guys who didn’t trust mechanics, and jerked his chin toward the door.

“Come on. We’re going to my shop. Right now.”

The garage bay smelled of oil, hot metal, and rubber. Sang-woo stood stiff in his neat coat, out of place in every way, while Gi-hun slid into the driver’s seat of his car like it belonged to him.

He reversed smooth, one arm slung over the passenger headrest, wrist loose on the wheel. The engine’s purr echoed sharp off the walls as he backed the car into the bay in a single, perfect sweep. No hesitation. No correction. Just precision born from muscle memory.

Gi-hun cut the ignition, swung out, and in one motion popped the hood himself. He tossed his cap back on, sleeves shoved up, coveralls stretching across his shoulders. A rag hung from his pocket, grease already smudging the fabric.

“Let’s see what you’ve been driving her through,” he muttered, leaning into the engine like he was already halfway to solving it.

Before Sang-woo could answer, another man ambled over, wiping his hands on a rag. Stocky, rough around the edges, but with the kind of ease that spoke of years of history.

“Customer or friend?” he asked, eyebrow arched.

“Not a customer,” Gi-hun said immediately, not even looking up. “I wouldn’t take his money if he tried.”

The man barked a laugh. “That tracks. You never did let people pay when you cared.” He tipped his chin toward Sang-woo. “So this must be him.”

Sang-woo blinked. “Him?”

“Cho Sang-woo, right? The one with the bentos. I’ve heard about you every damn day. Gi-hun’s basically your hype man. Says Ga-yeong comes home bragging like she’s got Michelin stars in her lunchbox.”

Heat prickled up Sang-woo’s neck. His gaze slipped to Gi-hun, who grunted and ducked deeper into the engine, like grease smudges might hide the flush creeping up his ears.

Jung-bae smirked. “Not bad. You clean up nice, office boy.” Then his eyes cut sharp, following Sang-woo’s line of sight to where Gi-hun was bent over, coveralls stretched snug across his ass. Jung-bae’s grin widened, wolfish.

“Ah. Thought so. You’re not exactly subtle either.”

Sang-woo snapped his gaze away too fast, ears hot. His face betrayed him anyway — a sharp bloom of color he couldn’t smother quick enough.

Jung-bae laughed outright. “Relax. You’re both staring at each other when you think the other isn’t looking. Hell, I’ve known Gi-hun since we were kids — I’ve never seen him try this hard to impress anyone.”

“Shut it,” Gi-hun muttered, half into the engine. His voice came out rougher than usual.

Jung-bae only chuckled, clapping him on the back. “Don’t mind me. Some of us still got work to do.” He whistled low as he walked off, leaving the words hanging heavy.

A younger mechanic jogged over, wiping his hands. “Hyung, torque’s not lining up on this one. Can you take a look?”

“Washer spacing,” Gi-hun answered without missing a beat. “If it’s off, you’ll grind it down wrong. Fix that before you strip it.”

The kid darted back, called out a thanks when the engine purred smooth.

Gi-hun didn’t even look up, sliding under Sang-woo’s car on the creeper. His legs stuck out, boots braced wide, coveralls snug across his thighs. Metal clinked, tools scraped, sweat slid down his temple.

Sang-woo’s eyes lingered lower than they should. The front of the coveralls stretched tight, grease streaked dark across the fabric, drawing his gaze exactly where he didn’t want it. Heat crept up his neck, shame and want tangling, but he couldn’t look away fast enough.

When Gi-hun rolled partway out to grab a wrench, Sang-woo jerked his gaze aside, jaw locking. Too late. The image was already scorched into his mind.

Gi-hun dragged his forearm across his cheek, only smearing the grease darker.

Without thinking, Sang-woo crouched with a rag, fingers hovering near his jaw. “You missed a spot.”

Gi-hun looked up at him from the floor, grin crooked. “You volunteering to clean me up?”

Heat jolted down Sang-woo’s spine. He pulled back too fast, knuckles whitening around the rag, while Gi-hun rolled back under the car with a laugh.

When the job was done, Gi-hun slid out, chest streaked with grease, collar gaping. He tossed the wrench aside and leaned on the hood, sweat dampening his hairline. “All right. Smooth as she’s ever sounded. You’re welcome.”

Sang-woo tested the ignition. The rattle was gone. The engine purred perfect.

“Show-off,” Sang-woo muttered under his breath, though it didn’t come out as sharp as he intended.

Inside, Gi-hun headed for the sink to wash up, scrubbing his hands with soap until the water ran clear.

“You working weekends now, hyung?” one of the younger mechanics called, grinning.

Before Gi-hun could answer, Jung-bae’s voice carried from his bay. “Nah. He’s just here to impress bento boy.”

The shop erupted in low laughter. Gi-hun flipped him off without turning, shoulders shaking as he rinsed the soap away.

Sang-woo stayed silent, jaw tight, pulse skipping at the words.

When Gi-hun ducked into the back office for a clean rag, Jung-bae ambled over again. His smirk was gone this time, replaced with something steadier.

“Don’t mess this up,” he said quietly.

Sang-woo’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I’ve known Gi-hun my whole life. Seen him when he was a wreck — gambling at the track, drinking too much, owing more than he could ever pay. He should’ve drowned in it.” Jung-bae’s voice dropped, firm but not cruel. “But when Eun-ji died and he got full custody of Ga-yeong? He quit it all. Cold. He rebuilt himself from the ground up, because she needed him.”

Sang-woo stood rigid, the words lodging under his ribs.

Jung-bae’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s the kind of man he is. He’ll burn himself down if it means the people he loves get to stand. He’s got more heart than he knows what to do with. And lately?” He tipped his chin toward the office door. “I’ve never heard him talk about anyone the way he talks about you. Not even Eun-ji, back when they were happy.”

The air seemed to thin.

“He loves with his whole damn heart,” Jung-bae finished, clapping a hand to Sang-woo’s shoulder. “And anyone would be lucky to get that kind of devotion. So don’t screw it up, bento boy.”

Then he turned back to his bay, leaving Sang-woo standing in the hum of the shop, pulse roaring, Jung-bae’s words ringing like a verdict.

The drive back was quiet except for the low hum of the engine. Sang-woo kept his eyes fixed on the road, knuckles white on the wheel.

But his mind refused to stay put. It kept circling back — to Gi-hun’s easy grin, his body stretched across the creeper, grease smeared along his jaw. To the casual way he handled the work, sharp and competent, as if the entire garage pivoted around him.

And beneath all of it, Jung-bae’s words.

He loves with his whole heart. Anyone would be lucky to get that kind of devotion.

The line lodged deep, heavy in his chest. His grip tightened until it ached.

By the time he pulled into his own driveway, he still hadn’t shaken it. He wasn’t sure he ever would.

Chapter Text

The schoolyard had fallen into that strange hush that came after the chaos drained away. The swings hung still, chalk drawings faded pale under the low sun, the last echoes of laughter long since gone.

Only two figures lingered near the fence: Ga-yeong crouched low, tongue caught between her teeth as she fought with a shoelace, and Seo-hyun beside her, demonstrating with patient little hands as though untying knots were serious work.

Gi-hun leaned against the gate, weight sinking into the cold metal. His shoulders ached from the day at the shop, his palms raw with tiny scrapes, but watching his daughter laugh — not the brittle laugh she used sometimes to reassure him, but a real one, unguarded and bright — made his chest ache with relief.

For a moment, he let himself breathe.

Then movement pulled his gaze to the steps.

Sang-woo stood near the gate, coat collar neat, posture taut against the settling dusk. Beside him, angled too close, was Principal Hwang In-ho. His suit was sharp, uncreased, his smile carved with the kind of polish that always suggested he already knew the outcome of every conversation.

Even from a distance, Gi-hun felt unease crawl the length of his spine.

“I just need a word about Seo-hyun,” In-ho said, his voice pitched low but perfectly audible in the empty yard.

Sang-woo’s reply was clipped. “It can wait.”

“I promise it won’t take long.” In-ho’s smile widened as he brushed at an invisible fleck on Sang-woo’s sleeve — a gesture that read less like help and more like ownership.

Gi-hun’s breath stuttered.

Sang-woo’s shoulders stiffened, but his hands stayed buried in his coat pockets, his face carved cold and unreadable.

Gi-hun opened his mouth, not sure what he meant to say — a joke, a protest, anything to cut across the sight —

And then In-ho leaned in.

It was fast, smooth, practiced. He pressed his mouth to Sang-woo’s, deliberate, confident, like it was already owed.

Sang-woo went still. His shoulders locked, but he didn’t shove him away. He didn’t recoil. He didn’t move at all. Why did he just stand there?

From where Gi-hun stood, that stillness could mean anything. And the not knowing tore through him.

The hollow inside was instant and absolute. Of course it would be someone like that. Sang-woo with his pressed collars and perfect posture, paired neatly with a man who belonged in his world. Someone smooth, confident, belonging. Not him. Not the man who smelled of grease and carried debts he couldn’t shake, who thought bakery cakes were too expensive.

His throat burned, humiliation scalding hot, jealousy cutting sharper than bone.

“Ga-yeong!” His voice cracked through the quiet, too loud, too raw.

She looked up, startled, her shoelace hanging loose. “Appa?”

He lurched forward, scooping her into his arms. The small steel lunchbox he had been holding tumbled to the ground. It hit the pavement with a metallic clatter that split the still air.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back.

Behind him, Sang-woo’s voice rang out, sharper than Gi-hun had ever heard it. “Gi-hun—wait!”

But Gi-hun didn’t wait. He clutched his daughter tighter, turned his back, and ran.

Mal-soon’s house smelled of rice and dried herbs, the air warm and steady in a way Gi-hun should have found comforting. Instead, he felt out of place, like a man wearing the wrong skin.

He carried Ga-yeong inside, settled her in the spare bed, stood in the doorway too long watching her chest rise and fall with easy sleep. For her, it was a simple sleepover at Halmeoni’s. For him, it felt like escape.

He went through the motions that evening — nodded at his mother’s fussing, accepted the rice she pressed into his hands, sat with her in front of the television — but everything slid off him. The food sat heavy in his mouth, tasteless. Even his own laugh, dragged out by one of Mal-soon’s sharp comments, came broken and wrong.

His phone buzzed on the table.

He didn’t need to look. He knew.

The screen lit up again. And again. Sang-woo.

By the fifth call, his jaw ached from clenching. By the tenth, the vibration against the wood felt unbearable. By the fifteenth, he wanted to hurl it out the window.

But even when the phone lay silent, the memory replayed. In-ho’s lips pressed smug against Sang-woo’s. The hand gripping his arm. Sang-woo’s stillness.

Every call was another reminder. Every vibration another knife twist.

It wasn’t only jealousy. It was humiliation — sharp and raw, like he had stumbled into a world he was never meant to see. It was grief, bitter and aching, for something he had never had but had almost, against his better judgment, started to want.

And beneath it all, worse than anything, was longing.

The part of him that hadn’t stopped aching even as he ran.

Late that night, long after his mother had gone to bed, Gi-hun lay curled on the couch under a blanket. His phone sat heavy in his palm, screen dark.

He hovered too long, then pressed play.

Sang-woo’s voice filled the quiet, low and taut. “Gi-hun. Please. Call me back. It’s not what you think.”

Gi-hun shut his eyes. The words pressed against his ribs, dangerous, almost tender.

The next message came sharper. “I should’ve shoved him off sooner. I didn’t want—damn it, Gi-hun, just answer.”

Another followed, quiet and raw, a sound like something torn out of him. “Please. Don’t shut me out. Not you. I need you Gi-hun.”

Gi-hun pressed the phone to his chest, breath shaky. He shouldn’t listen. Shouldn’t ache like this. But his thumb slid again, betraying him.

The texts lit the screen.
— Please let me explain.
— I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me.
— It meant nothing.
— You matter more than you realize.
— I went by your place. You weren’t there.
— Where are you?
— Please, Gi-hun. I’ll wait as long as it takes.
— I can’t lose you too.

The screen glared in the dark, each message worse than the last.

He wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. The voice in those messages — strained, desperate, nothing like the clipped calm he’d seen at the gate — it had to mean something.

But the image wouldn’t let him go: In-ho leaning in, Sang-woo’s face unreadable, his hands unmoving in his pockets. Not pulling away. Not fast enough.

What if that stillness hadn’t been shock? What if it had been want?

The thought hollowed him all over again.

He turned the phone facedown, dragged the blanket over his head like it could block the ache. But it didn’t.

And still, beneath it all, Sang-woo’s voice looped in his head, inescapable.

Please. Don’t shut me out. Not you.

Chapter Text

The schoolyard was nearly silent, emptied of the rush of children. The last voices had faded minutes ago, the swings hung unmoving, and the chalk drawings on the pavement had dulled to pale smudges under the thinning light.

In-ho stood too close, his shadow stretching long across the cracked pavement, his perfect suit catching the last gold of the sun.
“I just need a word about Seo-hyun,” he said, smooth as glass.

“It can wait,” Sang-woo answered, clipped. His shoulders were already tight, his jaw locked.

“I promise it won’t take long.”

In-ho’s hand brushed his sleeve, then slid lower until his fingers closed around his wrist. The touch was claiming, presumptuous, as though he had any right.

Before Sang-woo could wrench free, In-ho leaned in and kissed him.

The shock hit like a blow. For half a heartbeat Sang-woo went utterly still, frozen where he stood. He was so upset his chest was heaving, breath knotted in his throat.

From the gate came a sound sharp enough to cut through everything. Gi-hun’s voice, loud and panicked, rang across the empty yard.

“Ga-yeong!”

The name cracked through the quiet, raw enough to make Sang-woo’s head snap around.

Then came a smaller sound, trembling, fragile.

“Appa?”

Gi-hun stood there, chest still heaving, Ga-yeong’s hand clutched in his. Their eyes met for a single suspended second, and it felt endless.

Gi-hun’s face was raw, stricken, devastation carved into every line.

“Gi-hun, wait!” Sang-woo’s voice ripped out of him, too loud, too desperate.

But Gi-hun didn’t wait. He bent and scooped Ga-yeong into his arms, running for the gate. Her backpack slipped from her shoulder and swung wildly. The bento box fell out of his hand, clattering against the pavement with a ringing sound that echoed in Sang-woo’s ears.

He lurched forward, took two steps, and stopped. The distance was already there. He would never catch them.

Slowly, he turned back to In-ho.

“I have a partner,” he said, voice cutting and brittle with anger. “Gi-hun, he's my partner.”

Surprise flickered across In-ho’s face, the polished confidence slipping. “I didn’t know,” he said after a pause, almost regretful.

“You do now.”

Sang-woo’s fist connected with his jaw, clean and sharp. 

The crack echoed in the empty yard.

In-ho staggered back, hand pressed to his face, stunned. “You’re right, I deserved that” he said quietly. “I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

“Stay away from us,” Sang-woo bit out, chest heaving. “And stay away from my kids unless it’s school business or I'll report you for harassment.”

In-ho’s expression faltered completely. He nodded once, then turned and left, his clipped steps fading into the stillness.

Only when the yard was silent did Sang-woo turn back toward the gate. Empty. The space where Gi-hun had stood felt like it had been cut out of the world.

He bent to pick up the lunchbox, his hand trembling around the handle. His knuckles throbbed where they’d met bone, but the pain barely touched the ache opening wide in his chest. All he could see was Gi-hun’s face, devastated and hurt, burned into his eyelids like an afterimage.

After dropping Seo-hyun with his mom, he stopped by Gi-hun's apartment but it was empty. He wracked his brain on where else Gi-hun might go, and Jung-bae was the first person he considered. The garage was dark when he pulled in, bays locked, the lot empty but for the sweep of his headlights across the oil-stained concrete. He parked crooked and didn’t bother to straighten the wheel.

He didn’t slow down. He took the narrow stairwell two at a time, heart hammering, and pounded on the upstairs door until it rattled in its frame.

It swung open to reveal Jung-bae, barefoot, hair sticking up, t-shirt hanging crooked. “Cho Sang-woo? It’s almost midnight. What the hell—did Gi-hun blow something up?”

“In-ho, the principal, kissed me.” The words came out clipped and harsh. “In the school parking lot. After he cornered me. Gi-hun saw and took off before I could explain.”

Jung-bae’s smirk vanished. “…Shit.”

“He won’t answer my calls.” Sang-woo’s voice cracked, and he didn’t try to hide it. “Fifteen calls. Please. Tell me where he is. I can’t leave it like this.”

Jung-bae leaned in the doorway, studying him. “If he’s not home, he’s at Mal-soon’s. That’s where he goes when he needs space.”

“Her address.” Sang-woo stepped closer, urgency written in every line of him. “Please. I’m begging you.”

Something softened in Jung-bae’s face. “You know he’s got a gentle heart, right? Softer than he lets people think. Stuff like this hits him harder than he’ll ever admit. He’ll act fine until he’s alone. Then he’ll break.”

The words cut deep, twisting the knife in everything Sang-woo already feared.

He shoved his phone toward Jung-bae. “Put your number in. If he comes here, call me. Anytime.”

Jung-bae entered his contact and handed it back. “Then go.”

Sang-woo was already halfway down the stairs before the door even shut. He barely waited for the address to buzz through before throwing the car into gear.

Streetlights smeared past the windshield as he drove, jaw locked, every muscle wound until it hurt. The steering wheel creaked under his grip.

Gi-hun’s face kept flashing in his mind. Not angry, not yelling, just wrecked. A look he had never seen directed at him, and it hollowed him out.

By the time he reached Mal-soon’s house, the bento box sat on the passenger seat like an accusation. He carried it without even realizing, then set it down again, his hands still shaking.

The house was dark except for the faint glow of a hallway light. Curtains breathed at the edges where the night air slipped through.

He couldn’t knock. His voice would break if he tried.

So he went back and sat in the car and called.

Once. Twice. Again and again.

The first few voicemails were clipped, measured. “Gi-hun. Please. Let me explain.”

By the fifth, his voice was ragged. “You didn’t see all of it. He cornered me. I didn’t want it. Please, Gi-hun. Pick up.”

By the tenth, he sounded hoarse, nearly gone. “I’m outside. I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

After that there was nothing left to say.

At some point Sang-woo climbed out of the car and sat on the hood, coat somewhere behind him, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. The night kept getting colder, but he barely felt it. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the dark windows until his eyes blurred.

The door creaked open behind him.

Gi-hun stepped out, cigarette already between his fingers, lighter cupped in his hand. His face was a mess — blotchy and pale, dark circles bruised under his eyes, hair sticking up in the back like he’d been running his hands through it all night. The tear tracks stood out stark against his skin, still visible even in the dim porch light.

He flicked the lighter, lit up, and leaned on the railing like it was the only thing holding him up.

Sang-woo’s head jerked up at the sound and his chest twisted. According to Gi-hun, he hadn’t smoked in years, not since Ga-yeong cried and begged him to stop because she didn’t want him to get sick like her mom. Whatever this was doing to him, it had pushed him past that promise.

“Gi-hun.” His voice came out rough, too soft for the distance between them.

Gi-hun glanced over but didn’t say anything. He smoked in silence, burning one cigarette down to the filter before lighting the next. His hands were unsteady, his movements jerky, too fast, like he could shake the feeling out of his body if he just moved hard enough.

When he finally spoke, his voice cracked halfway through. “Go home.”

Sang-woo shook his head, tight and immediate. “I’m not leaving. Not until you listen to me.”

Gi-hun let out a short, bitter sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. The cigarette trembled between his fingers. “I can’t do this right now. I just can’t, Sang-woo.”

His voice broke completely on Sang-woo’s name, and the next breath shuddered out of him. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, shoulders curling forward as fresh tears slipped hot down his face. For a moment he stood there trying to get control, jaw clenched, but it was no use.

He crushed the cigarette out too hard, scattering ash, and turned on his heel, vanishing inside before Sang-woo could take a single step toward him. The porch light went out, leaving the yard in darkness.

Sang-woo stayed where he was. His chest felt too tight to breathe right. He bent forward until his elbows dug into his knees, both hands gripping his hair. His shoulders shook once, sharp and angry, but this time the anger broke apart into something else. His breath hitched and he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, but it didn’t stop the tears. They came hot and fast, running over his knuckles until he had to bow his head just to hide his face from the empty yard.

Time passed in heavy silence. A car drove by on the road beyond the yard. A dog barked somewhere down the block. The sky began to pale at the edges.

The door opened again.

Gi-hun stepped out, this time without a cigarette, and stopped short when he saw Sang-woo still sitting there. He had clearly expected the car to be gone. The dawn light showed him even more clearly than before: bloodshot eyes, lips bitten raw, face washed-out and hollow, like the night had chewed him up. His t-shirt was twisted and stained where he had wiped at his face, and his bare feet left damp prints on the porch boards.

He looked worse than Sang-woo had ever seen him.

“You’re still here.” The words came out hoarse, not flat this time but tired all the way through.

Sang-woo lifted his head, eyes wet and rimmed red. “I told you I wouldn’t leave. I won't until you let me explain.”

Gi-hun’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t answer. He just stood there a moment, arms crossed over his chest, and then came down the steps.

Before he could speak, the door creaked open again.

Ga-yeong padded outside, rubbing her eyes, and Gi-hun moved fast. He ducked his head, swiped quickly at his face with his sleeve, and slid his pack of cigarettes into his back pocket like they’d never been there. By the time she stepped into view, his expression was almost neutral, even though his lashes were still wet.

Mal-soon followed, already dressed, hair tied back. “Come on, Ga-yeong,” she said briskly without looking at either of them. “Market. Now.”

Ga-yeong blinked but obeyed, slipping her shoes on and letting her grandmother herd her out the door. The quiet that followed was thick, almost heavy, once the car pulled away.

Gi-hun turned back to Sang-woo, shoulders still tense, looking like someone who had just barely pulled himself back together and didn’t trust it to hold.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun stayed on the porch for a long moment after Mal-soon’s car pulled away. The sound of the engine faded, leaving the house and yard in heavy silence.

“Come inside,” he said finally, voice still rough.

Sang-woo slid off the hood of the car and followed him up the steps.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of coffee and toast. Gi-hun moved straight to the kitchen, pulling open a drawer and setting two mugs on the counter with sharp, precise movements.

“Sit,” he said.

Sang-woo obeyed, lowering himself into a chair. His hands were still shaking.

Gi-hun filled the kettle, set it on the stove, then finally glanced over at him. “You look like hell,” he muttered. “Go take a shower. There’s towels under the sink. I’ll find you something clean to wear.”

Sang-woo hesitated, but Gi-hun was already leaving the kitchen. A moment later he came back and set a small pile on the table — a folded t-shirt and sweats, a clean towel, a stick of deodorant, and a comb balanced on top.

“They might be long on you,” Gi-hun said, voice clipped, “but it’s better than sitting there in that shirt.”

Sang-woo nodded once and rose without a word, gathering the bundle and heading down the hall.

He stripped quickly, letting the shirt and slacks fall into a heap, and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit him like a shock. He braced one hand on the wall and just stood there for a moment, head bowed, steam rolling over him.

It wasn’t until the grime started to slide off — the sweat, the faint smell of the garage, the cold night air that had clung to him — that he realized how disgusting he felt. His muscles ached from sitting hunched in the car for hours, and the tension that had been wound tight in his chest finally began to loosen.

He scrubbed hard, until his skin felt new under his hands, and stayed under the spray longer than he meant to, just letting the water beat the night off him.

When he finally turned the water off, the room was thick with steam. He dried off quickly, pulled on the t-shirt and sweats Gi-hun had left — and nothing else. There hadn’t been underwear in the pile, and for a second he thought about digging through his bag in the car for a clean pair, but the thought of stepping back outside felt impossible.

He swiped on the deodorant, ran the comb through his damp hair until it lay mostly flat, and used his finger and a palmful of toothpaste to scrub his teeth. When he looked back in the mirror, he still looked exhausted, eyes rimmed red, but at least he didn’t feel like the night was clinging to him anymore.

When he stepped back into the hallway, Gi-hun was coming out of the other bathroom, hair damp and curling against his forehead, dressed in a clean t-shirt and sweats.

Neither of them spoke.

Gi-hun went to the kitchen, poured hot water into two mugs, and finally sat down across from him.

“Okay,” he said. “Talk.”

Sang-woo sat down, throat raw, voice low. “He cornered me. He’s hit on me before, and I turned him down then too. I told him no this time, before it even happened. I didn’t want it. By the time I shoved him off, you were already gone.”

Gi-hun’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away.

“I hit him,” Sang-woo said. “Told him to stay away from us. From our kids. I meant it. He said he didn’t know — about us. I made sure he did by the time I walked away.”

Gi-hun’s expression shifted, some of the sharpness in his face loosening. He let out a slow breath, scrubbing a hand over his face and pressing his thumb hard to the bridge of his nose before letting it fall.

“I told him you were my partner,” Sang-woo went on, voice rough. “Made sure he knew it wasn’t just a fling, that he had no chance. Then I called you until my phone died. I drove everywhere I thought you might be. I sat outside all night because I didn’t know what else to do. Seo-hyun is still at my mom’s. I couldn’t bring her home last night knowing you thought…” His voice trailed off, throat tight.

Gi-hun nudged the mug toward him. “Drink it before you pass out.”

Sang-woo took a long sip, the heat steadying him.

Gi-hun finally met his eyes. “You hurt me,” he said simply.

Sang-woo’s fingers tightened around the mug. “I know.”

“Ga-yeong saw you. Do you know how scared she was?”

Sang-woo’s throat worked. “I know. And I’ll explain it to her myself if you’ll let me. I need her to know I didn’t…” His voice cracked and he had to stop, swallow, start again. “I need her to know I would never choose him over you. Over both of you.”

That made Gi-hun blink, startled.

Sang-woo’s voice dropped lower, rougher. “You’re everything,” he said, the words dragging out of him like they hurt. “You’re everything to me, Gi-hun. You and Ga-yeong. I’d tear the world apart before I’d pick him over you.”

Gi-hun’s throat worked, and for the first time since yesterday, some of the steel in his face cracked. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “You never made a move,” he said, almost accusing, but softer than before. “I thought I was the only one who felt like that — that you falling asleep on me had been a mistake because you never brought it up.”

Sang-woo’s throat tightened. “It wasn’t a mistake,” he said immediately, fierce and certain. “You were never a mistake.”

Gi-hun swallowed, gaze dropping to the table. “I’ve never been with a man before,” he admitted, voice rough. “That’s why I was scared to make a move first. I didn’t want to get it wrong. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself if you didn’t feel the same way.”

Slowly, Sang-woo reached across the table and took Gi-hun’s hand, his thumb brushing over his knuckles. Then, carefully, he turned it palm-up and pressed a soft kiss to the center of it. When he looked back up, his eyes were wet but steady.

“Even if we’re moving slow,” Sang-woo said softly, “I’d still like to call you my partner. I’m not interested in anyone else. Only you. Always you.”

Gi-hun’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around Sang-woo’s. For the first time since yesterday, there was something close to a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

He hesitated for a moment, then pushed his chair back and stood. “Come here,” he said, voice rough.

Sang-woo blinked at him, startled, but stood too. Gi-hun reached for him first, catching him by the front of the shirt and pulling him into a hard, messy hug.

For a second Sang-woo froze — then his arms locked around him, holding tight. Gi-hun pressed his face into his shoulder, breath shuddering, and Sang-woo felt his own eyes sting. He held him like he’d been waiting to do it all night, fingers curling into the back of his shirt.

Without thinking, Sang-woo ducked his head and pressed a soft kiss into Gi-hun’s damp hair, breathing him in like he needed to memorize the moment.

Gi-hun let out a shaky laugh that cracked halfway through, tears spilling over again — but softer this time, like something in him had finally let go. His arms tightened around Sang-woo, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.

“Don’t go home yet,” Gi-hun said, voice breaking on the words.

“I won’t,” Sang-woo said, low and certain.

Chapter Text

“Don’t go home yet,” Gi-hun said, voice breaking on the words.

“I won’t,” Sang-woo said, low and certain.

Gi-hun eventually pulled back, swiping at his face with the heel of his hand. His nose was pink, his eyes still wet, but there was a lightness in his expression that hadn’t been there the night before.

He stood there for a moment, awkward, like he wasn’t sure what came next.

“I could make breakfast,” Sang-woo said quietly.

Gi-hun hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Sang-woo said, softer this time. A corner of his mouth lifted just slightly. “Your mom was right. I like taking care of you.”

Gi-hun’s ears went pink, but something in his face softened at that. He just nodded, letting him.

Sang-woo went to the kitchen, found eggs and leftover rice, and started cooking. The quiet wasn’t tense anymore — just soft, punctuated by the sizzle of the pan and the clink of utensils.

By the time the door opened and Mal-soon and Ga-yeong came back from the market, the kitchen smelled like breakfast.

Mal-soon stopped in the doorway, took in the sight of Sang-woo at the stove in Gi-hun’s sweats, and clicked her tongue. “About time you two worked out your little lovers’ spat,” she said dryly, setting her bag of vegetables down.

Gi-hun made a choked sound. “Eomeoni—”

Mal-soon just waved a hand and shooed Sang-woo away from the stove. “You’re burning that rice. Sit down before you embarrass yourself.”

Sang-woo surrendered the spatula, dropping into a chair. Ga-yeong made a delighted noise and climbed right into his lap like nothing had happened, arms wrapping around his neck.

He blinked hard and hugged her close, breathing in the warm, familiar smell of her hair.

“You’re squishing me,” she mumbled against his chest, but she didn’t move.

Gi-hun leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching them with something soft in his face. Sang-woo felt it, but didn’t look up — not yet.

Mal-soon tutted again as she took over the pan. “Next time you two fight, keep it down. The neighbors probably think we’re filming a drama over here.”

Gi-hun groaned and dropped his head into his hands, but Sang-woo almost — almost — smiled.

Ga-yeong tipped her head back to look at him, hair mussed from where his chin had been resting on it. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered.

Sang-woo’s throat went tight. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and held her just a little closer.

When Sang-woo finally glanced up, Gi-hun was already looking at him. Something in his face eased, the last of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He gave a small nod — nothing dramatic, just enough to say we’re okay.

Breakfast was quieter than it should have been with four people at the table. Mal-soon sat at the head, sipping her soup with one eyebrow raised like she was still deciding whether or not to scold them. Ga-yeong kept up a steady stream of chatter about the market — the fruit they’d seen, the neighbor’s dog she’d gotten to pet — and Mal-soon nodded along at the right moments, but Gi-hun and Sang-woo mostly ate in silence.

It didn’t feel tense anymore, just careful.

When Ga-yeong handed him her empty bowl with a pleased little grin, Sang-woo took it automatically, setting it gently on the table.

“Are you staying tonight?” she asked suddenly, wide-eyed.

Sang-woo’s throat went tight. He glanced at Gi-hun, who blinked back at him, startled — then, after a beat, gave a small nod.

“I can’t tonight,” Sang-woo said gently, brushing a hand over Ga-yeong’s hair. “Seo-hyun’s at my mom’s. I need to pick her up.”

Ga-yeong’s face fell, but only for a second before she nodded. “Tomorrow?”

Sang-woo’s mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow.”

Gi-hun’s mouth twitched like he might smile, but he just went back to his bowl.

Mal-soon set her chopsticks down with a click. “Good,” she said, her tone dry. “Perhaps the house can be peaceful again.”

Gi-hun groaned under his breath, and Sang-woo had to duck his head to hide the way his mouth threatened to curve.

When breakfast was over, Mal-soon rose to begin clearing the table. Gi-hun stood automatically to help, stacking bowls together.

Halfway to the sink, Mal-soon paused and turned, looking between the two of them. “So,” she said evenly, “are you two serious now? Is this official?”

Gi-hun froze mid-step, ears going pink. “Eomeoni…” he muttered, somewhere between embarrassed and warning.

Sang-woo didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said simply, voice steady. “It’s official.”

That made Gi-hun glance at him — startled, a little wide-eyed — and for a second he just stood there, bowl still in his hands. Then the corner of his mouth tugged up, faint but real, before he turned back to the sink.

Mal-soon gave a small nod, clearly satisfied. “Good. Then see that he helps with the housework at your place as well.”

Gi-hun made a strangled sound and nearly dropped the bowl, ears going red. Sang-woo hid his grin behind his tea, warmth blooming in his chest despite everything.

Sang-woo opened the door — then paused. Before Gi-hun could ask why, Sang-woo turned back, leaned in, and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his mouth.

Gi-hun froze for a heartbeat, then leaned in the slightest bit, enough to meet him halfway before Sang-woo pulled back.

It wasn’t long — barely more than a breath — but it left Sang-woo’s chest aching in the best way.

He stayed there for half a second longer, searching Gi-hun’s face. “Was that okay?” he asked quietly, voice low and careful.

Gi-hun’s hand came up to his mouth, like he hadn’t quite registered it until it was over. Then he nodded once, small but certain. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “That was okay.”

Some of the tension in Sang-woo’s shoulders eased. “I’ll call you when we’re home,” he promised. “And when I charge my phone.”

Gi-hun let out a shaky laugh, a little softer this time. “Go,” he said, almost reluctant now.

Sang-woo stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

Gi-hun stayed where he was for a moment, thumb brushing over his lower lip, the warmth from the kiss still lingering. When he finally turned back toward the kitchen, there was something lighter in his face — the first real sign that the worst of it had passed.

Chapter Text

Sang-woo: Made it home.
Gi-hun: Yeah?
Sang-woo: Yeah. Thinking about you instead of sleeping.

Gi-hun stared at the screen, heat creeping up his neck.
Gi-hun: You’re bold tonight.
Sang-woo: I meant it. Glad I stayed long enough to get that kiss in.

Gi-hun: You waited until the last second to do it.
Sang-woo: Wanted to make sure it stuck.
Gi-hun: It did.

A pause.

Sang-woo: Tomorrow I won’t wait that long. Might not let you get away at all.

Gi-hun rolled onto his back in bed, grinning before he typed back:
Gi-hun: Guess we’ll see if you can back that up.

Gi-hun had barely gotten the coffee brewing when a knock sounded at the door.

He opened it to find Sang-woo standing there with a small white bakery bag in one hand and that faint, careful smile that always knocked something loose in Gi-hun’s chest.

Before Gi-hun could say a word, Seo-hyun shot past him like a tornado, her little overnight bag bouncing against her back as she tore down the hall. Ga-yeong squealed from the bedroom, and a second later there were thuds and giggles as the two girls reunited.

The apartment went quiet again — quiet enough that Gi-hun could hear the coffee machine sputter behind him.

“You’re early,” Gi-hun said finally, turning back to Sang-woo. His voice came out softer than he meant.

“You told me not to be late,” Sang-woo said simply, stepping inside. He held up the bag. “Kkwabaegi. Still warm.”

Gi-hun’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “You’re trying to spoil them.”

“And you,” Sang-woo said — and before Gi-hun could reply, he leaned in and pressed a quick, soft peck to his mouth.

Gi-hun froze for a split second, then let out a low, startled laugh. “You really are bold today.”

Sang-woo’s mouth curved just slightly. “Guess I finally stopped holding back.”

Gi-hun tilted his head, heat sparking low in his chest. “Then maybe it’s my turn to stop holding back too.”

Before Sang-woo could react, Gi-hun grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and walked him backward across the kitchen until his back hit the counter.

Sang-woo’s breath caught, and then Gi-hun was on him — chest to chest, mouth on his, kissing him hard.

Gi-hun’s hands slid to Sang-woo’s hips, holding him in place as he rolled into him once — then again, firmer this time, guiding Sang-woo’s hips to match his own.

Sang-woo groaned, fingers clutching the edge of the counter.

Gi-hun grinned against his mouth, then slid one hand up into Sang-woo’s hair and gave it a sharp tug, tilting his head just enough to kiss down the line of his jaw and suck at the spot under his ear.

Sang-woo gasped, sharp and unguarded, his hips twitching forward without him meaning to.

Gi-hun did it again, slower this time, just to hear that sound once more, before kissing him deep and unhurried, deliberately leaving him wrecked.

When they finally broke apart, Sang-woo’s chest was heaving, his knuckles white on the counter, hair mussed from where Gi-hun had tugged it.

Gi-hun stepped back just enough to breathe, running his hand through Sang-woo’s hair one last time with a little tug before letting go.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he said, low and a little breathless — not teasing, just completely honest.

Sang-woo’s ears went pink immediately, his mouth parting like he didn’t know what to do with the words.

Gi-hun smirked, clearly pleased with himself, and turned back toward the counter like nothing had happened.

“You can’t just say that and walk away,” Sang-woo muttered, still gripping the edge of the counter like he needed it to stay upright.

Gi-hun only laughed under his breath, shoulders shaking once, and tossed him a look over his shoulder. “Watch me.”

Sang-woo swore softly and dragged a hand down his face before crossing to the table, still looking wrecked.

Sang-woo had just dropped into his chair, still dragging a hand over his face, when the bedroom door burst open.

Seo-hyun tore into the kitchen first, barefoot and grinning, with Ga-yeong right on her heels.

“Appa, can we have some?” Ga-yeong asked, already reaching for the bakery bag.

Gi-hun caught her hand before she could grab it. “Wash your hands first. Both of you.”

The girls groaned in perfect unison but ran for the bathroom anyway, water running a moment later.

Gi-hun glanced at Sang-woo just in time to catch the faint, lingering pink in his ears.

“You okay over there?” he asked, deadpan.

Sang-woo gave him a look that was halfway between glare and plea. “No.”

Gi-hun’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

Before Sang-woo could answer, the girls came running back, dripping water on the floor and demanding their share of the kkwabaegi, and the moment dissolved into plates and napkins and the warm, fried smell filling the kitchen.

The rest of the day passed in a warm blur — the girls played until they were pink-cheeked and sleepy, everyone ate too much, and by the time the sun dipped low, the apartment felt soft and quiet again.

Gi-hun herded the girls into the bathroom, got them scrubbed down and into pajamas, and tucked into bed. Seo-hyun was out the second her head hit the pillow, and Ga-yeong wasn’t far behind.

When Gi-hun came back into the kitchen, Sang-woo was leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, looking softer than he had all day.

“Your turn,” Gi-hun said, jerking his chin toward the bathroom. “You probably smell like fried dough and kid sweat.”

Sang-woo huffed a laugh, about to move — then froze when Gi-hun added, almost too casually:

“Or you could just shower with me.”

The words hung between them, heavier than they had any right to be.

Sang-woo blinked, startled, before his mouth curved into something slow and dangerous. “You sure?”

Gi-hun’s throat worked, but he nodded once, eyes steady. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

For a second Sang-woo just stood there, taking him in — then he pushed off the counter, crossing the kitchen in a few long strides until he was close enough for Gi-hun to feel the warmth coming off him.

“Lead the way,” Sang-woo said, voice low.

Steam clung to the air, the mirror completely fogged, water running in hot rivulets down their skin.

Gi-hun stepped under the spray first, running his hands back through his hair, letting the heat soak into him.

When Sang-woo stepped in behind him, he didn’t move right away. They just stood there for a long beat, steam rising between them, water sliding down their bodies.

Gi-hun turned his head slowly, meeting Sang-woo’s eyes. Sang-woo’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling as he took him in — the broad shoulders, the hard muscle tapering to a narrow waist, water running in lines over his skin.

Gi-hun’s gaze swept down over Sang-woo too, lingering on the cut of lean muscle across his chest and stomach, droplets clinging to him before sliding lower.

Neither of them spoke.

Then Gi-hun closed the distance and kissed him, slow and deep.

Sang-woo gasped softly against his mouth before kissing him back, one hand coming up to grip Gi-hun’s shoulder. The water hit both of them now, pouring heat down their backs, steam curling around their faces.

Gi-hun kissed him harder, backing him into the tile, one hand sliding over Sang-woo’s ribs to his hip, holding him there. Sang-woo let him, tilting his chin up and opening for him, breath catching when Gi-hun’s tongue slid against his.

Gi-hun broke the kiss just long enough to press his mouth along Sang-woo’s jaw, down his throat, tasting the water on his skin.

“Gi-hun,” Sang-woo breathed, chest shuddering, hands gripping his biceps like he needed to hang on.

Gi-hun smiled against his neck, kissed him once more — slower this time, teasing — before sinking to his knees.

Sang-woo’s breath caught, one hand shooting out to brace against the wall. “Gi-hun—”

Gi-hun looked up at him through wet lashes, hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his chin. “Relax,” he said, voice already rough. “Let me take care of you.”

Whatever protest Sang-woo might have had died right there. His fingers slid into Gi-hun’s wet hair, gripping tight as Gi-hun’s mouth closed around him.

The sound that tore out of Sang-woo was sharp and helpless. His head tipped back against the tile with a quiet thud, water streaming down his face, chest heaving.

Gi-hun’s hand braced against his hip, steadying him when his knees almost buckled.

Gi-hun glanced up, eyes dark and hungry, before dragging his mouth slow just to watch Sang-woo shudder.
“God, I love your cock,” Gi-hun said, voice hoarse and low. His grip on Sang-woo’s hip tightened, holding him there.

Then he grinned — wicked and wrecked himself — and said, “I want to choke on it.”

Sang-woo made a sound that was half moan, half plea, hips jerking helplessly before Gi-hun’s hand pressed him back to the wall.

“Gi-hun,” he gasped again, saying his name like a prayer.

Gi-hun didn’t look away, just opened wider and sank down further, taking him deeper, like he meant to prove it. The angle forced a rough, desperate sound out of him, but he stayed there, swallowing around him, and it made Sang-woo’s vision blur.

“You’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” Gi-hun murmured when he came up for air, voice wrecked but steady.

Sang-woo made a choked noise, hips twitching helplessly, almost gone.

“Please,” he gasped, raw and honest. “Don’t stop.”

Gi-hun didn’t stop. He held him steady until Sang-woo finally came apart with a strangled sound, his whole body jerking as release hit him hard.

Gi-hun stayed with him through it, letting him ride it out, then kissed the inside of his thigh before standing, water running down both of them. He kissed him slow and deep, tasting his breath, like he had all the time in the world.

“You okay?” Gi-hun murmured when they finally came up for air, his voice rough from use.

Sang-woo huffed out a weak, wrecked laugh and dropped his forehead to Gi-hun’s chest, feeling the solid muscle under his cheek. “You can’t just do that and expect me to function.”

Gi-hun chuckled low, sliding a hand over his back. “Good. Don’t function. Just let me take care of you tonight.”

Sang-woo swallowed, then lifted his head, ears still pink. “Let me—let me do something for you too.”

Gi-hun shook his head, brushing wet hair off Sang-woo’s forehead. “Not tonight. Just wanted you.”

That made Sang-woo go even redder, his chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.

Gi-hun grinned and kissed him again — slow, deep, stealing what breath Sang-woo had left — before reaching for the soap to lather over his shoulders and rinse him clean.

When they stepped out, Gi-hun grabbed a towel, wrapped it around Sang-woo’s waist, and used another to rub his hair dry, fingers gentle but sure.

“Come on,” Gi-hun said finally, brushing his thumb over Sang-woo’s cheek. “Bed before the girls wake up and ruin this mood.”

Sang-woo’s mouth curved into something soft and wrecked. “If I make it to bed, it’ll be a miracle.”

Gi-hun laughed, hoarse and warm, and kissed him once more — slower this time — before pulling him toward the bedroom.

When they finally collapsed onto the bed, Sang-woo curled into him without hesitation, one arm around Gi-hun’s narrow waist, his head on his chest. Gi-hun kept one hand in Sang-woo’s damp hair, stroking until his breathing started to even out.

The quiet stretched, warm and heavy.

“Gi-hun,” Sang-woo said softly, voice rough.

Gi-hun hummed, glancing down at him.

Sang-woo hesitated, then burrowed closer, tucking his face against Gi-hun’s chest like he could hide there. His words were muffled when they came out.

“I’m so glad you’re in my life,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t think I could—” He cut himself off, shoulders tense, like he was afraid of saying too much.

Gi-hun tightened his arm around him and kissed his damp hair. “You don’t have to finish that. You’re not losing me.”

Sang-woo let out a shaky breath and clung to him harder, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders.

Gi-hun stared at the ceiling in the dark, thumb still stroking through Sang-woo’s hair. That might have been the most honest thing Sang-woo had ever said to him — and Gi-hun realized he’d do anything to make sure he never had to feel that scared again.

For the first time in days, both of them felt steady.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun had already planned to go into the city that morning — he’d finally scheduled a check-up downtown, one he’d been putting off for too long.

He’d grabbed the bento Sang-woo had packed for him and the folder off the counter before leaving, figuring he’d drop the folder off with Sang-woo after his appointment.

