Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

...

Grief is like glitter.

You think you cleaned it all up until you find some under your nails, you could find it under your slipper, in clothes you haven’t worn in years, in things you haven’t seen since forever. It hides in corners and waits for the right moment to shimmer again, even when you’re not looking for it.

The feeling of grief was strange, almost unnameable. It felt like having so much love swelling inside your chest but not knowing where to put it, or who would even take it if you tried. It was an endless loop, a current of devotion without an outlet, an ache that promised it would never completely disappear. Sometimes it makes you feel hopeless, like it would swallow your entire world whole. Other times it made you feel like maybe the world was ending, or at least the version of it you used to live in. You wanted to talk about it out loud, to say it plainly, but there was always that voice that whispered: what if they think you’re making this your whole personality?

It was like something got ripped out of your chest and left it hollow. It made you forget how to think properly, like static had replaced every thought, as if the universe had stopped working in your favor.

And really, how cruel was the universe to take away the person you’d anchored yourself to for your whole life?

It had been years since Mingyu lost his father, but the wound still burned raw. The world told him time healed, but the calendar lied. There were moments when he achieved something—no matter how small—and his first instinct was still to pick up his phone, ready to call his dad. He wanted to share it, to hear the deep voice on the other end saying how proud he was. But the call never went through, and instead the phone screen coldly flashed that the number no longer existed.

That was the cruelest part: the world finding ways to remind him that he had lost his favorite person, the person who had taught him how life worked, who had shown him how to be gentle, kind, and strong.

His life had ended when he was twenty.

Now he’s twenty-eight.

Eight years. Eight years since his father had passed, and yet every detail still clung to him like it had happened yesterday. Sometimes it was in the sight of a shirt he once borrowed from his dad, folded neatly in the back of his closet, its fabric still carrying the faint smell of cologne. Sometimes it was the absence of a voice asking him for the shirt back, the silence echoing in the space where his father’s laughter used to live.

Grief was strange for Mingyu.

Sometimes it crept in softly, like a shadow slipping beneath the crack of a door, reminding him in quiet whispers that the loss was still there. Other times it struck without warning—like a car crash, merciless and violent, leaving him breathless in a crowded room where no one noticed he was shattering.

Mingyu tried to reason with it, as though grief could be negotiated. He told himself it was love with nowhere to go, tried redirecting that love into acts of remembrance. He cooked the meals his dad had loved most, the spicy stews and simple dishes that once filled their home. He kept the old toolbox clean and rust-free, polishing the metal handles like they were heirlooms made of gold. He carried his father’s smile in stories, repeating it to friends and strangers alike, making sure it never faded. And yet, no matter how much he poured himself into these small rituals, the ache circled back to the same unmovable truth: his father was gone.

There were nights when the ache was sharpest, when he dreamed of his father standing in the old kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming off-key to some song that Mingyu no longer remembered. In those dreams, the air smelled like garlic sizzling in oil, and his father’s laughter filled the room. But every time, he woke up with tears on his pillow, heart racing, hand reaching for a presence that would never again be beside him.

And yet—for all its cruelty—grief also carried an odd gentleness. Every sharp pang of missing him was a reminder that his father mattered, that he had been loved in ways that rewired Mingyu’s bones. The heaviness was proof of presence. The ache existed because the love had been so deep, so life-shaping, it couldn’t simply vanish.

Mingyu is twenty-eight now. Old enough to know his father would never walk through the door again. Old enough to know that grief would never fully leave. But maybe, finally, old enough to understand that grief staying wasn’t proof that he was broken. It was proof that love doesn’t have an ending.

So he carried it. Like glitter, stubborn, shining, clinging to every corner of his life.

He carried it in silence most days, pretending it didn’t bother him, pretending he had moved on. But there were moments when he let himself lean into it. He cried when the memories demanded release. He allowed the ache to wash over him instead of running from it. He gave himself permission to feel.

On days when he wanted closeness, he went to places that played jazz. That was their thing, his and his father’s—the quiet soundtrack of their days together. Chet Baker’s trumpet, Sinatra’s smooth crooning, Norah Jones’s warm voice, Etta James’s raw power, Melody Gardot’s soft melancholy. Whenever Mingyu heard those songs, it was like the universe bent time and space just enough to let his father sit beside him for a while.

It was an ordinary morning.

Seven a.m. The alarm buzzed, but Mingyu ignored it. Instead, as always, he reached for his phone and tapped play on Esperanza Spalding’s I Know You Know. Her bright voice filled the room, the bassline skipping with energy, pulling him upright with the illusion that he was some kind of superhero getting ready to save the day.

He stretched, yawned, then dragged himself to the bathroom. He didn’t bother fixing his bed. He splashed his face, brushed his teeth, not with purpose but just to wake himself up. The music followed him, echoing faintly against the bathroom tiles, making his shoulders sway to the rhythm.

He liked mornings like this—slow, unhurried. They gave him time to ease into the day instead of being thrown headfirst into it.

After washing up, he padded to the kitchen. He didn’t make anything elaborate, just a simple breakfast. Eggs, toast, maybe coffee if he felt like it. He let himself get lost in the quiet mix of food and music, two of his oldest comforts.

There wasn’t much waiting for him that day. No job to rush to, no looming deadlines. He still hadn’t found a stable career, but he lived without panic because his father had left him enough to stay afloat. Some would call it luck, but to him, it was a reminder of his father’s care even from beyond.

After breakfast, he washed his dishes, changed clothes, and decided to wander. That was how most of his days went—walking wherever the wind carried him.

Sometimes through streets lined with flower shops, their blooms spill color into the grayness of the city. Sometimes past cafés he always promised himself he’d try but never did.

Eventually, his feet brought him to the lake.

He stood by the water, watching how the surface mirrored the sky. The sun was bright, painting the ripples in gold. Birds skimmed across the water’s edge, children’s laughter rang out somewhere behind him, and for a moment, Mingyu let himself believe the world could still be beautiful.

It was as if on cue, someone nearby started playing music. The opening notes were unmistakable—Norah Jones’s Come Away With Me. His heart stopped. That song had always been one of his dad’s favorites.