And if he was honest, the thought of catching a glimpse of Sang-woo in the middle of the day made something warm flicker in his chest.

After the appointment, he stopped at a convenience store, picking up two onigiri, a pack of chips, and a few bottles of cold tea to go with the bento, then followed the map on his phone to Cho & Partners.

When he stepped into the lobby, he stopped short.

It was… extravagant. All glass and polished stone, gleaming like it had just been scrubbed. Designer chairs lined the walls, and a vertical garden climbed the wall behind the reception desk like something out of a luxury hotel.

Gi-hun caught sight of himself in the mirrored wall — coveralls, sneakers, hair mussed from the wind — and winced.

He knew he stood out the second he crossed the marble floor. People in sharp suits glanced up from their phones, conversations dipping before resuming in quieter voices. Gi-hun adjusted the strap of the lunch bag on his shoulder, suddenly feeling like he’d tracked half the garage floor into a museum.

He stopped at the reception desk and set the folder down carefully.

“Uh… hi,” he said. “I need to drop this off for Cho Sang-woo.”

The receptionist gave him a polite, professional smile. “And your name, please?”

“Oh. Seong Gi-hun,” he said quickly, shifting the lunch bag to his other hand.

She nodded and picked up the phone, her voice crisp. “Dae-ho? There’s a Seong Gi-hun here to see Mr. Cho. Says he has something to drop off.”

There was a pause, then she nodded again before hanging up. “Dae-ho says to send you right up. Elevator on the left, top floor.”

Gi-hun nodded, acutely aware of the eyes that followed him as he crossed the lobby toward the elevator.

The ride up was silent except for the soft chime of each passing floor. He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall again and ran a hand through his hair, but it didn’t help. All he could think about was Sang-woo sitting behind some massive desk, polished and perfect, and the thought made his stomach twist.

When the doors opened onto the top floor, the contrast was even sharper. The air smelled faintly of expensive coffee, and the handful of employees scattered through the open work area all looked up as he stepped out — polished shoes, tailored suits, designer watches glinting in the light.

Gi-hun resisted the urge to check for grease on his sleeve.

Then a tall, lanky man with a tablet and a coffee stepped out from behind a desk, grinning like he’d been waiting just for him.

“You must be Gi-hun-ssi!” he said brightly, crossing the floor without hesitation. “I’m Dae-ho — Sang-woo’s PA. I am so glad you’re here. He’s been in a mood all morning because he misplaced some files.”

Gi-hun blinked, then held up the folder with a sheepish grin. “These?”

Dae-ho gasped like he’d just been handed a miracle. “You’re an angel. You just saved me from another hour of pretending to be calm outside his office.”

A couple of nearby employees chuckled, and Gi-hun felt some of the tightness in his shoulders ease.

“Come on,” Dae-ho said, already turning down the hall. “You might be the only person alive who can fix his mood today.”

They had barely reached the corner office when the door opened and Sangwoo stepped out looking down at an iPad in his hands.

“Dae-ho,” Sang-woo said sharply, already rattling off orders. “Reschedule the three o’clock, push the Shanghai call to tomorrow, and tell Legal I want a clean draft by end of day or—”

He stopped short when his eyes landed on Gi-hun.

For a second, the clipped steel of his tone melted away. “Gi-hun?” His voice sounded different now — quieter, almost startled.

Gi-hun held up the folder with a grin. “You left these on the counter.”

Sang-woo crossed the space between them quickly and took the folder, his fingers brushing Gi-hun’s just long enough to make his chest tighten. “I was going crazy looking for these.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Gi-hun said. “I had a doctor’s appointment downtown, so I thought I’d swing by. Figured I’d save you from scaring your staff.”

That earned him the faintest curve of Sang-woo’s mouth. He adjusted his tie, glanced at Dae-ho — who was watching with undisguised amusement — and then back at Gi-hun. “Thank you. You didn’t have to bring them all the way here.”

Gi-hun shrugged and held up the lunch bag. “Had time. And I brought lunch — figured someone had to make sure you actually eat today.”

Something in Sang-woo’s posture eased at that, the tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“Stay,” he said after a beat, softer now. “I’ll be finished in twenty minutes.”

“Translation,” Dae-ho called from his desk, “he just cleared his whole afternoon for you.”

Sang-woo shot him a look, but Gi-hun was already grinning as he followed him into the office.

Once the door shut, Gi-hun unpacked the lunch bag — the bento, the onigiri, the drinks — and spread everything out neatly across the desk.

“Sit,” Gi-hun said, putting a hand on Sang-woo’s chest and gently pushing him back into his chair.

Sang-woo arched a brow, but before he could say anything, Gi-hun leaned down and kissed him — soft and lingering, just enough to make Sang-woo relax instead of protesting.

“Eat first, work later,” Gi-hun murmured against his lips.

Sang-woo huffed but obeyed, loosening his tie and shrugging out of his jacket.

They were halfway through the food when the door cracked open again.

“Please tell me you two aren’t making out in here,” Dae-ho stage whispered, one hand slapped dramatically over his eyes.

Gi-hun nearly choked, laughing, while Sang-woo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dae-ho.”

“What? I knocked!” Dae-ho peeked, then grinned when he saw the spread. “Bless you, Gi-hun-ssi. Do you know how impossible he is when he hasn’t eaten?”

“I’m right here,” Sang-woo said flatly, but Gi-hun just grinned and handed Dae-ho a bottle of tea.

“Oh, I like you,” Dae-ho said immediately, accepting it like it was a prize. “You might be my new favorite person.”

“Careful,” Gi-hun said with a smirk. “I might hold you to that.”

Dae-ho winked and ducked out dramatically, leaving them to finish lunch.

But they barely had time to breathe before the door opened again — this time without a knock.

“Mr. Cho, we need to discuss the Choi account before the—”

Director Kim stopped cold, flanked by two other department heads.

The silence was instant and heavy.

Gi-hun froze, suddenly aware of everything all at once — the lunch scattered across the desk, his coveralls, the faint smell of motor oil clinging to him like it always did. He wiped his palms on his thighs, wishing he’d worn literally anything else.

Director Kim’s gaze swept over him slowly — the sneakers, the scuffed knees, the oil-stained fabric — before landing on his face with something just short of polite. “I wasn’t aware we were allowing… casual visitors in the executive wing.”

Gi-hun felt heat climb his neck, humiliation and anger tangling together.

Sang-woo’s jaw tightened. He caught the smell of oil that Gi-hun always worried about, and instead of embarrassment, something hot and possessive curled low in his chest.

He would never let anyone — not Director Kim, not anyone — look at Gi-hun and see “less.” Not because he worked with his hands. Not because he smelled like his job.

Truth was, Sang-woo could never do what Gi-hun did. He didn’t have the patience to troubleshoot an engine for hours, didn’t have the physical endurance to work on his feet all day, didn’t have the kind of instinct Gi-hun had for coaxing life back into something broken.

And Gi-hun wasn’t just good at his job — he was smarter than most of the people Sang-woo worked with on this floor. Sharper, faster, more intuitive. The kind of intelligence you couldn’t fake with a degree or a suit.

The sight of him standing there, shoulders tight, looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor, only made Sang-woo want to step closer, to claim him.

He did.

“This is Gi-hun,” Sang-woo said, voice sharp and clear. “My partner.”

He crossed the space between them as he spoke, laying a steady hand against the small of Gi-hun’s back — not gripping, but firm enough that no one could mistake it for casual.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched, the word and the touch hitting him at once. His chest went tight, stomach swooping, like part of him hadn’t realized until now just how much he’d wanted to hear it out loud.

Ms. Park’s expression softened, breaking the tension. “Ah,” she said warmly. “That explains why you’ve been in such a better mood lately.” She turned to Gi-hun and smiled. “I’m glad to meet you, Gi-hun-ssi. I look forward to getting to know you better.”

Director Kim’s mouth pressed into a line. “I see. I wasn’t aware—”

“You are now,” Sang-woo cut in, stepping forward until the room felt smaller. “And if anyone here has an issue with who I bring into my office, they can bring it to me directly. I won’t tolerate disrespect toward me, my family, or my partner — including commentary on what he wears.”

Director Kim’s jaw worked, but he stayed silent.

When they finally left, the office felt quiet again — but charged.

Gi-hun blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and looked up at him. “Partner, huh?”

Sang-woo’s mouth curved, softer now. “Yeah,” he said simply. “If you’re still okay with that.”

Gi-hun’s throat worked, but he nodded. “Yeah. I’m still okay with that.”

Something in Sang-woo’s chest loosened at that. He leaned in and pressed a brief, grounding kiss to Gi-hun’s temple before sitting back down.

“Good,” he said, the corner of his mouth still tilted in that small, rare smile. “Because I meant it.”

Gi-hun smiled faintly at that, then hesitated, shifting his weight. “Hey — can you pick up the girls this afternoon? I’ve got to stay late at the garage.”

Sang-woo didn’t even hesitate. “Of course. I’ll get them both and take them home with me.” His voice softened. “I’ll make dinner too.”

Gi-hun blinked, startled but pleased, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sang-woo said simply, like it was obvious.

Gi-hun’s grin widened. “Okay. Thanks.”

He glanced toward the door. “I should probably let you get back to work.”

“Stay,” Sang-woo said again, softer this time, almost tentative.

Gi-hun’s mouth tipped into something warm. “Okay. But only if I get to gossip with Dae-ho.”

Sang-woo’s mouth twitched. “He’ll love that.”

Gi-hun did exactly that — stepped out to the front with Dae-ho, swapping easy chatter while Sang-woo watched from his office, the sound of their voices carrying through the open doorway.

For the first time all day, Sang-woo’s shoulders dropped, a quiet, private smile curving his mouth as he listened.

Chapter Text

The girls were already waiting by the school gate when Sang-woo pulled up. Seo-hyun spotted him first and waved so hard her backpack slipped off her shoulder. Ga-yeong was chattering at her side, all big gestures and missing teeth, words tumbling out so fast that Seo-hyun kept giggling.

“Appa!” Seo-hyun shouted, running toward him.

Ga-yeong followed, skidding to a stop when she saw him standing there. “Where’s my dad?”

“At work,” Sang-woo said, crouching so they were eye level. “He asked me to pick you up today.”

She tilted her head like she was thinking hard about it, then nodded solemnly. “Okay. Can we have tteokbokki for dinner?”

Sang-woo blinked. “You have expensive taste.”

But half an hour later, both girls were perched at the kitchen counter, kicking their feet against the cabinets while he stood at the stove stirring a pan of simmering rice cakes like this was something he did every day. Seo-hyun offered commentary on her day at school while Ga-yeong “helped” by putting exactly three chopped green onions into the bowl and then eating the rest raw, scrunching her nose when they bit back.

By the time Gi-hun came in, hair mussed from work and smelling faintly of grease and metal, the apartment was warm and filled with the smell of gochujang and garlic. The sound of the girls’ laughter spilled down the hallway, and Sang-woo’s chest loosened when he saw Gi-hun pause in the doorway, taking it in.

“Hey,” Gi-hun said, sounding tired but soft, and Sang-woo felt his shoulders drop just a little.

“Tteokbokki,” Sang-woo said, gesturing toward the pan. “And I even got them to eat vegetables.”

“Two pieces isn’t vegetables,” Ga-yeong said cheerfully, and Seo-hyun nearly fell off her stool laughing.

Dinner was chaotic but easy, the girls dissolving into giggles when Sang-woo tried to make the broth less spicy and accidentally sneezed from the steam. Gi-hun leaned against the counter, watching them, and something in his face softened — like he was cataloging this moment to keep for later.

When the girls were finally in bed and the apartment was quiet, Sang-woo set up on the sofa, laptop open and files spread across the coffee table. His tie was gone, sleeves rolled, and his hair had fallen forward over his forehead. He looked tired but focused, posture hunched as he scrolled through contracts.

Gi-hun came out of the shower a few minutes later, drying his hair with a towel. “Still working?”

Sang-woo nodded without looking up. “Just finishing the revisions Legal sent over. I want everything off my plate tonight so I don’t have to touch it this weekend.”

Gi-hun leaned against the back of the sofa, looking down at him. “Is that why you were so tense during dinner?”

“Partly.” Sang-woo’s mouth curved faintly, wry. “Mostly because I wasn’t sure if you’d be mad about me working on a Friday night. Everyone else I've dated has been pissed whenever I've brought work home.”

Gi-hun tossed the towel over the back of a chair, his expression softening. “Mad? Why would I be mad? Sang-woo, you own your own business. That means there are nights like this sometimes. I get it. I don't know why other people haven't in the past.”

He came around to the front of the sofa, crouching slightly so Sang-woo had to look at him. “You’ve never once made me or the girls feel like we don’t matter to you. Not once. You work hard, but you still pick them up from school, you still make dinner, you still show up when it counts. I notice all of it — and I appreciate it. Honestly, it’s part of the reason I care about you so much.”

Sang-woo’s breath caught, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“You’ve got a good heart,” Gi-hun added, softer now, thumb brushing over Sang-woo’s knee. “Even when you think you’re being cold, you still take care of everyone. That’s who you are.”

For a moment, Sang-woo just looked at him, something raw and startled flickering across his face. Then he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders finally bleeding away.

Gi-hun smiled faintly and leaned in, brushing a quiet kiss against his mouth. “So finish what you need to finish,” he said softly. “I’ll keep you company.”

Sang-woo swallowed hard, nodding once. “…Thank you. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.”

Gi-hun straightened and walked around the coffee table before dropping onto the couch next to him, close enough that their knees brushed.

Sang-woo glanced at him, hesitated for a beat, then said quietly, “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

Gi-hun blinked, surprised. “Why?”

Sang-woo’s hand stilled on the keyboard. “Because I’d like to take you out. Just the two of us. Do you think one of our moms would let the girls spend the night?”

Gi-hun grinned, warmth blooming in his chest. “Probably, a real date, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sang-woo’s mouth curved just slightly. “Feels like we should have one.”

Gi-hun reached over and squeezed his knee, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “Then let’s ask right now before either of them makes plans. I'll text my mom”

Sang-woo huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, watching him type out a quick message.

“You’re serious,” he said, faintly incredulous.

“Dead serious.” Gi-hun’s grin widened as he hit send. “I haven’t been on a real date in forever — I’m not about to risk losing my chance.”

Something warm flickered across Sang-woo’s expression before he ducked his head, looking faintly pleased despite himself.

Gi-hun leaned back against the couch with a grin. “Guess I should dig out something nice to wear if you’re taking me somewhere fancy.”

“You’d look good in anything,” Sang-woo said before he could think better of it.

Gi-hun smirked. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”

This time Sang-woo didn’t look away, his gaze steady for a beat longer than usual before he turned back to the laptop — but the tension was gone from his posture, his shoulders finally at ease.

Gi-hun flipped through channels until he found The Glory and settled in, stretching out until his foot brushed Sang-woo’s thigh.

Within minutes he was completely absorbed, chin propped on his fist, eyes narrowing every time the villain came on screen. Then Ha Do-yeong appeared in the Go episode, and Gi-hun sat up straighter like someone had just turned on a spotlight.

“Wow,” he muttered under his breath. “That man is stupid handsome.”

Sang-woo glanced over, one brow raised.

Gi-hun didn’t even look away from the screen. “I think I’m gayer than I thought.”

That got a quiet laugh out of Sang-woo, shaking his head.

Gi-hun finally glanced at him, grinning. “Relax. You still beat him in a suit.”

Sang-woo’s ears went faintly pink, which only made Gi-hun smirk harder.

“You should try one of those sweaters he wears, though,” Gi-hun added, turning back to the screen. “For science.”

Sang-woo huffed softly, but there was the faintest curve to his mouth as he turned back to the laptop.

By the time he finally closed the computer and stacked the files, Gi-hun hadn’t noticed — he was glaring at the screen.

“Done,” Sang-woo said quietly.

Gi-hun looked over, grinning a little. “Good. Get over here before I steal the whole couch.”

Sang-woo moved to sit, but Gi-hun caught his sleeve and tugged him closer until he was right against him.

By the next episode, Sang-woo’s head had tipped onto Gi-hun’s shoulder, his hair falling forward again. Gi-hun glanced down, smirking when he realized Sang-woo had fallen asleep sitting up, lips parted just slightly.

“Figures,” Gi-hun muttered fondly, setting the remote aside.

He brushed Sang-woo’s hair back gently, then carefully slid him down onto the couch to undo the top buttons of his shirt and ease it off his shoulders. He made quick work of the rest, working him out of his slacks until he was down to just his boxers.

“There,” Gi-hun murmured, smoothing a hand over his hip before scooping him up in one motion.

Sang-woo stayed completely asleep, head tipped against Gi-hun’s shoulder, breath warm against his neck.

Gi-hun carried him to the bedroom and set him down carefully on the bed. After tugging the blanket over him, he stripped off his own shirt and jeans and slid in beside him.

He shifted until Sang-woo was tucked firmly against his chest, then rested his chin on top of his head.

For a while, the room was just quiet and dim, softened by the sound of rain against the windows.

Gi-hun pressed a hand against his back, just holding him there. “I'll always keep you safe, I love you.” he whispered to himself.

Sang-woo didn’t stir, but his breathing stayed slow and even, warm against Gi-hun’s skin.

Gi-hun kissed the top of his head, then let his own eyes fall shut, the weight of Sang-woo heavy and solid against him.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun dropped Ga-yeong off at Mal-soon’s, crouching to remind her to be good and promising he would be back after breakfast. She waved so hard he had to laugh before heading back to his truck.

Across town, Sang-woo took Seo-hyun to his mother’s. She fussed over him for being too thin, then whisked Seo-hyun away to show her a new puzzle. He kissed his daughter goodnight, told her he loved her, and headed home with a strange, light feeling in his chest.

Back at his apartment, he showered and shaved, styled his hair back neatly with gel, and pulled on the kind of sweater Gi-hun had teased him about the night before that was hanging in the closet. It fit just right. He looked in the mirror and decided he wanted to see what Gi-hun would do when he saw him.

The knock came, steady and sure. 

He opened it expecting a worn hoodie and sneakers. Instead, Gi-hun stood there in dark jeans, a perfectly fitted black button down shirt that hugged his lithe waist, and a leather jacket that still smelled like wind and asphalt. His hair was brushed back and held in place, his jaw freshly shaved, and he was smiling in that slow, easy way that made Sang-woo’s stomach swoop.

“Wow,” Sang-woo said before he could stop himself.

“Yeah?” Gi-hun grinned.

“Yeah,” Sang-woo said softly, stepping back to let him in.

Gi-hun’s eyes ran over him and caught on the sweater. “You really wore it. God, you look like a sexy professor. You're beautiful.”

“You asked last night,” Sang-woo said. A faint pink crept up his ears.

Gi-hun crossed the small space and let his fingers skim the knit. “You’re trying to kill me before dinner.”

“Maybe,” Sang-woo said, and the way he said it made Gi-hun want to skip dinner altogether.

“Come on. Let’s go,” Gi-hun said, holding out a hand.

“Will you drive?” Sang-woo asked, quieter now.

“Yeah. Let me take care of you tonight.”

He jogged ahead and opened the car door with an exaggerated bow. Sang-woo slid inside.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sang-woo said, but his mouth curved.

“Yeah. But you like it,” Gi-hun said, closing the door and rounding the hood.

The drive was quiet and charged. Gi-hun kept stealing glances at the way the sweater pulled across Sang-woo’s chest and the clean lines of his profile. By the time they parked, his pulse was in his ears.

Sang-woo turned toward him as he shifted into park. Something in the steady, expectant look made Gi-hun reach for him without thinking.

The kiss started slow, then went deep and greedy. Gi-hun’s hand slid to the back of Sang-woo’s neck and pulled him closer until he was half over the console, sweater rumpled, mouth slick.

“We should go in before they think we ditched our reservation,” Gi-hun said against his lips, smiling.

“Right. Dinner. I guess we should go" Sang-woo breathed, ears flushed.

“Then maybe dessert,” Gi-hun murmured.

Outside the car, he opened the door for him again, slower this time. As they walked in, he kept his palm at the small of Sang-woo’s back, firm and claiming. A passing couple double-took. Gi-hun did not look their way. If anything, his hand pressed a little more firmly as if daring anyone to speak.

The hostess led them to a small table near the back. Gi-hun did not move his hand until Sang-woo sat and he pushed his chair in. Then he took the seat opposite, grinning like he had just won something.

“Stop staring,” Sang-woo muttered, flipping his menu up for cover.

“Can’t help it. You look too good tonight,” Gi-hun said, chin propped on his hand.

When the waiter came, Gi-hun ordered a medium rare steak with a few different sides and a bottle of red wine to share. No hesitation, no stumble.

“You know wine?” Sang-woo asked, surprised.

“What, you think I live on beer and soju? I know a thing or two,” Gi-hun said, amused.

By the time the bread arrived, Gi-hun had kicked off one shoe under the table and began to run his foot slow along Sang-woo’s ankle.

“Gi-hun,” Sang-woo warned, stiffening.

“Hmm?”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Maybe,” Gi-hun said over the rim of his glass.

Conversation stayed easy. Seo-hyun’s new violin teacher, Ga-yeong’s dinosaur phase. Every time Sang-woo remembered how nervous he had been, it felt ridiculous.

When the check came, Sang-woo reached for it. Gi-hun was faster, his card sliding onto the tray.

“I’ve got it,” he said, calm, sure.

“Gi-hun—”

“Nope. You’ve been doing everything for me lately. Let me do this. I want to take care of you.” 

Something warm loosened in Sang-woo. He did not argue again.

Outside, the air was cool and steadying. Gi-hun opened the passenger door again and leaned a hand on the roof while he helped Sang-woo in. 

“Not used to being spoiled?” he teased.

“Not by you, or anyone really," Sang-woo said. His ears tipped pink.

“Get used to it,” Gi-hun said, pleased.

Instead of driving straight home, he pulled into a bright convenience store lot with its neon light spilling out onto the sidewalk. Gi-hun came to the door and held it open, shooting Sang-woo a look that was half wicked, half warm.

“Come on,” he said. “Figured we might as well pick something up while we’re here.”

Once inside, Sang-woo froze halfway into the aisle when he realized what section Gi-hun had steered them toward.

Gi-hun crouched slightly to grab a basket and glanced back at him, that grin still playing on his mouth. “What? Thought I’d leave it up to you.”

Sang-woo opened his mouth, closed it again, and tried to look anywhere but at the shelves.

Gi-hun’s grin softened a little. “Honestly? We might not even need them.”

Sang-woo’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

Gi-hun was already pulling his phone from his pocket, thumb swiping quickly. “I asked my doctor to run a full STI panel at my check-up last week. Everything came back negative. All of it.” He held the phone out like it was a winning lottery ticket, screen glowing between them. “See? I wanted to make sure it was safe. For you. So you don't have to worry.”

Sang-woo took the phone automatically, staring at the results before looking back at Gi-hun like he’d just said something life-altering.

“You really thought about this that much?”

Gi-hun nodded, suddenly earnest. “Of course I did. I wasn’t about to risk anything — not with you.I care about you way too much."

Something broke open in Sang-woo’s chest at that. His voice was quieter when he spoke. “I'll make an appointment for this week to get checked and show you the results once they're in. I want you to feel safe too. I haven’t been with anyone in years. I tried dating, but nothing stuck. I just couldn’t make myself care enough to go through with it and keep trying over and over."

Gi-hun’s expression shifted into something gentler, more vulnerable at the confession. “Yeah. Same. I went on a couple of dates after the divorce, even downloaded a damn app. I always bailed before anything could happen. Couldn’t imagine letting anyone close, especially after Eun-ji passed and I got full custody of Ga-yeong."

He stepped closer, the grin coming back slow and dangerous. “Then you had to show up at school pickup looking like that. You were so fucking hot. It messed me up so much."

Sang-woo’s ears went pink, but he didn’t look away.

Gi-hun laughed softly, almost self-conscious. “You wanna know how bad it got?”

Sang-woo’s brows lifted. “Bad?”

“I didn’t just think about you,” Gi-hun admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… watched stuff. Read stuff. Trying to figure out what you’d like. Picked guys who looked like pale imitations of you, just so I could pretend it was us.”

Sang-woo’s breath caught, sharp.

Gi-hun’s voice dropped, “I wanted to know how to touch you right. How to make the first time good for you, not just for me. I thought about pinning your wrists over your head, about hearing you gasp when I got my mouth on you to see if you’d beg when you got close.” Gi-hun’s grin turned sharp, hungry. “About taking you apart with my fingers until you were shaking. About not stopping until you begged me and seeing how many times in a row I could make you come screaming my name. Making you cry from pleasure. I want you so sore and spent you won't be able to walk. ”

Heat climbed Sang-woo’s neck, all the way to his ears.

Gi-hun’s grin turned sly. “And yeah, I imagined you taking me apart too. Pinning me down by the neck, telling me what to do. Taking whatever you wanted from me and I'd thank you for every second of it.”

Sang-woo’s grip on the basket went white-knuckled.

“You really…” His voice came out rough, like he’d swallowed glass.

Gi-hun stepped closer, lowering his voice to a near-growl. “I’ve thought about having you under me, shaking, begging me not to stop. And I’ve thought about letting you fuck into me until I can’t think straight if you wanted that. I've thought about every position possible, and I want to try them all. With you."

Sang-woo made a noise low in his throat, half groan, half prayer.

“God, you’re going to kill me,” he said finally, pink from throat to hairline.

Gi-hun smirked, thoroughly pleased. “Good. Then you better pick something before I change my mind and drag you into the bathroom right now.”

Sang-woo reached out blindly and grabbed the first box of XLs and lube he saw, dropped it into the basket like he had to do something with his hands, and turned toward the register before he completely lost it.

Chapter Text

The ride back from the convenience store was so thick with tension Sang-woo swore he could taste it. The paper bag sat on Gi-hun’s dash, its contents rattling softly with every turn, every bump in the road. The heater hummed. The tires hissed against the asphalt. Every sound felt too loud, like the whole car was holding its breath.

Gi-hun’s hand stayed on the gearshift at first — casual, steady — but Sang-woo could feel the energy coiled in him. His jaw worked. His knee bounced once before he stilled it.

Then Gi-hun’s hand drifted from the gearshift to Sang-woo’s thigh.

Sang-woo froze, heat surging through him at the slow, lazy circle Gi-hun traced with his thumb.

“Gi-hun,” Sang-woo said finally, voice low, meant to be stern but already fraying.

Gi-hun’s mouth tilted into a small smirk. “What?”

“Drive,” Sang-woo muttered.

“I am driving,” Gi-hun said, maddeningly calm — and then that hand slid higher, brushing just close enough to make Sang-woo’s hips jerk.

“Gi-hun.”

Gi-hun’s smirk widened, his eyes never leaving the road. “What? Gonna tell me to stop?”

God help him, he wasn’t.

“We’re in a moving car,” Sang-woo said instead, like that was the problem — like Gi-hun wasn’t already under his skin, under his ribs, everywhere.

“Exactly.” Gi-hun’s grin turned wicked as he popped the button of Sang-woo’s pants one-handed, smooth and deliberate.

Heat crawled up Sang-woo’s chest, over his throat, his face. He should tell him no. He should shove his hand away. Instead, his head thunked back against the headrest, helpless.

Gi-hun licked his palm, quick and obscene, and slid his hand inside, wrapping around him with a slow, devastating grip that made Sang-woo curse under his breath.

“God—” Sang-woo bit out, hips jerking despite himself.

Gi-hun grinned wider, cutting a glance at him — taking in the flushed cheeks, the taut jaw, the parted mouth struggling to hold in sound. Look at him, Gi-hun thought, his own chest tightening. He’s going to come apart before we even make it home.

But he didn’t let him. He kept the pace steady, slow enough to torture, letting Sang-woo hover there right on the edge before deliberately easing off.

“Gi-hun,” Sang-woo growled, his voice shaking with need and frustration.

“Not yet,” Gi-hun murmured, smug as sin, stroking him one last time before pulling his hand out and wiping it lazily on his thigh. “I want to watch you lose it in your bed.”

By the time they pulled into the garage, Sang-woo was a wreck — flushed, breathing hard, his whole body wound so tight he thought he might snap in half.

The second the car stopped, he yanked the door open, grabbed the bag off the dash, and stalked toward the apartment like he was ready to fight someone — or throw himself at them. His pulse thundered in his ears, every step sharp and angry, but it wasn’t anger at all — it was need, clawing at him from the inside out.

Gi-hun shut off the car, grinning to himself, and followed at a slower pace, knowing exactly what was waiting for him.

Gi-hun followed him into the elevator, close enough that Sang-woo could feel every inch of him at his back. The air was heavy, charged, the hum of the lift loud against Sang-woo’s ragged breathing.

Halfway up, Gi-hun’s restraint snapped. He caught Sang-woo’s wrist, spun him, and shoved him gently but firmly against the wall. One hand braced by Sang-woo’s head, the other gripping his hip, and then Gi-hun’s mouth was on him — hot, hungry, kissing him like he’d been holding it back for miles.

Sang-woo gasped, then fisted a hand in Gi-hun’s shirt and yanked him closer, kissing back just as hard, teeth clashing, breath loud in the small space.

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open — but neither of them moved for a beat, still kissing like they had all the time in the world.

When they finally stumbled out, Sang-woo’s legs felt unsteady, his pulse hammering in his throat. He fumbled the key into the lock with shaking hands, got it turned — and the second the door clicked open, Gi-hun shoved it shut behind them and pressed Sang-woo back against it.

The kiss that followed was hot and messy, all teeth and breath, until Sang-woo’s knees nearly gave out.

He’s not stopping me, Gi-hun realized, half-wild with it, chest tight. God, he’s letting me.

Only when Sang-woo’s breath broke into something halfway between a moan and a curse did Gi-hun finally drag them toward the bedroom, three stumbling steps before he bent, grabbed Sang-woo by the hips, and threw him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing.

“Gi-hun!” Sang-woo yelped, startled — but the sound broke into a breathless laugh as he smacked at Gi-hun’s back, his body already yielding.

Gi-hun grinned against his hip and smacked him once on the ass, sharp enough to make him jolt. “Been thinking about this since the car,” he said, his voice rough and wrecked, and carried him the rest of the way to the bedroom.

He tossed Sang-woo onto the bed and stood there for a second, chest heaving, taking in the sight of him sprawled and flushed.

Sang-woo barely had time to sit up before Gi-hun was there, braced over him, caging him in, kissing him again until Sang-woo fell back against the mattress.

“Last chance,” Gi-hun murmured, voice suddenly soft, deadly serious despite the wrecked grin on his face. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Sang-woo’s chest felt like it might split open with how hard it was beating. “Don’t you dare stop,” he said, and Gi-hun’s grin turned feral.

Clothes went flying — buttons popping, zippers dragged down — until Sang-woo was flushed and bare under him.

Gi-hun rolled him gently onto his stomach, spreading his hands wide over the smooth line of Sang-woo’s back, grounding him. Then he leaned down, kissing down his spine, slow and deliberate, until Sang-woo shivered all over.

Then he spread him open and licked a slow stripe over him.

Sang-woo choked on a sound, face pressed to the pillow, ears burning.

No one had ever done this before. No one had even asked.

And it’s him, Sang-woo thought, dazed. It’s him. Of course it’s him.

Gi-hun groaned like he was the one coming undone, licking him slow and deep, holding him open with big, steady hands until Sang-woo was gasping, hips rocking back helplessly. Gi-hun sounded like this was the best thing that ever happened to him. 

Sang-woo’s hand moved on its own, shame and want tangled in his chest as he shoved it beneath him, wrapping around himself. His grip was rough, his strokes fast and sloppy, like he hated how much he needed it but couldn’t make himself stop.

Gi-hun noticed and laughed low against him, smug as sin. “Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his tongue over him again, slow just to be cruel. “Can’t even wait for me to finish? Go on, baby. Show me how bad you need it.”

Sang-woo twisted enough to glare at him over his shoulder, face flushed and wet, and Gi-hun just grinned wider, licking him again with deliberate slowness like he was rewarding him for the look.

The teasing made Sang-woo’s whole body clench. His breath came sharp and uneven, hips rocking harder without meaning to, chasing every drag of Gi-hun’s tongue. His hand sped up, slick and desperate, until he was gasping with every stroke, the tension winding so tight it almost hurt—

Sang-woo moaned, shoving back until he broke with a violent, helpless shudder, spilling over his own fist. His body stayed tight for several long seconds before collapsing against the mattress, breath coming in ragged gasps.

Gi-hun kissed the inside of his trembling thigh, slow and reverent, letting him feel every brush of his mouth. Then he reached for the lube on the nightstand, working a generous amount over his fingers until they gleamed.

He eased one finger into him, slow and patient, giving Sang-woo time to adjust before sliding it deeper, his other hand stroking over his lower back in steady circles.

When the second finger joined the first, Sang-woo let out a wrecked little whine, his hips jerking despite himself. Too sensitive, too much — but not enough.

“Yeah,” Gi-hun murmured, watching his body strain around him. “That’s it.”

By the time Gi-hun worked a third finger in, Sang-woo’s face was buried in the pillow, sobs muffled against the fabric.

Gi-hun bent low, kissing along the tense line of his spine, leaving warm, steady presses of his mouth as if to anchor him. With his free hand, he slid up to cradle the back of Sang-woo’s head, fingers threading into his damp hair, holding him there gently.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured against his skin, curling his fingers just so until Sang-woo gasped, broken and open under him.

“Stop,” Sang-woo choked out suddenly, the word ripping from his throat.

Gi-hun froze like he’d been shocked, immediately stilling his hand before carefully withdrawing his fingers. He didn’t ask why, didn’t push — just moved with steady, quiet hands, gently rolling Sang-woo onto his back so he could see his face.

“Sang-woo,” Gi-hun murmured, cupping his cheeks with both hands, thumbs brushing away the wetness clinging there. His chest ached with how raw he looked. Don’t shut me out now, Gi-hun thought, heart in his throat. Let me stay with you.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “You okay? Do you want me to stop?”

Sang-woo’s eyes flew open, frantic, and he grabbed Gi-hun’s wrist like a lifeline, shaking his head.

“No,” he said, voice wrecked and wild. “I didn’t mean it. I just—I got overwhelmed” His breath hitched. “Please. Don’t stop. Please.”

Relief softened every line of Gi-hun’s face. He kissed him once, slow and steady, then lowered himself and pressed his mouth to Sang-woo’s stomach. His tongue swept gently across the mess he found there, unhurried, almost tender — like he was savoring every piece of him, honoring the fact that Sang-woo had given him this.

Sang-woo’s breath caught. No one had ever done something like that for him — not like this, not so gentle. Heat burned under his skin, not embarrassment exactly but something deeper, something raw and soft that made his throat ache. He’s not just cleaning me up, Sang-woo thought, stunned. He’s cherishing me.

And just like that, it hit him — how much he loved Gi-hun. Not just wanted him, not just needed him, but loved him in a way that made his chest ache. God, I love him so much, he thought, almost dizzy with it. I want this every day. I want him every day.

His throat worked like he might say it, might blurt it out right there, but the words stuck. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. He’d wait until he could get them out without sobbing, until he could make Gi-hun hear how much he meant it.

Gi-hun kissed his hip softly, then dragged his mouth up over his stomach, leaving a wet trail before catching Sang-woo’s face in one big, steady hand.

“Okay,” he murmured, low and sure, his forehead brushing Sang-woo’s. “I’ve got you. Always.”

His other hand slid back between Sang-woo’s thighs, fingers pressing in again — slow, deliberate, stretching him until Sang-woo gasped. Gi-hun watched his face the whole time, catching every twitch, every flinch, waiting until he felt him start to give way under his touch.

“That’s it,” Gi-hun whispered, voice breaking rough with awe. “Taking my fingers so well. I can tell.how much your body wants this.”

He didn’t look away as he shifted lower, lips parting as he took Sang-woo into his mouth, swallowing him down like a man starved. His free hand kept working inside him, curling just enough to make Sang-woo jerk.

Sang-woo let out a broken, half-strangled sound, his hand flying to Gi-hun’s hair, clutching tight.

Gi-hun caught the wrist, pressed it down gently against Sang-woo’s stomach. “Let go for me,” he said, voice so soft it nearly undid him. Then he swallowed him down again, deeper this time, fingers crooking right against that spot that made Sang-woo’s whole body seize.

The combination was too much — Sang-woo sobbed as release hit him hard and he shattered, his back arching, clenching so hard around Gi-hun’s fingers that Gi-hun groaned around him, the sound vibrating through him.

Gi-hun stayed there, mouth full, swallowing every last drop, refusing to pull away until Sang-woo was nothing but a trembling, tear-streaked mess beneath him. Only then did he let go, licking him clean in slow, unhurried passes that felt almost obscene in their tenderness.

Gi-hun gently unpinned Sang-woo’s wrist and pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of it, right over the frantic pulse there, before guiding his hand to rest flat against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked softly, brushing the damp hair off Sang-woo’s forehead with careful fingers.

Sang-woo nodded, a faint, shaky thing, still dazed — his body felt loose and foreign, like he’d been taken apart and put back together in a way that didn’t quite make sense yet.

Gi-hun kissed the corner of his eye, then his temple, staying close enough that Sang-woo could feel the warmth of his breath. He’s letting me see him like this, Gi-hun thought, chest tight with something fierce and sweet. No one else ever has. I’m going to take care of every piece of him.

“Good,” Gi-hun murmured against his skin, kissing him again, slow and grounding, until Sang-woo’s breathing evened out. “Don’t move. Just let me take care of you.”

He reached for the lotion on the nightstand, warming it between his palms until it was slick and hot, then shifted lower on the bed.

Gi-hun started at Sang-woo’s calves, his big hands sliding over them, kneading until the muscles unlocked beneath his thumbs. He didn’t rush, just stayed with him, coaxing the tension out inch by inch.

When he moved lower and pressed into the arches of his feet, Sang-woo let out a startled, helpless sound that made Gi-hun smile softly to himself.

He worked his way slowly back up — over the backs of Sang-woo’s knees, along the length of his thighs, up to his hips and lower back — until Sang-woo’s whole body felt heavy, boneless, sinking into the mattress like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

No one’s ever done this for me, Sang-woo thought, throat aching. No one’s ever even wanted to. The realization pressed against something deep in him, almost painful. It was too much — too good — to just lie there and let someone touch him like this, with no expectation except to make him feel better.

I don’t know how to do this, he admitted to himself, staring at the blanket bunched under his cheek. I’ve never known how to just… let go. To be soft. To be someone’s to take care of.

Gi-hun’s thumbs pressed into the dip of his lower back, and something uncoiled inside him with a shiver. But I want to,Sang-woo thought suddenly, fiercely. God, I want to. I want to let him have me like this. All of me. Every piece I never let anyone touch.

And just as quickly as the want hit, so did the fear. What if this goes away? The thought gripped him, sharp and panicked. What if this is the last time I get this? What if I lose him?

Gi-hun must have felt the tension ripple through him because his hands stilled. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning down so his breath warmed the back of Sang-woo’s neck. “You’re okay, stay with me. I’m right here.”

His hands smoothed over Sang-woo’s sides, broad and steady, like he could press the reassurance straight into his skin. “Just breathe for me,” Gi-hun whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Sang-woo exhaled, shaky but real, letting some of the panic drain out of him with it. I’m not going to lose this, he told himself fiercely, gripping the blanket in both hands. Not him. Not this. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it.

Gi-hun felt the change, the way Sang-woo’s body slowly softened under his hands again. He bent close, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“That’s it,” Gi-hun murmured, voice low and dark. “Good boy. My perfect baby. You look so sweet like this — laid out for me, letting me do whatever I want.”

Sang-woo shivered hard, a broken sound catching in his throat. Heat flared low in his belly, filthy and achingly good, because it was true — he was laid out, letting Gi-hun touch every inch of him, and he wanted it, wanted more.

Gi-hun’s hands never stopped moving, slow and deliberate, like he had nowhere else to be — like this was the only thing that mattered. His voice stayed low at Sang-woo’s ear, warm and rough.

“You have no idea what it does to me, seeing you like this,” he whispered, each word sinking into Sang-woo’s skin. He pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the side of Sang-woo’s neck, sucking lightly before closing his teeth there just enough to make Sang-woo gasp and arch.

“You’re mine like this,” Gi-hun murmured against his throat, voice almost reverent. “Every inch of you. All mine.”

Sang-woo swallowed hard, pulse hammering under Gi-hun’s mouth. God, I want to be, he thought helplessly. I want to be his so bad it hurts.

Gi-hun soothed the bite with his tongue, then kept going, slow and thorough — kneading down the long lines of his back, over his shoulders, his arms, tracing the curve of each rib. His big hands swept lower, down to his solid thighs, coaxing every last bit of tension from his body.

Little by little, the coiled heat in Sang-woo’s belly melted, replaced by something bone-deep and heavy while he lay face down on the mattress with his head turned to the side. His breaths came slower, longer, until each exhale left him more pliant under Gi-hun’s hands.

Gi-hun watched him soften, felt his weight sink into the mattress, and something deep inside him ached — sweet and sharp at the same time. God, look at you, Gi-hun thought, chest tight. Letting go like this. Letting me be the one to hold you together. Trusting me. 

He pressed one last kiss to the nape of Sang-woo’s neck and whispered, “That’s it. Let go. Sleep, baby.”

And Sang-woo did.

Gi-hun tugged the blanket up over him, then carefully coaxed Sang-woo onto his side. “C’mere,” he murmured, guiding him until he was curled comfortably.

He slid in behind him, fitting their bodies together, sharing the same pillow so his nose brushed the back of Sang-woo’s hair. He breathed him in, slow and steady, one hand spread warm over his stomach — not holding him down, just holding him close, making him feel safe.

Feels like more than sex, Gi-hun thought, staring at the dark. Feels like I’m keeping him. Like I get to keep him.

His thumb stroked absently over Sang-woo’s stomach, grounding himself in the simple fact that he was here, that Sang-woo was letting him stay.

A few minutes later, Sang-woo stirred, not fully waking — just enough to press back into Gi-hun’s chest, seeking him out even in sleep.

“Gi-hun…” he mumbled, barely audible.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Gi-hun whispered into his hair, giving him a gentle squeeze before loosening his hold, letting him breathe.

Sang-woo made a soft, unguarded sound — almost a hum — and went completely slack, surrendering to sleep with Gi-hun’s hand still resting over him like a vow.

Gi-hun stayed awake a little longer, breathing him in, feeling his weight and warmth. Mine, he thought fiercely, the word echoing in his chest like a promise. Mine, and I’m never letting him go.

Sometime in the night, Sang-woo stirred. The room was quiet, washed in the faint glow of the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. For a moment he just lay there, warm and safe, the weight of Gi-hun’s arm draped heavy over his stomach.

Then memory came crashing back — the car, the way Gi-hun had touched him like he owned him, the bed, Gi-hun’s mouth, Gi-hun’s fingers, the slow, steady massage that had wrung him out until he couldn’t stay awake anymore.

Mortification bloomed hot in his chest.

He tried to slip away, careful not to wake him, but Gi-hun murmured something low, sleep-thick, and tightened his hold, pulling him back flush against his chest.

“Hey,” Gi-hun said, voice rough from sleep. “Where are you going?”

Sang-woo froze, his face burning. “I… I can’t believe I fell asleep like that,” he said finally, his voice thin and tight. “While you were… doing all that.”

Gi-hun blinked his eyes open, slow, still fogged with sleep — and then he smiled, soft and devastatingly unguarded.

“You needed it,” he said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Sang-woo turned his face away, the heat in his cheeks unbearable.

Gi-hun reached up and touched his cheek, turning him gently back so he had to face him. “Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

Sang-woo did — reluctantly — and found Gi-hun looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

“I loved it,” Gi-hun said quietly, thumb brushing along his jaw. “You letting me do that. Letting me take care of you.”

Sang-woo’s throat worked. “No one’s ever… I’ve never—”

“I know,” Gi-hun murmured, his voice going low, reverent. “Good. Then I get to be the first.”

The words hit somewhere deep in Sang-woo’s chest, making it ache. Gi-hun leaned in and kissed him, slow and steady, until Sang-woo melted against him and kissed back.

Then Gi-hun drew back just enough to frame Sang-woo’s face with both hands, holding him still so he couldn’t look away. His eyes were clear now, wide awake, shining in the dim light.

“I love you,” Gi-hun said, steady and sure, like he was swearing an oath right into Sang-woo’s skin.

Sang-woo froze, his heart thudding so hard it almost hurt, caught in those dark, earnest eyes.

Gi-hun didn’t rush him. He just stayed there, holding Sang-woo’s face, thumbs stroking slow circles into his cheeks, patient in a way that made Sang-woo’s chest feel like it might split open.

Finally Sang-woo whispered, “I love you too.” The words cracked out of him, raw and unguarded.

Gi-hun’s whole face softened, breaking into a beautiful smile that was devastatingly tender. He kissed him again, deeper this time, never breaking the kiss as he reached down and rummaged on the nightstand for the box of condoms. 

Sang-woo’s hand shot out, covering Gi-hun’s wrist.

“No,” he said softly, almost shy but certain.

Gi-hun blinked at him, searching his face. “You’re sure?”

Sang-woo nodded once. “Yeah. I haven’t been with anyone in years. I trust you.” His throat worked. “I want to feel you. All of you."

Gi-hun’s chest tightened, something hot and aching blooming under his ribs. He leaned down and kissed him, slow and reverent, like he was sealing a promise.

“God, baby,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He slicked his fingers and carefully touched between Sang-woo’s thighs, checking. “Still okay?” Gi-hun asked softly, voice rough. “Want me to add more?”

Sang-woo flushed, breath catching, but his hips tilted forward just slightly, needy. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “I want you to fuck me. I need it — I can’t wait anymore. I’ve wanted you from the second I saw you, I need you."

Gi-hun froze for a heartbeat, staring down at him like the words had just knocked the air out of him. Then he cupped Sang-woo’s face in both hands and kissed him hard, deep and aching.

“I’ve wanted you too,” Gi-hun murmured against his mouth, voice cracking with honesty. “Since the very first second.”

He means it, Sang-woo thought, chest tight. He’s wanted me this whole time. He really wants me.

Gi-hun kissed him once more, softer this time, then lined himself up and pushed in slow — watching every flicker of expression on Sang-woo’s face, kissing him through the sting.

Sang-woo clutched at his shoulders, voice wrecked. “All the way,” he begged. “Please.”

Gi-hun groaned, forehead pressing to Sang-woo’s as he sank in until there was nothing left between them. He stayed there, buried deep, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe through how tight, how perfect Sang-woo felt around him.

“God, Sang-woo,” Gi-hun whispered against his mouth, voice gone hoarse. “You feel so good. Like you’re made for me.”

Sang-woo’s breath hitched, his nails dragging down Gi-hun’s back. “You’re—” His voice cracked, desperate and filthy. “You’re so fucking deep, Gi-hun. I can feel you everywhere.”

Gi-hun swore under his breath, kissing him hard. “Yeah? You love that?” he murmured, rolling his hips just enough to make Sang-woo cry out.

“Love it,” Sang-woo choked, legs locking tight around Gi-hun’s hips. “Love how big you are. Love how full you make me. Don’t stop—please don’t stop.”

Gi-hun’s breath stuttered, his whole body trembling. “God,” he groaned, almost disbelieving. “I’ve never felt anything like this before. You—” His voice broke on a laugh that was half a sob. “You’re going to kill me, baby.”

He started to move, slow and deep, kissing Sang-woo through every thrust. “Never stopping,” he promised, voice shaking. “Gonna give you everything.”

Sang-woo’s hands slid up into his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, the kind that left them both breathless. “Harder,” Sang-woo gasped against his mouth. “God, Gi-hun—harder.”

Gi-hun obeyed, setting a rhythm that was deep and claiming, groaning at every push. His voice went raw, cracking as he spoke between thrusts.

“I love you.”
Another thrust, harder. “I love you.”
Again, deeper. “I love you.”

The words came out like a prayer, every one punctuated by the slow, relentless slide of his hips until Sang-woo was sobbing, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“Inside,” Sang-woo gasped suddenly, desperate, clinging to him. “Please—don’t pull out. I want it. Want to feel you—” His voice broke into another sob. “Fill me, Gi-hun. Please.”

Something in Gi-hun shattered at that, his vision blurring with sudden tears. “God, baby,” he choked, his hips stuttering. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He thrust harder, rougher, his breath breaking against Sang-woo’s mouth. “I love you,” he groaned, over and over, each word coming out like he was bleeding it into the space between them.

Sang-woo clutched him closer, legs locking tight around his hips as he came hard. “Give it to me,” he begged, voice raw. “I want all of you. Fill me up."

Gi-hun sobbed as he buried himself to the hilt and came with a hoarse, wrecked shout, pressing Sang-woo down into the mattress like he could fuse them together. Tears ran hot down his cheeks and dripped onto Sang-woo’s skin, mixing with sweat.

He stayed there, still shaking, still inside, forehead pressed hard to Sang-woo’s as if he could anchor himself there forever.

“I never want to pull out,” Gi-hun whispered, voice breaking. “I want to stay inside you forever.”

Sang-woo’s fingers flexed against his back, nails dragging lightly down his spine. “Then stay,” he said hoarsely, meeting his eyes. “Please—don’t leave me. Not yet. Just stay.”

Gi-hun’s breath caught, his throat working as more tears threatened. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, kissing him again, slow and reverent.

He kept kissing him, over and over, until their mouths went slack and they were just breathing each other in.

Finally, Gi-hun pulled back just enough to look at him — really look at him — his face wet, his expression open and unguarded in a way that made Sang-woo’s chest ache.

“I want to grow old with you,” Gi-hun said, the words shaking but sure. “Every day, every year. I want to wake up next to you until we’re gray and wrinkled. I want every holiday. I want all of it — all of you — for as long as I can have you, as long as you'll let me.”

Sang-woo’s breath hitched, another tear slipping free, but this one didn’t feel like breaking — it felt like coming home.

“You can have me,” Sang-woo whispered, voice wrecked. “You already do.”

Gi-hun kissed him slow, lingering, sealing it like a vow.

“You’re everything,” Gi-hun murmured, his voice raw but steady now. “Everything I ever wanted. Everything I’ll ever want.”

Sang-woo reached up with both hands, framing Gi-hun’s tear-streaked face. “You’re everything I want too,” he said, pulling him back down for one more long, salt-sweet kiss as Gi-hun stayed inside him, holding him like he never planned to let go.

They stayed that way until the tremors in their bodies faded and their breathing synced. Gi-hun shifted just enough to curl them under the blanket, still buried deep inside him, and wrapped both arms around Sang-woo like he was something precious.

“Don’t pull out,” Sang-woo whispered drowsily against his shoulder. “Just… stay.”

Gi-hun’s heart twisted, his arms tightening as if to promise he would. “I’ll stay,” he whispered back. “All night. As long as you want.”

When morning came, Sang-woo stirred to find Gi-hun still there, still wrapped around him — and still inside him.

He shifted slightly, just enough to feel the slow stretch, and a soft, startled noise escaped him.

Gi-hun stirred at the sound, blinking awake, his voice rough from sleep. “Morning, baby.”

“You—” Sang-woo’s voice cracked, heat blooming in his chest. “You stayed inside.”

Gi-hun lifted his head just enough to look at him, hair mussed, eyes soft. “Told you I would,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over Sang-woo’s cheek. “Didn’t want to leave you. Not even for a second.”

Sang-woo hesitated, fingers tightening on Gi-hun’s shoulders, his body reluctant to let him go.

Gi-hun kissed his temple, lingering there for a long moment before pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “I want to take a bath with you,” he said quietly, almost shyly. His thumb traced along Sang-woo’s jaw. “Can I pull out? Only if you want me to. I’ll stay like this as long as you want.”

Sang-woo’s breath hitched, and for a moment he didn’t answer — his fingers tightening on Gi-hun’s shoulders, his body reluctant to let him go.

Finally he nodded, his voice soft. “Yeah. Okay.”

Gi-hun kissed him once more, slow and tender. “Thank you,” he whispered, like it was something precious, before easing out of him carefully.

Sang-woo shivered at the sudden emptiness, but before he could say anything, Gi-hun’s slick fingers were there, gentle but firm, pushing everything back in.

Sang-woo let out a raw, involuntary moan, his hips twitching back against Gi-hun’s hand, needy despite how sore he was.

Gi-hun groaned softly at the sight of it, pressing a kiss to Sang-woo’s temple. “Later, baby,” he promised, pulling his hand away but keeping his palm on Sang-woo’s hip, rubbing slow circles. “Right now I just want to take care of you.”

Gi-hun kissed him one last time in bed, then murmured, “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Sang-woo blinked, flushed and boneless, watching as Gi-hun stood and padded toward the bathroom. He heard the toilet flush, the faucet turn on — the soft sound of Gi-hun brushing his teeth.

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “What, planning on kissing me in there?” he called, voice hoarse but teasing.

Gi-hun’s voice floated back, warm and smug. “Obviously. Gotta be ready.”

Sang-woo rolled his eyes, but his chest felt hot.

A moment later came the rush of water filling the tub, Gi-hun’s quiet movements as he tested the temperature and adjusted the knobs until it was perfect.

When Gi-hun came back, his hair was slightly damp from leaning over the tub, his bare chest gleaming faintly with steam. “Bath’s ready,” he said softly, smiling down at him. “Stay put for one more minute — I’m grabbing us water and maybe some fruit.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sang-woo muttered, but his throat tightened at how careful it all was — how gentle.

Gi-hun just grinned, ducked into the kitchen, and returned a moment later with two bottles of water and a small bowl of strawberries balanced in one hand. “There,” he said, satisfied. “Now we won’t have to move for a while.”

He set everything on the counter, then came back and scooped Sang-woo up easily, princess-style, making Sang-woo sputter and cling to his shoulders. “Gi-hun—!”

“Relax,” Gi-hun teased, kissing the top of his head as he carried him toward the bathroom. “Let me spoil you for once.”

Sang-woo gave a small, incredulous snort. “That’s all you’ve been doing, babe.”

Gi-hun actually blushed at that, the tips of his ears going pink. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, grinning sheepishly as he adjusted his hold. “Guess I’m not stopping now.”

Sang-woo’s chest ached, but he didn’t fight him — didn’t fight any of it.

Gi-hun set him down just inside the bathroom and nodded toward the sink. “Go ahead if you need to — I’ll grab towels.”

Sang-woo muttered something under his breath about how weirdly domestic this all was, but he did as he was told — using the toilet quickly, then brushing his teeth. He caught Gi-hun watching him in the mirror, smiling faintly, and his ears went hot.

By the time he rinsed and looked up, Gi-hun had the towels ready and was waiting, looking soft and stupidly fond.

Gi-hun helped him step into the steaming water, easing him down until he was settled and relaxed, back against the smooth edge.

Then Gi-hun climbed in behind him, pulling Sang-woo gently between his legs until his back rested against Gi-hun’s chest. The warmth of the water and Gi-hun’s body heat surrounded him all at once, and Sang-woo felt something deep in his spine finally unwind.

God help me, Sang-woo thought, staring at the steam curling off the surface of the water. This feels too good. Too normal. Like I could get used to this.

Gi-hun must have felt a shift, because he pressed a slow kiss to the back of Sang-woo’s neck and murmured, “Hey. You still with me?”

Sang-woo swallowed, nodded once.

Gi-hun’s arms tightened gently around him, steady as an anchor. “Good,” he whispered, his voice low and sure. “Don’t think so hard, baby. Just let me take care of you.”

Something in Sang-woo’s chest unclenched, and he let himself lean back, his full weight sinking against Gi-hun like he was meant to be there.

Gi-hun pressed a kiss to his temple. “Better?”

Sang-woo made a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a yes but wasn’t a no either, and Gi-hun smiled, reaching for the soap.

He washed Sang-woo with slow, reverent touches — down his arms, over his chest, his stomach, each thigh — unhurried, grounding, like it wasn’t just about cleaning him but cherishing every part of him.

Sang-woo closed his eyes and let himself be handled, breathing slow. He had never in his life been cared for like this.

Gi-hun set the soap aside, rinsed him gently, and then kissed his shoulder. “Want to feel good again?” he murmured against his damp skin.

Sang-woo nodded before he could think about it, and Gi-hun’s hand slid lower, between his thighs, stroking him slow until Sang-woo was shivering and hard under the water.

What started slow turned filthy fast. Sang-woo twisted, straddling him, taking control, and Gi-hun looked wrecked already — hair damp, lips parted, pupils blown.

“Want to bend you over the bed,” Sang-woo panted, voice rough, “want to fuck you until you can’t walk. Until you’re dripping down your thighs the way you make me—”

Gi-hun groaned, his hips jerking up like he couldn’t control it, water sloshing around them. “Fuck, baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked, breath hot against Sang-woo’s ear. “I want that. I want you to ruin me. Mark me up so no one else will even lookat me. Bite me, scratch me, tie me down and fuck me until I’m begging, until I can’t talk, and still don’t let me go.”

Something low and feral tore out of Sang-woo’s chest. He grabbed Gi-hun’s jaw, kissed him hard enough to bruise, then made good on the threat, biting into his neck and sucking dark bruises into his skin until Gi-hun’s head hit the edge of the tub with a broken groan.

“Yes,” Gi-hun gasped, clutching at Sang-woo’s hips. “God, yes. Make me yours. Please.”

Sang-woo didn’t stop. He worked his way down Gi-hun’s throat, shoulders, and collarbones, biting and sucking until Gi-hun was panting and almost shaking, his chest rising and falling fast.

“That’s it, baby,” Gi-hun managed, voice rough and almost reverent. “Claim me. All of me.”

Sang-woo bit him again, harder, leaving a mark that would take days to fade.

Gi-hun’s head tipped back, throat bared, lips parted as he whispered hoarsely, “Thank you.”

The words hit Sang-woo like a punch to the gut, sharp and dizzying. For a moment he just stared, stunned that Gi-hun could sound grateful for something this filthy. Then something in him snapped.

“Thank me?” Sang-woo growled, grabbing Gi-hun’s chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. “You want more that bad?”

Gi-hun nodded, breathless, pupils blown. “Yes. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

A sound tore out of Sang-woo’s chest, half snarl and half groan, and he bit him again, rougher this time, marking him until Gi-hun was groaning helplessly, clutching at him like he would drown without him.

When he finally leaned back to admire his work, Gi-hun was shaking, pupils blown wide.

“Now everyone’s gonna know who you belong to,” Sang-woo said, voice dark and certain.

Gi-hun groaned, clutching him tighter. “Yeah, baby. God, yes. I’m yours. All yours. I’d do anything you wanted. Just keep me. Please—”

Sang-woo lined him up and sank down hard, taking him in one desperate motion.

“FUCK!” Gi-hun shouted, head slamming back against the tile.

Sang-woo rode him hard, water splashing violently, until Gi-hun was babbling, saying things he’d never admit otherwise — “I jerk off thinking about you, about this, about your sexy body. I'm so fucking obsessed with you—” — and Sang-woo was biting him again, growling “Stay obsessed. Stay mine.”

Gi-hun’s hands clutched his hips, nails digging in. “Forever,” he gasped. “You’re mine forever — I’ll fucking die if you’re not.”

Sang-woo’s breath hitched, his rhythm almost faltering. “You better mean that,” he growled, slamming back down. “Forever. If you ever leave me, I’ll lose my fucking mind.”

Gi-hun groaned, wrecked. “I’d never leave you. Fucking never. I love you, Sang-woo. God, I love you so much.”

Sang-woo kissed him hard, biting his lip, and then Gi-hun lost it — started driving up into him frantically, desperate to get them both there together.

“Come with me,” Gi-hun begged, voice breaking. “Please, baby—”

Sang-woo screamed when Gi-hun’s hand wrapped around him, stroking him in time with every thrust.

They came together, gasping, water sloshing everywhere. Gi-hun spilled deep inside him as Sang-woo painted the water, both of them shaking so hard it left them gasping and clinging to each other.

Gi-hun pressed frantic kisses to his face, his hair, whispering, “I love you, I love you—” until Sang-woo’s hoarse voice whispered it back.

They stayed in the bath until the water started cooling, both breathing hard, holding each other. Gi-hun finally murmured, “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”

He helped Sang-woo out, blotted him gently with a towel, kissing every mark he’d left. Then came the shower, slow and reverent, Gi-hun washing him like he was sacred.

When they were both dry, Gi-hun guided him to the armchair in the corner of the bedroom and set him down.

“What are you doing?” Sang-woo asked, still dazed. “I can help—”

“No,” Gi-hun said gently, pulling on loose grey sweatpants but leaving his chest bare. “Just sit there and let me take care of it.”

Sang-woo could only stare as Gi-hun stripped the bed, replaced the sheets, fluffed the pillows, and made everything fresh. By the time he was done, Sang-woo’s chest hurt from how stupidly soft it all felt.

Gi-hun scooped him back up, carried him to the bed, and slid them both under the cool sheets. Sang-woo immediately curled into his chest, pressing his face to Gi-hun’s bruised throat like he wanted to claim him all over again.

Gi-hun stroked his back and murmured, “Sleep. I’ve got you. I love you so much.”

And this time, Sang-woo did — warm, safe, held....and loved. 

Chapter Text

Sang-woo woke to stillness — warm, quiet, almost too much.

Gi-hun was wrapped around him, arm slung over his waist like he’d been holding on all night, their legs tangled under the blanket. His chest rose and fell steady against Sang-woo’s back, his breath warm against the back of his neck.

He lay there for a long moment, staring at the pale slice of light coming through the curtains, letting himself feel it. The weight. The warmth. The safety.

Last night came back to him in flashes — Gi-hun’s mouth on his throat, his hands braced on either side of Sang-woo’s head, his voice rough and certain when he’d said it for the first time: I love you.

It had felt like the world had tilted then. Like everything had changed.

But this morning—

Gi-hun stirred behind him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before murmuring against his skin, voice still rough with sleep but casual, easy, like a fact:

“I love you. I’ll always love you, Sang-woo.”

Just like that.

No hesitation. No urgency. Just said like the sky was blue, like the sun was up, like this was the simplest, truest thing in the world.

Sang-woo’s breath hitched.

It hit harder than last night — not because it was more intense, but because it was simple. Certain.

Like Gi-hun planned to say it every morning for the rest of their lives.

He turned onto his back to look at him, chest tight, and found Gi-hun watching him through half-lidded eyes, smiling slow and lazy like he’d been waiting for Sang-woo to turn around.

“You can’t just say that like it’s nothing,” Sang-woo said, but it came out rougher than he meant.

Gi-hun’s grin only softened. “It’s not nothing,” he said. “That’s why I’m going to say it every single day. And then some. Until you never forget it.”

Something cracked open in Sang-woo’s chest, sharp and hot.

“You could break me,” he said before he could stop himself, the words ragged.

Gi-hun froze — then reached up, cupping his face, thumb brushing along his cheek like he was steadying him. “I won’t,” he said simply, his voice gone soft but so certain it made Sang-woo’s throat tighten. “I couldn’t. All I want is to love you.”

Sang-woo swallowed hard, his hand fisting in the blanket between them.

“You have no idea,” he said, quieter now, “how hard it is to believe no one has taken you off the market already.”

Gi-hun blinked, surprised — but Sang-woo didn’t stop.

“This thing with you—” he gestured faintly between them, brushing his fingers over Gi-hun’s chest. “It’s too much. It feels like it’s swallowing me whole. And how has no one else ever seen this? How has no one realized how perfect you are?”

Gi-hun just stared at him, like the words had knocked the air out of him.

“You’re everything,” Sang-woo said, voice steady now. “I don’t understand how you’ve been walking around all this time without ruining everyone who looks at you.”

Gi-hun let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh — not mocking, just undone. “You really think that?”

“Yes,” Sang-woo said without hesitation.

Gi-hun’s grin went softer, gentler — almost sad. “You want the truth? I wasn’t always this guy. I used to be selfish, careless. A little bit of a dirtbag, honestly.”

Sang-woo frowned faintly, trying to reconcile that with the man holding him now.

Gi-hun brushed his thumb over Sang-woo’s cheek, his voice quieter now. “That’s why I got a divorce. Not because Eun-ji did anything wrong. She didn’t. She deserved better than the man I was back then. And so did Ga-yeong. I changed too late to save my marriage.”

The words landed in Sang-woo’s chest like a weight, heavy but steady, grounding him.

He hadn’t even realized how much of him had been braced for this to be temporary, always waiting for the moment Gi-hun might pull away or change his mind.

But hearing Gi-hun admit his marriage ended because she deserved better, and after he wanted to become the man he should have been, told Sang-woo everything he needed to know.

Gi-hun wasn’t careless with his love. He wasn’t here out of convenience. He was here because he chose this, because he chose him, and because he would keep choosing him.

Sang-woo felt his whole body go slack, as if he hadn’t realized until now how tightly he’d been holding himself together.

Gi-hun smiled faintly, still watching him. “I had to get my shit together. Had to grow up. And I’m glad I did, because you deserve the best version of me, not the half-assed one.”

Sang-woo’s breath came rough and uneven. He grabbed Gi-hun’s shirt and kissed him hard, almost desperate, trying to swallow down the sharp ache that had built in his chest.

Gi-hun kissed him back slow and steady, his other hand cradling the back of Sang-woo’s head like he never planned to let go.

When they finally broke apart, Gi-hun pressed their foreheads together, breathing him in.

“You deserve someone who shows up every single day,” Gi-hun murmured. “That’s who I’m gonna be. For you. For both the girls. Always.”

Sang-woo’s chest ached, but for once he didn’t try to pull away from it. His hand came up almost without him thinking, fisting lightly in the front of Gi-hun’s shirt like he needed to hold on to something solid.

“Good,” he said quietly, the words steady despite the heat creeping up his throat. “Because I think you might have ruined me for anyone else.”

Gi-hun’s grin curved slow, his thumb brushing over Sang-woo’s jaw with a touch that was tender but carried just the smallest hint of smugness. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Guess that makes us even.”

A quiet laugh slipped out of Sang-woo as he shook his head, still clutching the front of Gi-hun’s shirt like he couldn’t quite make himself let go. He leaned up and kissed him again, slower this time, deliberate, like he was testing how it felt to actually trust this, to trust him.

Gi-hun kissed him back with the same unhurried warmth, then drew back just far enough to grin down at him, boyish and devastatingly tender. “Come on,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from Sang-woo’s forehead with a touch that made his chest ache. “Let’s get brunch before my baby gets hungry.”

Sang-woo groaned and buried his face against Gi-hun’s shoulder to hide the smile threatening to break across his face. “You’re impossible.”

Gi-hun’s laugh was soft and full of affection as he pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Too bad. You’re stuck with me.”

And God help him, Sang-woo realized, he didn’t hate the sound of that one bit.

Sang-woo was fastening the last button on his cuff when he caught movement in the mirror. Gi-hun was at his closet, thumbing through hangers like he had every right to be there.

“Don’t you dare,” Sang-woo started, but his voice cut off when Gi-hun pulled a pale blue button-down from the rack and shrugged into it.

He moved slow and deliberate, fully aware of the way Sang-woo’s eyes tracked him. The shirt settled over his shoulders, pulling just enough across his chest to make Sang-woo notice how solid he really was.

Gi-hun was built broad through the shoulders and arms, strength carved by years of real work rather than polished gym routines, and still narrow at the waist. It was that rare, striking build that made the shirt drape just right. He rolled the sleeves up to his forearms, buttoned only enough to be considered dressed, and left the top three undone.

The open collar framed a constellation of bruises, teeth-shaped and fingertip-dark, scattered down his throat and across his collarbones. Sang-woo’s stomach flipped hard at the sight, and for a moment he just stared. Morning light caught every mark, turning them into proof — proof that Gi-hun was his, that last night hadn’t been some fever dream.

Heat shot through him so sharply it made his pulse pound. His hands clenched against his thighs, nails biting into the fabric of his slacks. He wanted to touch every mark, wanted to put more of them there, wanted everyone to see.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, trying not to look as undone as he felt. “You just took my shirt.”

Gi-hun looked back over his shoulder, his smirk slow and self-satisfied. “What, you gonna stop me?”

Sang-woo swallowed, heat sparking low in his gut. “You’re—” His voice came out rough. “You’re impossible.”

Gi-hun crossed the room, caught his chin between two fingers, and kissed him quick and smug. “You love it.”

Sang-woo’s breath shuddered out. “I do,” he admitted before he could stop himself. “Seeing you like this—” His voice dropped. “—turns me on so much it’s stupid.”

Gi-hun grinned wide, wicked and proud. “Good. Then I’m wearing it all day.”

By the time they left, Sang-woo’s body was still humming, his pulse refusing to settle. Walking into the café only cranked it higher.

Gi-hun looked almost indecent like this — shirt clinging to his chest, hanging loose over his narrow waist, sleeves rolled, collar open so that every mark from last night stood out in the soft morning light. They weren’t subtle; they were impossible to miss.

And people noticed.

Sang-woo caught the woman at the counter glancing twice, saw the man by the window follow Gi-hun with his eyes, saw the server’s mouth curve into a knowing little smile when she handed over their menus.

They weren’t just looking because Gi-hun was handsome.

They were looking because they knew exactly what those bruises meant.

Heat shot through Sang-woo, hot and sharp, making his jaw tighten and his fingers flex at his side.

Gi-hun caught his eye, grin lazy and shameless, and leaned close enough that Sang-woo could feel his breath against his ear. “Relax,” he murmured, tone wicked. “Not my fault everyone can tell you ruined me.”

Sang-woo’s ears went hot, and he had to bite back the urge to drag him out of there right then.

Before Sang-woo could answer Gi-hun’s teasing, a bright, familiar voice carried across the café.

“Cho Sang-woo!”

He turned instinctively toward the windows, startled, and there was Eun-hee, standing near a booth with one hand raised, walking over to meet them. Her smile was wide and delighted, and something in Sang-woo’s chest unknotted just seeing it.

“It’s been weeks!” she said as soon as they reached her, pulling him into a hug that smelled faintly of her floral perfume. Her warmth was so easy, so genuine, that it almost startled him. “I miss seeing you. You never come down to our floor anymore!”

“I’m busy running the company,” Sang-woo said, dry as ever, but there was the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re the only person people actually miss seeing,” she teased with a grin. “When Dae-ho told everyone about this mysterious Gi-hun of yours, he was so excited he practically turned it into a company-wide announcement with pictures. The whole floor was thrilled for you.”

Instead of irritation, what Sang-woo felt was something softer, quieter. Dae-ho was loud and overeager sometimes, but loyal to his core — and the thought of his entire company buzzing with excitement for him left something warm and unguarded blooming in his chest.

“That sounds like him,” Sang-woo said at last, the faintest trace of fondness slipping into his voice.

Eun-hee’s gaze slid to Gi-hun, and her smile widened even more. “And this must be him,” she said, sounding delighted.

“This is Gi-hun,” Sang-woo confirmed. His voice stayed even, but pride curled warm in his chest at saying it out loud.

Gi-hun stepped forward before Eun-hee could offer her hand, taking it gently and flashing her a grin that was warm enough to light the whole room. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “It’s really nice to finally meet you.”

Eun-hee’s face brightened, clearly charmed. “Well, now I see why everyone’s been talking about you,” she said with a laugh.

Sang-woo watched them, something tightening in his chest before it loosened again, leaving him oddly light. It was ridiculous how easily Gi-hun fit into moments like this, how quickly he won people over. And God, it made something in Sang-woo unclench in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Finally I've gotten to meet you!” Eun-hee said with a delighted grin. “You’re even cuter than we pictured. Come sit with me and my husband. We haven’t even ordered yet.”

Sang-woo opened his mouth to agree — and that was when he saw the man sitting at their table.

Hwang In-ho.

His stomach dropped so hard it nearly knocked the air out of him.

Sang-woo knew her husband's name was In-ho, but he didn't put it together until now. 

Gi-hun’s hand brushed against his and threaded through, squeezing gently, steadying him before his chest could go tight. “Breathe,” Gi-hun murmured low.

When they reached the table, In-ho stood politely. “Sang-woo. Gi-hun.”

“Principal Hwang,” Sang-woo said, clipped but civil.

“You two know each other?” Eun-hee asked, looking between them curiously.

“Their daughters go to Daehan Academy,” In-ho said evenly, no tension in his voice this time, just calm acknowledgment.

“That’s wild,” Eun-hee said brightly. “Come on, sit — there’s plenty of room.”

They slid into chairs on the other side of the table. Gi-hun leaned back immediately, the shirt gaping wider so every bruise stood out in the sunlight. People noticed here too — a couple at a nearby table whispered to each other, and Sang-woo caught the flash of someone’s raised brows when they spotted the marks.

Gi-hun only looked more satisfied, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against Sang-woo’s knee under the table as though daring him to do something about it.

Menus came, orders were placed — omelets for Sang-woo, pancakes and bacon for Gi-hun, a pastry plate for the table when Eun-hee insisted they all share. By the time coffee arrived, Eun-hee was already catching Sang-woo up on gossip from his own company floor.

“You have no idea how much we talk about you,” she said to Gi-hun with a conspiratorial grin. “Our scary, brilliant owner finally has a boyfriend. It's about damn time. We’ve been dying to meet you.”

Gi-hun grinned, leaning back so the open collar framed him even more shamelessly. “Glad I lived up to the hype.”

“You did,” she said, mock-serious. “Honestly, you two should come out with us sometime. Double date, rooftop wine bar, whatever — it’d be so fun.”

Sang-woo’s ears went hot, but Gi-hun’s grin widened. “Sounds like a plan. You up for that, babe?”

“We’ll see,” Sang-woo muttered, though his lips twitched in spite of himself.

Their food came, filling the table with the smell of butter and coffee. Gi-hun stole a strip of bacon from Sang-woo’s plate, earning a glare that wasn’t nearly as sharp as it should’ve been. Eun-hee just laughed, her face warm.

In-ho wrapped both hands around his coffee cup and let the heat seep into his palms, anchoring him in place. Beside him, Eun-hee was glowing, teasing Sang-woo and Gi-hun like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Gi-hun leaned back against the booth like he owned the space, shirt open just enough that the bruises scattered across his throat and collarbones were framed perfectly in the morning light. They weren’t subtle. They were proof, clear as day, and impossible to miss.

For one sharp, disorienting moment, heat shot through In-ho, an image flashing unbidden across his mind — Gi-hun flat on his back, Sang-woo over him, leaving those marks one by one.

The thought hit so hard it nearly made him flinch. He dragged in a slow, deliberate breath, holding it until the burn in his chest dulled.

He had always suspected, in the quiet corners of his mind, that he might be bi. Women had been easier, safer, exactly what everyone expected of him. There had never been space to explore anything else with the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down on him.

And then Sang-woo had walked into his life.

Sharp. Brilliant. Impossible to ignore. He radiates something In-ho had never seen before in someone. Something about him had dragged every buried thought to the surface until it became unbearable. And one night — when no one else was around, when there was nothing stopping him except his own better judgment — he had crossed a line.

The kiss had lasted seconds. The punch had been fast and clean, his jaw aching for days.

Even now, the memory burned. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was regret so deep it lodged under his ribs, the kind that kept him awake some nights replaying it over and over.

If he had known Sang-woo was with Gi-hun, he never would have done it, even if that made him a hypocrite, married as he was. That choice had been the dumbest thing he had ever done in his entire life, and there was no excuse for it. Maybe he had been having some quiet, unacknowledged midlife crisis, maybe part of him had been trying to test what he was capable of. None of it justified hurting the person who mattered most to him.

He glanced at Eun-hee now, her hand resting casually on the table beside his, and something in him settled. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, steady and brilliant and full of light, and he knew without a doubt that she was where he was meant to be. He had never cheated on her before that night, not once since the day they started dating, and he swore silently he would never let himself make a mistake like that again.

But now, watching Sang-woo sit close to Gi-hun, letting himself be touched and kept and claimed so openly, something inside In-ho finally eased. It was like an ache he had been carrying for years finally went quiet.

He loved Eun-hee. God, he loved her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him — warm and clever, fiercely loyal, the kind of person who could light up a room and call him on his bullshit in the same breath.

He never would have left her. Not for anyone. And thinking about it now, he didn’t even know what he had been looking for the night he crossed that line with Sang-woo. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been worth it, not compared to the life he had, not compared to her.

And he wasn’t going to hurt her again. She was more than he deserved, and he refused to risk the life they had built for a fleeting fantasy, for a what-if that could never be.

He drew in a slow, steadying breath, then reached under the table until his fingers found hers. She turned toward him, smiling, bright and unguarded.

Something in his chest eased as he smiled back, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something solid and steady lock into place inside him. This would stay his secret, but he would carry it as a reminder — to choose her, every day, with his words, his actions, and the kind of man he wanted to be.

Sang-woo felt the difference immediately. For the first time since that night, In-ho wasn’t looking at him with hunger or challenge. There was no sharp edge left, only quiet remorse and, unexpectedly, respect.

When the plates were nearly cleared, Sang-woo reached for his wallet out of habit, but the server stopped him with a polite smile.

“It’s already been taken care of,” she said, nodding toward In-ho, who gave a small, courteous tilt of his head before turning back to Eun-hee’s conversation. No smugness, no lingering look. Just quiet, deliberate respect.

Something in Sang-woo’s chest went warm at that. Not forgiveness exactly, but closure.

Outside, the air was bright and cool, sharp enough to raise goosebumps on Sang-woo’s arms. Gi-hun laced their fingers together the second they hit the street and tugged him closer, his grin downright wicked.

“You were practically vibrating in there,” he murmured, voice low and full of heat. “God, you keep looking at me like that and we’re not making it to dinner.”

Sang-woo’s ears went hot, but his mouth still curved. “You wore that shirt on purpose,” he accused, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Gi-hun’s grin widened, pure sin. “Yeah. And everyone knew exactly what those bruises were from.”

Sang-woo shot him a look that was half warning, half hungry. “You’re impossible.”

Gi-hun leaned down and kissed him right there on the sidewalk, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that made Sang-woo’s knees threaten to give. “And you love it,” Gi-hun breathed against his mouth, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

God help him, he did.

The thought of every person in that café knowing exactly what Gi-hun had let him do last night sent a sharp thrill through him, heat curling low in his stomach. He didn’t answer, just squeezed Gi-hun’s hand tighter and tugged him toward the car, pulse pounding. The knot in his chest was gone, replaced by something far hotter, far hungrier.

Chapter Text

By the time they got back to Sang-woo’s apartment, the sun was low, flooding the space in molten gold. The air between them wasn’t just warm anymore — it was heavy, thrumming with tension, daring one of them to break first.

Gi-hun didn’t even let the door finish closing before he was on him, kissing him messy and hungry, hands yanking at Sang-woo’s shirt like he needed him bare right now.

Sang-woo’s back hit the door, his own hands sliding under Gi-hun’s open collar, fingers digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders.

Gi-hun broke the kiss just long enough to rasp against his mouth, voice filthy and wild. “I want you to ruin me. Hold me down. Make me beg. Face-fuck me until I can’t breathe, then fuck me so hard I feel it every time I sit down for the next week. I want everyone to see me and know I’m yours.”

The words hit Sang-woo like gasoline to an open flame.

He growled, spun them, and shoved Gi-hun toward the couch. They landed hard, Gi-hun grinning breathlessly, already spreading his legs wide.

Sang-woo dragged Gi-hun’s shirt open, thumb pressing down on one of the dark bruises littering his chest, and Gi-hun moaned — loud, wrecked — his head tipping back, hips jerking up.

“Oh, fuck, that hurts,” Gi-hun gasped, and Sang-woo started to ease up — until Gi-hun grabbed his wrist in both hands, desperate.

“No,” he begged, voice ragged. “Harder. Make it hurt. I want to feel you every time I move. I want to see myself in the mirror tomorrow and know you did that to me.”

Sang-woo’s restraint shattered. He pressed harder, dragging his thumb across the bruise until Gi-hun was whining under him, hips grinding helplessly against Sang-woo’s thigh.

“That’s it,” Gi-hun groaned, clutching at the cushions. “Don’t stop. Fuck, make me yours.”

Sang-woo bent and bit his throat, hard enough to leave teeth marks, then sucked until the skin went dark under his mouth.

Gi-hun’s back arched, a broken sound spilling out of him. “Yes,” he gasped, “fuck, yes—more.”

Sang-woo’s hand was at his belt, yanking it loose, mouth moving down to leave another mark over Gi-hun’s collarbone—

And then Gi-hun’s phone buzzed.

The sound was so sharp it felt like a slap.

Gi-hun cursed, fumbling it out with shaking fingers, even as Sang-woo kept mouthing at his neck like he meant to finish what he started.

“H-hello?” Gi-hun said, voice hoarse.

Mal-soon’s worried voice spilled through the line, saying Ga-yeong had woken from a nightmare, crying until she made herself sick and was begging for him.

Gi-hun’s face softened, guilt cutting through the haze, and he cupped Sang-woo’s jaw to still him.

“I’ll be there soon,” he said quietly, then hung up.

For a moment he just sat there, breathing hard, staring up at Sang-woo like he wanted to devour him — then dragged him down for one last kiss, deep and lingering, before forcing himself to stand.

“Can I borrow a hoodie?” he asked as he buttoned his shirt with unsteady fingers, glancing at the mirror and the constellation of bruises scattered across his throat and chest. They were dark, fresh, exactly where Sang-woo had put them.

“I don’t care who else sees,” he added, voice low. “Let them stare if they want. But I don’t want Ga-yeong or Seo-hyun asking questions.”

Sang-woo’s chest ached at that — not just because Gi-hun cared about the girls, but because the sight of him like this, marked and wrecked, made heat shoot straight to his gut.

The bruises looked even darker now, stark against Gi-hun’s skin, crawling up his throat like a secret Sang-woo had carved into him. He wanted to drag him back down and put more there.

“Yeah,” Sang-woo said quietly, turning to grab a hoodie from the closet. He couldn’t help staring as Gi-hun tugged it on, the hood falling low over his damp hair.

God, he thought, pulse hammering. He looks even hotter covered up, like I’m the only one who knows what he looks like underneath.

Gi-hun caught him staring, smirked — but before he could get a word out, Sang-woo shoved him back against the door, hard enough to make it rattle.

His hand went straight to Gi-hun’s throat, thumb pressing over the deepest bruise.

“You’re mine,” Sang-woo growled right at his ear, voice rough enough to make Gi-hun shiver. Then he bit down on his earlobe and tugged, hard, until Gi-hun gasped and his hips snapped forward.

Before Gi-hun could catch his breath, Sang-woo’s other hand shoved into his sweats, stroking him hard enough to make him cry out.

Gi-hun’s head thunked back against the door, his hips grinding forward helplessly — and then Sang-woo’s touch slid lower, past his balls, tracing over the sensitive strip of skin before pressing a slick finger gently at his entrance.

Gi-hun didn’t just take it. He chased it, rocking back against Sang-woo’s hand, desperate.

“Look at you,” Sang-woo murmured, low and condescending, right at his ear. “Pathetic little slut can’t even wait for me, can you?”

Gi-hun groaned like the words broke him open, pushing back until the finger slid in deeper. “Don’t stop,” he begged, voice wrecked.

Sang-woo gave him a few more seconds — just enough to make Gi-hun start to shake — before pulling out, slow and deliberate. At the very last moment, his finger hooked slightly, tugging at the rim as he withdrew.

Gi-hun gasped — sharp, wrecked — his whole body jerking like he’d just been shocked.

Sang-woo’s hand didn’t leave him completely; it dragged back over his perineum and gripped him hard one last time, giving a punishing squeeze before finally pulling out of his sweats.

“Now you can go,” Sang-woo said, voice dark and satisfied.

Gi-hun drove with the windows cracked, hoodie pulled up, knuckles white on the steering wheel. His chest was still heaving, his body still buzzing from Sang-woo’s hand — from the stretch of his finger, from that last tug that left him aching and open — from the filthy words in his ear that he couldn’t get out of his head.

By the time he reached his mother’s place, he had forced himself to breathe slowly, swallowing down every sound that still threatened to escape.

Ga-yeong was curled up on the couch, red-eyed and sniffling, clutching her favorite stuffed animal.

“Hey, peanut,” Gi-hun murmured softly as he crouched in front of her.

She launched herself into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispered, hiccuping against his shoulder.

“I know,” Gi-hun soothed, rocking her gently, his chin on her hair. “But you’re okay now. Dad’s here. Let's go home sweetie.”

It took nearly an hour — warm water, fresh pajamas, holding her until her sobs turned into hiccups and then slow, even breaths — before she finally went limp against him. He tucked her into bed, kissed her temple, and stood there for a long moment, just watching her chest rise and fall.

When he closed her door behind him, the house felt too quiet.

The shower didn’t help. The water was hot enough to steam up the mirror, but it didn’t cool the pulse pounding in his chest or the heat still burning through his veins. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sang-woo’s hand, felt the push of that finger, heard that low voice calling him a pathetic little slut.

By the time he toweled off, his hands were shaking again.

He locked his bedroom door, grabbed the small tripod from his closet, and set it up at the perfect angle facing the bed. When he hit call, his heart was beating so hard it was almost painful.

Sang-woo answered after two rings — already loosening his tie, hair mussed from running a hand through it, his eyes immediately going wide when he saw the frame.

Gi-hun was kneeling naked on the mattress, still damp from the shower, flushed head to toe, breathing like he’d been running.

“Jesus Christ,” Sang-woo said, voice rough, already shoving his chair back like he couldn’t stand to sit still.

“You did this to me,” Gi-hun said, voice wrecked but grinning like he was about to burn the world down. He reached off-screen and came back with the toy — slick and glistening — holding it up for Sang-woo to see. “You got me like this and then made me leave. So you’re gonna watch me fix it.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Sang-woo growled, and Gi-hun saw his hand, already wrapped around himself just out of frame.

Gi-hun spread his knees wider, slicked himself up, and started circling the toy against himself, teasing, moaning when it brushed just right.

“Yeah,” Sang-woo gritted, eyes dark and hungry. “Push it in. Show me how good you look taking it.”

Gi-hun obeyed, slow at first, letting the camera catch the way his back arched, his thighs trembling. “Look at me,” he panted. “Look at what you do to me.”

Sang-woo’s breathing had gone ragged, his fist stroking slower now, like he wanted to savor this. Then his tone shifted — lower, sharp enough to make Gi-hun shiver.

“Stop.”

Gi-hun froze, toy buried inside him, chest heaving.

“Don’t you dare come until I tell you,” Sang-woo said, voice calm but commanding. “I want you right on the edge, crying for it. Do you understand me?”

Gi-hun let out a desperate, strangled sound and nodded quickly.

“Words, Gi-hun.”

“Yes,” he gasped. “I’ll wait. Please—just don’t make me wait too long.”

Sang-woo’s smirk was pure sin, his strokes deliberately slow. “Good boy. Now take it deeper.”

Gi-hun whimpered, fucking himself harder now, the wet sound obscene, sweat starting to slide down his chest.

“That’s it,” Sang-woo said, voice dark and smooth. “Look at you. Desperate little thing, putting on a show for me like a good slut. Can’t even wait for me to get there, can you?”

Gi-hun moaned so loudly it almost drowned out everything else, hips snapping faster, like the words themselves were pushing him closer.

“Say you’re mine,” Sang-woo ordered, voice sharp enough to cut.

“I’m yours,” Gi-hun panted, pushing down harder, faster, the sheets twisting under his fists.

“Again.”

“I’m yours,” he said louder, desperate now.

“Again.”

Gi-hun was nearly crying when he choked it out a third time, voice cracking.

“Good boy,” Sang-woo murmured, voice dark and reverent all at once. “Now beg me.”

Gi-hun’s head tipped back, sweat-damp hair sticking to his temple, his thighs trembling. “Please,” he gasped. “Please let me come. Please, Sang-woo, I need it so bad, I can’t—”

“Louder.”

“Please!” Gi-hun shouted, voice breaking. “Please, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything, just let me come—”

Sang-woo’s grin turned sharp and satisfied. “Now. Do it for me.”

Gi-hun shoved the toy deep and came with a broken sob, shaking so hard it nearly knocked the tripod over, cum striping his stomach and chest.

“Fuck, look at you,” Sang-woo groaned, finally stroking himself fast, finishing with a deep grunt and spilling over his fist.

For a moment neither of them moved — just stared at each other through the screen, chests heaving, pupils blown wide.

Gi-hun reached down, pulled the toy out slow and obscene, holding it up to the camera with a wrecked little grin.

“You’re fucked up,” Sang-woo said, voice still rough — but his expression was soft, almost proud.

“You love it,” Gi-hun shot back, still panting, grinning like he’d just won.

“Yeah,” Sang-woo admitted. “I really fucking do.”

Gi-hun’s smile softened then, almost shy despite everything, and he rolled onto his side, hair sticking to his forehead. “Wish it was you,” he admitted quietly.

“It will be,” Sang-woo promised, voice low and certain. “And next time? I’m not letting you off so easy.”

Gi-hun’s grin turned small and satisfied, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear, and he reached out to end the call only when his eyelids were already fluttering shut.