He closed his eyes. It felt like a sign, like his father was saying hello from wherever he was. A simple reminder that he was still watching, still proud, still here in some way. Mingyu smiled faintly, a comfort warming him like sunlight.

The song ended abruptly, but the peace it brought lingered.

He stayed by the lake until afternoon, then dusted himself off and headed to his favorite restaurant. The smell of kimchi jjigae greeted him before he even stepped inside, and the staff already knew what to bring. It was his comfort food, his way of grounding himself when the loneliness pressed too hard.

“Ah, Mingyu! You’re here!” Seungcheol, the owner, waved from behind the counter.

They chatted easily, like they always did, as though it had been months since they last saw each other—even though it had only been a week. That was what Mingyu liked about this place: the familiarity, the feeling that he belonged.

They talked while he ate, life updates from the last time they talked, Seungcheol trying to convince Mingyu to get a job even if he had the money from his dad; Mingyu telling Seungcheol that he’ll find a job when the universe gave him the right one.

“I have to go before Kwon dances for a customer instead of asking them to pay.” Seungcheol says, they both laugh.

When the meal was over, he paid, thanked Seungcheol, and stepped back out into the city. He walked until the sun was low and the sky burned with orange and pink, and when the first stars began to appear, he found himself on a bench, staring up.

The moon must never be lonely, since it’s always surrounded by the stars.

Maybe that was what his father was to him—the stars. Always out of reach, but always there. 

That thought always gave him comfort. His father always told him he’ll come back as the stars in the sky to accompany him whenever he feels lonely at dusk.

So he went to his favorite bar: Moon River, the bar that always gave him the comfort he needed when he missed his father. He wouldn’t have known this bar if it wasn’t for his father; it was like a second home to him.

Everyone knew everyone without having to talk to each other—there was a singer-songwriter who would always show up in a turtleneck, thick black glasses, pink hair and always with a glass of Shackleton, and he was always there to talk to other music producers. 

Another guy would always be there in casual clothes; people would say that he’s only ever there after he has a fight with his family members; but no one would really know as he would never really say anything. 

People knew Mingyu would only go there whenever he missed his dad or felt like being surrounded by people who were just like him. He ordered his usual drink—a cooled down Jack Daniel’s.

 He’d always sit by the bar, and face the stage where the live band was usually performing. They were playing Bublé’s version of You Make Me Feel So Young; he always liked this song, he wanted love to feel like this song; love that made him feel like he was younger, like the love of his life allowed him to be his younger self again. 

Someone then enters the bar, sitting beside Mingyu and then asks the bartender for red wine. 

“Should I open a tab for you?” the bartender asked, the man beside Mingyu said yes. 

“May I ask for the name under the tab?”

 “Xu Minghao.”

Chapter Text

Do breakups count as grief?

Because that’s what it felt like — a funeral without a body, mourning someone who was still alive but no longer his. The breakup was too abrupt for him, like a door slamming shut in a storm. One moment he was inside the warmth of something familiar, and the next, he was stranded in the cold.

Everything happened too fast; he blinked and suddenly two years of love, laughter, small fights, reconciliations, and unspoken promises had been erased, reduced to a footnote.

What the hell did he even do wrong? Or worse — did he do nothing? That question was worse than any accusation. Was he broken up with simply because his now ex-boyfriend had lost feelings, because one morning he had woken up and decided love wasn’t worth the effort anymore?

Minghao replayed it in his head like a cruel film reel. The way the words landed, the way silence followed, the way his chest burned even before the tears came. He didn’t understand why he cried so much that night. Two years isn’t even that long, right? It wasn’t like they had shared a lifetime, or built a marriage, or held a child together. It wasn’t like there was a proposal followed by betrayal.

 No — it was nothing like that. But that’s what made it worse. He wasn’t even given the decency of a slow unraveling. It was sudden, brutal, a blade cutting clean through the rope he had been holding onto.

But that’s what grief is, isn’t it?

It’s never gentle. It never gives you the courtesy of time. It drops you in the middle of the wreckage and forces you to sort through the rubble with bleeding hands. It makes you question every little thing, forces you to torture yourself with what-ifs: I should’ve done this while we still had time. If I just did one more thing, maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much.

He should’ve seen it coming. In some way, he had already been grieving while still in the relationship, hadn’t he? The way texts slowed down, the way silences grew longer, the way touches started to feel like habit instead of instinct. 

Deep down, he had been mourning a boyfriend who was already halfway out the door. But still—nothing could have prepared him for the final blow.

It was like the universe failed him that day.

The morning after, Minghao woke with a headache so sharp it made the room spin. His throat was raw from crying, his eyes puffy and stinging. He could barely sit up without feeling hollow, like his upper body was just a cage of bones with nothing inside. He thought grief was supposed to come in waves, but this was a flood — heavy, constant, merciless.

All he wanted was to do nothing. To let himself rot in silence, to cry until he was emptied out, until there was nothing left to miss. He wanted to curl himself back into the hours before it happened, before the words left his ex’s mouth, before he understood what goodbye felt like.

But he couldn’t. He was stuck here, in the wreckage of a love that didn’t survive. And all that remained was the grief of what should have been, the ache of what never would be.

Whatever he thought. He should just start moving on starting today. He should start a new life—maybe go to that old bar he used to frequent before he got into that relationship, maybe go to the flower shop, a café, maybe even the lake.

He pulled out his phone and started playing some music—Save Your Love For Me by Nancy Wilson.

He got out of bed slowly, every muscle stiff as if it had been holding on to grief for too long. He fixed the sheets with deliberate care, smoothing every wrinkle until the bed looked untouched, as though no one had ever sunk into it night after night with a hollow chest. Then he shuffled into the bathroom, the mirror catching the evidence of last night—tired eyes, lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a smile. 

He cupped his hands under the cold faucet and splashed his face, the water sharp against his skin, waking him up more than he wanted. He stayed like that for a moment, leaning forward, drops of water tracing down his jaw, listening to Nancy’s voice bleeding faintly from the other room, singing about love he could no longer keep.