Chapter Text

The next day, Sang-woo had warned him, sort of.
Said things were about to get “intense” at work, that there were deals he couldn’t afford to mess up.

Gi-hun had nodded, told him he understood, and leaned in to give him a quick kiss, light, almost teasing.

“Go make your money, CEO,” he’d said with a grin.

Sang-woo had smiled back, just enough to make Gi-hun’s stomach flip, and then he’d left for the day.

Gi-hun had still expected… something.

A call here.
A message there.
Some sign that Sang-woo was still thinking about him, even while he was buried under work.

He hadn’t expected two weeks of nothing.

The first morning there was no bento, Gi-hun stood in the school parking lot a little longer than usual, waiting.

Sang-woo never showed.

When the bell rang, he handed Ga-yeong’s bag to her teacher and told himself it was just a fluke, that Sang-woo must have been running late.

The second morning, when there was still no sign of him, he asked Ga-yeong on the way home, “Did Seo-hyun have a bento today?”

“Yeah,” she said, “but it was different. Not like the ones Sang-woo-ssi makes.”

That landed heavier than he expected.

By the end of the week, he was still asking, and Ga-yeong was still answering — and every time, it was the same.

“Her Halmeoni brings her now,” she said with a little shrug. “She eats toast or rolls or sometimes dumplings. Not the usual.”

By then, the absence felt like a hole in the day — no quiet nod from across the lot, no grin over the roof of his truck, no excuse to linger just to stand near him.

That night, he set his alarm early.

When it rang, the sky outside was still black, the apartment chilled and hollow. He almost stayed under the blanket — but then he thought about Ga-yeong’s face when she opened her lunch and found nothing special waiting for her, and he swung his legs out of bed.

The kitchen was silent except for the click of the rice cooker. He rolled omelets and sliced vegetables with careful hands, filling the air with quiet, steady sounds just to keep from hearing the emptiness.

When Ga-yeong padded in, hair sticking up, she blinked at him in surprise.

“You’re making lunch?”

“Yeah,” he said softly, tucking the rice into the box. “Pick what shape you want.”

By the third day, she was sitting at the counter before he even called her, swinging her legs while she chose which fruit went in, which animal pick.

She grinned every morning, proud of the lunches they made together.

But pickup stayed quiet. No Seo-hyun. No Sang-woo.

Ga-yeong started asking about her in the car, quiet and hesitant.

“I haven’t seen her as much,” she said one afternoon.

“I know, baby,” Gi-hun said, throat tight.

Every day after that, he kept making lunches. Made them prettier, more elaborate — like he could fill the silence for both of them if he just tried hard enough.

Two weeks passed like that.

Bentos every morning. Ga-yeong beaming at lunch. Pickups that were too quiet.

Gi-hun’s phone never left his hand. He was texting at red lights, between customers, while stirring dinner. At night, he lay on his side in bed with the screen glowing in the dark, thumb hovering over the keyboard, sending message after message.

Sometimes they were quick check-ins. Sometimes whole paragraphs he had to stop and rewrite before sending. By the second week, it felt like he was talking into a void — firing off updates, questions, jokes, anything to get a response.

When the replies did come, they were short. Clipped.

Still at the office.
Tomorrow.
I’m fine.

Each one felt like a door shutting softly in his face.

And still, he kept texting. Filling the empty space with words like maybe, if he just said enough, Sang-woo would finally answer the way he wanted him to.

Three nights ago, he broke.

The apartment was too quiet with Ga-yeong asleep. Not peaceful — brittle, like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter.

The clock on the wall ticked too loud, each second a sharp tap against his ribs.

Gi-hun sat hunched on the couch with his phone cupped in both hands, the glow washing his face a cold, sickly blue. The TV was on mute just for company, throwing ghost-light across the room.

He typed something short. Stared at it until the letters blurred. Deleted it.

Typed something longer. Sent it before he could talk himself out of it.

Nothing.

He stared until the screen went black, thumb tapping to wake it again like that might force a reply to appear.

Still nothing.

His stomach turned. He sent another message.

And another.

And another, faster now, thumb slamming against the glass until his chest hurt with every beat of silence that followed.

By midnight, his heel thudded against the floor in time with the clock, the rhythm sharp and frantic. His leg bounced hard enough to rattle the coffee table.

He typed. Deleted. Retyped. Sent.

When that didn’t get a reply, he sent three more messages back-to-back, so fast the typing bubble barely had time to disappear before the next one went through.

The silence afterward was deafening.

He dropped the phone onto the couch cushion and pressed both hands over his face, breath tearing out of him in a shudder.

“God,” he whispered into his palms, voice raw, “you look fucking crazy right now.”

The words landed like a blow. Too loud. Too true.

His breath hitched — and before he could stop himself, his hands were already reaching for the phone again.

By one a.m., the tears wouldn’t stop. They slid hot down his face, splattering the screen until he had to wipe them away just to see what he’d typed.

He scrolled back through the thread, rereading every message, heart pounding like maybe if he just stared at them all at once they’d make sense, or undo themselves, or take it all back.

A wet, ugly sound escaped him, half laugh, half sob.

“I'm pathetic,” he choked, voice cracking. 

His hands were still shaking as he typed another message anyway, thumb hitting send before his brain could catch up.

At some point, he slid off the couch to the floor, back pressed to it, knees pulled up, the wood cold under his legs.

“This is insane,” he said to the empty room, voice shaking. “You’re actually insane.”

And then he kept going.

His thumbs ached. His shoulders hurt from curling in on himself.

At 2 a.m., he put the phone down, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

A memory hit so hard it made his chest ache — Sang-woo that morning, grinning faintly as Gi-hun kissed him goodbye.

He’d been so sure it meant something. That Sang-woo would think about him all day the way he’d been thinking about Sang-woo.

The thought cracked something open in him, and a fresh wave of tears hit.

He grabbed the phone again, thumbs shaking, and sent three more messages back-to-back, desperate, as if he could claw that moment back if he just begged hard enough.

By three, when a car stopped outside, he shot to his feet before he even knew he was moving, heart hammering so hard it made him dizzy.

For one breathless second, he swore he’d hear footsteps.

The hallway was empty.

The laugh that ripped out of him startled him — sharp, ugly, too loud.

He sank back down, phone clutched in both hands, tears running freely now.

By four, he was folded forward over his knees, forehead pressed into the fabric of his sweats. The phone’s glow lit his swollen eyes, every tremor in his hands.

“I should stop,” he whispered hoarsely. 

But he didn’t stop.

He typed again, hit send, stared until the screen blurred.

“If he didn’t hate me already,” he muttered, voice shaking, “he probably does now.”

The thought hit so hard his whole body curled tighter, but he still sent another.

“No wonder he’s ignoring me,” he said, sharper now, almost spitting the words. “I sound insane. If I were him, I wouldn’t answer either.”

He pressed the phone to his forehead until it hurt, then dragged it away and started typing again, frantic, as if speed alone could undo everything.

By five, he was shaking so hard he could barely hold the phone. His knees ached from sitting hunched so long, his neck stiff, fingers cramping. His stomach churned, sour and hollow. His throat was scraped raw from crying.

He typed one last message. Stared at it until 5:50 blinked across the screen.

His thumb hovered.

The clock ticked once. Twice.

For a second, he almost erased it. Almost.

Then he hit Block.

The thread vanished.

The silence after was worse than any unanswered message — heavy, ringing, like the whole apartment was holding its breath.

And then he broke.

He folded forward until his forehead hit the floor and sobbed until his stomach cramped. Loud, ugly sobs that left him gasping, choking, pressing his sleeve to his mouth to muffle the sound.

“I ruined it,” he choked, voice hoarse. “I ruined everything.”

Another sob tore out of him, louder.

“He’s never coming back now. I made sure of it.”

He pressed his face into the blanket he’d dragged off the couch, shoulders shaking so hard his arms ached.

“Pathetic,” he gasped, barely audible. “I'm pathetic.”

When there was finally nothing left in him, he lay on his side, chest heaving, staring blankly at the underside of the couch. The apartment was so quiet it felt like being buried alive.

Eventually, with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, he unlocked the phone again and opened a different thread.

Gi-hun: we broke up

The reply came almost immediately.

Jung-bae: oh hyung… I’m so sorry.

Another bubble popped up right after.

Jung-bae: I love you.

Fresh tears welled up, blurring the screen.

Gi-hun: love you too

He hesitated, then typed again.

Gi-hun: can you do me a favor? block him for me

The pause this time felt endless.

Jung-bae: yeah. of course.

Gi-hun pulled the blanket over his head, curling small, shaking.

“I thought we were happy,” he whispered. “I thought we were building something.”

The room was so quiet it felt like pressure on his chest. He let the small, miserable sounds come: the hitch, the breath, the damp swallow, until exhaustion did the cruelest thing and let him sleep.

A few days later across town, Sang-woo sat at the empty conference table long after the others had gone, staring at the glowing screen until the numbers blurred.

Two relentless weeks. Two deals that had nearly broken him.

And now they were closed.

For the first time in days, his mind went quiet enough for another thought to break through: Gi-hun. The urge to see him was sudden and sharp, pulling him to his feet before he even realized he was moving.

He wanted to see him. Wanted to tell him it was over, that he could finally breathe.
Wanted to make it up to him.

Maybe a trip — somewhere warm, somewhere with water. Guam, maybe. He could already see it: Ga-yeong and Seo-hyun squealing in the surf, Gi-hun golden in the sun, drink in hand, grinning at him like all the tension had been washed away.

The thought carried him all the way home, made his chest ache with something almost like hope.

He dropped his keys on the counter and sat at the kitchen table, unlocking his phone.

And froze.

The thread was full.

Not with his words — with Gi-hun’s.

A wall of gray bubbles stared back at him. Message after message. Dozens of them.

He scrolled up, thumb moving faster and faster, breath coming short as the dates flew by.

At the top were the playful ones:

Gi-hun: Thinking about you in my bed.
Gi-hun: Want you to rail me the second I see you.
Gi-hun: Would let you do anything you wanted right now.

His own reply sat beneath them like a shard of ice:

Sang-woo: Busy. Talk later.

He kept scrolling.

Gi-hun: Miss you.
Gi-hun: How’s work?
Gi-hun: Ga-yeong made you a drawing. I’ll save it for you.
Gi-hun: Wish you were here tonight.

Then shorter, more frequent ones, stacked so close they read like panic.

Gi-hun: Haven’t seen you at drop-off.
Gi-hun: Are you okay?
Gi-hun: Are we okay?
Gi-hun: Please just text me.
Gi-hun: Just one word. Anything.

Each one hit like a small stone, and each time his own replies had gotten shorter.

Sang-woo: Still at the office.
Sang-woo: Tomorrow.
Sang-woo: I’m fine.

By the time he reached the messages from three nights ago, his chest was already tight, his stomach knotted.

And then he started reading the spiral.

Gi-hun (12:14 a.m.): What is it, am I just not good enough for you?
Gi-hun (12:28 a.m.): Is it my job? Is that the problem? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?

Gi-hun (12:54 a.m.): I get it, okay? I’m just some dumb fucking piece of shit mechanic with dirty nails and a shitty apartment and nothing to offer you. But I’ve given you everything I am, and I’m begging you — just a scrap of love. Just one fucking scrap so I don’t feel like I’m dying.

Gi-hun (1:01 a.m.): Please. Please. Please.
Gi-hun (1:08 a.m.): I swear I would do anything you asked, I’d change anything about myself if it meant you’d stay.
Gi-hun (1:13 a.m.): I’d beg on my knees if it would get you to come back to me.

Gi-hun (1:47 a.m.): I’m sitting on the floor right now like a fucking idiot just staring at the door.
Gi-hun (1:59 a.m.): I keep thinking if I wait long enough maybe you’ll knock.
Gi-hun (2:04 a.m.): I keep hearing cars outside and thinking it’s you.
Gi-hun (2:06 a.m.): I keep getting up like I’m going to open it. I’m losing my mind.

Gi-hun (2:16 a.m.): I don’t even care if you yell at me, I just need you to look at me.
Gi-hun (2:20 a.m.): Scream at me, hate me, spit in my face, anything but this.

Gi-hun (2:40 a.m.): Why didn’t you just let me go after the In-ho thing? Why string me along just to disappear?
Gi-hun (2:44 a.m.): I’m still a person, Cho. I deserve at least basic fucking decency.
Gi-hun (2:48 a.m.): I could never do this to someone. Not even someone I hated.

Gi-hun (3:10 a.m.): I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I keep refreshing this chat like a lunatic hoping you’ll say something.
Gi-hun (3:15 a.m.): Just say something. Anything. Please.
Gi-hun (3:16 a.m.): Please tell me you love me. Please tell me this isn’t over.
Gi-hun (3:18 a.m.): Please just say my name. I don’t even care what else you say.
Gi-hun (3:19 a.m.): I hate that I’m like this. I hate that I care this much.

Gi-hun (3:22 a.m.): All I want is to take care of you, to make your life easier, to be what you need. You’re perfect. I’m sorry I’ll never be enough for you. I swear I was trying my best. I love you more than I knew it was possible to love anyone.

Sang-woo’s breath caught so hard it hurt. His thumb froze on the glass. Tears welled up before he could stop them, sliding hot down his face.

Gi-hun (3:27 a.m.): You could ruin me completely and I would still say thank you if it meant you didn’t leave.
Gi-hun (3:30 a.m.): You could fuck someone else and I would still wait for you. Still want you.

Sang-woo flinched so hard the phone nearly slipped from his hand.
“No, I would never..” he rasped, voice cracking in the quiet apartment. His chest squeezed until he thought it might split. The first sob tore free, rough and humiliating, and then another, until he was breathing in shallow gasps.

He wiped at his face with his sleeve, but the tears kept coming, hot and unstoppable.

Gi-hun (4:20 a.m.): I would burn my whole life down if you asked. I just want to matter to you.
Gi-hun (4:28 a.m.): I don’t know how to love anyone but you.
Gi-hun (4:33 a.m.): I didn’t even know I was capable of loving this much until I met you.

Gi-hun (4:42 a.m.): I would never have fucked you without a condom if I didn’t plan on forever with you.

Gi-hun (5:03 a.m.): Ga-yeong misses you as much as I do. She asks where you are every day.
Gi-hun (5:10 a.m.): My mom has been asking about you. I don’t even know what to say to her.
Gi-hun (5:19 a.m.): I let you into our life. I let her love you. And now I have to watch her hurt because of me.
Gi-hun (5:24 a.m.): I feel like I broke my kid just by letting you in.
Gi-hun (5:40 a.m.): Don’t worry. I’m going to transfer Ga-yeong to a different school as soon as possible. You won’t have to see me again — not looking pathetic like this, begging for you.
Gi-hun (5:50 a.m.): You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and you made me wish I’d never met you.
Gi-hun (5:58 a.m.): Your silence is my answer. Don’t bother replying. I won’t see it.

And then the Blocked banner.

“No—” The word tore out of him, broken and loud in the empty kitchen.

He scrolled back up with shaking fingers, stopping on that one line:

Gi-hun (5:50 a.m.): You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and you made me wish I’d never met you.

His vision swam. He tapped the chat info.

Unread.

The breath punched out of him. This was the first time he was seeing any of it.

Gi-hun had sent these messages for days — sat awake all night, three nights ago — and he hadn’t seen a single one. He hadn’t been ignoring Gi-hun on purpose. He had just… not been there at all. Not once in two whole weeks.

His stomach lurched violently. The phone slipped from his grip and clattered against the table. He staggered to the sink and vomited until there was nothing left, his hands gripping the counter so hard his knuckles went white.

When he finally straightened, his face was wet, his throat raw, and the shaking wouldn’t stop.

He grabbed the phone again as he sat back down and hit call.

Call Failed.

Again.

Call Failed.

Again.

Call Failed.

The chair screeched across the tile as he shoved it back, grabbed his keys, and bolted.

By the time he was in the car, he was crying so hard he could barely see, driving blind through the streets with two lines pounding in his skull like a war drum:

Still want you.

You were the best thing that ever happened to me.

He wasn’t letting it end like this.

Chapter Text

Sang-woo cried the entire drive over.
Not the quiet, stoic kind of crying he’d spent years perfecting. This was ugly, frantic crying that tore out of him before he could stop it. His chest felt crushed, every breath sharp and shallow. His throat ached, his face was wet, and his vision kept swimming until he had to blink hard just to keep the car on the road.

What if he doesn’t open the door? The thought looped over and over until his stomach knotted.

By the time he reached Gi-hun’s building, his face was wet and swollen, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

He saw Gi-hun’s car parked out front and felt his chest seize, a painful, hollow relief. He was here. No chance to run. No excuse to hide.

He barely got the car into park before he was stumbling out, nearly running for the door. His legs felt unsteady, like the ground might give out beneath him, but he kept going, heart hammering so loud it roared in his ears.

He didn’t knock. He pounded, hard enough that the door rattled.

“Gi-hun!”

The sound echoed down the quiet hallway, too loud, too desperate.

No answer.

Panic flared, hot and dizzying. He pounded again, harder, until his knuckles stung. “Gi-hun, open the door!”

Still nothing.

His breath came fast and shallow as he pressed his forehead to the wood, voice cracking. “I know you’re in there. Your car’s outside. I’m not leaving until you open this.”

Silence.

He backed up and slammed his palm against the door one more time, whole body behind it. “Please, Gi-hun. Just talk to me. I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”

A long pause. Then the click of the lock.

The door cracked open just enough to reveal Gi-hun. He looked wrecked, barefoot, hair sticking up like he had been running his hands through it for hours, hoodie thrown over a wrinkled T-shirt. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks blotchy, and his hands were still fisted in the hem of his hoodie like he was holding himself together by a thread.

“What do you want, Cho?” His voice was flat, but his throat worked like the words hurt to say.

The use of his surname hit like a slap.

“I… I just want to talk.”

Gi-hun stepped into the doorway, blocking it with his body, one hand braced against the frame. “You had weeks to talk. You ignored me until I got the message. So talk to yourself. I’m done.”

“Please.” Sang-woo’s voice shook as he glanced past him, toward the apartment. “Can I just come in? Just for a minute?”

“No.” Gi-hun’s jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid. He shifted slightly, closing the door that much more, like he was guarding the space behind him. “You said you loved me. Was that a lie? You ghosted me like I was nothing the day after we had sex. You let me think I was crazy.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I trusted you enough to fuck you without a condom, Cho.” Gi-hun’s voice broke, sharp and shaking. His hand raked through his hair until it stood on end. “Do you know how messed up it is to ghost me after that? I went and got tested because I couldn’t even trust if you were who you said you were. Do you know what that’s like? Sitting in that clinic, trying not to cry, explaining that you were stupid enough to fall in love with someone who wouldn’t even answer your texts?” His voice cracked again. “Do you know the shame that caused?”

Sang-woo’s stomach twisted so hard he had to grip the opposite side of the doorframe just to stay upright. His whole body shook.

Gi-hun dragged both hands through his hair and locked them behind his neck, chest heaving like he had just run a race. “You could have told me you were busy. I would have waited forever. Instead you made me think I didn’t matter. That my kid didn’t matter. Do you even know what that did to her?”

“She thought I was dying,” Gi-hun said, voice breaking now, hands trembling as he swiped at his face. “Of course she did. After her mom, anything wrong with me has to mean the worst. I tried to hide it from her, cried in the shower, in the middle of the night when I thought she was asleep, but she kept catching me. She hears me through the walls, Cho. She got so scared she wouldn’t let me out of her sight. I had to sit her down and tell her we broke up, just so she’d stop thinking I was sick or about to leave her too.”

Sang-woo’s hand slipped from the doorframe like his body had just given out. His chest felt hollow, his breath stuttering. “We didn’t break up,” he said hoarsely, almost pleading.

Gi-hun’s mouth twisted, pain flickering across his face before it hardened. “We did, Sang-woo. Maybe not out loud, but you acted like you were done. So I had to be the one to say it.”

The words landed like a punch.

Before he could answer, the sound of small feet on the floorboards made them both turn.

Ga-yeong stood there in the hallway in her socks and pajamas, her little face blotchy from crying.

“Appa,” she said, voice shaking, “stop.”

Gi-hun turned instantly, crouching down to her level, hands still trembling as he smoothed her hair back. “Hey, baby. Go back to bed.”

“No.” She stepped forward, planting herself between them with her arms out, tiny but fierce. “He’s mean. Tell him to go away.”

Sang-woo’s chest cracked wide open. His hands curled uselessly at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

She glared at him, eyes flashing. “Nice people don’t treat their boyfriends like that. They’re supposed to pay attention and love them and give them hugs, not make them cry every night!”

Gi-hun’s throat worked, tears shining again, but there was something like pride in his face, even through the hurt.

“You don’t even make us bentos anymore,” she accused, voice rising. “You haven’t even hugged me in two weeks. You don’t love us!”

“That’s not true,” Sang-woo said hoarsely, taking a shaky step forward before stopping himself. “I do love you. I love your appa so much, and I love you too. So much.”

“Then why are you so mean?” Her lip trembled as she looked straight at him. “You’re supposed to be nice every day, like you used to be.”

Her voice cracked, then rose to a yell. “Why aren’t you nice anymore? What did we do wrong?”

The words hit Sang-woo harder than anything Gi-hun had said. He flinched like she’d struck him, tears burning his eyes.

Ga-yeong turned and tugged on Gi-hun’s hand. “Come on, Appa. Let’s go to bed. I'll stay with you tonight so you're not as sad”

Gi-hun’s hand shook as he eased her back into the apartment. He didn’t look at Sang-woo again. The door shut slowly, firmly, and there was a pause — the faint sound of Gi-hun’s breath catching — before the final, sharp click of the lock sliding into place.

Sang-woo didn’t move at first. He pressed his ear to the wood, barely breathing, and heard Gi-hun’s muffled sob on the other side. Ga-yeong’s small voice followed, soft and soothing: “It’s okay, Appa. I’ll take care of you. I'll always take care of you.”

Sang-woo’s hand slid down the door until it hung at his side. His throat closed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice shaking, “and I love you both so much.”

Then he turned away, hollow.

He made it back to his car on autopilot, barely able to feel his legs. He gripped the doorframe before getting in, holding it like it might keep him upright. When he finally sat down, he dropped his forehead against the steering wheel and stayed there, shaking.

“God, what have I done?” he rasped, but it came out broken.

His fist thudded against the wheel once, twice, before the sobs overtook him. By the time he managed to start the car, his vision was blurred and his whole body was shaking so hard he could barely shift into gear.

When Sang-woo got back to the apartment, the place was dark except for the glow under the kitchen doorway. He shut the door quietly, chest still tight like he’d been holding his breath the whole drive home.

He’d barely kicked off his shoes when he heard movement. His mother padded out from the kitchen in her slippers, holding a glass of water. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, her cardigan hanging off one shoulder.

“You’re back late,” she said softly, then took one look at him and stopped. “Sang-woo… what happened?”

He stood there for a long moment, jacket still on, before finally walking into the kitchen and sinking into one of the chairs like his legs might give out.

“How’s Seo-hyun?” he asked, voice rough.

“Asleep,” his mother said gently, sitting across from him. “She asked if you’d be home for breakfast. She said it’s okay if you’re busy because ‘that’s how Appa makes money for our house.’”

The words hit him like a punch. Seo-hyun shouldn’t have to say things like that, shouldn’t have to make sense of his absence like it was normal.

He nodded, staring at the table. “I miss her. I feel like I haven’t seen her in weeks. And she still tries to make excuses for me.”

His mother tilted her head, waiting.

“I messed up,” he said finally, his voice hoarse.

“With her?”

“With everyone.” His hands came up to cover his face, and he stayed like that until his shoulders began to shake. When he finally dropped them, his eyes were wet. “With Seo-hyun. With someone I love. With the life I was trying to build for all of us.”

She didn’t speak, just waited.

“It’s Ga-yeong’s dad,” he said finally, barely above a whisper.

Her brows lifted slightly. “Seong Gi-hun?”

He nodded, staring at his lap. “I love him, Mom. I love him, and I hurt him. I hurt Ga-yeong too. I begged him to let me in to his apartment tonight to explain, and he wouldn’t let me. He just looked at me like I’d already left him. And when he shut the door, I heard him crying through it.”

His mother was quiet for a moment, then asked gently, “I'm so sorry Sang-woo. Were you scared to tell me? That you liked men too?”

He swallowed, throat tight. “A little. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

She reached across the table and took his hand, warm and steady. “Oh, my son. You could never disappoint me by telling me who you love. You never have to hide from me — not who you are, not what you want. If Gi-hun is who you love, then I support you. No matter what.”

That undid him. His breath hitched, and the tears spilled over.

“I didn’t mean to lose them,” he rasped. “I told him I’d be busy for a couple of weeks and thought that was enough — that he’d understand. If I’d known it would feel like this to him, that it would hurt them this much, I would have done everything differently. I just thought we were… solid.”

His voice broke. “I wanted to be there for him and for Ga-yeong. I wanted Seo-hyun to grow up with them and for us to be a family. But I got so buried in work, and I thought there would be time later. And now he thinks I don’t care. Ga-yeong thinks I left because they weren’t good enough. And Seo-hyun…” His voice cracked again. “She keeps saying it’s okay. Like she’s the one taking care of me.”

His mother’s thumb brushed slowly over his knuckles before she stood and came around the table. She crouched next to him, her hand firm on his knee.

“Then you fight for that family,” she said, voice low but sure. “You fight for Seo-hyun. For Gi-hun. For his little girl. You don’t get to disappear when things get hard, not if you love them.”

His shoulders shook as he wiped at his face. “What if it’s too late?”

“Then you try anyway.” She brushed his hair back, and for a moment he felt like he was ten years old again, sitting at this same table after a bad day at school. “You don’t walk away from people you love, Sang-woo. You show them you’re not going anywhere.”

He nodded, breath catching, tears still streaking down his face.

“You’ve always been so careful, so afraid to need anyone,” she said softly. “But you do need them. And that doesn’t make you weak. It means you finally let yourself love someone enough that losing them hurts.”

Something in him cracked open at that, but for the first time in weeks, it felt like air was getting in.

“I want to fix it,” he whispered.

“Then start tomorrow,” she said, giving his knee a reassuring squeeze before standing. “Start with showing up. For all of them.”

He nodded again, this time with something steadier under the grief, and stayed sitting at the kitchen table long after she went back to bed, staring at the glass of water she’d left behind.

Sang-woo barely slept.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the look on Gi-hun’s face when the door shut. Heard the soft click of the lock. Heard Ga-yeong’s small voice saying, Appa, I’ll take care of you.

When he finally drifted off sometime before dawn, it wasn’t for long. He woke while it was still gray outside, heart pounding, sheets twisted around him. His mouth was dry, his head aching from crying.

For a long moment, he just sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

God, I'm so fucking stupid.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. You thought telling him you’d be busy for a couple weeks was enough? You thought he’d just wait around while you ignored him?

The shame made his stomach twist.

He’d wanted a future with them — with Gi-hun, with Ga-yeong, with Seo-hyun. A real family. And he’d thrown it away because he was too wrapped up in his own schedule to send a goddamn text.

“I'm an idiot,” he muttered into the quiet room. “The dumbest bastard alive.”

But he couldn’t leave it like this.

By the time the sun was up, he’d showered, dressed, and was standing in his kitchen with his keys in one hand and his phone in the other, heart hammering.

He had to find Gi-hun.

You can’t undo the last few weeks, he told himself, jaw tight. But you can start fixing this now.

There was only one place he could think to look first. If Gi-hun wasn’t at home, he’d be at the shop.

Sang-woo pocketed his phone, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.

The smell of oil and metal hit as soon as Sang-woo stepped into the garage bay. The air was hot, humming with the sound of a compressor and the rattle of tools.

Jung-bae looked up from where he was leaning over the hood of a car. The second he saw Sang-woo, his entire expression shifted — the easy warmth vanished, replaced by something cold and sharp.

He didn’t speak right away. He wiped his hands on a rag, slow and deliberate, then pulled out his phone. Sang-woo froze, stomach dropping as he watched Jung-bae’s thumbs move quickly over the screen.

He didn’t need to see the message to know who it was for.

When the phone was tucked back into his pocket, Jung-bae finally straightened, shutting the hood with a heavy clang that echoed through the garage.

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here.”

Sang-woo’s gut twisted. “You just texted him, didn’t you?”

“You’re damned right I fucking did,” Jung-bae said, his voice sharp. “Told him you’re here so he doesn’t walk in and get blindsided.”

Sang-woo’s jaw tightened. “You think I was going to hurt him?”

“No,” Jung-bae shot back, stepping closer until Sang-woo had to fight not to back up. “I think you were going to hurt him again by forcing him to see you before he’s ready. So yeah, I texted him — because he deserves to feel safe coming into his own damn job.”

The words landed heavy, but Jung-bae didn’t give him time to recover. He came around the car, boots loud on the concrete, planting one hand on the hood so he could lean in just enough to crowd Sang-woo’s space.

“You don’t get to just walk in here like nothing happened. Not after weeks of silence.”

“I just need to talk to him,” Sang-woo said, voice low, desperate.

“And you think this is the place? Here? At his job? Where he can’t even walk away if he wants to?” Jung-bae’s voice was sharp, ringing in the wide bay. “Not happening. I’m not letting you ambush him here.”

“I’m not trying to ambush him—”

“Bullshit.” The word cracked like a gunshot. One of the mechanics glanced over at the sound — then quickly looked away again, because the look on Jung-bae’s face could have melted steel.

Sang-woo glanced around and realized the others were glaring too, quiet but unmistakably hostile. It was like the whole garage had turned against him.

Sang-woo’s palms itched with the urge to grab onto something, to stop this from slipping completely out of his control.
I deserve this, a voice in his head hissed. Every second of this.

“You ghost him for weeks and then just show up here? No call, no warning? You don’t get to decide when he has to face you.”

Sang-woo’s throat worked. “I didn’t mean for it to go that way—”

“I don’t care what you meant,” Jung-bae cut in, voice still hot. Then he drew in a breath, his tone dipping lower but no less sharp.

“Do you even know what the last few weeks were like for him? He practically lived here, Sang-woo. Worked himself half to death, bringing Ga-yeong with him because he didn’t know what else to do. That kid spent more afternoons doing homework on the back counter than at her own table. And you know what she told me last week?”

Sang-woo’s heart lurched.

“She said she hasn’t seen Seo-hyun at all. Said she misses her. That she thinks Seo-hyun’s mad at her too.”

The image slammed into Sang-woo — Ga-yeong sitting on the counter with her feet swinging, clutching a pencil, saying those words in a small voice.

“And you know what else?” Jung-bae pressed, his voice lower now, cutting. “Every once in a while, he’d ask me to watch Ga-yeong for a few minutes. Said he had to make a call or step out for air. I’d see him go out by the dumpsters, and when he came back in…” Jung-bae’s jaw tightened. “His eyes would be red, his face all blotchy. You think I don’t know what crying looks like? He was holding himself together with tape and string. And now he’s smoking again. Hides it so she won’t notice. I can smell it on him when he thinks no one can tell.”

He stepped back just enough to look Sang-woo dead in the eye. “Gi-hun is my best friend in the world. He’s been like my brother since we were kids. And he’s every guy’s favorite in this shop because he’s the kindest, most loyal bastard we know. He shows up for people, even when he’s hurting. And I watched him break apart these last few weeks piece by piece. So no, I’m not sorry I texted him. And I’m not letting you hurt him again.”

Sang-woo’s chest constricted so tight he could barely breathe. The weight of every pair of eyes on him made it worse and made him want to sink into the floor.

“He eventually stopped coming in,” Jung-bae said, voice lower now, almost grim. “Stopped answering my texts. I had to go check on him to make sure he was even getting out of bed. You’ve ruined a lot of things, Sang-woo, but I won’t let you ruin how he supports his family.”

The words landed like a physical hit, knocking the wind out of him.

“I just want to explain—” Sang-woo’s voice cracked.

“Then wait until he wants to hear it.” Jung-bae’s eyes were hard as steel. “You don’t get to make this about what you want. Not when he’s still trying to keep it together for Ga-yeong.”

The silence stretched, loud with the hum of the compressor.

“Go home,” Jung-bae said finally, straightening up but keeping his voice firm. “Figure out what you’re gonna say when he’s ready. And if you really want him back? Prove it. Do the work. But don’t you dare come back here until he says he wants to see you.”

He stepped back, wiping his hands one last time, jaw set. “Now get the fuck out of my shop.”

Sang-woo stood frozen for a moment, throat tight, before forcing himself to turn and walk toward the bay doors. He felt the weight of every glare on his back as he left.

When the door banged shut behind him, the sound of tools picked up again, muted conversation resuming — like the garage was already moving on without him.

Outside, he leaned against his car, bracing both hands on the roof, his breath coming fast and shallow.

You really are the dumbest bastard alive, he thought bitterly. You had everything you wanted and you couldn’t even send a fucking text.

His chest hurt so bad it felt like he might split open. He sat in the driver’s seat for a long moment, fingers clenched around the wheel, before finally fishing his phone out of his pocket. His thumb hovered over the screen before he typed, then deleted, then typed again.

Sang-woo: Working from home today.

The reply came faster than he expected.

Dae-ho: Got it. I’ll cover for you. I hope you’re okay, hyung.

Sang-woo’s throat closed up. He stared at the screen until it blurred, then set the phone down carefully on the passenger seat.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” he muttered at himself, the words harsh in the empty car. His hands were shaking as he gripped the wheel, knuckles white.

He didn’t go home. Couldn’t.

Seo-hyun had already been dropped off by his mom — he’d asked her to watch her for this morning just in case the deal was delayed. Which meant, for the first time in weeks, there was no one waiting for him.

The thought left him feeling hollow.

Instead of heading for the apartment, he found himself steering toward the school. He didn’t even know what he was going to do — just that he needed to see Gi-hun. Needed proof that he hadn’t completely lost him yet.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun woke the day after seeing Sang-woo again to a soft weight pressed against him.

Ga-yeong was curled tight in his arms, her cheek smushed into his chest, one little fist still clutching his shirt like she had been holding on all night.

For a long moment, he just lay there staring at the ceiling. His chest still ached in that hollow, gnawing way it had for days, but looking down at her, something shifted.

Resolve.

He wasn’t going to let this be the story she learned about love. Last night showed how much this was impacting Ga-yeong.

Carefully, he smoothed her hair back, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and untangled himself from her grip. She stirred but didn’t wake, and he tucked the blanket back around her before slipping out of bed.

The apartment was cool and quiet, morning light spilling pale across the floor. For a second, Gi-hun just stood there barefoot, breathing deeply, feeling the weight of the last few weeks settle like stones in his chest. Then he headed for the bathroom.

He showered — not the rushed, miserable kind of shower he had been taking all week, but a real one, hot enough to sting. He stayed until steam fogged the mirror and his muscles finally began to unknot. He shaved, combed his hair, and put on real clothes: dark jeans, a clean henley, boots that felt solid under his feet.

When he caught his reflection, he almost startled. He didn’t look fixed, but he looked like someone who could face the day.

By the time Ga-yeong padded into the kitchen, hair sticking up in every direction, he had pancakes on the stove.

“Appa?” she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

He crouched and kissed her temple, smiling for what felt like the first time in days. “Good morning, baby. Go wash your hands. We’re eating together today.”

Her smile was small but real, and it made something deep in his chest click back into place.

They ate at the little kitchen table, syrup sticky on their fingers, and Gi-hun listened to every word she said like it was the most important thing in the world.

When he drove her to school, he didn’t leave right away.

He lingered by the fence, watching her run to meet Seo-hyun. The two girls grabbed hands and tore across the playground laughing, and for the first time all week, Gi-hun’s chest didn’t feel like it was splitting open.

Across the street, Sang-woo sat in his car, parked far enough back that Gi-hun wouldn’t notice him. He had told himself he wouldn’t come, but here he was, unable to stay away.

He watched as Gi-hun’s posture softened, just slightly, as he took in Ga-yeong and Seo-hyun laughing together. Then he saw In-ho cross the yard and approach him.

Sang-woo’s hands tightened on the wheel, every instinct screaming at him to get out, to go over there — but he didn’t. Gi-hun had asked for space, and for once, Sang-woo forced himself to respect that.

He stayed in the car, silent, watching Gi-hun and In-ho walk toward the far side of the playground. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but from here he could see the way Gi-hun’s head dropped, the way his shoulders sagged, the way In-ho stayed steady beside him.

Near the fence, Gi-hun’s voice was quiet but steady.

“You look better today,” In-ho said. Then his voice softened. “The last week or so you’ve looked like hell. Not just tired—like you were carrying the weight of the world. I was starting to worry.”

Gi-hun let out a small, humorless laugh. “That’s because I'm a mess,” he admitted. “He stopped answering me. First it was one-word texts. ‘Busy,’ ‘can’t talk.’ Then nothing. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. I just kept sending messages into the void so I ended it. And then he showed up at my apartment like nothing had happened and started pounding on the door.”

In-ho stayed quiet, letting him talk.

“I just stood there frozen,” Gi-hun went on. “Heart in my throat, praying he’d stop before the neighbors called the landlord. And the whole time, a part of me still wanted to open the door. Like an idiot.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I hated myself for that.”

In-ho nodded, slow and thoughtful. “That makes sense. After being shut out like that, of course you’d be angry. And of course you’d still want him. Both can be true.”

Gi-hun’s shoulders slumped. Some of the tightness in him seemed to bleed out.

“I’m not making excuses for him,” In-ho said carefully, “but you know my wife works with him. I know how these last two weeks have been, I've barely seen her because of what's going on. Those two deals he was chasing? They weren’t small. Hundreds of people’s jobs depended on them. If he hadn’t pulled them off, the whole company would have been on the line. Both were make or break deals that only he could finish.”

Gi-hun froze at that, breath catching.

In-ho’s voice stayed calm but gentle. “It doesn’t mean what he did didn’t hurt. But it means he wasn’t ignoring you just to be cruel. I can tell how much he loves you. He was fighting for a lot more than himself the last couple of weeks. He was fighting for all those people's jobs.”

Gi-hun swallowed hard. His stomach twisted, not just with hurt but guilt. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

“That’s why I’m telling you,” In-ho said simply. “Because you deserve the whole picture before you decide what comes next.”

He reached into his pocket and handed Gi-hun a slip of paper. “This is Ali Abdul, he's a therapist and my best friend. I’ll text him and see if he can make room for you. He does sliding scale, so it’ll stay affordable if you want to keep going after the first session. And I’ll cover the first one. No pressure, just a chance to breathe and talk to someone unbiased.”

Gi-hun’s mouth tugged into a small, surprised half-smile. “You’re paying for therapy now?”

In-ho smiled faintly. “Consider it an investment. I want to see you keep showing up—for yourself and for her.”

Something in Gi-hun’s face softened. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Here.” In-ho pulled out his phone and handed it to him. “Put your number in. That way, if you ever need to check in about school or just life, you can.”

Gi-hun hesitated, then typed his number. When he handed the phone back, In-ho sent a quick test text, and the buzz in Gi-hun’s pocket confirmed it went through.

“Good,” In-ho said. “And if you feel up to it later this week, maybe we could grab coffee. Just as friends. There’s a place nearby with decent pastry and we can pretend that’s the real reason we’re there.”

Gi-hun let out a short, startled laugh, the sound breaking free before he could stop it. It felt strange after so many days of holding everything in, but good — almost like breathing again.

“Yeah,” he said, still smiling as he shook his head. “I think I’d like that. And you’re buying.”

His smile grew wide and unguarded as he turned to leave, and Sang-woo caught the moment from his car. The sight of it hit him hard — not because Gi-hun was smiling, but because it wasn’t for him.

And yet, something loosened in Sang-woo’s chest at the same time. If Gi-hun could still laugh, still smile like that, maybe there was a way forward.

He gripped the wheel, guilt and longing twisting together. Gi-hun had just started letting him in, had just started coming to him first and now he was confiding in someone else.

He sat there a moment longer, breathing through the ache, then forced himself to put the car in gear. You did this, he told himself. Now fix it the right way.

Not by pounding on doors, not by pushing until he got what he wanted. By showing up. By proving he could be the man Gi-hun thought he was.

He pulled away from the curb, resolve settling in his chest like a weight he was ready to carry.

When Gi-hun got back to his car, the slip of paper with Ali’s name felt heavy in his hand.

For a second he just sat there, staring at it, thumb brushing over the neat handwriting. Part of him wanted to fold it up and tuck it away for later — for someday — but instead, he unlocked his phone and dialed.

The line rang twice before a warm, friendly voice answered, with just the hint of a laugh in it. “Ali Abdul speaking.”

“Hi,” Gi-hun said, voice a little rough. “In-ho gave me your number. He said you might have time for… an appointment?”

“Oh! You must be Gi-hun,” Ali said, and Gi-hun could almost hear him smiling through the phone. “In-ho told me you might call. I’m glad you did.”

Something in Gi-hun’s chest loosened at the easy kindness in his tone. “I wasn’t sure if I should.”

“That’s usually the first sign you need to,” Ali said gently, not unkind. “I actually had a cancellation today, so I can see you this afternoon if that works for you. No pressure, though. You can say no and I won’t be offended.”

Gi-hun hesitated only a moment before answering. “No, I… I think I should. Today’s good.”

“Perfect,” Ali said, sounding genuinely pleased. “And just so you know — it’s completely normal to be nervous or even scared before coming in. A lot of people feel that way the first time. I’ll make it as easy as I can for you.”

Gi-hun huffed out a small laugh, realizing Ali had said it deliberately to make the whole thing feel a little less terrifying. Somehow, it worked.

“Okay. Yeah,” Gi-hun said again, quieter but steadier.

Ali confirmed the time and address, then thanked him for calling, like it was a gift rather than a burden.

After the call ended, Gi-hun sat in the car for a long moment, staring out the windshield. The nervous twist in his stomach was still there, but it wasn’t crushing him anymore.

By the time he got home, he felt restless like if he didn’t move, the thoughts in his head might start circling again. So he started with something simple.

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of him moving around, picking up Ga-yeong’s toys from the living room floor, straightening the couch cushions. It wasn’t messy, exactly, but it looked lived-in in that scattered way it always did after a hard week.

He opened the windows to let in fresh air, wiped down the kitchen counters, even took out the trash that had been sitting there for two days. By the time he was done, the place felt lighter somehow and like he could breathe again.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed his phone and called Jung-bae.

“You good?” Jung-bae asked after the second ring, voice gruff but not unkind.

“Yeah,” Gi-hun said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Actually… no. Not really. Is it okay if I call out today? I made a.....therapy appointment and I think I should go. I’ll make up the hours the rest of the week.”

There was a pause, then Jung-bae let out a short huff that sounded suspiciously like relief. “Yeah, man. Take the day. I think therapy is a great idea. Better you get your head straight than come in distracted and lose a finger in the bay.”

Gi-hun huffed a quiet laugh. “Thanks.”

When he hung up, he grabbed his wallet and headed to the corner market. The air outside was crisp, the late-morning sun catching on his hair as he walked.

At the market, he let himself slow down, buying fresh fruit and vegetables, a loaf of good bread, and the strawberry yogurt Ga-yeong liked. The cashier greeted him cheerfully, and he found himself smiling back.

When he got home, he put everything away neatly, then sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, hands wrapped around the mug. For the first time in days, he felt something like calm settling in.

By the time it was nearly time for his appointment, he didn’t feel fixed — not even close — but he felt ready.

Gi-hun grabbed his phone and scrolled to the new contact In-ho had texted him from that morning.

He hesitated for a second-this still felt strange, reaching out to him like this- then hit call.

In-ho answered on the second ring. “Gi-hun?”

“Yeah,” Gi-hun said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Listen, Ali.... he was able to get me in for a therapy appointment this afternoon. I know its the last minute, but would you mind hanging out with Ga-yeong for a little after school so I can go? Just for an hour.”

There was no hesitation on In-ho’s end. “Of course I don't mind. Thanks for asking me for help. I’ll stop by her classroom before dismissal so she knows I’ll be waiting and bring some snacks. We’ll stay on the playground until you get back. No rush."

Relief loosened something in Gi-hun’s chest. “Thanks. Really.”

“You’re doing a good thing, I'm proud of you” In-ho said quietly, and Gi-hun knew he meant it.

Sang-woo pulled into the school parking lot just as the bell rang. This time, he didn’t stay hidden. He parked, got out, and walked up to the gate with the other parents, loosening his tie while he waited.

“Appa!” Seo-hyun came running, her backpack bouncing. He crouched to catch her, spinning her once before setting her back down.

“Good day?” he asked, brushing her hair back.

She nodded proudly. “I got a sticker for finishing my worksheet first!”

“That’s my girl.” He took her hand, chest tight as they stepped aside together.

Just then, Ga-yeong spotted In-ho near the gate. Her face lit up and she ran straight for him, calling, “Ahjussi!” before shoving her backpack into his hands.

“This is heavy,” he said, pretending to stagger before slinging it onto his shoulders, which made her giggle and grab the gate for balance.

Eun-hee arrived a moment later, still in her work clothes, smiling as she crouched to Ga-yeong’s level.
“Hi,” she said gently. “I’m Eun-hee, I’m Hwang seonsaengnim’s wife. You can call me Imo if you want. I’m friends with your dad.”

Ga-yeong’s grin widened immediately. “Okay, Imo!” she said, testing the word out with delight before throwing her arms around Eun-hee’s neck and squeezing.

Eun-hee let out a surprised little laugh and hugged her back, extra tight. “That’s perfect,” she said softly, brushing Ga-yeong’s hair back before handing her a packet of gummies. “These are the ones you picked, right?”

“Thank you, Imo!” Ga-yeong said brightly, clutching them like treasure before running off toward the jungle gym.

In-ho was standing nearby, still wearing Ga-yeong’s tiny backpack, and his expression softened as he watched the hug. There was quiet pride there, like he was glad to see Eun-hee hugging a child. 

Eun-hee straightened, her hand brushing over her stomach in an absent, almost unconscious gesture before she turned to sit on the bench near the playground.

From where he stood, Sang-woo watched all of it — Ga-yeong’s laughter, In-ho steady and patient, Eun-hee smiling like she belonged there.

Then Eun-hee looked up, spotted him, and walked over.

“Sang-woo,” she greeted warmly. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”

“Seo-hyun wanted me to pick her up,” he said, voice rough.

Her expression softened. “It’s good to see you. You look tired.”

“I am.”

She squeezed his arm lightly. “Hang in there. I’ll see you at work tomorrow and maybe we can grab lunch if you’ve got time.”

He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

As she returned to the bench, Sang-woo stayed where he was, holding Seo-hyun’s hand. Ga-yeong’s giggles carried across the lot as she tugged In-ho toward the slide, and for a moment they looked almost like a little family.

He used to be part of that picture. Used to hear that laugh every day, used to be the one she ran to first. The thought lodged deep, sharp enough to make him swallow hard before turning back toward the car with Seo-hyun.

Her chatter filled the quiet as they drove home, but all Sang-woo could hear was Ga-yeong’s laughter and the realization that he missed her almost as much as he missed Gi-hun.

The afternoon came faster than Gi-hun expected. By the time he pulled up to the small office building, the sun had already dipped behind a row of trees, casting everything in a soft, late-afternoon glow.

He sat in the car for a long moment, palms pressed to the steering wheel, forcing himself to breathe. He could still turn around. No one would know.

But then he thought of Ga-yeong, of the way she had curled against him that morning like she was holding on for dear life, and that was enough to make him move.

Inside, the building was quiet, warm but not stuffy, carrying a faint smell of wood polish and something herbal. Gi-hun sat in the waiting room with the clipboard still clutched in his hand even though he had already filled out the forms. His name sat at the top in careful handwriting, like if he made it perfect enough maybe everything would go smoothly.

His palms were damp. He rubbed them against his jeans until the door opened.

“Gi-hun?”

He looked up to see a man with warm eyes and rolled-up sleeves. Ali Abdul’s presence was calm but steady, like he could hold the weight Gi-hun had been carrying without flinching.

“Yeah,” Gi-hun said, voice rough, and stood.

“Come on back,” Ali said, not rushing him.

The office was softly lit, a couch against one wall, two chairs angled so they didn’t feel confrontational. Gi-hun hesitated before taking the chair, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, phone still gripped in his hand.

“Thanks for filling those out,” Ali said, setting the intake paperwork on his desk. “That first step can be the hardest. How are you feeling right now?”

Gi-hun let out a sharp exhale. “Like I want to throw up.”

Ali nodded. “Makes sense. Let’s take it slow. Maybe just start with what brought you here.”

Gi-hun stared at the floor, his voice rough. “My boyfriend ghosted me for two weeks after we… after we slept together for the first time.” He swallowed hard before continuing. “I kept calling, kept sending messages, begging for any kind of reply, and he ignored every single one. I told him what I wanted, not just once but over and over, and he never said anything back. It felt like screaming into a void. He told me he would be busy with work, but then he just disappeared for two weeks like I didn’t exist.”

His fingers flexed against his knees. “I spiraled. Kept texting anyway, like maybe if I just kept trying, he would answer. It was like I wasn’t even me anymore, just watching my thumbs move and unable to stop. Finally, I blocked him. I thought it would make me feel better.” His jaw tightened. “It didn’t. It just felt like I cut off my own air.”

He hesitated, then held the phone out to Ali, almost embarrassed. “I don’t even know how to explain it. Just… look.”

Ali took the phone carefully and scrolled slowly through the messages. He didn’t rush, didn’t react, just read them all the way through. When he set the phone down again, his expression was soft but steady.

“That’s a lot to hold on your own,” he said gently. “You reached out, really reached out, and when you didn’t get a response, it hurt like hell. It makes sense that it knocked the wind out of you.”

Ali leaned forward slightly. “Has this feeling shown up before? That fear that you don’t matter unless you keep trying?”

Gi-hun nodded faintly. “Yeah. It’s been there for a long time.” He hesitated, then said quietly, “I thought if I just kept trying to be better, to do everything right, it would fix things. But sitting here, I feel like I’m still carrying the same patterns. Like no matter what I do, I’ll just hurt the people I love again.”

His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Sometimes I think I’ll never be enough for someone to just love me as I am. Not because I earned it, not because I worked hard to deserve it, just because I’m me.”

Ali gave him a moment, then said gently, “Gi-hun, you’ve spent so much of your life trying to be what other people needed you to be, a good husband, a good father, a good partner. But part of the work we’ll do here is helping you learn to love yourself. Not for what you can do for other people, not for how they see you, but for who you are when you’re just you.

“Your worth can’t come from whether someone answers a text or tells you you’re enough. It has to start with you.”

Gi-hun blinked at that, the words landing harder than he expected. The idea felt foreign and terrifying, but also a little bit like hope.

He shifted, staring at the floor for a long moment before blurting out, “Would it be stupid to get back with him?”

Ali didn’t look surprised. “Not stupid. It’s your heart, Gi-hun. But you deserve to make that decision from a place where you feel steady, where you know you’re choosing him because you want him, not just because you’re afraid of losing him.”

Gi-hun nodded faintly, some of the tightness in his chest loosening.

Ali leaned forward slightly, voice calm but certain. “Being loved isn’t something you earn by doing everything right. It’s not a reward for good behavior. Real love is given because of who you are, not because you never make mistakes, not because you never fall apart. Just because you’re you.”

Gi-hun’s shoulders twitched, like the words hit somewhere deep.

Ali didn’t rush him. “The fact that you’re here, trying, says a lot about the man you are. And we can work on helping you believe you’re worthy of that kind of love, the kind that stays even when things get messy.”

He reached over to a small notepad on the table and slid it toward Gi-hun. “Here’s something I’d like you to try before we meet again. When that thought shows up, the one that says you’re not enough, pause for a second and write down what triggered it. Then write one sentence reminding yourself you’re still showing up. Something simple, like ‘I’m trying. I’m learning.’”

Gi-hun stared at the pad for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“It might feel awkward at first,” Ali added, “but it’s not about convincing yourself overnight. It’s about reminding yourself that you’re still here. Still trying. That matters.”

Something in Gi-hun’s chest eased at that, just enough for him to let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

When the session ended, he stood and took the notepad with him, gripping it tightly in one hand as he walked out into the hallway. He stopped for a moment just outside the office door, leaning lightly against the frame, and let out a long breath.

He didn’t feel fixed, but for the first time in days, he didn’t feel completely broken either. The notepad felt solid in his hand, something he could hold onto when everything else felt like it might slip away.

By the time he made it to school for pickup, the sun was already dipping low, throwing long shadows across the playground.

When he pulled up to the school, the playground was quiet except for a few kids staying late. In-ho was sitting on a bench with Ga-yeong’s tiny backpack slung over one shoulder, Eun-hee beside him, the two of them chatting softly while they kept an eye on the playground.

Ga-yeong was perched on the jungle gym, finishing the last bite of her snack. The second she saw Gi-hun, she hopped down and sprinted across the yard, throwing herself against his legs.

“You’re back!” she said, voice bright.

“Always,” Gi-hun said softly, crouching to hug her tight before looking up at the bench.

Eun-hee smiled as they approached, her expression warm. “She’s been great company,” she said gently.

“Thanks for staying with her,” Gi-hun said, meaning it. His voice caught for a second before he added, “It means more than I can tell you. I… I’d really like to be friends with you both, no matter what happens with Sang-woo. You’re good people. I can tell Ga-yeong feels safe with you.”

In-ho’s expression softened, quiet pride flickering across his face before he nodded once. “We’d like that too.”

Eun-hee reached over and touched Gi-hun’s arm lightly. “Anytime. You’re not alone in this.”

Ga-yeong stepped back, grinning wide. “Thanks, Ahjussi! And Imo!” she said, throwing her arms around both of them in a quick, fierce hug.

Eun-hee laughed softly, hugging her back and brushing a hand over her hair. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

In-ho ruffled her hair with a smile. “Go on, your dad’s waiting.”

Gi-hun’s throat went tight, but he smiled anyway. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

As they headed to the car, the sky was streaked pink with sunset. Ga-yeong chattered the whole way, still sticky with snack crumbs, and Gi-hun felt like maybe they were going to be okay.

Chapter Text

The apartment felt softer after pickup, late-afternoon light spilling across the floor in warm streaks. Seo-hyun dropped her backpack in its usual spot and darted toward her room, calling out that she was going to change out of her school clothes.

Sang-woo loosened his tie and hung it neatly over the back of the chair before sitting at the kitchen table. The quiet pressed in around him, heavy but not oppressive yet. His mother had gone home that morning, leaving the apartment tidy and still, and now there was nothing left to drown out the ache in his chest. Every tick of the clock seemed to land a little louder, and the weight of the last few weeks settled back over his shoulders.

The knock came just as he was starting to sink into it.

When he opened the door, Dae-ho stood there with two takeout bags in one hand and a game console tucked under his arm, hair slightly mussed like he’d come straight from work without stopping to fix it. There was something in his face that said he already knew why Sang-woo had stayed home today.

“Oppa!” Seo-hyun’s voice rang out the second she spotted him, and she came skidding into the living room barefoot, launching herself into his arms. Dae-ho crouched low to catch her, lifting her just enough to make her squeal before setting her back down.

“Missed you too, kiddo,” he said, ruffling her hair before holding up the bags with a crooked grin. “I brought dinner. Figured neither of you were going to eat otherwise.”

Seo-hyun tugged at his hand. “Come on!” she said, already pulling him toward the kitchen.

The three of them unpacked the food together, the smell of fried chicken and rich broth filling the apartment until it felt warmer than it had in days. They ate crowded around the table, and Seo-hyun’s chatter filled every corner of the room, smoothing over the sharp edges that had been there when Sang-woo sat down earlier. By the time she scampered back to her room, full and humming to herself, the quiet that followed felt gentler.

Sang-woo stayed at the table, thumb brushing absently over the rim of his bowl. His voice was quiet when it finally came. “I screwed it up,” he said, staring at the tabletop. “With him.”

Dae-ho didn’t look surprised. He leaned back in his chair like he’d been waiting for this.

“I told him I’d be busy, then stopped answering,” Sang-woo went on. “Two weeks. Barely anything. You know how bad it got. You were there for all of it. I let him think he didn’t matter and when I finally went to see him, he wouldn’t even open the door.”

He rubbed both hands over his face, fatigue pulling at every line of him. “And I don’t blame him. I hurt him. It doesn’t matter why. I still hurt him. If I want him to trust me again, I have to own that.”

Dae-ho leaned forward, elbows on the table, his tone steady and sure. “You’ve got a good heart, Sang-woo. You’d never hurt him on purpose, anybody who knows you knows that. And those deals weren’t just numbers on a page. Hundreds of people’s jobs were hanging in the balance. If you hadn’t closed them, the fallout would’ve been a nightmare. You’d never have forgiven yourself if those families had lost everything. You did what you had to do.”

The words sank in deep. For a moment, Sang-woo was back in the boardroom at midnight, papers spread across the table, coffee gone cold, Dae-ho dozing upright in the chair next to him, and the hollow relief that had hit when the last signature came through. It had felt like holding up the whole company with his bare hands.

His throat worked, but his voice stayed even. “Yeah. But next time, I can’t just disappear. Not on him.”

“Then don’t,” Dae-ho said without hesitation. “Start small. Make them bentos again. You said she used to light up when you brought them. Remind him you’re still showing up, for both of them, even when it’s hard.”

Sang-woo let out a long breath, then nodded. “I appreciate you,” he said quietly. “Not just tonight. For everything. You’ve had my back through all of it.”

Dae-ho’s expression softened, though his voice stayed matter-of-fact. “Always. You know that. I’m not going anywhere. Even if the whole place burned down, I’d still be here.” His mouth curled into a grin. “And I definitely deserve a raise after the last two weeks.”

A small, startled laugh broke out of Sang-woo before he could stop it. It felt strange in his throat, almost like air after being underwater too long.

“You know I love you, right?” he said after a pause, voice rough. “Thanks for being here and checking on me. It means more than you know. You’re like the sibling I never had.”

Dae-ho’s grin softened into something warm. “Love you too,” he said simply. “Guess you’re stuck with me forever now. No take backs.”

He tapped the console against his palm. “Alright, enough serious talk, I'm over it. I brought reinforcements. You’re playing. No arguments. I'm about to beat your ass.”

Sang-woo gave him a look, one brow raised.

“Don't give me that look,” Dae-ho said, grinning as he set it up. “Sit down and get ready. You're completely unprepared to get destroyed at Mario Kart.”

For the first time in days, Sang-woo actually smiled, faint but real, as he sighed and dropped to the floor beside him.

They played round after round until Seo-hyun came to spectate, clapping and laughing whenever Dae-ho’s victory whoops echoed through the room. At one point he threw his controller in the air and shouted, “All hail your champion! You suck!” so dramatically that Seo-hyun shrieked with laughter and fell over on the carpet.

By the end, Sang-woo was half-buried under discarded controllers and pillows, pretending not to be secretly enjoying himself.

When Seo-hyun finally went back to her room, still giggling, Dae-ho flipped the TV to a new screen. “Alright, cooldown time,” he announced, landing on The Great British Bake Off. “We need something wholesome after the public humiliation you just endured.”

Sang-woo rolled his eyes but didn’t stop him, leaning back on the couch as the tent and cheerful bakers filled the screen. The quiet hum of the show and the smell of dinner still lingering in the air made the room feel soft, almost peaceful.

At some point during a technical challenge, Dae-ho’s head tipped back against the cushion and his breathing evened out.

Sang-woo noticed only when the credits rolled. For a long moment he just stood there, looking at him, the man who had kept him upright through the worst of the last few weeks, asleep on his couch like family.

Quietly, Sang-woo grabbed a blanket from the back of a chair and draped it over him, smoothing it once so it wouldn’t slip.

He didn’t say anything aloud, but the thought was clear as if he had spoken it: I don’t know what I’d do without you, you're my closest friend.

And then, just as simply, he decided Dae-ho was getting that raise. No announcement, no warning. He’d make sure it was on the next payroll and watch him lose his mind about it later.

He stood there a moment longer, letting the stillness settle.

Morning came early, but it felt lighter than the days before. The apartment was warm with motion, Seo-hyun buzzing with energy as she chattered about her day, stuffing pencils into her backpack, while Sang-woo stood at the counter pouring coffee, the rich smell filling the kitchen.

From the living room came the sound of a yawn, then Dae-ho appeared, hair sticking up in every direction. “I look like I’ve been through a wind tunnel,” he muttered, scrubbing at his face. “Mind if I grab a shower before we go?”

Sang-woo just nodded toward the bathroom. “Clean towel’s under the sink. And take this.” He pulled a still-wrapped toothbrush from the drawer and held it out.

Dae-ho twirled it between his fingers with a grin. “You keep extras?”

“For emergencies,” Sang-woo said dryly. “Apparently this counts.”

“Apparently,” Dae-ho echoed, already heading down the hall.

By the time he reappeared, his hair was damp and combed back, one of Sang-woo’s shirts hanging comfortably on him. He looked freshly put together, at ease, almost like he belonged there. Seo-hyun stopped mid-sentence, gave them both a long look, and grinned.

“You look like brothers,” she announced, delighted. Neither of them bothered correcting her.

The three of them left together, Seo-hyun skipping ahead of them on the sidewalk. In the car, she narrated every passing dog, bus, and cloud out the window while Dae-ho scrolled lazily through his phone, occasionally humming in agreement.

At drop-off, he fell into step with them, carrying Seo-hyun’s backpack while Sang-woo crouched to straighten her collar.

“Have a good day,” Sang-woo said, brushing her hair back.

“You too!” she chirped, taking her bag back before spinning toward the playground. Halfway there, she turned and shouted, “Bye, Oppa Dae-ho! You have to come over and play Mario Kart again soon!”

Dae-ho grinned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “I’m still the undefeated champion!” he bellowed. “Your dad cries when he loses because he sucks so bad!”

Seo-hyun shrieked with laughter and yelled back, “He almost threw the controller!” before taking off at a run, giggling so hard she nearly tripped.

A few parents turned to stare.

Sang-woo went scarlet. He stepped up behind Dae-ho and gave him a quick, harmless swat to the back of the head.

“Hey!” Dae-ho ducked away, grinning like the devil. “You know it’s true!”

Across the yard, Gi-hun had just finished dropping off Ga-yeong and caught the entire exchange, Seo-hyun’s hysterical laughter, Dae-ho rubbing the back of his head with a smug look, and Sang-woo glaring like he was about to combust.

As they headed back toward the car, Dae-ho threw one last shout over his shoulder. “I’m telling HR you rage-quit when you're losing!”

Sang-woo groaned, dragging a hand over his face. When he glanced toward the yard, his eyes caught on Gi-hun. For just a second, they held each other’s gaze, Sang-woo still flushed and looking almost boyish in his embarrassment.

Gi-hun’s mouth curved despite himself, the smallest tug at the corner of his lips.

Sang-woo looked away first, muttering something under his breath that made Dae-ho laugh all the way across the parking lot.

Gi-hun didn’t move, the faintest smile still curving his lips. Seeing Sang-woo like that — rumpled and embarrassed, Dae-ho laughing at his own joke, Seo-hyun nearly in tears with giggles — sent a sharp ache through his chest that felt almost like hope.

This, he thought, the ache almost sweet, is the Sang-woo I fell in love with.

Chapter Text

After drop-off, Sang-woo went into the office as planned, but work felt different after the morning with Dae-ho and Seo-hyun. His inbox was overflowing, meetings stacked back-to-back, but he couldn’t focus on any of it for long. Every few minutes, his mind drifted back to the memory of Gi-hun at the fence, that brief, unexpected smile that felt like sunlight breaking through days of gray.

He got through the morning on autopilot, nodding through presentations and signing papers without really seeing them. By the time lunch rolled around, he already knew he had to do something. Something small. Something that wouldn’t overwhelm, but would remind Gi-hun he was still here.

Instead of eating in the boardroom, he slipped out of the building and walked to the corner store. It took him longer than it should’ve to choose. Rows of keychains lined the rack, bright animals, cartoon characters, tiny charms, but when his fingers brushed against a soft rabbit, pale and plush, he stopped. It looked like something Ga-yeong would clip to her backpack zipper, something that might make her grin.

It felt almost silly, a grown man standing in the checkout line with a stuffed rabbit in his hand, but he bought it anyway and kept it in his pocket for the rest of the day. More than once during meetings, he caught himself turning it over between his fingers like a reminder of why he was doing this.

When his last meeting ended, he shut his laptop and left the office a little early. On the drive across town, he stopped at Gi-hun’s favorite coffee shop and ordered exactly how he liked it. The barista slid the cup across the counter with a knowing smile, and for a moment Sang-woo felt oddly exposed, like everyone in the shop could see right through him.

The school lot was just starting to fill when he arrived. His chest felt tight as he parked, nerves making his hands shake while he crossed to Gi-hun’s car. He set the coffee carefully on the hood, hooked the rabbit keychain over the lid so it dangled like a little guardian, and slid a folded note under the edge to hold it in place.

Gi-hun,
I heard you’ve been making Ga-yeong’s lunches. She’s lucky to have a dad who shows up for her like that.
I thought you might need this today, and I thought she might like this.
— Sang-woo

He stood there for a moment, making sure it wouldn’t spill, then turned back to his car and drove out of the lot before he could second-guess himself.

A few minutes later, Gi-hun arrived. He’d been one of the first parents at pickup every day since the incident. No lingering by the fence, no small talk, just Ga-yeong in the car and gone.

Today was no different.

“Appa! There’s something on your car!” Ga-yeong shouted, running ahead as soon as she saw the coffee.

She skidded to a stop and gasped, her face lighting up when she saw the keychain. “It’s a bunny!” She unhooked it and clipped it to her backpack right away, bouncing on her toes to watch it swing. “Look, Appa!”

Gi-hun picked up the coffee, the heat soaking into his fingers. He smoothed the note flat, read it once, then again, before folding it carefully and tucking it into his pocket. His chest felt tight, but not in the crushing way that had haunted him all week.

He twisted off the lid and took a sip right there in the lot. It was perfect, exactly how he liked it, hot and strong and steadying. His shoulders dropped with the first swallow. For a moment he just stood there, breathing in the steam, before setting the cup carefully in the holder.

“Can I bring it to school tomorrow?” Ga-yeong asked, swinging the bunny so it thumped against her backpack.

Gi-hun nodded. “Yeah, baby,” he said softly. “You can.”

They climbed into the car, the keychain already catching the late light through the window as they pulled out of the lot.

Sang-woo was just turning back in on the other side to pick up Seo-hyun. Their cars passed in that slant of fading light before the sun slipped behind the trees. He caught a glimpse of Gi-hun through the windshield, his profile calm in a way Sang-woo hadn’t seen in weeks. His grip on the steering wheel eased, his shoulders sagging like he’d been holding himself tense all day. It lasted only a second, but it was enough to leave him with the fragile sense that today had mattered.

The apartment was quiet after dinner. Ga-yeong was already tucked in, her new bunny keychain clipped proudly to her backpack for tomorrow, resting on the chair beside her bed like it needed to watch over her.

Gi-hun sat at the kitchen table, Ali’s notepad open in front of him, the pen loose in his hand.

Notice the thought, write one sentence to answer it.

It should’ve been easy, but every answer he came up with felt hollow. The thought had shown up earlier, when he saw the coffee sitting there. The little voice in the back of his head whispered, You don’t deserve this. It’s just pity. He’s doing this because he feels guilty, not because he loves you.

He pressed the pen to the page anyway, forcing himself to write:

I showed up today. That matters.

He stared at the words until they blurred a little, the ink soaking into the paper like it might hold them there for him if he forgot.

His hand drifted to the folded note in his pocket. He smoothed the creases flat against the table, reading the lines one more time.

She’s lucky to have a dad who shows up for her like that.

His throat tightened. Maybe it was because no one had ever said that to him before. Not his ex-wife, not the teachers, not even his own family.

He thought about the moment he’d found it, standing in the lot with the late-afternoon sun slanting across the hood of his car. He’d picked up the coffee carefully, twisted the lid off, and taken a sip. For a second it had just been coffee, hot, dark, and bitter. When it hit his tongue, something inside him had gone soft. He’d stood there longer than he meant to, breathing in the steam until his shoulders finally dropped.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he picked up his phone. His thumbs hovered over the screen, typing and deleting twice before he finally sent:

Gi-hun: Thanks for the coffee. She loved the bunny.

It looked too small sitting there on the screen, like it couldn’t possibly carry the weight behind it, but he hit send anyway and set the phone face-down.

The quiet of the apartment didn’t feel as sharp tonight. He glanced toward the sink where the empty cup still sat, then back at Ali’s notebook. The words he’d written stared back at him.

For the first time in days, he let the warmth of the coffee settle in his chest and stay there. Tomorrow didn’t feel impossible.

Across town, Sang-woo was rinsing mugs at the kitchen counter when his phone buzzed against the wood. He reached for it distractedly and froze.

Thanks for the coffee. She loved the bunny.

He read it once, then again, and his breath caught.

It wasn’t much. Not forgiveness. Not an invitation to talk. But it was enough to stop the free fall he’d been in.

He set the mug down carefully, braced his hands against the counter, and closed his eyes. His first instinct was to type something back, to spill every apology he’d been holding in, but he forced himself to stop.

Don’t rush this. Don’t push.

He let out a long, shaky breath and leaned back against the counter, the corners of his mouth tugging up despite himself.

Seo-hyun padded into the kitchen, toothbrush in hand. “Appa? Why are you smiling like that?”

He hadn’t realized he was.

“Nothing,” he said softly, ruffling her hair as she passed. “Go finish brushing.”

When she disappeared back down the hall, he sank into the chair at the table, the phone still in his hand.

He reread the message three more times, unable to help himself, and this time he didn’t bother hiding the grin that pulled at his mouth.

The apartment was still and quiet, but it didn’t feel empty anymore.

The knot under his ribs finally loosened. He let himself believe there was a way forward, one careful step at a time.

Chapter Text

The next afternoon, there was another cup waiting on the car. Not coffee this time but tea, the kind Gi-hun always ordered when he was trying to settle his stomach or keep his hands from shaking.

He glanced around the lot before picking it up, heart thudding even though he knew exactly who it was from. A neat envelope sat tucked under the cardboard sleeve, weighed down so it would not blow away.

Hope today felt a little easier. – S

The words were so simple, almost too simple, but they caught something inside him and held it. He stood there for a long moment, thumb brushing over the paper before tucking it carefully into his pocket.

He didn't drink the tea right away. It rode home in the cupholder, steam curling up to fog the air, filling the car with a faint, familiar scent.

When they got home, Ga-yeong sat at the table with her coloring book while Gi-hun sat across from her with the cup. He held it in both hands, letting the heat seep into his fingers, before finally twisting off the lid and taking a sip.

It was perfect. Not too sweet, not too bitter, exactly how he liked it.

The warmth spread through him, slow and steady, quieting the jagged edges in his chest for the first time all day. He found himself smiling before shaking his head like he could stop it.

On the third day, Ga-yeong spotted the envelope first.

“Appa! There’s a letter!” she squealed, running ahead and plucking it off the hood with both hands.

“Careful,” he said automatically, but she was already tearing it open. A sheet of sparkly animal stickers fluttered out, landing on the asphalt.

She gasped, snatched them up before they could blow away, and held them over her head like treasure. “Look, Appa! I can put these on my pencil box!”

Gi-hun took the note from her and unfolded it, his throat tightening at the short message and the messy drawing at the bottom, a lopsided flower in bright green marker.

You're an amazing dad. You're doing a great job.

He could picture Seo-hyun concentrating over the page, tongue caught between her teeth, while Sang-woo watched from across the table. The image made something in his chest twist, but it did not hurt the way it had before. Not today.

That night, after Ga-yeong was asleep, he sat at the table with the envelope in one hand and Ali’s notebook in the other. He slid the note carefully between the pages, smoothing it flat. It felt like proof.

Proof that someone was thinking of him. Proof that he had not been forgotten.

The fourth morning, Sang-woo was in the middle of a strategy meeting when he realized he had not heard a word anyone had said for the last five minutes. Dae-ho was still talking, the CFO gesturing at a graph, but all he could see was Gi-hun’s face the last time they had spoken, pale and hurt, shutting the door without looking back.

When the meeting broke, he went back to his office, shut the door, and just stood there for a moment with his hands braced on the desk. He could throw himself into work again, lose himself in numbers and contracts, pretend none of this was gnawing at him, or he could do something.

The blank card on his desk might as well have been shouting.

Three others already sat crumpled in the trash can beside his chair, too stiff, too wordy, too safe. He had tried explaining everything in one go, tried making it sound rational, but none of it felt right. None of it felt like what Gi-hun actually needed to hear.

So he picked up the pen and wrote the truth.

I miss you.
I love you.
I am proud of you.

The words looked too big for the page, too final, but he couldn't make himself cross them out. He wanted Gi-hun to see them. He needed him to see them.

He sat there staring at the envelope long after he had sealed it, elbows on the desk, forehead pressed to his knuckles. For a moment he thought about slipping it into the drawer, leaving it for another day, maybe never sending it at all.

Instead, he slid it into his briefcase.

That afternoon, he left the office earlier than usual and swung by Gi-hun’s favorite coffee shop. The barista knew the order by now and slid the cup across the counter with a knowing smile.

When he set the coffee on the hood of the car, tucking the envelope carefully under the sleeve, his stomach twisted like he had just handed over something far more dangerous than paper.

Back in his car, he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, staring at the hood of Gi-hun’s car from where he was parked. Every part of him wanted to get back out, grab the note, and leave something safer, something that would not leave him feeling so exposed.

But he stayed put.

If Gi-hun wasn't ready to hear it, so be it. At least this time he wouldn't wonder if he had said enough.

Gi-hun found it standing in the lot, one hand braced against the car door.

I miss you.
I love you.
I am proud of you.

His breath caught so hard it hurt.

He stood there for what felt like forever, the noise of the playground fading until there was nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat. The note shook in his hands, the edges bending under his grip.

He sank into the driver’s seat and read it again. And again. And again. His chest felt too small to hold everything that rushed up at once, hurt, relief, longing, and....hope.

When he finally drove home, the card stayed on the passenger seat where he could glance at it at every red light, almost like proof he hadn't imagined it.

He didn't put it away when they got home. While Ga-yeong colored at the kitchen table, he sat across from her with the note beside his coffee cup, touching the edge with his fingers until the paper softened.

Later that evening, while she watched cartoons, he pulled it out again and smoothed it flat on his knee. His thumb traced the letters like he could memorize them just by touch.

And when he thought about Sang-woo, sitting in some office with his sleeves rolled up, taking the time to write these words in the middle of his day, he smiled. Really smiled.

By the time Ga-yeong was asleep, the card looked soft and worn from how many times Gi-hun had opened and closed it. He tucked it carefully into Ali’s notebook with the others, pressing his hand over the cover for a long moment before finally letting go.

When he went to bed, he lay on his side with one arm tucked under the pillow, staring into the dark. He had pulled the note out again and set it on the nightstand, close enough to touch.

After a long pause, he reached out, ran his thumb over the edge of the paper, and drew in a slow breath. The words felt like they were still warm, like they were still sinking into him.

“I love you too, Sang-woo,” he whispered into the quiet, almost afraid to break the stillness of the room.

He pulled the card off the nightstand and held it lightly against his chest, the paper soft under his fingers.

For the first time in days, he let himself imagine seeing Sang-woo again — really seeing him, hearing his voice, feeling the weight of his presence. The thought didn’t make his stomach twist this time. It made him feel steady, almost ready.

He closed his eyes with the faintest smile still on his face, letting the sound of Sang-woo’s laugh echo in his mind as he drifted to sleep with the note pressed close.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun got to school early the next morning, as usual. He watched Ga-yeong dart through the gates, her little backpack swinging, before spotting In-ho standing with a small group of teachers near the staff entrance, clipboard in hand.

He crossed the playground, adjusting his coveralls out of habit, and nodded politely as he approached.
“Good morning, Ms. Choi,” he said, his tone formal.

“Good morning, Mr. Seong,” she replied with a polite smile-but her brows rose slightly when Gi-hun’s attention shifted past her.

“In-ho-ya! Can I talk to you for a sec?” Gi-hun called, the words coming out casual and warm before he could think twice.

A couple of the teachers exchanged looks, surprised at the familiarity, and one of them murmured under her breath, “Did he just call him In-ho-ya?”

In-ho’s usual reserved expression softened immediately, his shoulders loosening as he smiled. “Morning, hyung,” he said warmly, the word carrying an ease that made a few of the teachers blink.

Gi-hun walked with him a few steps away, suddenly aware of how informal he’d been. “Hey… I don’t want to be disrespectful toward you here,” he said quietly. “You’re still the principal, I hope that didn't bother you just now."

In-ho shook his head, still smiling. “You’re not being disrespectful. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in being friends with you, Gi-hun. Honestly, I appreciate that you feel comfortable enough to call me that here.”

Something in Gi-hun’s chest loosened at that, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Okay,” he said, the word quiet but certain.

“Actually…” he went on, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve got another therapy appointment this afternoon. Would you and Eun-hee mind watching Ga-yeong for a bit after school?”

“Of course,” In-ho said without hesitation. “Thanks for asking. We’ll keep her on the playground until you get back.”

Relief worked its way through Gi-hun’s chest. He stepped forward and clasped In-ho’s shoulder in a quick, solid hug — not long enough to make a scene, but long enough to make sure everyone nearby saw it.

“She really likes you both,” Gi-hun said when he stepped back.

“That’s good to hear,” In-ho said, his voice steady. “And good for you, going back again. That takes a lot and I'm still proud of you.”

Gi-hun nodded once, still smiling as he headed back toward the gate.

As he crossed the lot toward his car, another vehicle pulled in — Sang-woo’s. Seo-hyun hopped out, still chattering about something, and Sang-woo glanced up just in time to see Gi-hun approaching.

Gi-hun hesitated only a second before saying, clear but quiet, “Good morning, Sang-woo.”

Sang-woo’s hand stilled on the strap of Seo-hyun’s backpack, and he smiled at him, tender and unguarded. “Good morning, Gi-hun,” he said softly.

Gi-hun’s mouth curved into a small smile of his own before he gave a little nod and kept walking. Seo-hyun called out a cheerful goodbye to him before hurrying toward the gate.

When Gi-hun slid into his truck, the smile was still there, faint but steady. He sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel, letting the quiet settle around him, and felt something in his chest unclench just a little.

The shop felt different that afternoon-lighter, almost easy. The guys were already ribbing each other by the time Gi-hun clocked in, and he found himself jumping right back in, tossing out his own jokes until Jung-bae groaned and told him to shut the fuck up and get back to work.

Instead of just smirking like usual, Gi-hun actually laughed-a full, unguarded laugh that made a couple of the younger guys glance over and grin. It had been too long since it sounded like that.

Work moved smoothly, the kind of day where the rhythm of the tools and engines felt good in his bones. By mid-afternoon, while they were putting tools away, Jung-bae clapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Jung-bae said, giving him a long look. “I’m glad you’re doing better. You had me worried last week.”

Gi-hun blinked, then gave a small, sheepish smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Whatever you’re doing, keep at it,” Jung-bae said simply. “It’s good to have you back.”

Gi-hun’s chest went warm at that. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear it until right then.

By the time the last car was finished and the bay was cleaned up, he was ready to go. Not dreading therapy. Not bracing himself. Ready.

When he parked outside Ali’s office, there was no hesitation this time. He grabbed his notebook from the passenger seat, tucked it under his arm, and went inside.

The waiting room was quiet, the kind of quiet that made Gi-hun aware of every breath he took. His notebook rested on his lap, his thumb brushing the edge like he could smooth down the nerves buzzing under his skin. His chest felt tight, but not with dread. It felt like urgency, like something inside him had finally ripened and was ready to be said.

When the door opened, Ali stepped out with a warm, steady smile. “Gi-hun,” he said. “Come on back.”

Gi-hun stood right away and followed him down the short hallway. The office was softly lit, calm but inviting, with the faint scent of wood polish and tea. He sat in the same chair as last time, but this time the notebook lay loosely balanced on his knee instead of being clutched like a shield.

Ali settled across from him, posture relaxed but attentive. He studied him for a moment before saying, “You look different today. Good different.”

Gi-hun let out a small, almost shy laugh. “I feel different.”

“Tell me about that,” Ali said gently, leaning back just enough to signal there was no rush.

Gi-hun took a breath, rubbing the back of his neck before speaking. “This morning at drop-off, In-ho was outside with some of the teachers. I called out to him like it was nothing, and he called me hyung. In front of everyone. Some of the teachers gave us these looks, like they didn’t know what to make of it.”

Ali nodded, listening carefully. “That sounds like it meant something to you.”

Gi-hun paused, the memory sharp enough that he could still feel it in his chest. “Normally that would have had me ducking my head, making a joke, pretending I had somewhere else to be. I’ve always felt out of place at that school, like everyone knows we’re the scholarship family. Like we’re the charity case. But I didn’t feel like that this morning. I hugged him right there, and he hugged me back like it was the most normal thing in the world. And I just stayed there. I didn’t shrink. I didn’t run.”

Ali’s expression softened, his tone warm. “That’s a powerful moment. You let yourself stay even when it felt vulnerable.”

Gi-hun’s hands flexed on the notebook before loosening. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “And it made me realize I matter. Even if they were judging me, even if nobody said a word, I still would have mattered.”

Ali gave a small nod. “That sounds like a big shift-coming from you this time.”

Gi-hun let the silence stretch for a moment, feeling the weight of it settle. “Yeah,” he said again, more certain now. “Coming from me this time. Not from someone else telling me.”

Ali held his gaze for a moment before nodding again. “Good. That’s important insight.”

Gi-hun hesitated, then went on. “It made me think about that day at Sang-woo’s office. I felt so out of place. Everyone in their designer suits, the floor practically sparkling, and I thought I was embarrassing him just by standing there.”

Ali tilted his head slightly, inviting him to continue. “And what do you see when you look back at that now?”

Gi-hun gave a small, almost incredulous smile. “He wasn’t embarrassed. He put his hand on my back and introduced me to everyone. Called me his partner right in front of his department heads. And when someone made a comment about me being there in my coveralls, he shut it down. No hesitation. He made sure everyone knew I belonged there.”

Ali nodded thoughtfully. “So he was already telling you you belonged-just not with words you could hear yet.”

Gi-hun swallowed hard. “Exactly. I kept telling myself I had to earn him. That if I worked harder, made more money, then maybe I’d deserve him. But that was never coming from him. He never asked me to be anything but who I am. He’s been loving me like this the whole time. I just couldn’t see it.”

Ali nodded once, slow and certain. “And now you do see it.”

Gi-hun brushed his thumb over the note taped inside the notebook. “Yeah. And I think I see more clearly why he was so stressed too. I found out later that hundreds of people’s jobs were on the line with those deals. That doesn’t make it okay and it still hurt. But it explains why he was so sharp, why he was barely sleeping. He wasn’t just being cold. He was trying to hold everything together.”

Ali leaned forward slightly, voice quiet. “That sounds like an important reframe-holding the hurt and the understanding at the same time.”

Gi-hun let out a long breath. “I know now that I need to set clear boundaries so it doesn’t get that bad again. But I also know it wasn’t on purpose. And he respected me asking for space. Even though I could tell he wanted to talk to me, he stayed back and let me have time. That means a lot. It makes me feel like I can trust him to respect me going forward.”

Ali nodded. “That trust sounds hard-earned. What’s it like to feel it again?”

Gi-hun’s voice softened. “It feels good. Like something I can lean on.”

Ali gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Go on.”

Gi-hun’s expression turned thoughtful. “Next time, I don’t want him to carry all of that weight alone. I want him to know he can lean on me, that I can prop him up when he’s stressed. I want to be the person he turns to when things get hard, because I love him that much.”

Ali’s eyes warmed at that. “That sounds like love that’s steady, not just reactive.”

Gi-hun nodded, the words sitting solidly in his chest. “Clear communication is going to have to be something we work on. I can’t just wait until I’m drowning to tell him what I need, and he can’t keep everything bottled up until it explodes. But he took accountability for what happened. He told me he was sorry. I believe him.”

He smoothed the page with the note again, chest rising and falling with a steady breath. “I want to try again with him. Not because I’m scared to be alone, but because I love him. And because I think I can actually meet him halfway now. I want to choose him from a place where I know my own worth and where I know what I need too.”

He hesitated then, his voice quieter. “I just don’t know how to start. I don’t want to rush back in like nothing happened. I think I need to go slow. Let him see that I’m serious and figure out how to talk about what we both need.”

Ali let a short silence settle before speaking, giving Gi-hun space to breathe. “That makes sense. It’s okay not to have all the words yet. What matters is that you know what you want and where you’re standing when you choose it.”

Gi-hun nodded slowly, some of the tension leaving his frame. For the first time all session, he leaned back in the chair, his shoulders loosening. A faint but genuine smile tugged at his mouth.

Ali watched him for a moment. “Before we meet again next week,” he said gently, “is there something you’d like to do, something that helps keep this momentum going?”

Gi-hun was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the notebook’s edge. “Talk to him,” he said slowly, testing the words. “Not about everything yet. Just start somewhere.”

Ali’s smile warmed. “That sounds like a relationship where you’re not just being chosen. You’re choosing too.”

Gi-hun let out a slow, steady breath, feeling the truth of it sink all the way in. “Yeah,” he said softly. He closed the notebook and held it lightly against his chest, like something worth protecting. “It feels like the right choice this time.”

Gi-hun climbed into the truck and shut the door, letting the quiet settle around him. For a long moment, he just sat there, the notebook still pressed to his chest. The world outside felt sharper somehow-the air cool against the windshield, the light almost too bright after the soft calm of Ali’s office.

He set the notebook on the passenger seat and rested both hands on the steering wheel, breathing slow until the thud of his heartbeat evened out.

Ali’s words were still in his ears. You’re not just being chosen. You’re choosing too.

He let out a slow breath, the weight of it settling deep.

His mind drifted, unspooling a picture so clear it almost startled him.

Sang-woo at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, face in his hands after some impossible day. Gi-hun crossing the room, sitting beside him, not saying anything at first-just sliding a mug of tea across the table, waiting until Sang-woo looked up.

He could almost feel the heat of Sang-woo’s shoulder against his, could see the moment Sang-woo would let himself sag sideways, letting Gi-hun take some of the weight.

That was what he wanted. To be the person Sang-woo could turn to when things were heavy. Not just the one who needed comforting, but the one who could hold steady and say, “I’ve got you.”

His throat tightened at the thought, but not in a painful way.

Gi-hun turned his head, looking at the notebook on the seat beside him. He reached over and smoothed a hand over the cover.

“Okay,” he murmured to himself. “Start somewhere.”

He swallowed, then tried the words out loud, quiet in the cab.
“Hey, can we talk sometime soon? I want to take things slow, but I want to try.”

The sound of it settled something in his chest.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was a beginning.

He didn’t know yet if he’d say it at pickup, or after dinner on the phone, or maybe by text just to get the words out. But he knew he was ready to take the first step — not to fix everything all at once, but to show Sang-woo he was still here.

He started the truck, the low rumble steady under his hands, and thought of Sang-woo's smile. 

Chapter Text

Friday morning felt steadier than any morning had in weeks. The air was cool and damp, carrying that faint smell of wet pavement left from last night’s drizzle. The sky was a soft gray-blue, pale morning light just starting to spread across the school lot.

Gi-hun walked Ga-yeong to the gate and watched her run ahead, her little boots splashing once as she went. She turned to wave before disappearing inside, and Gi-hun lifted a hand back, his throat tight for reasons he couldn’t quite name.

As he turned toward the staff entrance, he spotted In-ho standing with another teacher, clipboard in hand.

“Morning, In-ho-ya,” Gi-hun called out across the asphalt, his voice light but sure.

In-ho glanced over, smiled, and called back, “Morning, hyung!”

The word left Gi-hun standing a little taller as he turned toward the parking lot.

He started back toward his truck, but slowed when he saw Sang-woo crossing from the cars with Seo-hyun. Their paths met near the middle of the lot, and Gi-hun gave a small nod.

“Good morning, Sang-woo,” he said softly.

Sang-woo’s gaze flickered, surprised for a beat, then warm. “Morning,” he said quietly before turning back toward the gate with Seo-hyun.

Gi-hun kept walking, but instead of going to his truck, he circled back and stopped at the driver’s side of Sang-woo’s car. His heart thudded so hard it made his fingers twitch as he shoved them into his pockets. The lot bustled with noise around him, but it all felt far away.

A few minutes later, Sang-woo came back across the lot alone. His steps slowed when he saw Gi-hun waiting by the car, his face shifting from surprise to something softer, more careful.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that Gi-hun could see the faint question in his expression.

Gi-hun took a breath and forced himself to hold his gaze. “Hey,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Can we talk sometime soon?”

Sang-woo nodded right away, voice calm and sure. “Yeah. Anytime you want.”

Gi-hun’s throat worked, and he hesitated, heart hammering as he searched for the words. “I…” He swallowed. “I want to take things slow.” His voice caught, but he pushed through it. “But I really want to try....To make it work with you.”