The sound of Nancy Wilson carried him out of the bathroom, trailing behind him like a shadow that refused to let go. In the kitchen, he moved like someone relearning the language of solitude. He filled the kettle, watched it hiss to life, then prepared himself a cup of tea with a patience he rarely practiced.

The steam curled upward, warm against his face, while the toaster popped with a small burst of sound that felt too loud in the silence. He spread butter across a single slice of bread, the way his mother once did for him when he was younger, when mornings didn’t feel so heavy.

For the first time in two years, he was independent. He realized it as he stood there, tea in one hand, toast in the other. For so long, he had leaned on someone else for these small rituals. His ex always took charge—choosing what they would eat, planning their dates, bringing home small gifts that made him feel cared for in ways he never thought to question. 

He hadn’t seen the difference between comfort and dependence until now, until he was left alone with only himself to take care of. His ex had made him feel like he could rely on him for anything, and he had—willingly, foolishly, wholeheartedly. He had let himself believe that dependence was the same thing as devotion.

It was a huge mistake. He could see that now. He should have listened to his friends when they warned him not to give up his independence, not to build his world around someone else until there was a ring binding their lives together. He remembered their voices, casual but concerned, telling him to be careful. 

He brushed them off back then, too wrapped up in the sweetness of being taken care of. Now he felt the sting of regret settle into his chest. He had been reckless with himself, naïve enough to think love could excuse everything. Stupid, even.

Now there was no one to prepare his meals, no one to hold his hand and guide him through the details of living. He had to learn it all again—the rhythm of solitude, the taste of mornings spent with only his own company. The silence was daunting, but in some way, it was also a challenge. A reminder that this was how he would rebuild.

He wanted to go outside, he wanted to start a new lifestyle. Anything to make him stop thinking of his ex. He wanted to move on right away so that he’d stop having him in his head. 

And so he did go outside. He just put on a casual shirt and long jeans with a jacket on.

“Today is about seizing the day.” he mutters to himself as he closes the door behind him.

He went to a flower shop, looked at flowers and smelled some, he even took out his phone to note the flower name.

chamomile - 09.08.XX

• It smells like the tea i have every morning

• The dewy yellow looks refreshing, like a smile on the face.

• It means rest, peace, calmness and renewal.

He then passes by coffee shops that looked interesting to him, he promised himself that he’ll go to them one day. 

Today was about seizing the day, it was him taking new opportunities when they come without hesitating, living fully and appreciating what’s in front of you. It was about acting with intention, finding meaning in the present whether it’s joy, love, maybe even growth or just simply awareness.

Next thing he knew, he was by the lake. He was in the spot where he usually is to clear his head, sometimes he meditates there, sometimes he draws the landscape in front of him, most of the time he just looks and everything around him goes quiet. 

He pulls out his phone, wanting to take a photo of the landscape—it looked pretty today for some reason. It looked better than the other days he was here.

It just had to happen that Come Away With Me by Norah Jones just started playing on his phone, full volume. He panicked, abruptly stopped the song and put his volume down—god, why does this always happen to him? It’s like the universe wanted to make a fool out of himself. 

He put his phone away, got his sketchpad and just started copying the land before him. He even put the smallest details; the far from him, standing by the water as if watching the water reflect the birds and the sky, the kids running around and giggling and of course, how the lake seemed so perfectly still.

He liked quiet days like this.

He continued drawing throughout the afternoon, at one point he just pulled out snacks from his bag to munch on while drawing.

It took him 5 hours to finish the landscape; he didn’t even realize that the sun was already setting when he was done. He just looked at his surroundings and there were less people than there were a few hours ago. 

He got up, put his notebook in his bag and dusted off the dirt on his pants and walked straight to a bar he used to frequent, but stopped during the 2 years because of his ex.

Today was about visiting the past before he met someone he thought would change his entire future. The kind of day where the air felt heavier than usual, where memories seemed to cling tighter to his shoulders, urging him to retrace the steps of a life that once felt whole. So he went in.

And nothing had changed.

The same familiar faces greeted his eyes, not with words but with their silent consistency. The man in the turtleneck was still perched at his corner table, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he leaned over, speaking about philosophies so deep and abstract that Minghao’s mind could never quite keep up. He was like a permanent fixture of the bar, a shadow etched into its walls.

Another man—the one who only came when family troubles weighed too heavy—was there as well, staring into his glass as though answers were swirling inside it. It was strange how everyone’s stories unfolded here without ever truly being told, yet somehow understood.

The band was playing Bublé’s version of You Make Me Feel So Young, a song that had carved a space in Minghao’s heart long ago. It was more than just a melody to him—it was a feeling, the kind of joy he once believed love could bring, the kind of lightness he still longed for. He let the notes sink into him, the swing of the rhythm brushing gently against the heaviness of the day. 

He listened closely to the drums and bass. They were always what he paid attention to first—the pulse, the heartbeat of the music. Without them, a song felt like a body without bones, an echo of what it should have been.

Eventually, he made his way to the bar. The seat was familiar, the wood polished from years of restless hands and tired elbows. He noticed the bartender wasn’t the same one he remembered. This one looked younger, maybe newer, moving with careful precision like he was still learning the rhythm of the place. Minghao didn’t mind. New faces didn’t change the soul of Moon River.

He leaned forward, voice steady, and ordered a glass of red wine—Cabernet Sauvignon. It was always his choice. Something about its sweetness on his tongue grounded him, reminded him he was here and alive, but it never betrayed him with drunkenness. It kept him in control, just close enough to warmth without slipping into oblivion.

The bartender nodded as he reached for the bottle. “Should I open a tab for you?” he asked, his voice polite, tinged with curiosity.

“Yes, please,” Minghao replied with a small smile, the kind that carried both habit and weariness.

“May I ask for the name under the tab?”

There was a pause, and then the answer came, soft but certain, carrying with it the weight of another story about to begin.

“Xu Minghao.”

The bartender scribbled it down without thought. “Alright, enjoy your night.”