For a moment there was silence, and Gi-hun’s stomach twisted, bracing for whatever might come next.

Then Sang-woo’s voice came, low and certain, carrying no hesitation at all.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” he said. “You’re it for me, Gi-hun. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

Gi-hun’s breath hitched like someone had pressed a hand to his chest. His shoulders dropped, the tension sliding out of him in a rush. He glanced down, blinking quickly, then looked back up and nodded once, small but sure.

“Okay,” he said softly.

For a moment they just stood there, the noise of the lot dim and far away.

Gi-hun gave him one more small nod as he stepped back. “I hope you have a good day,” he said, voice a little rough but warm.

Sang-woo’s mouth curved into a soft, certain smile. “I will now,” he said.

Gi-hun turned then, heading for his truck before the feeling in his throat could turn into tears.

Sang-woo stayed for a few more seconds, one hand braced on the roof of the car, before letting out a long, slow breath. When he finally got in, the quiet, unshakable smile was still there, like he already knew this was the start of something new.

The garage was already humming when Gi-hun clocked in that afternoon. The air was warm with the smell of oil and metal, the sound of tools clattering in rhythm.

Jung-bae spotted him from across the bay and gave a low whistle. “Look who’s actually smiling,” he called, wiping his hands on a rag.

Gi-hun rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite stop the grin tugging at his mouth. “What, I’m not allowed to be in a good mood?”

“Not complaining,” Jung-bae said, giving him a playful shoulder bump as he passed. “You were scaring the new kid last week with how grumpy you looked. Thought you were gonna throw a wrench at him.”

“That was one time,” Gi-hun protested, grabbing his gloves. “And the kid almost put diesel in a sedan. I was saving everyone’s life. So you're welcome for that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jung-bae said, grinning. “Whatever you’re doing now, keep it up. You’re a lot easier to work with when you’re not brooding in the corner like a sad action hero.”

Gi-hun laughed, a real, full laugh that echoed in the bay. “Sad action hero? Really?”

“Yup,” Jung-bae said, smirking. “You’ve got the look down. Brooding eyes, tragic jawline, handsome. Very dramatic.”

Gi-hun shook his head, but his chest felt warm. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this-the easy banter, the rhythm of working side by side with someone who knew him well enough to tease him out of a mood.

As the day went on, the work came easy. Grease under his nails, the satisfying clang of parts coming free, the low murmur of conversation with Jung-bae as they moved from car to car.

When they stopped for water near the end of the shift, Jung-bae leaned against the tool chest, studying him. “Seriously, though,” he said, softer now. “Whatever’s going on… I’m glad you’re coming back to yourself.”

Gi-hun swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, then nodded. “Me too.”

Jung-bae nodded once, then said it simply, like it wasn’t even a question: “I love you, hyung.”

Gi-hun blinked at him, startled for a second but not because it was new, but because they didn’t say it often to each other. They didn’t need to. It was just something that had always been there between them, steady as anything, but hearing it out loud now hit him right in the chest.

“Yeah,” Gi-hun said softly after a beat, smiling slow and warm. “I love you too.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Thanks for being my best friend.”

Jung-bae’s grin turned softer at that. He clapped him on the back, firm and warm. “Anytime. Now grab the broom before the kid sweeps the bolts into the trash again.”

Gi-hun laughed, shaking his head, but something in his chest felt anchored.

Back at Cho and Partners, Sang-woo’s good mood was impossible to miss. People he passed in the hallway did double takes, not because he looked sharp (he always did), but because he was smiling. Really smiling.

Most days, Sang-woo was untouchable at work. Not unkind, never unfair, but serious, precise, the kind of boss who kept everything moving with clipped efficiency and rarely let anyone see past the polished surface.

So when he walked through the top floor with his shoulders relaxed and a faint smile on his face, it turned heads. Conversations dipped as he passed, a few employees exchanging glances, one whispering just loud enough for the others to hear, “Is he actually smiling?”

Sang-woo didn’t notice, or maybe he did and didn’t care. He just pushed open the office door, set his briefcase down, and got to work.

Later that afternoon, the smell of takeout filled the office. Eun-hee was sitting across from him at the desk, contracts spread between them as she went through the clauses with her usual calm efficiency.

“You could push this back if you really wanted to,” she said, tapping a pen against one of the pages. “They don’t have any leverage here.”

Dae-ho was perched on the couch, one foot up, salad bowl in his lap, more there for company than anything else.

“You know what?” he said suddenly, peering at Sang-woo over his fork. “You’ve been in a good mood all day. What’s going on? Did Legal finally approve that contract? Did you fire Director Kim?”

“Nothing like that,” Sang-woo said mildly, still reading over the page in front of him.

Dae-ho narrowed his eyes. “It’s Gi-hun, isn’t it? Something happened.”

Sang-woo hesitated, then slowly set the pen down. For a long moment he didn’t speak, just stared at the paper in front of him, like he was steadying himself. When he finally looked up, his expression was soft in a way that made Eun-hee still.

“He said he wants to try,” Sang-woo said quietly. “Not rushing into anything, but he wants to make it work with me. With us.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than anything they’d been discussing a moment before.

Eun-hee’s mouth curved, gentle and sincere. “That’s wonderful, Sang-woo.”

Dae-ho, on the other hand, let out a victorious shout, launching himself off the couch. “I knew it! I told you he wouldn’t stay mad and upset forever!”

Before Sang-woo could react, Dae-ho grabbed him by the wrists and hauled him to his feet.

“Dae-ho!” Sang-woo started, but he didn’t get another word out before Dae-ho bent, hooked his arms under his thighs, and lifted him clean off the ground, spinning him in a triumphant circle.

Sang-woo yelped, grabbing his shoulders on instinct, but somewhere in the spin he started laughing, loud and unrestrained, until his head tipped back and the sound echoed in the office.

It was a rare sound, the kind of laugh that peeled away all of his edges, all of that polished restraint he carried at work. A laugh Dae-ho and Eun-hee had never heard before.

When Dae-ho finally set him down, Sang-woo was still grinning, breathless, one hand braced on the desk to steady himself.

“This is better than the raise I just got last week,” Dae-ho declared proudly. “Like, I thought nothing could top that, but this? This is way better.”

Sang-woo shook his head, still laughing as he tried to pull himself back together. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously happy for you,” Dae-ho corrected, flopping back onto the couch with a satisfied sigh. “Seriously, hyung. You’ve looked like someone took the sun away for weeks. It’s nice to see you like this. I've been worried about you.”

That made Sang-woo pause, some of the humor softening into something quieter. He didn’t look away, but the smile that stayed on his mouth was different now, smaller but more real.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s nice to feel like this again.”

Eun-hee’s expression warmed. “You and Gi-hun are good together. It’s nice to see you getting back to that.”

Sang-woo’s smile spread wider at that, bright and unguarded, the kind of smile that reached all the way to his eyes and made him look a little younger.

Before the moment could stretch too long, Dae-ho clapped his hands once, breaking the quiet. “Okay. Now that you’re officially a human being again, we need to celebrate. Weekly family dinners. Big ones. Eun-hee, you and your husband are coming too, no arguments.”

Eun-hee laughed, still watching the quiet warmth in Sang-woo’s face. “Count us in.”

Sang-woo groaned like he was put out, but the curve of his mouth gave him away completely. “You’re scheduling events at my place already,” he said, but there was no real heat in it. “Maybe wait until Gi-hun and I are officially back together before you start inviting all our friends.”

At pickup, with Ga-yeong skipping along beside him, Gi-hun headed back across the lot. His steps slowed when he saw the hood of his truck bare. The sight hit like a punch, cold fear twisting under his ribs. Maybe Sang-woo had changed his mind.

He opened the driver’s side door and froze.

On the dash sat a small box, tied neatly with twine, and a folded note resting on top. In the cupholder, a coffee still steamed next to a bottle of juice for Ga-yeong.

“Appa!” she squealed, scrambling up into her seat. “Look!”

Gi-hun climbed in, his heart thudding, and picked up the note with careful fingers.

You said you wanted to try.
So do I.
You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Gi-hun.
I’ll wait as long as it takes, and I’ll keep showing you until you believe me.

— S

Gi-hun’s breath caught so hard it almost hurt. He sat there for a long moment, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper, before setting the note gently in his lap.

He untied the twine and opened the box. Inside were kkwanaegi donuts, some cinnamon and some sugar, still faintly warm.

“They’re from your favorite bakery!” Ga-yeong said, grinning as she peered over the edge of the box. “He must have gone all the way across town!”

Gi-hun broke one in half, passed a piece to her, and bit into the other.

The sweetness hit his tongue, soft and familiar, and something in his chest loosened. A quiet, surprised laugh escaped him, real and unguarded.

The evening air had gone cool by the time Gi-hun pulled into the neighborhood where Ga-yeong’s friend lived. She chattered excitedly in the back seat, kicking her heels as they rolled to a stop in front of the house.

In the rearview mirror, headlights appeared. Sang-woo’s sedan pulled in just behind him, and Gi-hun’s chest tightened. He climbed out slowly, taking Ga-yeong’s overnight bag from the back seat, trying to steady himself.

By the time he straightened, Sang-woo had rounded his car to let Seo-hyun out. His hair was slightly mussed, like he had run his hands through it too many times during the day. Somehow it didn’t make him look messy-it made him look even more beautiful, windblown and effortless, like every part of him belonged right here.

And that sweater. That damn sweater. The same one Gi-hun remembered from their first date night, hugging Sang-woo’s shoulders and chest in a way that made Gi-hun’s pulse skip. He was so beautiful it made something in Gi-hun’s chest ache, and the worst part was Sang-woo seemed completely unaware of it, like he did not realize how badly he could undo Gi-hun just by standing there.

Gi-hun’s throat went dry, his pulse thundering so hard it felt like it shook through his whole chest. He pressed a hand against the truck door, grounding himself against the rush of heat climbing his neck.

Then Sang-woo looked up, and their eyes locked.

Something shifted in Sang-woo’s face. His steps slowed, his shoulders easing like the sight of Gi-hun had stolen the air from his lungs. For a beat, his expression held something almost reverent, as if he couldn’t quite believe Gi-hun was standing there looking back.

The space between them went still, heavy but not tense-like the whole lot had gone quiet just for them. Then Sang-woo smiled. Not polite, not restrained, but wide and boyish, the kind of smile that broke through every wall at once. It lit up his whole face, softened him, made him look impossibly young.

Gi-hun’s stomach swooped, dizzy and sharp, nearly knocking him back a step. Sang-woo wasn’t just letting him stare-he wanted him to. He wanted Gi-hun to know he had been staring too.

Gi-hun swallowed, breath catching as the moment stretched and stretched. His heart thudded once, hard enough to echo in his ears, before he finally managed to speak. “Hi, Sang-woo.”

“Hey,” Sang-woo said, and the warmth in his voice was so steady, so sure, it felt like it slid under Gi-hun’s ribs and stayed there, glowing.

Gi-hun’s chest loosened, just slightly, and a faint, unguarded smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

They fell into step together as they walked the girls to the door. Gi-hun’s heart felt too big for his chest, every step a reminder of how much he wanted this. Not just Sang-woo, but this walk, this easy quiet, the girls running ahead together, the way Sang-woo matched his pace so they moved side by side.

“How was your day?” Sang-woo asked as they crossed the walkway.

“Good,” Gi-hun said, his voice softer than he meant it to be. “Busy at the shop. Jung-bae tried to get me to leave early and go out, but…” He glanced at Sang-woo, and something in his chest gave a sharp little twist. “I wanted to be here.”

Something warm flickered over Sang-woo’s face at that, quiet and unguarded, and it made Gi-hun’s chest ache all over again.

At the door, they exchanged quick hellos with the girl's parents, confirming pickup times and thanking them before stepping back.

The girls darted inside without looking back, already swept up in their excitement, and the door shut behind them with a soft click.

As they walked back toward the cars, the neighborhood had gone quiet. The sound of their footsteps on the gravel felt loud in the stillness. Gi-hun’s fingers twitched at his side with the urge to reach for him, to catch Sang-woo’s wrist and hold on, but he curled them into a fist instead and kept walking.

When they reached the cars, Gi-hun paused by the driver’s side of his truck, his throat working.

“Hey,” he said finally, his voice hesitant but steady. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight.” He glanced away for a second, then back at him. “I think we should talk.”

Sang-woo’s expression softened, something warm and sure passing over his face. There was no hesitation in his voice when he said, “I’d like that.”

The certainty in it made Gi-hun’s heart stutter.

“I’ll grab something for dinner on the way,” Sang-woo added gently.

Gi-hun nodded, a faint but real smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay. Drive safe. I'll see you soon.”

Sang-woo smiled back, something quiet and unguarded in it, before heading for his car.

Gi-hun climbed into the truck and sat there for a moment, both hands on the wheel. The ache in his chest was not painful now, but fierce and tender all at once. He wanted Sang-woo so badly it felt like gravity, pulling him closer. It was not just want. It was longing, deep and steady, for everything he had just glimpsed, the girls running ahead together, the quiet walk back, Sang-woo at his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

By the time he started the truck, there was a warmth blooming under his ribs that had not been there before.

Gi-hun leaned against the counter, palms pressed flat against the cool surface. The apartment was so still he could hear the faint hum of the fridge and the sound of his own breath.

“Okay,” he said under his breath. “You said you wanted to try. You said it.”

The words settled heavy in his chest, but he didn’t look away.

“I deserve this,” he whispered, voice rough but sure. “I deserve to be loved. I deserve to be happy.”

He swallowed and kept going, each word slower, like he was laying them into place one by one.

“I deserve someone who wants me just like this. I don’t have to make more money. I don’t have to have a different job. I'm good enough for him.”

His chest ached as the memory of that afternoon at Sang-woo’s office rose up, vivid and whole. The way the whole floor had gone quiet when he walked in, every suit in the room turning to look at him, the heat climbing the back of his neck. And then Sang-woo, calm and sure, saying "This is my partner" like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Gi-hun could still feel Sang-woo’s hand at the small of his back, steady and grounding, the weight of it telling him without words that he belonged there. Sang-woo hadn’t just tolerated being seen with him. He had claimed him in front of everyone, proud to be by Gi-hun's side.

Sang-woo had never treated him as less. Not once. He didn’t just love Gi-hun anyway. He loved him because he was him.

Gi-hun’s throat tightened, but this time it was not from shame. He straightened, breathing through the rush in his chest until it felt solid, until it felt like his.

Tonight, when he opened the door, he wouldn't flinch. He would let himself believe it.

For the first time in a long time, he felt a quiet smile pull at his mouth. He was excited. Not just nervous, not just braced for what might happen — but genuinely, fully excited to see Sang-woo.

Sang-woo drove with one hand loose on the wheel, the other braced against his thigh like he needed to hold himself steady. The streetlights flickered across the windshield, but he barely saw them.

He had showered after work and changed into the sweater Gi-hun once teased him about for being too soft, hoping it would make him feel less like the hard-edged version of himself who spent all day behind a desk. It was ridiculous, he knew-it was just a sweater-but he wanted Gi-hun to see him like this. Comfortable. Open. His.

God, he wanted to see him.

The wanting sat under his ribs like something alive. He had spent all day thinking about Gi-hun, every memory circling back to the way his mouth had curved when he said he wanted to try, the way his voice had trembled just slightly like he was nervous and brave all at once.

Gi-hun had no idea what he did to him. No idea how magnetic he was without even trying.

It wasn’t just how good Gi-hun looked, though he did, more than anyone had a right to. It was everything else too. The sharpness of his mind, the way he could make connections no one else could see. The humor that could pull a laugh out of anyone in the room, even on the worst days. The way he always tried, even when he was tired, even when he didn’t think anyone was watching.

And his heart.

God, that heart. The kindest one Sang-woo had ever known. Too kind sometimes. But it was Gi-hun’s heart that had saved him more times than he could count. That stubborn, reckless, generous heart that loved so loudly it scared him sometimes-scared him because of how much Sang-woo wanted it for himself. Wanted to take it in his hands and keep it safe.

Wanted Gi-hun to be his.

He gripped the wheel tighter, swallowing hard at the thought of everything he wanted. To eat dinners together. To wake up next to him. To raise their girls side by side, to share mornings and school drop-offs and lazy Sundays that never had to end. To make a home together that was theirs.

He wanted to marry him, even if no one else ever recognized it. Even if it was just the two of them, standing in the quiet of their apartment, making promises no one else would hear. He wanted to start building that future tonight.

He wanted everything Gi-hun would let him have, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life proving he deserved it.

Before heading up, he stopped at the florist he had passed earlier and bought a small bouquet of tulips in Gi-hun’s favorite color. It wasn’t much, but he wanted Gi-hun to have something alive in his hands tonight, something to keep when Sang-woo left, proof that he had come and would come again.

Dinner was next, takeout from the little restaurant Gi-hun loved, the one that always had a line out the door. Sang-woo didn’t mind waiting. He spent the time picturing what might happen tonight-not sex, not rushing anything, just sitting together. Eating together. Maybe holding Gi-hun in his arms if he would let him. He hoped he could stay over, hoped he could just fall asleep next to him and wake up there in the morning with Gi-hun in his arms.

Gi-hun deserved that. Deserved to be cherished. Deserved to be treated with gentleness and respect and to set the pace for everything that came next. Sang-woo would never pressure him. He would wait as long as it took, as many nights as it took, just to be near him like that.

By the time the food was ready, Sang-woo’s pulse was a steady roar in his ears. He gripped the takeout bag tighter, the flowers crinkling softly in the other hand.

He parked outside the apartment and sat for a moment in the quiet, his breath loud in the stillness. His chest ached with how badly he wanted this, wanted him.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” he murmured to himself, the words steady as a vow.

He climbed out of the car, smoothed his sweater with damp palms, and took the steps two at a time, heart pounding harder with every one.

At the door, he stopped. For a moment, all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears. He drew in a breath so deep it almost hurt, trying to steady the wild beat of his pulse.

Then, before he could lose his nerve, he raised his hand and knocked.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun opened the door, heart thudding but steadier than it had been all week.

Sang-woo stood there with the takeout bag and a small bouquet of tulips. His eyes met Gi-hun’s and something in both of them unclenched at once.

“Hi,” Gi-hun said softly.

“Hi,” Sang-woo answered, just as quiet. He held out the flowers. “These are for you.”

Gi-hun smiled as he took them. “Thanks.”

He stepped back to let him in. The apartment was warm, quiet, expectant. Gi-hun found a glass, filled it, set the tulips inside with careful hands. By the time he turned back, Sang-woo had unpacked the food at the kitchen table.

They sat down across from each other. For a moment they just ate, letting the warmth of the food and the steady rhythm of passing soy sauce and sliding containers ground them.

Then Sang-woo set his chopsticks down and looked across at him, calm but sure.

“I want to start this the right way,” he said. “I want to be completely honest with you. You deserve that. And I want you to be completely honest with me too, even if it hurts. Even if it’s hard for me to hear. I love you too much for anything to stay unsaid.”

Gi-hun’s throat worked. He set his own chopsticks down.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said finally, his voice quiet but raw. “It wasn’t just those three days you didn’t answer. It was the two weeks before that too. You stopped coming to pickup. You weren’t there at drop-off. Every time I went to the school gate, I caught myself looking for you anyway, even when I knew you weren’t going to be there. And every time, it hurt worse.”

His voice cracked and he pressed his hands together tightly before going on. “I’d check my phone all day, in the middle of work, when I was supposed to be eating lunch, right before bed, and there’d be nothing from you. Or just a line or two, so short it felt like you didn’t even have time to finish a thought. And I kept telling myself you were just busy, that it was fine, but every day it got harder to believe that.

“I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know if something had gone wrong, or if I’d done something to push you away, or if you were just trying to find a way to leave without saying it.”

He swallowed hard, his fingers twisting together on the table, knuckles white. “By the time those three days of silence hit, I didn’t know what to think anymore. I just felt like you were gone. Like you’d already decided I wasn’t worth staying for. And I kept thinking, if you’d wanted to explain, you would have. If you’d wanted me, you’d be here. And then all I could hear in my head was that maybe you didn’t want me at all.”

His shoulders curled in as if he were trying to make himself smaller. “I stopped sleeping. I couldn’t make myself eat most days. The house went quiet. Ga-yeong kept watching me like she was scared to ask if something was wrong. She caught me crying more than once, and I had to lie and tell her it was nothing. I hated that she saw me like that, hated that she thought something might happen to me too. And still, I couldn’t stop. I’d sit on the couch at night staring at the door like an idiot, imagining you knocking, and then when it stayed quiet I’d tell myself to stop hoping. But I couldn’t. Every sound in the hallway made me sit up.”

Gi-hun’s voice frayed at the edges, breath hitching as if it hurt to say it out loud. “I thought I’d done something to break this without realizing. I thought you were already gone, and I was just too slow to catch up.”

Sang-woo flinched like the words had struck him. He pushed his chair back and reached across the table without hesitation, covering Gi-hun’s hands with both of his, holding on tight like he could keep him from disappearing.

“You are worth staying for,” he said fiercely. “Every single time. I should’ve told you what was happening. I was buried under the biggest deal I’ve ever worked on, calls in the middle of the night, entire days where I didn’t see the sun, and I told myself I’d come back to you when it was over. That if I just got through it I could give you the best of me again. But all I did was leave you sitting here wondering if I still wanted you. That was cruel, even if I didn’t mean it to be.”

Gi-hun blinked at him through tears. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

Sang-woo’s mouth twisted, pain sharp across his face. “Because when I’m under that kind of pressure, I turn into someone I don’t like. Someone I spend months after trying to make up for. I get short, mean, sharp-edged. I get petty. I get cruel if that’s what it takes to win.

“I’m a cutthroat businessman for a reason, Gi-hun. If someone stands in the way of the deal, I’ll tear them apart without blinking. And when it’s over, when the numbers look good and the papers are signed, I hate who I had to become to make it happen.

“But I can’t fail. Hundreds of people are counting on me to get it right. If I make the wrong call, they lose their jobs. I lose their trust. I don’t get to lose.” His voice dropped, heavy with exhaustion. “Most of the time I love my job. I love building something, solving problems no one else could untangle. But when it gets like this, when it eats up every hour and every breath, I wish I could be someone else. Someone who didn’t have to get so ruthless just to survive it.

“That’s why I’m so intentional the rest of the time, with you, with Seo-hyun, with everything that matters. Deals this big don’t happen every month. They don’t even happen every year. So when they’re done, I make damn sure I’m present. I pick her up from school, I make the bentos, I show up for every little thing I can, because I don’t ever want her to think work is more important than she is. I don’t want you to think that either. You’re what keeps me human.”

Gi-hun’s throat worked. He let out a shaky breath and nodded, his fingers curling tighter around Sang-woo’s. “I see that,” he said softly. “I’ve seen how present you are with her. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when you could be anywhere else, you show up. That’s one of the reasons I—” His voice caught, but he forced himself to keep going. “It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.”

Something in Sang-woo’s face softened at that, his shoulders lowering a fraction as though Gi-hun’s words had given him permission to keep going. He let out a slow breath, the tension in him shifting but not gone.

“It means everything that you see that,” he said quietly. “Because most people don’t. They just see the side of me that works until I’m hollow, and then they pull back like I’m something to be avoided.”

He looked down, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “And people notice. People on my floor keep their distance when I get like that. They lower their voices when I walk by. Eun-hee’s never seen me in that state, I’ve always kept it from her, but others have, and they don’t forget it. The only person who’s ever seen me at my absolute worst and hasn’t walked away is Dae-ho. He’s still my friend. But everyone else… they look at me differently after. Like I’m dangerous.”

Sang-woo’s breath shuddered out. “Gi-hun, for this to be real, for this to last, you have to know all of me. Not just the part of me that shows up with flowers and dinner. The part that scares me. The part I’m afraid will scare you. Because I want this.” His voice broke, quiet and desperate. “I want you. I want forever with you. But I can’t keep anything back if I’m going to ask you to stay. You have to know what you’re choosing.”

Gi-hun’s throat worked. Slowly, he reached across the table and threaded their fingers together until Sang-woo had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“I’m not leaving,” Gi-hun said, voice thick but steady. “Even if I see that side of you. Even if it’s ugly. I don’t want the calm, put-together version of you all the time. I want you, all of you. The one who gets scared and sharp and human. I can take it. I want to take it.”

Sang-woo’s jaw flexed, his eyes wet.

“You’re letting me see all of you,” Gi-hun said quietly. “And you trust me enough to stay.”

“Yes,” Sang-woo said, his voice barely above a whisper but unshaking. “Because I love you. And because I can’t keep part of myself hidden from you and still ask you to trust me. You deserve all of me, even the parts I wish I could cut out and throw away. And I should’ve trusted you sooner.”

Gi-hun nodded once, tears spilling over. “Then let me hold you up when it gets bad. Don’t shut me out. Don’t disappear. If you’re drowning, I want to be the person you turn to. I can take it. I want to be the one who gets to take it. Don’t decide for me that I can’t.”

Sang-woo just looked at him for a long moment, like the force of the words had rooted him to the spot. Then he leaned forward and cupped Gi-hun’s face with both hands, his thumbs brushing away tears that had already been replaced by new ones.

“I won’t disappear again,” he said, his voice low but fierce. “You won’t ever have to wonder where I am again.”

Gi-hun’s fingers curled tight around Sang-woo’s wrists, as if he could anchor him there by sheer will. His mouth trembled, breath shuddering once, and Sang-woo could see how much it hurt him to force the words out.

“Did you fuck someone else?”

The question came out raw, almost strangled, like it had been tearing him apart from the inside.

Sang-woo’s hands dropped away like the question had knocked the air out of him. For a second he just stared, stunned, before Gi-hun folded forward, elbows braced on his knees, covering his face.

“I told you you could,” Gi-hun choked, his voice cracking. “I told you it was over. I said you could do whatever you wanted, and the whole time I kept thinking—” His breath hitched hard, shoulders shaking. “I thought you’d take that as permission. That you’d take it and run, because I knew I’d still take you back if you ever came back. And I couldn’t even let myself be mad about it, because I was the one who gave you the chance to break me.”

“No,” Sang-woo said, the word sharp and raw, almost too loud in the quiet.

He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping, and dropped to a crouch in front of him. His hands closed around Gi-hun’s wrists, firm but not forceful, pulling them down just enough so he could see his face.

“No, Gi-hun,” he said, quieter but no less urgent. “Never. Not once. Not even for a second. You are it for me. Always.”

He held his gaze, looking up at him from where he knelt. “If you want proof, I’ll call Dae-ho right now. I’ll put him on speaker so you can hear him tell you exactly where I was every hour of those three days. I don’t care if it’s humiliating. You deserve the truth, all of it, and I’ll give you whatever you need to believe me.”

Gi-hun’s lip trembled as fresh tears slid down his face. “No,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I believe you. I just needed to hear you say it.”

Relief hit Sang-woo so hard it nearly doubled him over. He stayed where he was, still crouched, holding Gi-hun’s hands like they were the only thing tethering him to the room.

Gi-hun took a long, shaky breath. “I’ve been talking about this in therapy,” he said slowly, like each word cost him something. “About how small I felt next to you. How you never have to budget the way I do. How you never have to choose between groceries and the electric bill. How you can just buy something if you want it, and I have to count every won twice before I spend it.

“I hated myself for even thinking that way, but I couldn’t stop. I kept thinking you were living in this world I could never touch. That I was some kind of charity project you decided to take on because you felt sorry for me. I’d come home with grease under my nails and think about you wearing suits that cost more than my rent, and I’d feel like there was a wall between us I couldn’t climb. Like you’d eventually see how different we are and decide I wasn’t worth the effort.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and his grip on Sang-woo’s hands tightened like he was holding himself together by sheer force. “I kept thinking you looked at me and saw less. Less polished. Less capable. Less worthy. Like no matter how hard I tried, I’d always come up short next to you. And the worst part is…” His throat worked, tears spilling over. “Some part of me believed it too. Even though you never said it, I said it to myself every day.”

Gi-hun’s eyes glistened. “I kept trying to hide it from Ga-yeong too. I’d put on a smile, tell her everything was fine, but inside I felt like I was sinking. I didn’t want her to see me like that. I didn’t want her to think this is what love does to a person, turns them into someone who begs for scraps just to feel wanted.”

Sang-woo shook his head hard. “I have never, not once, thought you were less. I don’t care about any of that. I love you because you’re you. Because you try even when you’re exhausted. Because you make me laugh when everything feels too heavy. Because you love so hard it scares me sometimes, in a good way. It makes me want to be better.

“I don’t love you despite anything. I love you because you are exactly who you are. If you came home every night covered in grease for the rest of your life, I would still want you. If you never made another won again, I would still want you. If you stripped everything else away, down to nothing but you sitting in front of me, I would still choose you.”

Gi-hun’s face crumpled, shoulders slumping like something inside him had finally loosened. The sob that escaped him was quiet but broken.

“I need to say this out loud,” he said, voice shaking but sure. “I deserve love. I deserve to let you love me. I deserve to be happy. I don’t have to change who I am to be worth it. I’m good enough for you.”

Sang-woo reached up and cupped his face gently, his thumbs brushing away tears as they fell. “Good,” he whispered, his forehead almost touching Gi-hun’s. “Hold on to that. And when it shakes, I’ll say it back to you until you believe it again.”

Gi-hun nodded, still blinking tears from his lashes, but steadier now. “I’ve been bracing to be left my whole life. Waiting for the moment the other shoe drops. And I hate feeling like I have to earn it just to keep someone around. Like I have to be perfect or I’m going to lose them.”

“You don’t,” Sang-woo said, soft but fierce. “You don’t have to earn me. I was proud to bring you to the office that day. Proud enough that I wanted everyone to see you. I watched them look up from their desks, and all I wanted to do was pull you closer, not hide you. You have no idea how badly I wanted to kiss you in that moment, not because I was showing you off, but because I was proud to be standing next to you.”

Gi-hun let out a breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and a sob, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

For a moment they just stayed there, Gi-hun slumped at the table, Sang-woo crouched on the floor, breathing hard from everything that had just been said. Then Sang-woo slowly stood, steadying himself with one hand on the table.

“Can I touch you?” he asked softly, careful but sure.

Gi-hun nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

Sang-woo helped him stand. Gi-hun wavered for a moment, then stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sang-woo’s middle. It was a fierce, full-bodied hug, his arms sliding under Sang-woo’s, his face pressing hard against Sang-woo’s chest.

Sang-woo let out a breath and wrapped him up right away, one hand cupping the back of Gi-hun’s head, the other rubbing slow lines down his spine.

“Don’t let go,” Gi-hun whispered, muffled against Sang-woo’s shirt.

“I won’t,” Sang-woo said immediately, steady. “Not ever.”

They stayed like that until Gi-hun’s breathing slowed just enough for him to loosen his grip.

“Come sit with me,” Sang-woo said gently.

Gi-hun nodded but didn’t fully let go until they reached the couch. Sang-woo sat first, leaning back slightly to steady himself and leaving space beside him.

Gi-hun stood there for a moment, chest heaving like he was trying to hold himself together. Then he crossed the last few steps, climbed onto Sang-woo’s lap, and straddled him. His arms went back under Sang-woo’s, clinging hard, his face pressed into the warm spot under Sang-woo’s jaw.

Sang-woo leaned back just enough to brace them both, one arm instinctively wrapping around Gi-hun’s waist to steady him.

Sang-woo startled at the sudden closeness, his breath catching. His hands hovered for a second before he settled them on Gi-hun’s back and pulled him in, holding him as close as he could.

“Okay,” Sang-woo murmured, low and steady. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Gi-hun broke then. The first sob tore out of him, harsh and broken, shaking through his entire body. His arms locked around Sang-woo’s waist like he was afraid letting go would undo everything they had just said.

Sang-woo tightened his hold and slid one hand under the back of Gi-hun’s shirt. His palm moved in slow, steady circles over warm skin, grounding him, reminding him that he was right there.

“You’re safe,” Sang-woo whispered, rocking him slightly. “I love you so much. I’m not letting go.”

Gi-hun sobbed harder, his fists curling into Sang-woo’s shirt.

“You’re my everything,” Sang-woo said, his own throat closing up. His eyes burned and before he could stop it, tears were slipping hot down his cheeks. “I should have told you that every day. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Gi-hun cried harder at that, clinging so tightly it almost hurt, but Sang-woo just held on and kept rubbing his back, slow and steady, as if his hand could anchor him in place.

He pressed his face against Gi-hun’s hair and let his own tears fall freely. “I love you,” he whispered again and again, the words catching on his breath.

When Gi-hun’s sobs finally began to slow, Sang-woo kissed his temple, soft and lingering. He started humming, a low, wordless tune that seemed to fill the quiet space around them.

Gi-hun’s breathing evened out little by little, though he didn’t move from Sang-woo’s lap. He just stayed there, face pressed into his throat, until the tension in his body loosened into something close to calm.

“You’re not leaving tonight, are you?” Gi-hun asked at last, his voice raw and quiet against Sang-woo’s throat.

Sang-woo froze for half a second, just long enough for Gi-hun to stiffen.

“No,” Sang-woo said quickly, his voice rushing out, soft but urgent. “I’m not hesitating because I don’t want to. I just never want you to feel pressured or rushed. If you want me here, I’m here. As long as you want me, I’m not going anywhere.”

Gi-hun nodded hard against him. “Then stay. Please stay.”

“Okay,” Sang-woo whispered, his hand stroking the bare skin of Gi-hun’s back. “I’ll stay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He kept murmuring to him until Gi-hun’s body went heavy against his chest. He wasn’t asleep, just wrung out, every muscle loose with exhaustion.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Sang-woo said gently, voice soft like he was afraid to break the quiet around them.

Gi-hun nodded without opening his eyes. “Don’t go,” he whispered, small and raw.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sang-woo promised immediately, shifting to scoop him up. His arms were steady but careful, holding him like something precious.

Gi-hun curled into him as he carried him down the hall, his face pressed into Sang-woo’s neck. “Stay with me tonight,” he said, voice small but certain, like it mattered more than anything else.

“I will,” Sang-woo said, kissing his hair as he walked. “I’m staying.”

In the bedroom, he laid Gi-hun down with a tenderness that made his chest ache and smoothed the blanket over him, tucking it up around his shoulders like he was sealing him safe. Gi-hun’s eyes stayed on him, glassy and half-lidded, following him like he didn’t want to lose sight of him even for a second.

“Take this off,” Gi-hun murmured, tugging weakly at the hem of Sang-woo’s sweater.

“My shirt?”

Gi-hun nodded. “Missed you. Missed your skin.”

Something in Sang-woo’s chest twisted almost painfully. He stripped his sweater and shirt off in one motion and leaned down to kiss Gi-hun’s hair, breathing him in.

“Better?” he asked softly.

Gi-hun hummed, his hand sliding to Sang-woo’s bare side, brushing softly over his ribs like he needed proof that he was real.

“Stay close,” he murmured, thumb stroking a small line over warm skin.

“I will.” Sang-woo kissed his hair again before crossing to the dresser, pulling out a pair of soft sweats. Gi-hun’s gaze stayed locked on him, like if he blinked too long Sang-woo might vanish.

When Sang-woo came back, he brushed the hair from Gi-hun’s forehead with his knuckles. “Lie back,” he said softly, coaxing rather than instructing. “I’m right here.”

Gi-hun let him guide him against the pillow, then reached for him again the second Sang-woo slid under the blanket. He pulled Sang-woo close until their foreheads nearly touched, like he needed him within reach to breathe.

“I missed you so much,” Sang-woo whispered, his thumb brushing away the tears still damp on Gi-hun’s cheek.

Gi-hun’s arms slid under Sang-woo’s again, hugging him tight, holding on like he was afraid to let go. He looked up at Sang-woo’s face, saw the tightness in his jaw and the way his breath caught, and something in him softened with aching tenderness.

“You can cry if you need to,” he murmured, quiet but sure. “I’m here for you too. I love you so much.”

It broke something wide open inside Sang-woo. His breath hitched and then the tears came hard, spilling hot against Gi-hun’s skin. His fingers fisted in Gi-hun’s shirt like he was clinging to a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, the words raw and shaking. “I love you. You’re everything to me. I can’t lose you. I won’t disappear on you again. I swear it.”

The words tumbled faster, desperate, unstoppable.

“I want to be with you forever,” he choked, clutching tighter. “Wake up with you, eat breakfast with you, grow old with you. I want to marry you, Gi-hun—”

He broke off with a sharp breath like the confession had startled even him, but the flood wouldn’t stop.

“I know it’s too much,” he stammered, his voice breaking. “I don’t care. I just—God, I just need you to know. I can’t lose this. I can’t lose you. I want all of it with you, even if it’s terrifying, even if it’s selfish—”

Gi-hun cupped his face, stopping the spiral with a slow kiss to his temple, a kiss meant to hold him steady.

“Okay,” Gi-hun whispered into his hair, his own voice shaking. “Then stay. We’ll do all of it. Just stay.”

A broken sound tore out of Sang-woo as he buried his face against Gi-hun’s neck, his sobs shaking both of them.

Gi-hun kept rubbing calm circles along his side, grounding him until the worst of it passed, until Sang-woo’s breaths were still shuddering but no longer ragged.

When Sang-woo finally lifted his head, his face was wet, his expression open and raw. Gi-hun brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead, slow and tender.

“I’m here,” Gi-hun said softly, steady now. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sang-woo’s eyes shut and he let out a long, shaky breath like the words had been what he needed to hear all along. “Neither am I,” he whispered back, and this time it sounded like a vow.

Gi-hun’s tired smile flickered. “Then hold me like you mean it.”

“I already am,” Sang-woo murmured.

He lay back carefully, bringing Gi-hun with him until Gi-hun was draped half across his chest, cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of Sang-woo’s heartbeat. Gi-hun’s arm slid across him, holding on, and Sang-woo’s arms came up immediately, one spread wide between his shoulder blades, the other curved securely around his waist.

He held him like he never wanted to let go, his fingertips flexing against warm skin as if to reassure himself Gi-hun was still there.

Gi-hun stayed pressed against him, heavy and warm, his breath evening out until it matched Sang-woo’s.

They stayed like that for a long time, silent except for the sound of their breathing. Sang-woo’s hand moved slowly over his back, tracing soothing lines, and Gi-hun’s thumb stroked soft circles against his ribs.

“I meant it,” Sang-woo whispered after a long stretch of quiet. “All of it. I want forever with you.”

Gi-hun tilted his head enough to press a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat. “Then you’ve got me,” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion but certain.

Sang-woo’s arms tightened, almost desperate. “Good,” he breathed. “I’m never letting go.”

And he didn’t. They stayed like that, tangled together, holding on as if the world could disappear around them, neither loosening their grip even as sleep finally pulled them under. Gi-hun’s ear stayed pressed to Sang-woo’s chest, the steady beat beneath it slowing little by little, until the rhythm matched his own.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun woke to an empty space beside him, the sheets cool where Sang-woo had been. His heart lurched before he even had time to think, before the memory of last night caught up — the tears, the promises, Sang-woo’s arms locked tight around him until he finally let himself believe he wasn’t going anywhere.

For a second, panic clawed at him anyway. The apartment was too quiet.

Then he heard it, the soft clink of a pan on the stove, the faint scrape of a spatula.

Relief swept through him so hard it made his eyes sting. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the tension bleed out of his body. Then he sat up, running a hand through his hair, and padded out to the kitchen barefoot.

Sang-woo was there, shirtless, in nothing but a pair of sweats that clung low on his hips. The morning light from the window hit his back, catching on the line of his shoulders, the smooth curve of muscle down his arms.

Gi-hun leaned against the doorway, just watching him for a moment, the quiet clatter of breakfast filling the apartment. Something about the sight was so domestic it made his chest ache.

“You’re staring,” Sang-woo said without looking back, his tone warm, almost amused.

“Yeah,” Gi-hun admitted, no point in pretending. His voice was soft, still sleep-rough. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked how you look like that when you sit behind a desk all day.”

Sang-woo glanced over his shoulder, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “We’ve got a gym in the building,” he said. “I go during lunch if I can. Eat at my desk after. It’s the only time I get to clear my head.”

Gi-hun blinked at him, absorbing that. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Sang-woo said, flipping the pan. “I don’t want anything after work. I want that time with Seo-hyun. With you. With Ga-yeong. That’s why I go at lunch, even if it means eating at my desk.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Gi-hun, softer now. “If you ever feel like I’m disappearing again or consumed with work, just tell me. I’ll always tell you where you stand.”

Gi-hun’s throat tightened. He crossed the room, coming to stand behind him, close enough to touch but not quite yet. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I will.”

Sang-woo plated the food with practiced care and set it on the table, and Gi-hun sat, watching him move like he belonged here, like this was their kitchen, their table, their morning.

They ate together in comfortable quiet, their knees bumping now and then under the table, Sang-woo’s hand brushing against Gi-hun’s as he passed the tea. By the time they finished, Gi-hun felt something warm and steady under his ribs that hadn’t been there in weeks.

Sang-woo cleaned up quickly, efficient as ever, and then offered a hand. “Come on. Let’s shower before we run out of time.”

Gi-hun took it, letting himself be led down the hall.

The bathroom was full of steam within minutes. Gi-hun stood under the spray with his head tipped back, eyes closed, as Sang-woo’s hands moved through his hair, rinsing him gently. It was grounding, the way Sang-woo’s fingers worked shampoo through his scalp like he had all the time in the world.

When it was Gi-hun’s turn, he guided Sang-woo back against the wall and returned the favor, running his hands slow over his shoulders, down his chest, over the flat planes of his stomach, letting the water sheet over him until every trace of soap was gone.

When the shower was finally off, the air was thick with heat and steam. They stepped out together, water dripping from their hair, and grabbed towels from the rack. By the time they’d wrapped them low around their hips, Gi-hun’s pulse was a steady thrum in his ears.

He caught Sang-woo’s wrist before he could leave the bathroom, his grip a little too tight, almost desperate.

“Don’t go,” Gi-hun said, his voice rough, almost breaking on the words.

Sang-woo stilled immediately, his gaze softening as he looked back at him. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said gently, like a promise.

Gi-hun stepped in close, crowding him back until his hips brushed the counter. Steam still curled in the air, water dripping from Sang-woo’s hair and sliding over his chest, down the cut lines of muscle to vanish beneath the towel. Gi-hun’s eyes followed the path of every drop before his fingers found the knot and tugged it loose. The towel fell silently to the floor.

Sang-woo’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move, didn’t stop him, just stood still and let Gi-hun look at him.

Gi-hun’s hand wrapped around him with a slow, deliberate stroke, and Sang-woo’s hips jerked helplessly at the touch.

“I want you,” Gi-hun said, low and certain, his voice gone hoarse. “I want you to be inside me. I want you to ruin me for anyone else.”

Sang-woo caught his wrist but not to pull away, but to anchor himself, to get control before he lost it completely.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly, voice low and steady, but his eyes were already dark with want, searching Gi-hun’s face for any flicker of doubt.

“Yes.” Gi-hun’s answer came fast, almost desperate, like the thought of hesitation was unbearable. “I need this. I need you. If you don’t—”

“I always want you,” Sang-woo cut in, sharper than before but impossibly gentle. His hand slid up Gi-hun’s arm, thumb brushing over the frantic pulse in his wrist as if to ground him. “I just needed to hear you say it. Out loud.”

Gi-hun’s breath stuttered out of him, shaky but certain, and something in Sang-woo’s face shifted. Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto dissolved, replaced with heat and focus so intense it made Gi-hun’s chest ache.

“Good,” Sang-woo murmured, his tone going low, promising. “Then go lie down.”

Gi-hun backed toward the bedroom, dropping his towel on the way, skin prickling with anticipation. He climbed onto the bed, heart hammering, watching as Sang-woo followed-unhurried, deliberate, like every step was a choice.

When Sang-woo knelt between his thighs, his big hands came to rest there, warm and solid, like he was staking a claim on Gi-hun’s body before he even touched him anywhere else.

For a long moment, Sang-woo didn’t move, just looked at him, really looked, until Gi-hun felt laid open in more ways than one. The room seemed to hold its breath.

“You know what you’re asking me for?” Sang-woo asked finally, his voice low, steady, carrying more weight than the words alone.

Gi-hun swallowed hard, throat tight, but he nodded. “Yeah.”

Sang-woo’s jaw tightened, not in hesitation but in resolve, like the answer had been the last thing he needed to hear.

“Then I’m giving you all of it,” Sang-woo said, and it was more than a promise, it was a vow.

He leaned over Gi-hun, opened the nightstand drawer, and took out the bottle of lube with the same steady, precise movements he used for everything that mattered. There was nothing hurried in the way he placed it on the mattress within reach, like even this part-preparing Gi-hun-deserved his full attention.

Then he came back down, bracing over Gi-hun and kissing him, slow and deep and unhurried, until Gi-hun’s hands found his shoulders and clutched there.

Sang-woo’s mouth moved lower, tracing a path over his jaw, down the column of his throat, across his collarbones. Each kiss was deliberate, claiming, like he was writing something into Gi-hun’s skin and making sure it stayed there. He mapped him with his mouth, inch by inch, kissing between his ribs, over the flat of his stomach, memorizing every twitch and gasp.

“I’m learning you,” Sang-woo murmured against his chest, his breath hot on damp skin. “Every sound. Every shiver. The way your breathing changes when I take my time.” His lips brushed over Gi-hun’s sternum, reverent. “I’m keeping all of it. Every piece of you.”

Gi-hun’s breathing was uneven by the time Sang-woo reached for the lube. He flipped the cap with one hand, poured some over his fingers, and worked it between them until they glistened. Then he met Gi-hun’s eyes, steady and dark.

“Are you ready?” he said, quiet but commanding, and when Gi-hun nodded, he eased the first finger into him with devastating patience.

Gi-hun’s breath caught, his back arching off the bed, hands twisting in the blankets. Sang-woo didn’t move right away, just let him adjust and feel it, his other hand rubbing slow, grounding circles into Gi-hun’s thigh until he felt him start to give.

“That’s it,” Sang-woo praised, voice low and rough, bending to kiss the sweat-damp skin of his stomach. “Good. Stay right here with me.”

He worked him open so slowly it made Gi-hun shake, pulling back and sliding in again until Gi-hun was rocking his hips, chasing every movement without meaning to. Only then did Sang-woo add the second finger, curling them just right until Gi-hun gasped, his whole body arching.

“Beautiful,” Sang-woo murmured, kissing the inside of his knee, his voice soft like a prayer. He slicked a third finger and eased it in with painstaking care, watching Gi-hun’s face the whole time. Gi-hun made a helpless sound, clutching at the blankets, his thighs trembling, but he didn’t pull away.

“That’s it,” Sang-woo praised, low and steady, coaxing him through every stretch. “You’re opening up so perfectly for me. Let me make this easy for you.”

He didn’t stop until he felt Gi-hun melt under his hand, not just taking the stretch but reaching for it, his breath coming in broken, needy gasps. Only then did Sang-woo withdraw, slow and careful, leaving Gi-hun empty just long enough to make him whimper.

Sang-woo slicked himself with unhurried precision, his big hands steady even as the air between them thrummed with heat. Gi-hun couldn’t look away, chest heaving, and Sang-woo’s mouth curved faintly as if he knew exactly what he was doing to him.

Then he braced one hand on Gi-hun’s jaw, guiding him to hold his gaze, and lined himself up.

“Breathe,” Sang-woo said softly. “I’ve got you.”

He pushed in an inch and stopped, letting Gi-hun feel it, letting him adjust. Gi-hun’s breath caught hard in his throat, his nails biting into Sang-woo’s shoulders.

“You’re okay,” Sang-woo murmured, kissing his temple. “Do you want more?”

“Yes,” Gi-hun managed, his voice already wrecked.

Sang-woo pressed deeper, slow enough that Gi-hun could feel every ridge, every drag. Halfway in, he stopped again, waiting until Gi-hun’s hips tilted up, pleading without words.

“That’s it,” Sang-woo said approvingly, and then he sank the rest of the way in one long, devastating slide until their hips were flush.

Gi-hun cried out, his head tipping back, his whole body trembling from the fullness, from how deep Sang-woo was inside him.

Sang-woo stayed there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard through his nose like he was holding himself back by sheer force of will. He cupped Gi-hun’s face, kissed him slow and reverent, and whispered against his mouth,

“Perfect. Look at you. Taking me all the way in. You’re mine like this.”

He didn’t move at first, just let Gi-hun feel it-the heat, the stretch, the way it left no space inside him untouched. Only when Gi-hun started to rock against him, small needy motions, did Sang-woo pull back and thrust in again, just as slow, just as deep.

Each stroke was deliberate, like he was carving his presence into him. When his hand slid to Gi-hun’s throat, it wasn’t harsh but just enough pressure to hold him there, to make Gi-hun shudder and lean into it like he craved it.

“That’s it,” Sang-woo said, voice low and hot. “Stay with me. Take it. I want to watch you come apart for me.”

He kept that slow, merciless rhythm until Gi-hun was panting into his mouth, scratching red trails down his back, his voice breaking on half-formed pleas. Every thrust was measured, perfectly timed, keeping him teetering right on the edge.

“You’re gonna come for me,” Sang-woo promised, his voice rough but steady, kissing him between each thrust like he was sealing an oath. “Right here, with me inside you. I’m not stopping until you do.”

Gi-hun’s head tipped back, a strangled sound tearing out of him as he broke with a cry, spilling hot between them. His whole body seized around Sang-woo, clutching him so tightly it almost hurt, and Sang-woo groaned against his mouth, hips grinding deep to feel every second of it.

But he didn’t stop.

He kissed Gi-hun through the shudder, swallowed every sound he made, and kept moving, slow and deliberate thrusts that made Gi-hun twitch with oversensitivity. Sang-woo still held him with one hand on his throat, the other braced against the mattress, pinning him in place until his body softened under him, only to start tensing again.

“You can take more,” Sang-woo said softly, brushing his thumb over Gi-hun’s jaw as if to anchor him. “I know you can. I’m not letting you go until I’ve given you everything.”

Gi-hun nodded frantically, tears streaking hot down his cheeks. “Please,” he choked out. “Please don’t stop.”

Sang-woo’s mouth curved, sharp and tender all at once, a look that was half worship, half possession. “That’s it,” he praised, his hips rolling with cruel, perfect slowness. “Gi-hun, I’m going to keep you right here until you’re crying for me again. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

He stayed buried deep, rocking slow until Gi-hun’s breath hitched and his nails raked hot down his back, until every sound coming out of him was wrecked and wet.

When Gi-hun choked on a sob and begged again, Sang-woo finally let himself go harder, driving him into the mattress with each thrust, kissing him between words while the headboard slammed against the wall.

“You’re mine,” Sang-woo growled, his voice rough, every word a brand. “All mine. No one else will ever see you like this. You belong to me.”

Gi-hun came with a strangled scream of his name, body seizing, nails raking bloody lines down Sang-woo’s back. Sang-woo groaned into his mouth, hips jerking as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside him, holding him there as though to make sure every drop stayed where he wanted it.

He stayed there, grinding slow and deep through every aftershock until Gi-hun went limp beneath him, wrecked and pliant, clinging weakly to his shoulders. Sang-woo kissed him through it, soft and unhurried now, until Gi-hun’s sobs turned into shaky, uneven breaths.

When he finally pulled back enough to see his face, Gi-hun’s cheeks were wet, his lashes stuck together, but he was looking up at Sang-woo like he’d just been given something sacred.

“You with me?” Sang-woo asked quietly, brushing his thumb along Gi-hun’s cheek.

Gi-hun nodded, breathless and dazed, a tiny sound catching in his throat.

“Good.” Sang-woo kissed him slow, lingering, then pressed one to his temple. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Gi-hun blinked at him, exhausted and wrecked but not pulling away, not even when Sang-woo rocked his hips once more-slow, deep, a reminder that he was still inside him, still holding him open.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping him, but there was no fear in it.

“That’s it,” Sang-woo murmured, stroking his jaw. “One more for me, baby. Then I’ll let you rest.”

Only then did he ease out, agonizingly slow, watching every twitch and shiver on Gi-hun’s face like he was memorizing him all over again. Gi-hun lay there, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick, his whole body loose but still trembling like he’d been stripped down to raw nerve.

Sang-woo brushed the damp hair back from Gi-hun’s forehead, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument. “Turn over for me.”

Gi-hun obeyed slowly, sluggish and dazed, rolling onto his stomach and hugging the pillow under his chest.

Sang-woo settled behind him, one knee braced on either side, and ran his palms down Gi-hun’s back in long, grounding strokes. “That’s it,” he murmured, low and warm. “Good boy. Just breathe for me.”

Gi-hun’s breathing came in shaky pulls at first, then slowly evened out under Sang-woo’s steady touch. When Sang-woo leaned down and pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades, Gi-hun let out a soft, broken sound.

Sang-woo kissed lower, following the curve of his spine with reverence, his mouth lingering over each vertebra as though he was worshipping every inch of him. By the time he reached the small of Gi-hun’s back, Gi-hun’s breath caught sharply, his shoulders tightening. He made a startled, choked sound and tried to push up on his elbows, twisting as if to escape.

“Wait,” he said, voice shaking.

Sang-woo’s hands were on him instantly, catching his hips and holding him still. He wasn’t rough, but there was no question about who was stronger, who was in control.

“Gi-hun,” Sang-woo said softly. “Do you want me to stop?”

The question hung there, quiet but serious, giving Gi-hun the choice.

Gi-hun froze under him, chest heaving, heart thudding so hard he could feel it in his throat. His face burned hot, tears prickling his eyes, but he forced the word out anyway, shaky and small.

“No,” he whispered.

Sang-woo’s grip softened immediately, his thumbs stroking slow circles into Gi-hun’s hips until some of the tension bled out of him.

“Say it again,” Sang-woo coaxed, warm and patient.

Gi-hun swallowed, steadier this time, and pressed his face into the pillow. “No,” he said again, firmer now. “Don’t stop. Please. I love you so much.”

A low sound escaped Sang-woo, pleased and dark. He kissed the small of Gi-hun's back, murmuring, “Good. Then stay right here for me.”

He spread Gi-hun open with both hands, holding him wide, admiring the way he was flushed and trembling for him. His breath was warm when he lowered his mouth, lingering for a second just to let Gi-hun feel him there before he finally dragged his tongue over him.

Gi-hun’s head dropped to the pillow with a sound closer to a sob than a moan, his fingers twisting in the sheets. His hips jerked on instinct, too raw and overstimulated to stay still, but Sang-woo only tightened his grip, pinning him down with unyielding strength.

“Easy,” Sang-woo said, his voice low and dark, vibrating against Gi-hun’s skin. “You asked me not to stop, remember? So you’re gonna take it. Every bit of it.”

Gi-hun whimpered, clutching the pillow so hard his knuckles went white, his thighs already trembling as Sang-woo licked him open slow and devastating. Every stroke of his tongue was deliberate, dragging over him in long, wet passes like he had nowhere else to be, like this was his entire purpose.

“You taste so good,” Sang-woo murmured against him, his voice gone rough with hunger. He went back in before Gi-hun could catch his breath, licking deeper, filthier. “Sweet. Mine. I could keep you like this forever and still not get enough.”

Gi-hun let out a broken, high sound, humiliation and need twisting together until his hips started to rock back helplessly, chasing the sensation.

“That’s it,” Sang-woo coaxed, pulling him open even wider so he could get his mouth everywhere he wanted. “Good boy. Stay just like that. Let me have all of you.”

When Gi-hun tried to twist away from the intensity, Sang-woo’s hand cracked down on the curve of his ass, sharp enough to make him gasp and freeze.

“Stay,” Sang-woo ordered, his tone like steel wrapped in velvet.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched, tears spilling freely now, but he stayed where he was, trembling and open, letting Sang-woo do whatever he wanted to him.

“Perfect,” Sang-woo praised, his mouth hot and wet against him. “You’re so good for me right now. You’re gonna come for me like this, baby. Right on my tongue.”

Gi-hun made a helpless, broken sound into the pillow, his whole body shaking violently as Sang-woo devoured him, relentless now, like he meant to wring every last ounce of control out of him.

“Let go,” Sang-woo commanded, his voice hoarse, and Gi-hun shattered with a hoarse, wrecked cry, spilling hard against the sheets, thighs quaking so badly Sang-woo had to hold him up.

But he still didn’t stop-he kept licking him through it, coaxing out every spasm, every little twitch, until Gi-hun was nothing but a boneless, sobbing mess against the mattress.

Finally, when Gi-hun had gone completely limp, Sang-woo eased back. His mouth was wet, his breathing heavy, but there was something almost reverent in the way he kissed the backs of Gi-hun’s thighs, the curve of his ass, the base of his spine. Each kiss was slow and lingering, like he was thanking him for letting him have this, like he was promising he’d never take it for granted.

Then Sang-woo eased him onto his side, moving slow and careful like Gi-hun might break if he rushed. He slid in behind him and pulled him back against his chest, fitting their bodies together until there wasn’t an inch of space left. One arm wrapped firmly around Gi-hun’s middle, holding him there like he was something precious that couldn’t slip away.

“You’re okay,” Sang-woo murmured against his hair, his lips brushing warm over Gi-hun’s temple. “Breathe. I’ve got you. You’re mine.”

Gi-hun made a quiet, wrecked noise and pressed closer, clutching at the forearm across his chest like an anchor. His body still trembled with leftover shudders, soft, broken sounds catching in his throat.

Sang-woo turned his face and kissed every tear track he could reach, slow and deliberate, like he meant to erase them one by one. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, raw enough that Gi-hun could feel the words against his skin.

“I love you,” Sang-woo whispered, his mouth pressed to Gi-hun’s damp cheek. “God, I love you so much it hurts. You’re everything, Gi-hun. Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

He stayed like that, rocking him gently, holding him through every shaky breath until Gi-hun’s grip finally loosened and his body began to go heavy in his arms.

Even when Gi-hun’s body went slack with exhaustion, Sang-woo didn’t let go. He just shifted enough to cradle him closer, as if daring the world to try and take him away again.

Chapter Text

By the time Sang-woo stirred again, the light was already high and golden through the curtains. He stretched, tugged on a pair of jeans, and pulled an old SNU hoodie over his head, the fabric soft and worn from years of washing.

Gi-hun sat up slowly, blinking, then did a double take. “Wait. You’re seriously wearing that in public?”

Sang-woo glanced down at himself, unbothered. “What about it?”

“You’re Cho Sang-woo,” Gi-hun said, half incredulous, half grinning. “Mr. Suit-and-Tie CEO. And you’re about to walk out the door in a ratty hoodie like some college kid?”

Instead of bristling, Sang-woo just smirked and leaned down to kiss him. “I’ve got nothing to prove today. Not to anyone. Let’s go get coffee.”

Gi-hun shook his head, but his grin only widened as his eyes roved over him. “Honestly? You look ridiculously good in it. Makes me want to drag you right back to bed.” He tugged on the drawstring of the hoodie, voice dropping low. “Can’t wait to take it off you later.”

Sang-woo chuckled, giving him a look equal parts fond and exasperated. “Coffee first. Then we’ll see if you earn that privilege.”

Gi-hun groaned, laughing as Sang-woo tugged him up by the wrist.

At the café, Sang-woo looked almost carefree in his hoodie, long legs stretched under the table, hand casually linked with Gi-hun’s. When Gi-hun tried to pull away after noticing a few people staring, Sang-woo only tightened his grip. And when one man at the corner table lingered too long, Sang-woo’s glare sent him scrambling back to his own cup.

“You’re shameless,” Gi-hun muttered, trying to hide his smile behind his coffee.

“Good,” Sang-woo said simply, his thumb brushing warm circles across Gi-hun’s knuckles.

The rest of Saturday slipped by in a rhythm that felt both ordinary and brand new. They picked up the girls from the sleepover, stopped for pastries on the way home, and let them chatter the whole drive about how late they had stayed up and what movies they had watched. Gi-hun and Sang-woo kept catching each other’s eyes over their coffee cups, quietly amused and quietly grateful for the noise.

The afternoon blurred into errands they never would have bothered to do together before: a quick stop at the market for fresh vegetables, Sang-woo steering the cart with the focus of a boardroom strategist while Gi-hun teased him for comparing brands like he was drafting contracts. Back at the apartment, they cooked with the girls—Ga-yeong washing rice, Seo-hyun proudly chopping cucumbers with a plastic knife, Gi-hun stirring while Sang-woo kept everything from boiling over.

By evening, the apartment smelled of soy and garlic. The four of them crowded shoulder to shoulder around the table, laughing over nothing, the girls bickering until Sang-woo cut the last dumpling in half with surgical precision.

After dinner, the girls curled up on the sofa with their stuffed animals, chatter finally winding down as cartoons played low in the background. Gi-hun was rinsing dishes when he noticed Sang-woo crouch in front of Ga-yeong.

“Hey,” Sang-woo said softly. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Ga-yeong’s eyes flicked to the kitchen. Gi-hun gave her a small nod of encouragement, though he hadn’t known Sang-woo was going to do this. She slid off the couch and followed him a few steps away.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t around,” Sang-woo told her gently. “You should never have to wonder if I’m coming back. That was my mistake, not yours. I promise I’m going to do better so you never have to doubt me.”

Her lower lip wobbled. “Why didn’t you come see us? Did you stop liking me?”

The question hit like a stone to the chest. Sang-woo crouched lower so she could see his face. “Never. You are one of the best parts of my life. You and Seo-hyun both. I let work take over and forgot what really mattered. That was wrong, and I won’t let it happen again.”

Her eyes filled before she threw her arms around his neck. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he murmured, hugging her close. “More than you know.”

When they came back, Seo-hyun was waiting, chin lifted with quiet certainty. “Appa. You told Ga-yeong she’s the best part of your life. What about me?”

Sang-woo crouched and cupped her cheek gently. “You are too. You and Ga-yeong are my everything. Nothing else comes close.”

Seo-hyun gave a small nod, then tugged Ga-yeong into a hug, squishing her bunny between them. “See? We’re the most important.”

Ga-yeong giggled, hugging her back. “Yeah. The most important.”

Sang-woo wrapped his arms around them both, holding them tight for a long moment before letting them go. “You two are my whole world.”

The girls plopped back onto the sofa, still snuggled together with the bunny caught between them.

From the kitchen, Gi-hun’s chest ached at the sight. Seo-hyun wasn’t just Sang-woo’s daughter anymore. She was his too. And Ga-yeong wasn’t just his—she had carved out a place in Sang-woo’s heart. They belonged to each other now, messy and whole.

Gi-hun crossed the room and stood beside Sang-woo, their shoulders brushing. Without hesitation, Sang-woo’s hand found his, lacing their fingers together openly. It was deliberate, like he wanted the girls to see they were in this together.

Gi-hun cleared his throat softly, eyes flicking between the two girls curled up on the sofa. “You know how much we love spending time with you,” he began, his tone careful but warm. “And how much we love being here, all four of us together.”

Both girls looked up, their eyes wide and expectant.

Sang-woo gave their joined hands a small squeeze. “What we want to know,” he said gently, “is how you’d feel if Gi-hun and I were… back together. If we made this our family again.”

There was a beat of silence, the question hanging in the air like something fragile.

Seo-hyun sat straighter, her chin tipped with quiet certainty. “I already thought you were,” she said simply, as though it were obvious. Then, after a pause, her voice softened. “I’d be happy. I like it better when you’re both here. It feels… full.”

Ga-yeong’s eyes shimmered as she leaned against Sang-woo’s side. “I just don’t want you to go away again,” she whispered.

The words cracked something open in Gi-hun’s chest. He reached over, brushing Ga-yeong’s hair back with a tenderness that steadied his own voice. “He’s not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he promised, glancing at Sang-woo.

Sang-woo gave a firm nod, his voice steady and sure. “I made mistakes before. But you three are the most important parts of my life. You never have to doubt that again.”

When he looked back up, Gi-hun’s smile was soft and a little shy, but unwavering. “So,” he said gently, warmth threading through every syllable, “I guess it’s official then. We’re back together.”

Seo-hyun’s face lit up instantly. “Good. Now you can both make bentos again.”

Gi-hun laughed, shaking his head, bending to kiss the crown of Ga-yeong’s head. “Guess we didn’t hide it very well.”

The apartment filled with warmth, the cartoons humming low, the girls giggling, Sang-woo’s shoulder pressed against Gi-hun’s. For the first time in weeks, it felt like home again.

But Sunday night brought the inevitable shift.

Gi-hun rubbed the back of his neck as the girls got into pajamas, the thought already heavy. “I should take Ga-yeong home tonight,” he said quietly in the kitchen. “All her school stuff’s there. And my work clothes. It’ll make tomorrow easier.”

Sang-woo froze, dish towel in hand. His jaw worked before he spoke. “Or… you could stay. Just one more night. I’ll take them both to school in the morning, and you can grab your things tomorrow.”

Gi-hun gave him a gentle look. “Sang-woo—”

“I know,” Sang-woo cut in quickly. “I know it’s clingy. But I just got you back. I don’t want to fall asleep without you yet. Not tonight. Not when it still feels like it could all slip away. If it’s easier, we can all go to your place. I don’t care where we are, as long as it’s with you. I just—” He looked down, voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking this.”

Gi-hun slid a hand over his. “Don’t apologize. You want me here. That’s not stupid.”

“I don’t want to make you feel trapped. I just don’t want to lose a single night with you if I don’t have to.”

Gi-hun’s chest ached at the raw edge in his voice. He touched his cheek, made him look up. “You’re not trapping me. You’re telling me what you need. That’s good. And I want that from you.” He smiled faintly. “Tell you what, I’ll run home, grab Ga-yeong’s stuff and my work clothes, take a quick shower, and then I’ll come right back. That way you don’t lose me for the night, and tomorrow isn’t a mess.”

Sang-woo exhaled like a knot had loosened inside him. “You’d really do that?”

“Of course. You’re worth the extra drive. Besides,” Gi-hun leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, “you asked me to stay. And I want to.”

Sang-woo laughed softly, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re going to make me worse. I’ll never want to let you go anywhere alone again.”

“Good,” Gi-hun said, cupping his face. “I like being wanted.”

By the time Gi-hun came back, juggling bags and kicking the door shut, the apartment smelled faintly of soap. Sang-woo padded into the entryway barefoot, hair damp and pushed back, a white wife beater clinging to his chest and gray sweats low on his hips. He looked boyish and soft, nothing like the CEO who carried the weight of the world.

“You really came back,” Sang-woo said quietly, like he still couldn’t believe it.

Gi-hun dropped Ga-yeong’s backpack and smiled. “Of course I came back. For you… and maybe for my kid.” His grin tilted crooked, easing the heaviness.

Sang-woo laughed and pulled him in by the waist, kissing his temple. “I put the girls to bed already. They’re out cold.”

Gi-hun brushed damp strands from his forehead. “Efficient as ever.”

“Had to be. I wanted you to myself.”

Something ached sweetly in Gi-hun’s chest. He pressed their foreheads together, breathing him in. “You’ve got me.”

They didn’t bother with the lights. Sang-woo guided him toward the bedroom, both too tired for more than curling under the blanket. Sang-woo pulled him close immediately, tangling their legs like he was afraid to let go.

Gi-hun hummed against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Sang-woo traced slow circles along his spine, grounding and soft.

“You’re not leaving tonight,” Sang-woo whispered, half a plea, half a promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gi-hun murmured, already thick with sleep. He tightened his arm around Sang-woo’s waist, as if to prove it.

For a long time, neither spoke. Their breaths evened out, the blanket shifting when one moved closer. Eventually, Sang-woo’s hand stilled at Gi-hun’s back, and Gi-hun pressed a drowsy kiss to his collarbone before sleep pulled him under.

They stayed like that through the night, holding on as if the world outside could wait.

Chapter Text

The smell of rice and miso drifted through the apartment long before Gi-hun stirred. By the time he padded into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Sang-woo was already dressed in his suit, tie knotted neatly, hair still damp from his shower. The counter was a quiet flurry of order: neat rows of bento boxes half filled, vegetables sliced clean, tamagoyaki folded golden and perfect.

Seo-hyun and Ga-yeong darted back and forth between the bathroom and their backpacks, bickering over whose turn it was to use the mirror.

“You used it yesterday!” Seo-hyun accused, tugging her hairbrush from Ga-yeong’s hand.

“Did not!” Ga-yeong shot back, stomping one foot.

“Girls,” Sang-woo said without raising his voice, sliding cut fruit into a box with calm precision, “ten minutes until shoes on.”

That was all it took. They huffed but fell quiet, the clatter of their footsteps fading down the hall.

Gi-hun leaned against the doorframe, watching. His chest tightened at the sight, at how effortless it looked, Sang-woo in his suit, bentos lined up, the girls buzzing through the morning routine like this was always how it had been.

“I’ll be damned,” Gi-hun murmured. “You’re really making bentos.”

Sang-woo looked up, one brow tilting. “Of course I am. You three need lunch.”

Gi-hun stepped closer, eyes sweeping over the boxes. “No, I mean… I’ve missed this. You. The bentos. It’s… it’s love, you know? You show it in every little thing you do.” His voice dipped, raw with honesty. “I love you, Sang-woo. And seeing this again—God, it means everything to me.”

For the first time that morning, Sang-woo’s hands stilled. He glanced at Gi-hun, expression softening, before carefully closing the last box. “I love you too,” he said simply. “Now sit. You’ll make me late if you get sappy.”

Gi-hun laughed under his breath, sliding into a chair as the girls came barreling back in, shoes half-tied, hair slightly crooked but grinning like it didn’t matter. The kitchen turned loud again with complaints about breakfast, someone’s missing pencil case, Seo-hyun trying to sneak an extra dumpling until Sang-woo plucked it neatly from her chopsticks.

When the chaos finally funneled toward the door, Sang-woo grabbed his briefcase and held out his keys. “If you want, I can drive the girls to school and drop you off at the shop on the way.”

Gi-hun blinked, surprised at how seamless it sounded, like Sang-woo had already folded him into the plan. His grin tugged crooked. “That sounds efficient.”

Sang-woo hummed, faintly smug, and reached for his coat.

Out in the car, the girls piled into the backseat, still chattering. Gi-hun climbed into the passenger seat, fastening his belt. Sang-woo leaned over before starting the engine, pressing a warm kiss to his temple, simple and unhurried.

Gi-hun closed his eyes for a beat, his hand curling over Sang-woo’s on the gearshift. The domesticity of it, their girls in the back, the smell of bentos between them, the kiss on his temple, felt so achingly ordinary it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

And he wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Sang-woo killed the engine and was out of the car before Gi-hun could even reach for the handle. He came around to Gi-hun’s side, opened the door, and offered a hand.

Gi-hun blinked at him, startled, but took it. Sang-woo didn’t let go. He laced their fingers together as soon as Gi-hun’s feet hit the pavement, standing tall beside him like he wanted every single person there to see.

The murmurs started almost immediately, soft at first, then building like ripples across the lot as they crossed toward the playground gates.

“Isn’t that the CEO of Cho Partners?” someone whispered, just loud enough to carry.

“And the mechanic,” another voice added with a scoff.

“Right in front of everyone?”

“They should at least try to hide it.”

“I didn’t even know they were sleeping together,” another hissed. “God, and in front of the kids?”

A woman in pearls sniffed with open disdain. “He’s just a kept man. Cho’s money probably pays for everything anyway. Pathetic, really.”

A man in golf slacks smirked beside her. “The older one’s only here on scholarship anyway. A charity case. No surprise Cho picked up a stray.”

And then came the sharpest cut of all, a man in a pressed suit who didn’t even bother to lower his voice. “Those poor girls. Where are their mothers?”

That was the line that stopped Sang-woo cold. His jaw tightened, and he turned, his voice calm but carrying like steel across the courtyard.

“Ga-yeong’s mother passed away,” he said evenly, careful but pointed, knowing little ears were listening. “Seo-hyun’s mother isn’t part of her life. These girls are loved and cared for, and that’s what matters. They are my kids. Both of them. And I will not stand here while anyone reduces them to some cruel rumor about who tucks them in at night.”

Ga-yeong slipped her hand into his, chin tilted up like she was choosing her side. Sang-woo squeezed her fingers, his face softening just for her before he looked back at the crowd.

“And as for the rest,” his voice dropped lower, deliberate, “Gi-hun isn’t some charity case, and he sure as hell isn’t a stray. He’s the best man I’ve ever known. He shows up for his daughter. He shows up for me. He works harder than any of you who think writing a check makes you important. He’s my partner. You sneer at him, you sneer at me. And I won’t stand for it.”

The air snapped taut. The whispers died into silence.

“And I’m not going to let anyone talk about my family like that. Not here. Not anywhere.”

The crowd shifted uneasily, but the tension only broke when another presence cut through like a blade.

In-ho’s voice cracked across the lot, sharp and commanding. “Enough.”

The single word froze the air. Every head turned as he strode forward from the edge of the courtyard, his presence slicing clean through the gossip. Even the teachers on duty straightened like they’d been caught, his tailored suit moving with a kind of precision that made his authority impossible to ignore.

“You should be ashamed,” In-ho said, his tone like ice over steel. “You’re standing in front of your children teaching them cruelty’s acceptable. You think mocking love and mocking family makes you better? It makes you small. It makes you weak. Pathetic.”

He stepped closer, his voice cool and deadly precise.

“It’s 2025. People love who they love. Get over it. And don’t you dare look down on honest work. Gi-hun’s a mechanic, yes. He fixes what’s broken, which is more than I can say for most of you hiding behind your money and titles. A man who works with his hands and provides for his child is worth ten of anyone here sneering at him.”

His gaze swept across them, hard and cutting. “And don’t fool yourselves—your money doesn’t buy you anything here. This is one of the most prestigious schools in the country. There has always been a waitlist, and there always will be, with or without you and your child. We don’t need the money of bigots, and we won’t tolerate families who think their bank accounts give them the right to decide who belongs.”

A ripple of discomfort moved through the parents. Some flushed red, some looked away. But a few-one mother clutching her son’s backpack, a father with his daughter’s hand in his-nodded subtly, their expressions firm with quiet agreement.

In-ho’s eyes swept the group, unblinking. “If I hear even a whisper of teasing directed at these girls, there’ll be consequences. And if this poison continues here, you’ll lose your place at this school. Enrollment’s a privilege, not a right. I won’t allow hatred to spread like a cancer through these halls. Not from students. Not from parents. Not from anyone. There will be no second chances.”

His stare flicked deliberately toward the line of teachers nearby, sharp enough to make them stiffen. “That includes faculty. If any of you think for a second you can look the other way, you’ll be gone too. This school will remain safe for every child. That’s not negotiable.”

“Go on,” he told them, his voice strong and firm, brooking no argument. “Classes are starting.”

The silence that followed was absolute, scorched clean of whispers. One by one, parents began to break, dragging their children toward the gates with tight grips. The playground emptied slowly, like a tide pulling back, until the courtyard was left hollow and still.

The girls suddenly moved — first Ga-yeong, then Seo-hyun — running straight into In-ho’s side and wrapping their arms around his waist. He blinked in surprise, then rested a steady hand on each of their shoulders, his expression softening only for them.

“You’re safe here,” he told them quietly, the words meant just for their ears.

And for the first time that morning, Gi-hun’s chest loosened, knowing it was true.

“Go on,” he told them, his voice kind but firm. “Classes are starting.”

The girls exchanged a quick look and then ran off toward the building, heads high, their steps lighter than before.

Gi-hun crossed the space in a few strides and pulled In-ho into a rough hug. “Thank you, In-ho-ya,” he said, his voice breaking. “For protecting them. For protecting us.”

In-ho stood rigid for a beat, fury still lingering in his face. Then he exhaled, shoulders loosening as he returned the embrace. “Of course, hyung. You and those girls are part of this school. I won’t let anyone touch that. Not here. Not ever.”

When Gi-hun stepped back, Sang-woo lingered. It startled him how natural it sounded, Gi-hun calling him In-ho-ya, In-ho answering with hyung, like they'd been friends their entire lives.

For weeks, Sang-woo hadn’t been able to think of In-ho without remembering that kiss, sour and complicated. But here, with Gi-hun standing next to him, all he could see was the man who had walked into fire without hesitation, who had defended their family like it was his own, who didn’t care what it cost.

And in that moment, Sang-woo finally saw him clearly. Whatever mistakes he’d made before, In-ho was a good man. One who stood up when it counted. One who’d never let the girls be hurt. One who’d already done more to shield Gi-hun than Sang-woo had realized.

“Guess I owe you one, In-ho,” Sang-woo said finally, his voice low and deliberate.

In-ho’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp with surprise, before he gave a single, curt nod. “You don’t owe me anything. Just keep showing up for them. That’s all that matters.”

The words settled heavier in Sang-woo’s chest than he expected. He nodded once, slower, taking them in.

Gi-hun squeezed his hand, a soft smile tugging at his mouth like he knew exactly what had just shifted.

As they turned toward the lot, Sang-woo looked back once more. In-ho still stood there, watchful and immovable, a sentinel at the gate. For the first time, something close to respect rooted itself deep in Sang-woo’s chest.

The school gates faded behind them, but the sting of whispers still clung to the air. Sang-woo’s hands were locked on the wheel, knuckles white, his shoulders wound tight.

“You’re still holding your breath,” Gi-hun murmured, watching him.

Sang-woo exhaled, the sound rough, like it scraped its way out of his chest. “I hated it. Hearing them talk about you like that. About the girls. About us. I wanted to tear into them myself. And then all I could think was… what if this makes you want to leave? What if I can’t protect you from it?” His voice dipped low, shaking now. “I was terrified, Gi-hun. Terrified of losing you right in front of them.”

Gi-hun reached over, prying one of his hands from the wheel and holding it steady on the console. His thumb brushed slow circles over Sang-woo’s skin. “Hey. Look at me.”

Sang-woo’s eyes flicked over, wary and vulnerable.

“You didn’t fail anyone,” Gi-hun said firmly. “You stood there with me. You stood up for the girls. And In-ho… he cut the rest of them down before they even had a chance to breathe again. We were protected. They were protected. And that was because of you too.”

Sang-woo’s jaw eased, his grip loosening under Gi-hun’s steady hold. “I didn’t expect him to do that. Not like that.”

“Me neither,” Gi-hun admitted. “But he did. He went to war for us without blinking. For the girls.”

Sang-woo let out a slow breath. “I didn’t want to trust him after before. But today… he showed me who he really is. I think I can respect him now.”

Gi-hun smiled faintly, squeezing his hand. “Good. Because now it won’t be so awkward when we go on double dates with him and Eun-hee.”

That startled a real laugh out of Sang-woo, sharp and incredulous. “Double dates?”

Gi-hun grinned, the tension breaking. “What? We’re overdue for a night out. You in your suit, me in my coveralls, him and Eun-hee all polished up—it’ll be a show.”

Sang-woo shook his head, laughter under his breath, but his hand tightened around Gi-hun’s, steady and sure. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me,” Gi-hun teased.

Sang-woo’s smile softened. “Yeah. I really do.”

The car rolled forward into the city, but inside it was just them, their fingers linked, the weight of the morning giving way to something lighter, something that felt like hope.

Chapter Text

Sang-woo parked out front and straightened his tie before heading inside. The sharp smell of oil and metal hit him immediately, a world away from his glass-walled office. Gi-hun looked up from where he was tightening a bolt, grease smudged across his jaw, and broke into a grin the second he spotted him.

Sang-woo crossed the floor with his usual composure, but the coffee and small pastry bag in his hand gave him away. He handed them over without a word, then leaned down to press a quick kiss to Gi-hun’s mouth.

That was all it took.

The shop erupted like someone had dropped a wrench in a bucket.
“You go, bento boy!” one mechanic crowed.
“Hey, where’s ours? We expect snacks too!” another called, waving a greasy rag.

The laughter echoed through the bay, bouncing off metal and concrete.

Jung-bae sauntered over, rag slung over his shoulder, smirk locked in place. “Cho Sang-woo, CEO of bentos and boardrooms. Look at you. What’s next, you start knitting us sweaters to go with lunch?”

Everyone waited to see what Sang-woo would say back.

Sang-woo didn’t even blink. “I’d knit one for your mom first,” he said smoothly, voice flat as stone.

The bay went wild. A couple of guys staggered against the wall howling, someone shouted “He got you, hyung!” and Jung-bae wheezed so hard he nearly dropped his rag.

“Goddamn,” Jung-bae choked out, grinning like he’d been waiting for this. “The man’s in a suit and he just wrecked me in my own shop.”

Still laughing, he gave Gi-hun a clap on the back. “You really got yourself a good one, hyung. Don’t screw it up.”

The teasing still hung in the air as they left the shop, Gi-hun snorting every so often under his breath while Sang-woo pretended not to hear. The pastry bag crinkled between them on the seat, the scent of coffee filling the car. For a few blocks, it felt easy—like the laughter had followed them out the door into the car.

But by the time they pulled up to the school, Sang-woo’s hand was white-knuckled around the wheel. The courtyard was already crowded, clusters of parents lingering in polished suits and pressed skirts, their chatter a low hum that made the hair on Gi-hun’s neck stand up.

Gi-hun glanced at him, his own stomach knotting. “They’re gonna talk, aren’t they?”

“They always talk,” Sang-woo said tightly, his eyes sweeping the crowd. His jaw ticked once, his shoulders already braced like he was heading into a boardroom fight.

Gi-hun squeezed his hand where it rested on the gearshift. “We’ll get through it.”

They stepped out together, shoulders squared, eyes forward. Gi-hun felt the weight of every glance flick their way, waiting for the first whisper, the first sneer-

But it never came.

Because standing at the edge of the courtyard, clipboard in hand, was In-ho. He wasn’t speaking. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was a wall, sharp and immovable. Every time a parent’s gaze lingered too long, In-ho’s eyes cut to them like a blade, and the whispers died in their throats. The crowd shifted, uneasy, but no one dared open their mouth.

Sang-woo’s hand found Gi-hun’s automatically, lacing their fingers tight as they crossed the pavement. Gi-hun felt the tension bleeding out of him with every step, the knot in his chest loosening as he realized no one was going to try it today. Not with In-ho there.

By the time they reached the gate, Ga-yeong and Seo-hyun were already running toward them, bright and unbothered. The girls each grabbed one of Gi-hun’s hands, tugging him toward the car, but Sang-woo paused and walked over to In-ho.

“In-ho,” he said, his voice even but carrying the weight of decision. “I want to talk. Just you and me.”

In-ho studied him for a beat, clipboard tucked against his side, unreadable as ever. Then he nodded once. “Get my number from Gi-hun. Eun-hee’s out with a friend tonight. I’m free at seven.” He paused, then added, “There’s a place near the river—Blue Leaf Café. Quiet enough to talk.”

Sang-woo dipped his head in acknowledgment, the tension in his jaw easing just slightly. “Seven, then.”

The Blue Leaf Café glowed warm against the night, golden light fogging the windows. Sang-woo tugged his hood down as he stepped inside, the river’s chill still clinging to his hoodie.

In-ho was already waiting at the back, hunched in a booth. The sweatshirt he wore looked worn at the cuffs, his hair loose, his hands wrapped tight around a mug. He looked up when Sang-woo approached, and for once there was no steel in his gaze, only weariness and a shadow of shame.

Sang-woo stopped at the counter first, ordering a coffee before heading to the booth. He slid into the seat across from In-ho, setting the cup down in front of him. For a long moment, the café’s hum filled the space, the hiss of milk steaming, the scrape of a chair. Neither spoke.

Finally, Sang-woo said, “I asked you here because I won’t let this hang over us. Not with Gi-hun. Not with the girls. And not with Eun-hee.”

In-ho’s throat worked. He nodded once, almost to himself. “Then let me start. That kiss... I regretted it the second it happened. You pulled back and I knew instantly I’d made a mistake. You didn’t want it. I crossed a line I had no right to cross.”

Sang-woo’s eyes narrowed. “And Eun-hee? Do you know what it felt like, sitting across from her at work days later, knowing she’s my friend, my colleague, and remembering what you’d done?”

The words hit like a blow. In-ho bowed his head. His voice came rough, tumbling out too fast, like he’d been holding it back for weeks. “I know. And it’s worse because you’re right. She trusts you. If I’d known you two were close, I never would’ve... God, Sang-woo, I never should’ve at all. I love her. I’ve always loved her. She’s my world. We’ve been trying to have a baby and it scared me more than I expected. I felt old, trapped, like time was running out, like maybe I wasn’t enough for her anymore. And instead of saying that to her, or instead of admitting it to Ali, who’s my best friend and would’ve told me the truth, I took the coward’s way out. I let all that fear twist into something stupid, and I put it on you.”

His grip on the mug tightened, knuckles white. “You didn’t deserve that. Eun-hee doesn’t deserve that. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t desire, it wasn’t anything real. It was weakness. And the second it happened, I hated myself for it. I’ve hated myself every day since. I keep thinking about how easily I could’ve gone home and told her the truth, how I could’ve walked into Ali’s office and said I was scared. But I didn’t. I dragged you into it, and I’m ashamed. Deeply ashamed.”

He shook his head, voice catching. “I’ve never cheated on her, Sang-woo. Not once until that day. And I never will again. That moment was the closest I’ve come to ruining my marriage, and it disgusts me. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I swear to you it won’t happen again. Not ever.”

Sang-woo let the silence stretch, watching him unravel. The steam curled between them, ribbons of heat against the cool window glass.

“At the school today,” Sang-woo said finally, his voice quieter, “I saw you stand in front of all those parents. You shut them down without hesitation. You defended Gi-hun, defended me, defended the girls. Like they were your own.”

In-ho blinked, startled by the shift.

“That told me more than any of this could,” Sang-woo went on. “Whatever else happened, I saw the man you are. One who won’t let them be hurt. One who’ll burn down a courtyard if he has to. That’s what made me ask you here tonight. To see if what I saw there is the truth of you. To see if I can trust you.”

For a moment, In-ho’s composure cracked. His shoulders sagged, his eyes wet though he blinked hard against it. “I want it to be,” he said hoarsely. “That’s the man I want to be. For Eun-hee. For this school. For the kids. For myself. I don’t feel like a good man most days, Sang-woo. But I want to be. And I swear to you, what happened with you will never happen again. Not ever.”

Sang-woo nodded slowly, grounding the weight of it. “Then we move forward. Respect. That’s where it starts.”

Relief swept across In-ho’s face, small but genuine. “Respect works. Maybe more later. But respect now.”

The quiet between them shifted. It was no longer jagged. It was steady, fragile, but real.

Sang-woo lifted his cup, taking a long sip. He could still hear the echo of In-ho’s voice from that morning, sharp and commanding as he’d silenced an entire courtyard. And now, hearing him stumble through regret and fear, Sang-woo felt the two halves line up into something whole.

Trying for a baby. Fear making him reach in the wrong direction. Cowardice, as he’d called it himself. Yet underneath all that, love for Eun-hee, strong and undeniable.

Sang-woo thought of her, of the way she smiled when she caught mistakes in his spreadsheets, of the steadiness she gave their office. She deserved the man sitting in front of him now, stripped of excuses, baring his shame.

He’d wanted clarity tonight. And what he’d found was not only regret but something else. A man human enough to falter, but strong enough to admit it. And maybe strong enough to be trusted again.

He set his cup down, feeling something loosen in his chest. Respect was enough for now. But maybe, with time, it could be more.

And as he watched In-ho across the table, Sang-woo realized the bitterness he had been carrying since that night had finally begun to ease. It wasn’t gone, not yet, but it had shifted. What had been sharp was now steady. What had been mistrust was now the start of something firmer. For the first time, he could see a future where they weren’t at odds, where they might even stand side by side.

Respect, yes. But maybe, eventually, even something like friendship.

Sang-woo finished the last sip of his coffee, the warmth lingering in his chest long after he set the cup aside. In-ho stayed seated as he rose, but there was no tension in the air now, only a quiet steadiness. A small nod passed between them, unspoken but understood.

The night air hit him cool and clean as he stepped outside. He shoved his hands in his sweatshirt pocket, breathing in slow as he walked toward the car. For the first time in weeks, the knot in his chest had loosened.

By the time he slipped inside the apartment, the lights were dimmed. Gi-hun was on the couch, one of Sang-woo’s sweatshirts hanging loose on his shoulders, the faint glow of the TV washing over him. He looked up immediately, setting the remote aside.

“Well?” Gi-hun asked, his voice careful.

Sang-woo dropped onto the couch beside him, the cushions sinking under his weight. For a long moment, he just let the quiet stretch, their shoulders brushing. Then he exhaled. “It was good.”

Gi-hun’s brows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “Good?”

“He admitted everything,” Sang-woo said. “Said he regretted it the second it happened. Said he loves Eun-hee. They’re trying to have a baby, and he panicked instead of being honest with her or Ali. He knows it was cowardly. He swore it won’t happen again.”

Gi-hun searched his face, reading him like he always did. “And you believe him?”

Sang-woo nodded slowly. “I do. I saw him today, standing in front of those parents. I saw the man he really is. Whatever mistake he made, he’s still someone who’ll stand up when it counts. I told him respect is where we start.”