Chapter Text

The night unfolded like a slow burn, two strangers held in place by the spell of music and atmosphere. Neither of them felt the need to fill every silence with words—the band did enough of that, crooning old standards that had a way of digging into memory and pulling out feelings buried too deep to name. The bar was dim, lit mostly by the warm amber glow of the lamps and the faint shimmer of candlelight on each table. Minghao found comfort in that darkness; it gave him space to disappear, to simply exist without expectation.

When Diana Krall’s Sway began, the room shifted. The couples on the small dance floor moved closer, arms tangled around each other as though the song itself demanded intimacy. Others leaned in at their tables, laughter subdued, eyes soft. Minghao felt something stir in his chest—not longing exactly, but a kind of ache that reminded him how beautiful love could look when it wasn’t broken. He swirled his wine, letting the ruby liquid catch the light before sipping it again, careful and slow.

Beside him, the stranger—Mingyu, though he didn’t know that yet—sat with his glass tilted in his hand, shoulders relaxed as if he belonged in this place. His eyes were on the stage, fixed on the bassist’s fingers plucking along to the sway of the rhythm. Minghao noticed the way his lips curved, not into a smile exactly, but into something softer, something easy. He seemed at peace, and Minghao envied that.

The song stretched time, made the night feel longer than it should. By the time it ended, Mingyu ordered another drink, the sound of his voice pulling Minghao back from his thoughts. Minghao took another sip, whispered carpe diem to himself like a reminder, but before he could move forward, the stranger beat him to it.

“Do you come here often?”

The question was simple, maybe cliché, but it startled Minghao anyway. He had been ready to reach across the silence, and now here it was, offered to him without effort. He swallowed the disappointment at being a second too late, and replied, careful to keep his tone casual.

“I used to. I haven’t been here in two years.”

Mingyu turned toward him then, curious. “Two years? What were you doing for two years?”

The answer hung heavy on Minghao’s tongue. He wanted to spill the truth—that he had given those years to someone who left him hollow, that he had poured out all he had only to be abandoned with nothing in return. But honesty like that had sharp edges, and it was too soon to cut open wounds in front of a stranger. He chose the half-truth instead.

“Fell in love,” he admitted quietly. “Thought it would feel like this place—steady, warm. But it all happened too fast. Next thing I knew, I was mourning a relationship that ended… about twenty-four hours ago.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. His chest tightened, shame rising with the realization that he’d revealed too much, too soon. Trauma dumping, he scolded himself. Now this stranger would think he was unstable, messy, maybe even pathetic. He braced for judgment.

But none came.

Mingyu didn’t flinch, didn’t shift away. Instead, his eyes softened, as if Minghao had just handed him a fragile piece of glass he swore not to drop. He listened, and in that silence was a kind of acceptance. Mingyu had always carried that—his father’s warmth, his ability to make people feel at ease, seen, worthy of speaking. He wasn’t sure when it became second nature, but he had learned to treasure it. And now, this stranger beside him had chosen to trust him within minutes of meeting. That meant something.

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu said after a pause, his tone gentle. “I never got your name.”

Minghao set his glass down, eyes flicking toward him. “Minghao. Xu Minghao.”

Recognition flickered across Mingyu’s face, remembering he’d already heard that name when the tab was opened. He laughed softly to himself, the sound slipping out as if he couldn’t help it, and extended his hand as if it were the most natural thing to do.

“Ah, you’re not Korean?” he asked, tone curious but warm.

“Nope,” Minghao replied, his accent just faint enough to be noticed when he said the word. “I was born in China, but I came here for work.” He swirled his wine lazily, eyes flicking to Mingyu’s before landing back on the glass. “You?”

“Mingyu. Kim Mingyu,” he said with a little grin, shaking Minghao’s hand firmly but not too long, letting the name settle between them like it belonged there.

Something about the exchange felt oddly grounding. The formality of names, the handshake—it was such a simple ritual, yet for both of them it felt heavier than it should have. It wasn’t just politeness. It was the quiet acknowledgement that their lives had just crossed paths, and maybe, just maybe, this meeting meant more than sharing barstools for one night.

Minghao leaned back slightly, tilting his head as if testing the name on his tongue. “Kim Mingyu,” he repeated, slower this time, as though memorizing the sound. His lips curled faintly, the smallest ghost of a smile tugging at him.

“Nice to meet you, Xu Minghao,” Mingyu said, his voice softer now, carrying the easy rhythm of sincerity.

They sat there for a moment in silence, the music filling the gaps for them. The band’s melody slipped around their edges, a saxophone sighing in the background. It didn’t feel like a pause in the conversation, though—it felt like a beginning, something that didn’t need to rush, something that had time to unfold.

And just like that, something shifted.

They let the silence return, not the heavy kind, but the kind that felt alive—like something was building beneath it. The band transitioned smoothly, and Sinatra’s Wave filled the room, its opening notes like a tide rolling in. Minghao exhaled, the song washing over him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t thinking about what he had lost. He was simply here, sitting beside a stranger who no longer felt entirely like one.

If fate had other ways of introducing them, neither of them cared. This moment, this exact place with its dim lights and lingering music, felt right. They didn’t know why, couldn’t explain it, but there was an undeniable pull between them. Something told them this night wasn’t fleeting—it was the beginning of something that might last, something neither of them had been searching for, yet both needed.

The song carried them further into the night, each note of Sinatra’s Wave a thread that wove their presence together, tighter and quieter than either realized. Minghao found himself tracing the rhythm with his fingertips against the bar, small, almost imperceptible taps that matched the sway of the melody. Mingyu noticed, though. He watched the delicate pattern, how Minghao’s body seemed to respond instinctively to the music, as though even without words, he was speaking.

Mingyu’s drink was half gone, the ice melting slowly, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t here for the liquor—he realized now he was here for this, for the unexpected weight of connection that had landed beside him.

“You know,” Mingyu said finally, his voice steady but soft, like he didn’t want to break the spell of the room, “I think places like this… they’re more than bars. They’re anchors. You leave, you live a whole life, but when you come back, it’s as if time folded over itself. Like nothing changed.”

Minghao turned to look at him. There was no arrogance in his words, only a quiet sincerity that made them linger in the air. He studied him briefly, this stranger with a warm gaze and a voice that carried a kind of ease.

“That’s why I came back,” Minghao admitted. “I needed… something that hadn’t changed. Something that could remind me I was still myself.”

Mingyu nodded, as though he understood perfectly. He didn’t press, didn’t ask for the details hidden behind Minghao’s words. He simply let them exist between them, like another layer of music.

The bartender slid Mingyu another drink and refreshed Minghao’s glass with more Cabernet Sauvignon. Mingyu raised his glass, hesitating only a second before tilting it toward Minghao in a small toast.

“To finding anchors,” he said.

Minghao blinked, then mirrored the motion, his own glass rising to meet Mingyu’s. “To anchors,” he echoed, their glasses clinking softly, barely audible over the swell of the saxophone.

They drank in unison, and the silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was steady, full, almost companionable. Minghao found himself loosening, the stiffness in his shoulders easing. Maybe it was the wine, maybe the music, maybe Mingyu’s presence—but for the first time in days, he wasn’t drowning in grief. He was breathing.

Minutes slipped by in the golden haze of music and conversation that barely needed words. Occasionally, Mingyu would remark about the band—how the drummer’s timing was impeccable, or how Sinatra’s Wave had always felt like the ocean itself was singing. Minghao responded with small observations of his own, and though the exchanges were brief, they stitched together something fragile but real.

When the song ended, applause rippled through the room, but neither moved their hands from their glasses. Mingyu turned slightly, curiosity sparking in his tone.

“So, Xu Minghao,” he said carefully, savoring the name as if trying it on his tongue, “what do you think you’ll do now?”

Minghao paused. It was a simple question, but it carried the weight of everything he had been avoiding. He glanced at his reflection in the dark surface of his wine, the faint outline of his own face wavering against the deep red.

“I don’t know,” he confessed quietly. “Maybe tonight is the start of something. Or maybe it’s just another night I’ll forget in a week.” He set his glass down with deliberate care. “But right now, I think I’m supposed to be here. Listening to music. Drinking wine. Talking to a stranger named Kim Mingyu.”

The corner of Mingyu’s mouth lifted, the closest thing to a smile he had given all night. “Then I’ll try not to be too forgettable.”

Minghao laughed softly, surprising himself with how easily it came out. The sound blended with the murmur of the bar, with the lingering hum of instruments being tuned for the next set. For the first time in what felt like forever, the night didn’t feel like something to endure. It felt like something to savor.

The band then played another classic, Time After Time by Chet Baker. The lyrics were far from what was going on right now, but the mood of the song helped the two of them calm down. It was one of the songs that set the mood of the night for the both of them. 

The night went on for the both of them, they didn’t talk much, they both just listened to the band, allowing themself to drown into the sound of jazz. They felt safe here, the type of safety that made them feel like they were allowed to be themselves after years and years of pretending.

Because that’s what the Moon River jazz bar is for, it allows you to feel like you could be yourself hence the producer in a turtleneck; he feels like he’s allowed to talk about music because outside of this bar, everyone doesn’t listen to him. No one listens to the songs he makes, the ideas he has, or the way he sees the world. He asks other producers to go with him into this specific bar because he feels like he’s not allowed to speak about it outside of this bar.

The guy who’s always there whenever he has an argument with his family; he’s there to collect his thoughts so that he won’t say the things he doesn’t mean. He’s there because he doesn’t want to deal with the harsh reality of the universe; he’s there because he’s just allowed to just be himself and think while the sound of jazz surrounds him.

Everyone else has their own story; some may have just discovered the bar, some have been going there for years, some are there to forget, some are there to remember.

It was nearing 11 P.M., the bar thinning out until only a few lingered, lost in their own corners of the night. Mingyu slid his card across the counter, the bartender already knowing it was to close his tab. He pulled on his jacket slowly, as if delaying something he wasn’t ready to let go of yet.

“Will I see you again, Xu Minghao?” he asked, voice carrying a mix of hope and hesitation, the kind that made the question feel heavier than it sounded.

Minghao had just finished signing his own bill, slipping the receipt into his pocket. He looked up, lips curving faintly, the kind of almost-smile that didn’t promise too much but didn’t shut the door either. “Yeah… probably.”

It was casual, effortless, like the words could dissolve into the smoke and music still hanging in the air. But Mingyu’s smile stayed, small and genuine, before he lifted a hand in parting. “Bye, then.”

He walked out into the cool night, the sound of the door closing behind him.

Minghao sat there for a moment longer, fingertips brushing the rim of his glass. That single exchange, brief as it was, replayed in his mind with an echo he couldn’t quite shake. It clung to him on the walk home, soft and persistent—an impression that lingered, refusing to leave, as though the night had given him something he wasn’t supposed to forget.

. . . 

The next day was a bit hectic for Minghao. He had overslept, sunlight already spilling across his floor when his eyes snapped open, heart racing with the sudden reminder of reality. He had a meeting. At the office. Today.

“Crap.” was all he said before realizing everything.

He shot out of bed, the sheets crumpling into a heap behind him. Panic buzzed in his veins as he stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the light and grabbing whatever was within reach. Shampoo, soap—it didn’t matter if he was mixing everything together; he was already ten minutes late, and his boss’s name kept lighting up his phone screen like a warning siren.

His reflection looked back at him with disheveled hair, dark circles deepening under his eyes, and water dripping down his jaw. He looked more like someone who’d just stumbled out of a sleepless night than a man preparing for a meeting. But he had no time to care. He dragged the towel across his face and slipped into the first semi-formal shirt he found hanging on the rack.

Minghao couldn’t believe himself. He wasn’t like this. He was someone who planned, who thrived on structure. He always needed to know what was happening three days in advance—meetings, deadlines, events—he had to map them out, align them in neat lines in his planner so nothing could surprise him. But now everything was chaos, the careful order of his life crumbling under the weight of the breakup.

He had known about the meeting. The reminder had been there in his calendar, circled in red, impossible to miss. But somewhere between the silence of his apartment, the empty side of his bed, and the endless loop of memories that kept replaying, he had forgotten. The breakup had thrown everything off balance, tilting his world until even the simplest things slipped through the cracks.