Relief softened Gi-hun’s whole expression. He leaned closer, pressing his forehead briefly to Sang-woo’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “You didn’t wait for me to push it. You went yourself. That means something, Jagiya.”

Sang-woo’s throat tightened. He tilted his head against Gi-hun’s for a moment before leaning back. “I couldn’t keep carrying it.”

“Good,” Gi-hun said softly. He squeezed Sang-woo’s hand, his smile faint but certain. “Then let it go. We’ll move forward. All of us.”

He reached for his phone then, thumbing it awake with a wry grin. “I’m gonna text Eun-hee. See if we can finally plan that double date.”

Sang-woo gave him a look, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Already?”

“Why not?” Gi-hun said. “Feels like the right time.”

Sang-woo tightened his grip on Gi-hun’s hand, feeling the weight lift a little more. Respect was enough for now. But with Gi-hun beside him, already speaking about a future where they could sit at the same table with Eun-hee and In-ho, Sang-woo could almost believe it was possible.

Gi-hun tucked his phone away after firing off the message, then leaned into Sang-woo’s side. The weight of him there was familiar, grounding. Sang-woo let himself sink back into the couch, his hand sliding to rest at Gi-hun’s hip.

“You look lighter,” Gi-hun murmured, his voice warm against Sang-woo’s shoulder.

“I feel lighter,” Sang-woo admitted.

They sat in the quiet glow of the television for a while, the hum of the city drifting through the windows. When Gi-hun finally tilted his face up, Sang-woo caught the softness in his eyes, that unguarded trust that always undid him. Without thinking, he kissed him — temple first, then the corner of his mouth, and finally full on the lips.

Gi-hun smiled against him, slow and a little shy. “Come on. Shower with me.”

Steam curled around them minutes later, the spray beading against their shoulders as they stepped under the water. Gi-hun leaned into him, their bare skin sliding together, heat meeting heat. His eyes fluttered shut as Sang-woo’s hands found his waist, thumbs pressing into damp skin, drawing him close until their foreheads rested together beneath the stream.

Sang-woo kissed him again, deeper this time, water cascading down both their faces. His hands roamed Gi-hun’s back, smoothing over muscle, memorizing the lines of him. Gi-hun sighed into his mouth, his fingers curling at the nape of Sang-woo’s neck, pulling him closer.

There was no rush, no frantic clawing. Just the slow, deliberate way Sang-woo mapped Gi-hun’s body — lips brushing down his jaw, teeth grazing his throat, palms sliding over slick skin as if reminding him he was cherished with every touch.

When Sang-woo guided him back against the tiled wall, Gi-hun went easily, breath catching as Sang-woo’s mouth covered his again. The water pounded above them, but all Gi-hun could hear was Sang-woo’s steady breath, the low sound in his throat, the soft murmurs between kisses.

Gi-hun’s nails pressed faint crescents into his shoulders, his voice breaking on Sang-woo’s name. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Sang-woo whispered against his skin, his tone reverent. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

What followed was tender, unhurried, their bodies finding each other with a sweetness that carried weight. Every movement was patient, every shift careful, like Sang-woo was giving him more than just touch — he was giving him safety, devotion, love.

And when they finally came together, Gi-hun clung to him, his whole body shuddering with the force of it, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Sang-woo held him through it, steady and sure, pressing his lips to wet hair, to cheeks, to trembling shoulders.

When it was over, Gi-hun sagged against him, boneless, breathing hard. Sang-woo wrapped both arms tight around him, anchoring him beneath the stream.

“I’ve got you,” Sang-woo whispered, lips brushing his temple.

Gi-hun nodded against his chest, eyes closed, voice barely audible. “I know.”

They lingered under the spray until the steam turned the room hazy, neither of them willing to break the hold they had on each other. Eventually, Sang-woo reached past him to turn off the water, his hands steady as he smoothed back Gi-hun’s wet hair.

“Come on,” he said softly.

They wrapped towels around their waists and padded into the bathroom. Gi-hun leaned against the sink, watching as Sang-woo reached for the toothpaste. He squeezed some onto his own brush, then handed it to Gi-hun with a little flick of his brow that said, your turn.

Gi-hun grinned and copied him, their shoulders bumping as they stood side by side in the mirror. Foam built up at the corners of Gi-hun’s mouth, and when he caught Sang-woo’s eye, he tried to talk around the brush, mumbling nonsense until Sang-woo snorted and nearly choked on his own.

They spat and rinsed, bumping into each other again as they reached for the faucet at the same time. Gi-hun laughed quietly, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and Sang-woo caught the reflection of it in the mirror — soft, unguarded, beautiful. He leaned down to kiss the foam-slick corner of Gi-hun’s mouth anyway, earning another laugh and a playful shove.

By the time they crawled into bed, the last of the steam had faded from their skin, leaving them warm and clean under the sheets. Gi-hun tucked himself into Sang-woo’s chest, sighing like he’d been waiting for this all day.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered.

“Never,” Sang-woo murmured, pressing his lips to damp hair.

There was a long pause, nothing but the sound of their breathing evening out together. Then Gi-hun’s voice came quiet, almost afraid of the weight of it. “I love you.”

Sang-woo’s chest tightened, the words hitting harder than he expected, filling spaces in him he hadn’t known were still empty. He tilted Gi-hun’s face up, brushing their lips together in the faintest kiss. “I love you too,” he said simply, steadily, like it had always been true.

Gi-hun’s eyes softened, glistening in the low light. “This… all of this. It’s better than I ever imagined it could be.”

Sang-woo held him tighter, forehead pressed to his. “Me too.”

And in that quiet, wrapped around each other, it finally felt like they were home.

Chapter Text

A few days later, when Dae-ho showed up at the apartment in the evening, Seo-hyun bolted across the room before he’d even taken off his shoes. She threw her arms around his waist with all the force she could muster.

“Samchon!” she shouted, grinning up at him.

Dae-ho blinked in surprise, then laughed, patting her back with an exaggerated groan. “Aigoo, my niece is getting stronger every day. You’re gonna knock me flat one of these times.”

Gi-hun chuckled from the doorway as he buttoned his jacket. Sang-woo shook his head but didn’t bother hiding the small smile tugging at his mouth.

Off to the side, Ga-yeong lingered by the sofa, twisting the hem of her shirt in both hands. She watched Seo-hyun beam up at Dae-ho, her lips pressed tight, eyes flicking between her dad, Sang-woo, and the man in the doorway. She took a tiny step forward, then stopped, nerves pinning her in place.

“Samchon…?” The word left her in the faintest whisper, like she was testing it just for herself.

Dae-ho froze. His eyes widened, caught between surprise and hesitation. He looked instinctively toward Gi-hun, searching his face for permission, for any sign this was too much. Gi-hun’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, but he gave the smallest nod, eyes shining.

Only then did Dae-ho crouch, the uncertainty in his expression melting into something warm and steady. “Yeah,” he said softly. “If you want to call me that, I’d be honored.”

Ga-yeong’s face flushed pink. She darted forward and clung to him, her small arms tightening around his neck. Dae-ho stumbled back a half-step with the force of it, huffing out a startled laugh before holding her close.

Beside Gi-hun, Sang-woo reached down and slid his hand into his, giving it a firm squeeze. Gi-hun blinked fast, his chest tight, and managed a shaky smile.

Dae-ho glanced between the two girls now wrapped around him and grinned. “Two nieces, huh? Guess that means I’ll need double the snacks and double the hugs tonight.”

Seo-hyun squealed with delight. Ga-yeong ducked her head, still pink, but she smiled against his shoulder.

For a moment, the apartment felt full in a way that had nothing to do with noise. Family was taking shape right in front of them.

The riverfront restaurant glowed warm against the night, lanterns strung across its patio and the soft murmur of conversation spilling through the windows. Sang-woo pulled the car into the lot and parked, his grip tightening briefly on the wheel before he let out a steadying breath.

Gi-hun reached over, brushing their hands together on the console. “Hey. It’s just dinner.”

Sang-woo nodded once, eyes forward, then got out. The cool air carried the faint scent of grilled fish and sesame oil as they walked up the stone path toward the entrance.

Inside, In-ho and Eun-hee were already waiting. Eun-hee rose first, her face breaking into a warm smile as she waved them over. In-ho stood a beat later, his expression polite but softer than Sang-woo remembered from their last formal meeting.

“Glad you made it,” Eun-hee said brightly, pulling Gi-hun into a quick hug before gesturing to the table. “We went ahead and ordered some appetizers to share.”

They slid into their seats. Small dishes of seasoned vegetables and fried dumplings arrived, and the table began to loosen. Eun-hee asked about the girls, smiling as Gi-hun described Ga-yeong’s latest school project and Seo-hyun’s obsession with the piano.

When Gi-hun paused to sip his water, Sang-woo nudged the dish toward him. “Eat more,” he said quietly. “You don’t take care of yourself enough.”

Gi-hun gave him a sheepish smile and reached for another dumpling. Eun-hee hid a knowing grin behind her hand.

Then In-ho surprised them. When Eun-hee mentioned the chaos of the school board meeting earlier that week, he said flatly, “One parent complained their kid wasn’t getting enough leadership opportunities. I told them he could start by learning how to line up without shoving people.”

Gi-hun laughed so hard he had to cover his mouth. “God, you actually said that?”

“I don’t lie,” In-ho replied, calm as ever.

Eun-hee swatted at his arm. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Apparently I can,” In-ho said. “He hasn’t complained since.”

Even Sang-woo let out the faintest laugh, and the table shifted into something easier.

When the plates were cleared, Gi-hun tilted his head curiously. “So, why’d you decide to become a principal? I just assumed, with the way you dress, you’d be a businessman. Like him.” He nodded toward Sang-woo.

“Business was never for me,” In-ho said.

“Then what?” Sang-woo asked.

“I wanted to be a detective,” In-ho said. “That was the plan. But I tore up my knee in my last year of university. No academy was going to take me after that. Education wasn’t where I thought I’d end up, but it gave me a place to stand, and a way to matter.”

Gi-hun blinked. “Wow. That’s actually… pretty noble.”

In-ho shrugged. “Not really. I just figured if I couldn’t catch criminals, maybe I could stop kids from becoming ones.”

For a moment, no one laughed. Eun-hee’s smile softened as she reached for his hand under the table, squeezing gently. Gi-hun’s grin dimmed into something quieter, more thoughtful, and even Sang-woo’s expression shifted, a small flicker of respect crossing his face before he looked down at his glass.

Then Gi-hun exhaled, his smile returning, softer this time. “That’s… really good, In-ho. The girls are lucky to have you running the place.”

In-ho didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward, just slightly.

Laughter eased back into the table as Eun-hee changed the subject, the heaviness fading into something lighter again. By the time dessert was cleared, she leaned in, resting her chin in her hand. “So, are we calling it a night, or should we go find somewhere for drinks?”

“Drinks,” Gi-hun said immediately, grinning.

“One won’t hurt,” Sang-woo said quietly.

Eun-hee smiled. “There’s a place up the street. Quiet, good cocktails.”

They stepped out into the night, lanterns swaying over the riverfront. Gi-hun started another story, but halfway through he noticed In-ho and Eun-hee walking just ahead. Their hands brushed once, then twined together naturally, like it wasn’t even a choice.

Gi-hun’s words trailed off. He smiled to himself, his chest tightening in a way that felt almost too tender. Without thinking, he squeezed Sang-woo’s hand. Sang-woo glanced at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. He let their hands rest together.

When they reached the bar, In-ho only let go to open the door for Eun-hee, stepping aside so she could walk in first.

Inside, the lighting was low and warm, the clink of glass and soft hum of jazz filling the air. A server led them to a booth near the back, menus slipped into their hands. Gi-hun squinted at the list of spirits. “Half of these I can’t even pronounce. Sang-woo, pick something fancy for me.”

“You’ll regret that,” Sang-woo muttered.

When the server returned, Gi-hun puffed his chest. “Whiskey, neat. Might as well look classy for once.”

“It won’t work,” Sang-woo said dryly.

Gi-hun only grinned wider.

Sang-woo ordered a gin and tonic.

In-ho said, “Same for me.”

Eun-hee handed her menu back with a smile. “I’ll have the citrus blossom mocktail.”

Gi-hun didn’t think twice, too busy bragging about his whiskey order. But Sang-woo noticed. The mocktail, the soft way her hand brushed her stomach for just a second. He didn’t miss the detail. He never did.

What really caught him, though, was In-ho.

The man was beaming at her, his face softened into something so unguarded it almost felt like watching something private. He didn’t even try to hide it, his gaze fixed on her like she was the only person in the room.

Sang-woo looked away, letting the moment belong to them.

When the drinks arrived, Eun-hee lifted her glass, the jewel-bright mocktail catching the light. “To good company.”

Gi-hun clinked glasses with a grin. “To good company.”

Sang-woo touched his glass to hers with a quiet nod. “To good company.”

In-ho’s glass met hers last. He didn’t take his eyes off her.

Back at the apartment, Gi-hun kicked off his shoes and let out a long breath. “You know… I’m really happy for them.”

Sang-woo glanced over as he loosened his tie. “For In-ho and Eun-hee?”

“Yeah.” Gi-hun dropped onto the couch, leaning back with a small smile. “They’re solid. You can see it. And I’m excited they’re having a baby. It just… fits them, you know?”

Sang-woo stopped mid-motion, blinking. “You noticed?”

Gi-hun looked at him like it was obvious. “Of course I did. The way he kept looking at her, like she was carrying the whole world… it wasn’t hard to figure out.” He laughed softly. “I get distracted sometimes, but I’m not blind.”

For a moment Sang-woo just studied him, then his mouth curved, faint but genuine. “I didn’t think you caught it.”

Gi-hun reached for his hand, squeezing it once. “I did. And it made me glad.” He hesitated, his voice dipping lower. “Because it reminded me of us. What we’re building. The girls, this place… it’s not perfect, but it’s ours. And I want it to be more. I want us to be a family, Sang-woo. Not just halfway, not just figuring it out as we go. I want that with you.”

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “When Ga-yeong called Dae-ho uncle tonight… it hit me. She wants this too. She wants more people to belong to.”

Sang-woo sat down beside him, shoulders brushing, and let their hands rest together. His throat worked as he swallowed, but his answer came steady. “Then we’ll give her that. Together. I’ll make sure she has it.”

Gi-hun leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth, soft and lingering. Sang-woo let himself lean into it, returning the kiss before their foreheads came to rest together, the quiet between them warm and sure.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet. Eun-hee sat at the kitchen table in one of his old sweatshirts, her tea cooling between her hands. She looked tired, but when In-ho stepped into the room her eyes lifted to him with quiet curiosity.

He froze in the doorway, chest already tight, tears stinging his eyes before he could stop them. He dragged a hand across his face, trying to wipe them away, but more came, hot and relentless. His breath hitched, uneven, and for a moment he almost turned back.

Instead, he crossed the room and sank into the chair across from her. His hands clenched together until his knuckles blanched. His voice was raw when it came out. “Eun-hee… I have something to tell you. And it’s going to hurt.”

Her gaze sharpened, steady on him. “What is it?”

He swallowed hard, then forced it out. “I kissed someone.”

The air seemed to stop. Her fingers tightened around the mug. “Who?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Who was it?”

His throat burned. “Sang-woo.”

She set the mug down carefully, her eyes locked on his. “Tell me everything. I have the right to know.”

“It was weeks ago,” In-ho said, his voice shaking. “After school, when the grounds were empty. He was heading out and I went to him. I told myself I just wanted to talk, but then I leaned in. I don’t even know why. It lasted a second. He shoved me back immediately, furious, and he was right to. Gi-hun was far off across the lot. He couldn’t hear us, but he saw me lean in. And he ran. Seeing him take off like that snapped me out of it, made me realize what I’d done. I knew instantly it was a betrayal, even before I understood the full scope. And then later, when I realized who Sang-woo was to you-your boss, your friend-it became even worse. The betrayal was already real, but knowing it was him doubled it.”

His shoulders sagged, shame curling him inward. “Sang-woo punched the hell out of me. And I deserved it. Every bit of it. I should’ve told you right away, but instead I buried it, and it’s been rotting me alive ever since.”

Eun-hee’s voice was tight. “Why didn’t Sang-woo tell me?”

“Because it wasn’t his to tell,” In-ho said quickly. “He wanted no part of it. He stopped it immediately and walked away. If you’re angry, be angry at me, not him. He carried my mistake in silence when he never should’ve had to. That’s on me.”

The words tumbled faster, frantic. “You deserve better than this. You deserve a man who doesn’t break like I did. If you want me to go, I will. I’ll still support you and the baby, but I’ll leave so you don’t have to look at me and remember.”

The rest dissolved as the dam broke. A sob tore out of him so hard it bent him forward in the chair. He covered his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking, his breath tearing ragged from his chest.

“In-ho,” Eun-hee whispered, startled. She shoved her chair back and came to his side, catching his wrists and tugging his hands away. “Look at me. Please.”

He let her, though the tears streamed hot down his cheeks, his whole body trembling.

She cupped his face, her thumbs brushing the wetness from his skin even as more spilled over. “You made a mistake. A painful one. But don’t you dare decide for me what I deserve. That isn’t yours to take. You’re my husband. You’re the father of our baby. I love you. I understand the fear and the weakness, but I still want you here.”

He sobbed again, his voice breaking. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “But you’re mine. And I’m not letting you go.”

Something in him collapsed at that. He slid down from the chair to his knees, clinging to her like a drowning man, his face buried in her stomach. His tears soaked through her sweatshirt, his breaths uneven and raw, but her arms stayed firm, rocking him gently as if he were something fragile.

She smoothed her hand over his hair. “In-ho, I need to ask you something, and I want the truth.”

His breath caught. “Anything.”

“Are you interested in men?” Her voice was careful, but thin with hurt. “Do you even want me anymore? Do you regret being with me?”

In-ho lifted his head, eyes red, voice torn open. “No. I don’t regret a single day with you. Not one. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I could be more than my mistakes. I’ve never stopped wanting you.” He swallowed, forcing the words out. “If I’m honest, maybe there’s a part of me that’s attracted to men. Maybe that means I’m bisexual, but the truth is I don’t really know. I was never allowed to think about it, never allowed to explore it. What I do know is that I’ve always been attracted to women, but I’ve only ever been in love with you. You’re beautiful, Eun-hee. You always have been. None of that changes the fact that you’re the one I choose, the one I want, the one I love.”

Her eyes shimmered, tears threatening to spill. “Then I need to ask you something even harder.” Her voice dropped, trembling. “Are you sexually attracted to me, In-ho? Or have I been imagining it all this time?”

The question gutted him. He caught her face between his hands, desperate, shaking his head hard enough to make the tears spill. “Yes. God, yes. I’ve always been attracted to you. From the first time I saw you, I wanted you. I still do. You don’t know how many nights I lie awake next to you and thank God you’re mine. Sometimes I have to hold myself back, because even when you’re asleep, all I can think about is wanting to be close to you, to make love to you. That’s how much I ache for you. None of that has ever changed. I want you, Eun-hee. I love the way you feel against me, the way you look at me when we’re together. I love making love to you, the way it pulls me closer, the way it makes me feel like you and I are bound in a way nothing else could ever touch. It isn’t just desire. It’s the way my whole body knows you, the way being with you feels like coming back to the only place I belong. That’s never gone away, not once.”

Her tears slipped free as his words landed. For a moment she just stood there, trembling, staring down at him on his knees. Then, slowly, she lowered herself onto the tile in front of him, her hands finding his face, holding him steady.

“I want to believe you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “And I think I do. And I still want you… even after this.”

His breath shuddered out of him, as if the words themselves were the first mercy he’d been given in weeks. “You really mean that?”

She nodded and pressed her forehead to his. “We’ll make this work. We’ll go to counseling if we need to. We’ll fight for this marriage, for us, for the baby. We’re not giving up.”

He sagged forward then, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close on the cold tile. He clutched her back like she was the only thing keeping him tethered, their bodies pressed together on the kitchen floor.

“I love you,” he said again, broken but sure.

“I love you too,” she whispered against his shoulder. “And I’m not letting you go.”

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun stretched across the schoolyard, laying warm light over the pavement. Parents clustered near the gate in easy knots of conversation, but Gi-hun and Sang-woo stood a little apart, their shoulders brushing now and then in the quiet.

Gi-hun tipped his head toward him. “How was your day?”

Sang-woo gave a small shrug. “Busy. Back-to-back meetings. Nothing worth repeating.”

Gi-hun smirked. “Figures.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “I had a guy come in today swearing his car was making a ghost noise. Whole dramatic story about how it only happened at night, out on the highway. Turns out…” He lifted his brows. “Loose lug nut. That was the big mystery.”

The corner of Sang-woo’s mouth tugged, the barest hint of amusement flickering there. “That sounds about right.”

“Yeah, well, he still tipped me twenty bucks for finding it.” Gi-hun grinned, pleased with himself. “Easiest money I’ve made all week.”

For a second, the moment felt light. But then Sang-woo’s gaze dropped, his jaw tightening. The trace of humor slipped from his face as if it had never been there.

Gi-hun caught it instantly. “Alright. What’s going on?”

Sang-woo let out a slow breath, like he had been holding it in all day. “I found out this morning there’s an emergency call with New York. Nine p.m. here, eight a.m. there. It wasn’t scheduled, but I can’t miss it.”

Gi-hun’s brows shot up. “Wait, what about Seo-hyun? Were you were just going to bring her to your office? For the whole night?”

Sang-woo straightened a little. “She’s done it before. I keep a foldable cot there, with sheets and a pillow. I even set up a nightlight for her. She knows the routine. And Dae-ho will be around, not in the conference room, but close by. He’s been watching her for years. She trusts him. He’s family.”

A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “Last time we did this, he ended up falling asleep on the couch in the lounge with her. She was on the cot, he was on the sofa, and they stretched their arms out until they were holding hands between them. Both of them snoring. It looked ridiculous.”

Gi-hun laughed at the image but then shook his head. “That’s sweet, but she shouldn’t be doing that. Not all night in an office while you’re on a call. She’s a kid, Sang-woo.”

A flicker of defensiveness passed over Sang-woo’s face. “And what’s the difference between that and you taking Ga-yeong to the shop? She’s running around cars and tools while you’re under a hood. Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No,” Gi-hun said immediately, his voice rising before he could stop it. “It’s not the same. Ga-yeong doesn’t spend the night there. She doesn’t fall asleep to the sound of an air compressor. If it’s late, we crash upstairs at Jung-bae’s above the garage. She’s in a bed, not under fluorescent lights next to your laptop.”

For a second, they just looked at each other, tension tightening the space between them.

Sang-woo’s jaw worked, his voice catching at the edges. “Everything I’ve done for the last ten years has been for Seo-hyun. Every choice. Every sacrifice. I built my life around her so she wouldn’t feel alone, so she wouldn’t think she was missing something. This system might not look perfect to you, but it’s the best I could give her.”

Gi-hun’s chest ached at the rawness underneath his words. He reached out and laid a hand firmly on Sang-woo’s arm, waiting until Sang-woo finally looked at him. “I know you have. I see it, Sang-woo. You’ve been everything for her. But you don’t have to do it like this anymore. You don’t have to settle for just ‘good enough.’ She deserves more. And so do you. Let me help.”

Sang-woo’s shoulders shifted, the defensiveness giving way to something smaller, more uncertain. His voice dropped lower. “I need you to understand. I don’t ever want you to feel like I’m using you. Like I’m just passing Seo-hyun off because it’s easier for me. You’re not a stopgap. You’re not filling in the cracks where I fail. You’re not a babysitter I call when I’m too busy.” His throat worked, but he pushed through. “You’re my partner. My equal. And if I trust Seo-hyun with you, it’s not out of convenience. It’s because she’s the most important part of my life, and I believe she’s safe in your hands. I believe in you.”

Gi-hun tightened his hand on his arm, grounding him. His voice was steady, threaded with emotion. “Then let me tell you right now. You’re not using me. You’re letting me in. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Being your partner doesn’t just mean kissing you when it’s easy. It means helping with Seo-hyun, with everything. I want that responsibility. I want to be the person you count on, the one you lean on, the one you love. Don’t protect me from that. Don’t keep me at arm’s length like I’m just visiting your life. Let me be here.”

For a long moment, Sang-woo didn’t speak. His mouth pressed into a line, but something in his face softened. He looked down at Gi-hun’s hand still resting on his arm, then gently turned it over. Before Gi-hun could react, Sang-woo leaned forward and pressed a quiet kiss into his palm.

Gi-hun froze, startled at the boldness of it. Not because of the touch, but because they were still standing in the middle of the schoolyard, parents gathered all around. Sang-woo didn’t seem to care. His eyes lifted, steady and certain.

“I’m trying,” he said softly. “It’s new. But I’m trying.”

Gi-hun’s throat went tight, his crooked smile breaking through anyway. “That’s all I need.”

Before Sang-woo could respond, the school doors swung open and the girls came racing out, laughter spilling into the air. Ga-yeong barreled into Gi-hun’s arms, and Seo-hyun caught her father’s hand, tugging at him breathlessly with her story. Over her head, Gi-hun met Sang-woo’s eyes, and this time, Sang-woo did not look away.

“Dinner first?” Gi-hun asked once they were buckled in, the backseat buzzing with chatter.

“Dinner first,” Sang-woo agreed, easing the car out of the lot.

They had not gone more than a few blocks when Gi-hun leaned forward. “Mind stopping by the hardware store real quick?”

Sang-woo glanced at him. “Something for work?”

“Yeah. Just pull in. I’ll be fast.”

Ten minutes later, Gi-hun came back out, empty-handed.

Sang-woo frowned. “You didn’t buy anything?”

“Not for me.” Gi-hun slid back into the seat, pulled something from his pocket, and dangled it between two fingers. A key, attached to a chunky little Totoro keychain, its round belly wobbling as it swung.

Sang-woo blinked. “…What’s this?”

“Figured you should have one,” Gi-hun said, dropping it into his palm with a grin that was softer than his words. “A key to my place. Since you’ve already unlocked my heart, might as well unlock the front door too.”

From the backseat, Ga-yeong groaned so loudly the whole car heard it. “Appa, stop! That’s so silly!”

Seo-hyun squealed with laughter. “It’s Totoro! Appa, you have to keep it!”

Sang-woo’s ears went pink as both girls dissolved into giggles. He tried to keep his face neutral, but his fingers curled around the key like it was precious. Without a word, he pulled out his sleek keyring, all polished metal and clean lines, and slid the Totoro key on. The little creature looked absurd next to the car fob, but Sang-woo did not hesitate.

Gi-hun grinned wider, watching him slip it into place. “Looks good on there.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sang-woo muttered, pocketing the ring quickly, though his voice had gone quiet.

“Yeah,” Gi-hun said, smirking. “But you love it.”

The girls’ laughter faded into their own chatter, bouncing from one topic to another in the backseat. The car grew quieter in the front, just the hum of the road beneath them. Gi-hun rested his elbow against the window, sneaking a glance sideways.

“You keep touching your pocket,” he said lightly.

Sang-woo’s eyes stayed on the road. “…Do I?”

“Yeah. Like you’re checking it’s still there.”

Sang-woo shifted slightly, as if caught. His hand eased back onto the wheel, but not before his thumb brushed once more over the place where the key sat. “It’s… different. Having it.”

“Good different?” Gi-hun asked.

There was a pause, longer than needed. Finally, Sang-woo gave a small nod. “…Good.”

Gi-hun let the silence breathe after that, but he carried the image of Sang-woo’s hand over his pocket, guarding something small and silly like it was priceless.

The girls’ laughter carried them the rest of the way. By the time they slid into a booth at their usual restaurant, the chatter had shifted to dumplings and juice cups, nearly knocking over a glass in their excitement. It was noisy, messy, imperfect, but threaded through with warmth. Every so often, Sang-woo and Gi-hun’s eyes caught across the table, small smiles passing between them like a secret language.

When the plates were cleared, Sang-woo checked his watch. “I should head back soon. I’ll stop at my place, shower, change, then head into the office to prep before the call.”

Gi-hun turned to him slowly, eyebrows climbing. “Run all the way back to your place? Are you serious?”

Sang-woo blinked, caught off guard. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because that’s insane,” Gi-hun said flatly. “You’ve got a suit in your trunk. You can shower here. What’s the difference?”

“The difference,” Sang-woo started carefully, “is that this is your place. I don’t want to—”

Gi-hun cut him off with a look so sharp it made Sang-woo pause mid-sentence. “You’ve got a key now, genius. Use the shower, its not a big deal.”

For once, Sang-woo had no rebuttal. The girls were watching curiously, and Ga-yeong whispered something to Seo-hyun that set them both off giggling. Sang-woo only sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…Fine.”

Not long after, he reappeared from the bathroom, crisp and composed again in the spare suit he had carried up. Steam still clung faintly to the hall as he buttoned his cuffs, the Totoro keychain swinging brightly when he set his keys on the counter to tie his shoes.

Gi-hun grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Sang-woo adjusted his tie, deadpan. “Used your deodorant too. Hope you don’t mind sharing.”

Gi-hun laughed so loudly it startled the girls, which only made them laugh harder. He leaned back in his chair, still grinning. “Yeah, well, you look so damn good right now I don’t even care. Sharp suit, my deodorant, key to my place… you’re basically my dream husband walking out of the bathroom.”

“Appa!” Ga-yeong groaned from the couch, burying her face in a pillow while Seo-hyun giggled uncontrollably beside her.

Sang-woo pinched the bridge of his nose, but his ears had gone bright red. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but then his voice softened in spite of himself. “…That’s what I want someday.”

Gi-hun blinked, the teasing smile faltering at the quiet honesty in Sang-woo’s voice. The warmth in his chest spread until it reached his face, softening his grin into something he could not quite hide. For a moment the world seemed to still around them as they held each other’s gaze.

“Careful,” Gi-hun said at last, smirking just enough to keep the mood from tipping too serious. “Talk like that and I might start believing you really do love all this.”

Sang-woo let out a quiet huff, as if he wanted to deflect, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. “I do. I love everything about this. I’ve never been happier.”

Gi-hun’s throat went tight, his crooked smile breaking through anyway. He stepped closer, reaching for him, and kissed him deep. It was not quick or cautious but lingering, the kind of kiss that made the room fade until there was only the two of them.

The girls screamed in mock horror and bolted from the room, squealing and laughing, but it was obvious in the brightness of their voices that they loved it. They loved seeing their dads happy.

When the laughter faded down the hall, Sang-woo looked back at Gi-hun, his hand still resting lightly at his side. “I’ll call when it’s over. Even if it’s late.”

Gi-hun’s smile softened, steady and sure. “I’ll be waiting.”

The office lights glowed cool against the glass, the city glittering far below like scattered jewels. Sang-woo stood at the head of the long conference table, jacket hung neatly over his chair, sleeves rolled at the cuffs with deliberate precision. His laptop glowed softly in front of him, documents stacked in perfect order, each one tabbed and highlighted. The quiet hum of the building at night pressed in around him, familiar and grounding.

Dae-ho leaned in the doorway, sipping from a paper cup that had long gone lukewarm. “You’re in a good mood.”

Sang-woo adjusted his tie without looking up. “Am I?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Dae-ho’s grin was lazy but sharp. “You’ve got that face. The one where you’re about to crush everybody and still enjoy yourself. Definitely a good mood.”

Sang-woo didn’t bother to argue. A faint curve touched his mouth, fleeting but undeniable, before he returned his focus to the laptop.

At nine on the dot, the screens came alive. The New York team appeared in crisp suits and tired faces, their morning just beginning. Quick greetings cut across the speakers, papers shuffled on both ends of the call, and already there was tension laced through their clipped voices.

“Good evening,” Sang-woo said smoothly in English, his tone calm, polished, and deliberate. “Or good morning for you. Let’s begin.”

From the first exchange, he set the pace. Questions came rapid-fire from the New York side, pointed and skeptical, but he answered each one with clean precision. His English was sharp and effortless, not just grammatically perfect but commanding, the cadence of someone who could bend the conversation to his rhythm. Numbers and strategies flowed from him as if memorized, though he never glanced down at his notes.

On the Seoul side of the call, a few of his own team exchanged uneasy looks. They were following, but barely. Sang-woo’s speed in English was blistering, too fast for the translators’ notes to keep up. Once, he shifted fluidly back into Korean, summarizing three minutes of heated debate in a crisp thirty-second explanation for his staff before switching right back into English without missing a beat. The contrast was stark, and it left some of them looking at him with open admiration.

While another executive droned on from the New York side, Sang-woo’s fingers brushed his phone where it sat just beside his notes. He tilted the screen toward him, typing with the same efficiency he brought to everything. Everything good with the girls?

The reply came almost instantly. They’re both asleep. Seo-hyun snores. It’s cute.

The ghost of a smile flickered at his mouth before he set the phone back down, face smoothing into composure as he returned his attention to the camera.

The longer the meeting went, the clearer the shift became. The executives in New York who had looked resistant at first were now leaning forward, pens scratching hurried notes as though afraid to miss something. Even across the screen, the current of respect was unmistakable. Where there had been pushback at the start, there was now agreement, nods, and the kind of silence that came only when everyone realized they were following his lead.

By the time Sang-woo closed his laptop, the clock on the wall read past one in the morning.

Outside in the open workspace, Dae-ho stirred awake, blinking himself back into focus. “You killed it,” he mumbled, rubbing his face. “Knew you would.”

Sang-woo slipped into his jacket, fastening the buttons with practiced ease. “Go home. Sleep in tomorrow. Don’t come in until noon. That’s an order.”

That woke Dae-ho up a little more. He grinned through the grogginess. “Boss in a good mood, huh?”

Sang-woo only shook his head, but the look in his eyes made the answer plain.

The building had gone still again by the time he stopped at the window, looking down at the scatter of lights across the city. He could have gone back to his own apartment, collapsed on the couch like he had countless nights before. It would have been simple. Familiar. Safe.

But his hand found the weight in his pocket. The Totoro key pressed against his palm through the fabric, small and ridiculous and impossibly heavy all at once.

By the time he reached Gi-hun’s street, the world was hushed. The windows were dark, the night air cool and sharp against his skin. He stood for a long moment at the doorstep, heart tight in his chest, fingers curled around the key.

He could still turn back. Pretend it was too late. Pretend this wasn’t what he wanted.

Instead, he slid the key into the lock. The click sounded louder than it should have, final and certain, like a line he could never uncross.

Inside, the apartment was warm, carrying the faint smell of laundry and popcorn. He slipped off his shoes, padded quietly through the space, each step deliberate. His jacket went neatly over a chair, his shirt unbuttoned in silence. He brushed his teeth with the spare toothbrush waiting for him in the cup by the sink, every small act made weightier by the fact that he was here, not as a guest but as someone who belonged.

In the bedroom, Gi-hun stirred as the mattress dipped. Not fully awake, just instinctively reaching, his arm winding around Sang-woo’s middle, his face pressing against his chest.

“You’re home,” Gi-hun mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Love you. Always.”

Sang-woo froze for a heartbeat before sinking into the pillows, his body finally easing. His hand slid into Gi-hun’s hair, slow and careful, grounding himself in the warmth pressed against him.

“I love you too,” he whispered into the dark, holding Gi-hun closer. “More than I can say.”

The city outside went quiet. The only sound left was Gi-hun’s steady breathing, close and sure, as Sang-woo let himself rest.

Chapter Text

The morning sun stretched across the schoolyard, warm and golden, spilling over the pavement and catching on the bright colors of backpacks as children hurried toward the doors. Parents stood in loose knots of conversation, voices rising and falling over the chatter of kids. Gi-hun and Sang-woo lingered a little apart from the clusters, shoulders brushing now and then as they watched their girls wave and disappear into the building.

It was then they noticed In-ho coming across the yard. His walk was brisk, but there was something different about him today. His posture was straighter, his face clearer, as though a weight had been lifted from him overnight. The exhaustion was still there in the corners of his eyes, but it was tempered by something brighter, something new. He looked ten years younger, like someone who had finally remembered how to breathe.

Gi-hun tipped his head at him, half teasing. “You look different. Did you actually sleep last night?”

In-ho let out a short laugh and shook his head. “Not really. But I told her. I told Eun-hee about the kiss. About all of it.”

Sang-woo’s brows went up in surprise. “You did?”

“Yeah.” In-ho’s voice was steadier than they expected. “I couldn’t keep it from her any longer. It wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t fair to you either, Sang-woo, making you carry a secret that wasn’t yours. I was terrified, I thought pushing her away was the safest thing, but I was wrong. I’ve always been committed to her. Always. She’s everything to me, and she always will be. My heart has never belonged anywhere else.”

Gi-hun blinked, taken aback by the quiet certainty in his voice. “So… how did she take it?”

For the first time in weeks, In-ho smiled without hesitation. “She said we would figure it out. Together. She didn’t look at me like I was broken. She didn’t look like she was done with me. Do you know what that feels like? After all this time, to tell the truth and not have it destroy us?” He shook his head, emotion flickering across his features. “It felt like breathing again.”

He pulled out his phone, thumb unsteady as he unlocked it. “The other night, when we all went out,” he said quietly. He turned the screen toward them. It was a candid shot from the double date, Eun-hee caught mid-laugh, her eyes bright, her hand lifted as though she had just swatted playfully at him across the table. The glow on her face was undeniable.

In-ho looked down at the photo like he couldn’t believe it was real. “Look at her. She’s everything. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Gi-hun’s expression softened, his smile gentle. “She’s beautiful. And yeah… it’s obvious she loves you.”

Sang-woo’s gaze lingered on the photo, thoughtful. “She looks happy,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet. “Really happy.”

In-ho’s grin widened, pride and relief shining through. He had looked beaten down for weeks, and now he seemed almost boyish, like someone who had finally set down a heavy burden.

Sang-woo gave a faint smile, his words slipping out without thought. “In-ho-ya, I’m glad you told her. You look lighter.”

The name caught In-ho off guard. His head lifted sharply, eyes shining, and Gi-hun broke into a grin of his own, clearly enjoying Sang-woo’s slip. In-ho’s face warmed, touched more deeply than he could say, while Sang-woo’s ears turned pink as he realized what he had called him.

But In-ho didn’t let the moment pass. His voice dropped, quieter, more raw. “Part of why I panicked before… it wasn’t just a mid-life crisis. Years ago, Eun-hee carried a baby almost to term, but it was stillborn. It nearly destroyed us. We didn’t know how to keep going, and grief swallowed everything. When we tried again, all that terror came rushing back. I thought if I kept her at a distance, if I messed things up before it got that far, maybe she wouldn’t suffer like that again. It was stupid. I see that now. But I wasn’t running because I didn’t love her. I was running because I loved her too much and was scared.”

Sang-woo’s expression softened further. “I remember when that happened. She was devastated. I tried to make sure she had some time away without having to worry.”

In-ho’s throat tightened. His voice shook, but he pushed through. “Not just time. You gave her months, Sang-woo. Paid. No questions asked. You carried that weight when no one else would. And I never thanked you for that. I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t had that time. We barely survived it as it was. If you hadn’t given her that space to breathe, to grieve, I don’t know what would have become of us.”

Sang-woo shook his head gently, brushing it aside. “You don’t need to thank me. She needed it. She deserved it. That was enough.”

But In-ho’s eyes were wet now, and his smile wobbled. “It wasn’t nothing to us. It was everything.”

The silence stretched for a moment, full of things unspoken, until In-ho drew in a breath that seemed to steady him. “There’s more,” he said, his voice soft but trembling with barely-contained joy. “She’s pregnant.”

Gi-hun’s eyes widened, and then he let out a laugh, clapping him on the back. “I knew it. The other night, she didn’t touch her wine. I figured there had to be a reason.”

Sang-woo’s lips curved, almost wry. “I noticed too. I just didn’t want to say it out loud.”

In-ho flushed but his grin broke wide, uncontainable. “Yeah. That’s why. We didn’t want to tell anyone yet, but I can’t hold it in anymore. I’m so happy I can hardly breathe. And terrified. All I’ve ever wanted is to be a dad. I love kids. That’s it, that’s the dream. To be the kind of father she and our baby can count on.”

Gi-hun’s chest ached at the rawness in his voice. “You’re going to be a great dad, In-ho.”

Sang-woo gave a firm nod, his voice steady. “She’s lucky to have you. And so is that baby.”

For a moment, In-ho just stood there, his smile so wide it almost looked like it might split his face. Then, without warning, he stepped forward and pulled both Sang-woo and Gi-hun into a hug at the same time. It was clumsy, their shoulders bumping, but it was tight and real. Gi-hun let out a startled laugh, patting his back, while Sang-woo blinked in surprise before returning the embrace with a small squeeze.

When In-ho finally let go, he looked at them both, eyes shining. “Thank you both. For everything.”

The bell rang sharply across the yard, pulling the kids the last few steps inside. Parents began drifting away, voices fading as the school doors shut behind their children. In-ho gave them one last grateful look, tucking his phone away, and then headed off with a lighter step than either had seen from him since they met.

Gi-hun and Sang-woo exchanged a glance, a quiet understanding passing between them before they turned toward the parking lot, the sound of In-ho’s words still echoing in the back of their minds.

The office was hushed, sunlight laying soft rectangles across the floor. The cursor blinked on a spreadsheet that Sang-woo hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. The image of the schoolyard kept replaying in his mind, the way relief had taken years off In-ho’s face.

A knock touched the doorframe.

“Come in,” he said.

Eun-hee stepped inside. She looked tired, but the fear that had been sitting in her posture for weeks was no longer crushing her. There was steadiness in her eyes that he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Do you have a minute?” she asked.

“Always,” he said, rising and motioning to the chair across from his desk. “Please.”

She sat, smoothing her skirt before folding her hands in her lap. For a moment she didn’t speak. Her gaze flicked to the window and back to him, then she drew in a slow breath.

“In-ho told me last night,” she said carefully. “About the kiss.”

Sang-woo’s chest tightened, but he kept his voice even. “I see.”

Her eyes softened. “I want you to know right away, Sang-woo, I’m not angry at you. I don’t want this to ruin our friendship. You’ve been part of my life for too long, through too much, for me to let this tear anything apart. What happened wasn’t yours to confess. It wasn’t your burden. You never betrayed me.”

Sang-woo exhaled slowly, shoulders easing just slightly. “I was afraid you’d see it that way anyway. That you’d think I’d kept it from you to protect myself. The truth is, I didn’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to be the reason your marriage cracked. That thought has been sitting in my stomach since it happened.”

Her lips trembled at the quiet honesty, but she shook her head. “No. The responsibility was his, not yours. And I understand why you stayed silent. You were trying to protect me, even if it cost you.”

He nodded once, his hands folding tighter together on the desk. “When it first happened, I didn’t even realize who he was to you. I knew him only as Seo-hyun’s principal. I didn’t know he was your husband until later. When I understood, the weight of it doubled. I was already furious at him for what he did, but when I realized it was you, it made it even harder to know what to do.”

Eun-hee’s breath caught, her eyes shimmering. “You carried that for me?”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Sang-woo admitted. “I thought about coming to you, but it wasn’t mine to tell. I kept reminding myself of that. But it meant standing next to you in meetings, talking like normal, and knowing you didn’t have the full truth. It was harder than I can explain.”

Her smile was small but genuine. “You’ve been my friend since before Seo-hyun was even born. You gave me months off after the stillbirth, paid, when no one else would have. You’ve always looked out for me. I should’ve known you were doing the same here.”

Sang-woo’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened. “I didn’t want you to think I’d failed you. You’ve been a constant in my life too. I couldn’t stand the idea of losing that.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice quiet but certain. “You won’t. I’m not letting this come between us. In-ho made a mistake, but he’s owning it now. And you… you were honest with him when he needed someone to be. That means more than I can put into words.”

Sang-woo blinked, caught off guard by the depth of her steadiness.

Her shoulders eased. The relief in her face looked real this time, not borrowed. “We’re going to be okay,” she said softly, almost testing the words. She didn’t take them back. “I believe that now.”

Sang-woo nodded, warmth easing into his features. “Then hold on to that. Keep choosing each other.”

Her smile deepened, fragile but sure. “We will.”

She stood, and before leaving, she came around the desk and wrapped him in a huge hug. For a moment he was still, then he let himself hold on too, their years of friendship closing the distance between them. When she finally stepped back, her eyes were wet, but the tears weren’t heavy. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, giving a shaky little laugh.

“Don’t mind me. It’s relief,” she said softly. “Happy tears.”

Sang-woo’s voice was low but certain. “Then I can live with that.”

She left with lighter steps than when she came in. For the first time in weeks, Sang-woo believed she meant it.