By the time he rushed out the door, his hair was still damp, his shirt only half-tucked into his trousers, and his tie stuffed hastily into his bag. He jogged down the street, weaving through strangers who didn’t know that for him, every step felt like a battle—not just against time, but against the weight pressing down on his chest.

For someone like Minghao, being ten minutes late wasn’t just being late. It was proof that he wasn’t himself anymore. It was proof that grief had found its way into the little details of his life, unraveling the order he had always clung to. And as he tried to steady his breath, he wondered if he’d ever find his rhythm again.

. . .

One thing about Mingyu is that he liked to live slowly. Sure, he liked travelling, planning things, but sometimes, there would be days where he felt spontaneous; he’d go out of his house letting his feet take him anywhere, be it the cafe he’s been putting off, or a sudden visit to a friends house, most of the time, he just walks and finds a new restaurant to eat in.

Today was no different, he got up, had jazz play from his phone speaker—which just so happened to be Wave by Sinatra— had breakfast and went out after a bit.

His original plan had been to search for a job, something steady, something calm enough to give him balance without stealing the rhythm he lived by. But he had pushed it back again. There would be time for that tomorrow, or the day after. Today was meant to be light, uncluttered, free of obligations. 

Today, he decided, it was for himself—for walking without purpose, for breathing in the city air, for seeing where chance would carry him.

There was always something comforting in days like this, days when he wasn’t chasing or rushing, just existing. For Mingyu, it wasn’t laziness. It was a choice. He liked to believe that moving slowly gave him space to see things most people missed—the little details, the fleeting moments, the subtle beauty of life unfolding in between destinations. It was his way of reminding himself that not everything had to be rushed, that not everything was meant to be conquered in a day.

Sometimes, it was enough to just be, to let the world spin while he savored the softness of it all.

. . .

The day ended with the both of them seeing each other in the bar again.

Mingyu didn’t expect it—didn’t expect to walk in and see Minghao sitting in the exact same seat where they had first met, shoulders slightly hunched, staring down at a glass of wine that looked like it hadn’t even been touched. The glass caught the dim light of the bar, red liquid glimmering like it was waiting for a story to be poured into it, but Minghao sat motionless, eyes distant, almost as if the music around him barely reached his ears.

Mingyu hesitated for a moment by the door. Something about Minghao’s expression pulled him in—the quiet heaviness of someone who’d had a day that left marks all over him. Without thinking too much about it, Mingyu slipped off his jacket, draped it on the back of the stool, and took the seat beside him.

“What happened to you, Mr. Xu Minghao?” he asked lightly, though there was a thread of concern beneath his words.

Minghao’s lips curved into a humorless smile as he swirled the untouched wine. His voice was low, resigned, carrying the exhaustion of the entire day in just a few words. “I’m never showing my face in the office ever again…”

Mingyu raised a brow, studying him with curiosity, but he didn’t press. He just leaned an elbow on the counter, tilting his head as if to say, go on, I’m listening. The band in the corner had just shifted into another slow number, the notes weaving softly around them, giving Minghao the space to let the words tumble out if he chose.

Minghao let out a sigh, half-laugh, half-defeat, his fingers drumming against the stem of his glass. It was the sigh of a man who’d been holding his breath all day, and finally—here, in this place—could let it out.

“Okay, backstory. I work in the film industry, one of the best ones here in Korea—how did I get in? I have no idea. I just love movies that I ended up working on them,” he starts, swirling his glass like the movement itself steadied his words. His eyes were tired, but the spark that lit up when he spoke about his work betrayed how much he truly cared.

“Studio Dragon, actually,” Minghao added casually, as though the name didn’t carry weight in the industry. He took a small sip of his wine, finally tasting it, before letting the words hang between them.

Mingyu’s head tilted, his brows lifting in sudden recognition. “Studio Dragon?” he echoed, and then the names spilled out before he could stop himself, like he was ticking through his personal watchlist. “Twenty Five Twenty One? True Beauty? The Glory?”

Minghao’s lips curved into the faintest smile, the kind that betrayed amusement at Mingyu’s enthusiasm. He nodded slowly, as if to confirm it wasn’t just bragging, it was real. “Those, yeah. Among others.”

Mingyu leaned an elbow against the bar, looking at him differently now—not just as the man with the untouched wine, but as someone who carried stories behind the stories. “That’s… actually impressive. You’re like, behind the curtain of half the things people binge these days.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” Minghao said, but his voice softened, carrying that familiar mix of pride and exhaustion. “Long hours, endless revisions, constant pressure. Sometimes I wonder why I chose it. But then there’s this one scene, or one frame, and it makes it worth it.”

For the first time that night, his wine glass looked a little less heavy in his hand. 

“Anyway, I was late for a meeting, and it just had to be a meeting with a really important director,” Minghao sighed between his sentences, running a hand down his face like the memory itself was exhausting. “And I wasn’t there because—and get this—I was the one requesting the story.”

He gave a bitter laugh, the kind that came more from disbelief than humor, then set his glass down with a soft clink. “Imagine that. Me, the guy pushing for this project for weeks, finally getting the chance to sit across from someone whose films I’ve studied inside out, and I don’t even make it to the room. Do you know how humiliating that is? I walked in thirty minutes late, completely out of breath, hair still wet from the shower. The whole team just stared at me.”

Mingyu leaned his chin on his palm, watching him with the kind of patience that made it easier to go on.

“I apologized, of course, but the damage was already done,” Minghao continued, his voice dropping a notch lower. “The director didn’t say much—just nodded, smiled politely, and carried on with the presentation. But that’s worse, isn’t it? When they don’t even bother scolding you because you’re not worth the energy?”

He paused, swirling the wine but not drinking it, eyes fixed on the deep red liquid as though it might offer some clarity. “So now I’m just… sitting here, trying not to drown in the fact that I basically ruined months of work with one alarm clock failure.”

Mingyu chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Sounds like you need this drink more than I do.”

That earned him the faintest smile from Minghao, reluctant but real. He tilted the glass toward his lips but stopped halfway, the rim hovering just in front of him, as though he couldn’t even decide if he deserved the comfort of a sip.

“You know what the worst part is?” he said finally, resting the glass back down. His fingers traced the condensation along the stem, circling it absentmindedly. “I spent weeks telling myself this project would prove something. To my boss, to the team, maybe even to myself. And then when the time came, I couldn’t even show up like a functioning adult.”

Mingyu raised a brow, the corners of his lips tugging upward in that easy way of his. “It makes you human. People are late. People mess up.”

“That’s a nice sentiment,” Minghao countered, his tone flat but not cold. More like he didn’t have the energy to believe it. He leaned back against the bar stool, shoulders dropping as if they were carrying the weight of the entire day. “But in my field, they don’t care if you’re human. They only care if you deliver. If you can’t, someone else will. Simple as that.”

Mingyu shrugged, pulling his own glass closer and finally taking a slow drink. “Maybe. But maybe it also means you get another chance to prove yourself. Directors… bosses… they’ve seen worse than a late guy with wet hair.”

That pulled a reluctant laugh out of Minghao, small but genuine this time. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Sometimes it is,” Mingyu said, matter-of-factly. “You show up again tomorrow. You do better. That’s all anyone can really do.”

For a while, Minghao didn’t reply. He just sat there, letting the music from the band wash over them, letting the silence between their words fill up with something that wasn’t as heavy as shame, but not yet as light as relief.

And for the first time all day, he didn’t feel like running away from himself.

The company of Mingyu and the steady hum of music spilling from the band seemed to smooth the edges of Minghao’s frayed nerves. It wasn’t that the day had magically become easier—his mistakes still hung in the back of his mind, sharp and insistent—but sitting there, glass in hand, he found himself less consumed by them.

The stress of everything made him deflect, his thoughts wandering instead toward the way the saxophone curved through the room, how the low notes of the bass guitar echoed softly under conversations, how Mingyu’s presence beside him seemed to steady his pulse without effort. It was strange, he thought, how someone he’d only just met could feel like a pause button.

Minghao took another sip, setting the glass down with more care this time. “Funny,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the band. “I spent all day trying to make myself forget, but it’s only now, sitting here, that I actually feel like I can breathe.”

Mingyu didn’t push questions. He simply leaned back in his seat, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if to say good—then stay here a while longer.

From that day on, they kept meeting each other in the same bar without planning it. At first, it felt like coincidence, but after the third, fourth, fifth time, it began to feel like something more—a rhythm only they seemed to notice. Minghao would slip into his usual seat, glass of Cabernet in hand, and without fail, Mingyu would arrive not long after, a quiet smile lighting up his face as if the night hadn’t really started until they were both there.

They ended up talking about their day to each other—Minghao, always with his rants about deadlines, scripts, and directors who never seemed satisfied, while Mingyu just listened, patient and steady, sometimes laughing at the little details Minghao didn’t realize were funny. Other nights, Mingyu would share stories of his own, and Minghao would listen, wine glass spinning slowly between his fingers, his sharp edges softening with every word.

Before long, the people in the bar began to recognize them. To the regulars, they weren’t strangers anymore, but the pair who always sat by the bar, shoulders leaning closer as the night stretched on. They were known as the friends who came to each other after long, difficult days—two men who found solace not in answers, but in each other’s presence.

Weeks passed, and what began as chance turned into habit. One evening, almost without thinking, they exchanged numbers. Just in case, they said—if they ever wanted to try a new place. A lake at sunset, maybe. A quiet café. A restaurant tucked away in a corner of the city.

They didn’t call it anything more than friendship, and maybe it wasn’t. But whatever it was, it was steady, it was grounding, and it was theirs. The universe had placed them in each other’s path, and for once, neither of them questioned it. They simply let it be, two lives brushing against each other until it felt inevitable.

Chapter Text

Minghao didn’t know why he was in a bad mood today.

Was it because he woke up on the wrong side of the bed? That he didn’t have his morning tea? Or was it because he got a text from his ex’s new girlfriend that said something along the lines of “Hey, I'm sorry. I didn’t know you guys were a thing at that time because he didn’t say anything.”

He was still cooperating at work of course, it’s not like he had a choice—he had to cooperate because he had to make up for being late to the meeting weeks ago.

The smile on his face didn’t even reach his eyes, his answers were just short, but he tried his best to hold it all together and not to break on the spot.

The thing is, he thought he moved on. He thought he was past the stage where old ghosts could claw their way into his present. For weeks, he had convinced himself that he was free, that he was untangled from all the threads that used to bind him. He even told his friends he was fine, nodded along when they said he looked better, lighter, as though something had finally lifted off his shoulders.

But the message proved otherwise. It proved that healing wasn’t a straight line, that one little nudge could send him stumbling back into the hole he worked so hard to climb out of. He hated that he still cared enough to feel hurt. He hated that a stranger’s apology—meant to soothe—only made the wound sting all over again.

As he sat at his desk, pen tapping absently against paper, he wondered if moving on was ever about completely forgetting. Maybe it was just learning to live with the weight without letting it crush you. Maybe it was about sitting with the ache until it became background noise.

Still, today, the noise was deafening.

He tried to keep up at work, he really did. He answered all the questions his boss asked, questions about where they’ll shoot, the actors, the script—he was on point, though his answers were still short yet polite. 

Being the workaholic he is, he tried to distract himself from the harsh reality the text gave him. He didn’t even bother replying, he knows his read receipts are off for the sake of not wanting to reply to someone until he was ready to. 

So he worked and worked, maybe even called people to book the sets they’re going to film on. He coordinated with the production director to make sure the list of props was complete, asked for timelines, even requested photos to see if the designs matched what the story needed. Every little detail, he combed through, making sure nothing slipped through the cracks.

He made it a point to busy his hands and his head, anything to keep the silence from swallowing him whole. Coffee after coffee, phone calls bleeding into emails, meetings running longer than they should have—he welcomed it all. He welcomed the exhaustion because it left him no room to think. 

But when the office lights dimmed and the chatter around him faded, the ache returned like a shadow that refused to leave. He could look at every prop, every storyboard, every calendar reminder, but it still wasn’t enough to erase the thought of what could’ve been.

So he kept telling himself: just one more task, one more call, one more late night at the office. As if staying in motion would save him from the weight pressing down on him. As if hard work could fix the things that broke quietly in the corners of his heart.

Yet his boss called it a day.

Everyone cheered but him. 

The lights were about to turn off and he was still the last one there; no one bothered to even ask if he was okay, or if he was going to stay until late. Not even asking if they could give him company. The sound of chairs scraping back, laughter spilling into the hallway, the shuffle of bags being zipped and coats being thrown on—all of it blurred into background noise. For them, the day was done. For him, it had only just begun.

He always felt invincible in his own workspace—this project was the only thing that made him feel seen. It was the only proof that he mattered outside of the heartbreak, the only place where he could point and say, this, this is mine. I built this. I shaped this. Here, surrounded by scripts and schedules and props lists, he wasn’t the man who got left behind, he was the man who made things happen.

The quiet office became his shield. Empty desks lined like soldiers in the dark, the hum of a single desk lamp spilling its light onto his papers—it all wrapped around him, cocooning him in a kind of safety that was both hollow and comforting. He told himself he didn’t need anyone to ask if he was okay. He told himself he didn’t need the company.

And yet, when the silence grew too loud and the glow of his laptop felt heavier than the work itself, he realized how fragile that invincibility really was.

Although, It was as if his friends knew; he got a text from one of them.

Wonwoo
@minghao don’t exhaust yourself.
remember what happened in august ‘22? Yeah.

Soonyoung
oh yea… i remember that
that was really bad )): take care of yourself hao

Seungcheol
just give yourself a break, minghao
we’ll be proud of you no matter what, you know that right?

He smiled, he figured that they were right; he doesn’t want to mentally exhaust himself again. 

Minghao
thanks guys, i needed that.

Soonyoung
we’re here for you haohao!
anyway
SEUNGKWAN IS PISSING ME OFF
“I can sing a higher note than you” NO YOU CANNOT.

Wonwoo
It’s not that serious..

Seungcheol
this is my sign to get back to the restaurant…

Minghao laughed at his friends’ messages, yeah, he does deserve a break. Sure, it may be the first day of the project but the start of the shoot will be even more exhausting if he doesn’t be light on himself as early as now. 

So he packed up, turned off his computer, turned off the aircon, locked the door and clocked out of work. The night air greeted him as he stepped outside, cooler than he expected, brushing past him like a small reminder that the world was still moving, even when he felt stuck. His shoulders dropped ever so slightly as he loosened the knot of tension that had been holding him upright all day. 

He didn’t know where he was going; he just let his feet guide him past the glow of street lamps and the hum of cars fading in and out of his awareness. There was something almost therapeutic about the aimlessness, as if not knowing his destination was the point itself. He didn’t need to have answers tonight. 

Before he realized it, he was in front of the door of Moon River. The neon sign buzzed faintly above him, soft yellow light spilling onto the sidewalk. 

Huh, he thought, lips tugging into the smallest smile. Maybe this was the universe’s way of nudging him toward a break, reminding him that not all escapes had to be drowning in deadlines or hiding behind too many bottles of wine. Sometimes, a single glass, a familiar melody, and the comfort of a stranger was enough.

So he did his usual, ordered a glass of wine, kept his tab open and listened to the sound of jazz. There was no live band that night, the bar only played songs through the speaker.

It felt rather comforting; he could hear the cracking as if it was being played on a record player, the faint hiss and static giving the illusion that time had slowed down. The chatter of the few patrons scattered around faded into the background, replaced by the intimacy of the music wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. 

Change Partners by Frank Sinatra and Antônio Carlos Jobim drifted through the speakers, smooth and effortless, a dance of voices and instruments that seemed to swirl in the dim light of the bar. Minghao let his eyes fall half-shut, the glass of Cabernet resting lightly in his hand as if it were part of the ritual now. 

For a moment, he wasn’t the man running on deadlines or drowning in half-healed heartbreak. He was just another soul tucked into the corner of a bar, listening to Sinatra sing about trading partners and changing steps, as though life itself was nothing more than a long, unpredictable dance. 

He took a sip of wine, slow and steady, and thought—maybe tonight, he could allow himself to sway with it.

That’s when Mingyu walked into the bar; by this point, he wasn’t fooling himself anymore—he wasn’t coming here for the music, not only because he missed his father that particular day, not even for the whiskey that always managed to taste better in this place than anywhere else. No, he’d been showing up because of Minghao.

He scanned the room the way he always did, pretending to search for a seat, but his eyes went straight to the familiar figure by the bar. Minghao, with his glass of wine untouched, his posture caught somewhere between exhaustion and elegance, his expression unreadable yet strangely magnetic.

Mingyu felt something unspoken tug in his chest, the kind of pull that made him quicken his steps as though the seat beside Minghao was reserved only for him. He shrugged off his jacket, let it hang on the back of the stool, and slid into the spot with the ease of someone who belonged there.

“You again,” Mingyu said lightly, his tone laced with that half-smile that always made it sound like he’d been expecting this all along.

Minghao turned his head, the corners of his lips quaking upward despite the day he’d had. “Me again.”

And just like that, the music faded into the background, the crackling Sinatra replaced by the quiet comfort of two people who no longer needed an excuse to keep finding each other.

“So, what happened today?” Mingyu asked, resting his elbow on the bar, turning slightly so he was facing Minghao fully.

Minghao didn’t say anything at first. He just reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and slid it across the counter for Mingyu to see. The screen was still lit up, the text glaring in plain sight:

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you guys were a thing at that time because he didn’t say anything.”

Mingyu blinked at the words, his brows furrowing as if he needed to reread them to fully understand. His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t speak right away. Instead, he looked at Minghao, whose expression was flat, like he’d already played the moment a hundred times in his head before showing anyone.

“That’s…” Mingyu started, but stopped, exhaling slowly. He wanted to pick the right word, but nothing about it felt right. “That’s messed up.”

Minghao huffed out a laugh, short and bitter. He swirled his wine again, watching the liquid catch the dim light of the bar. “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t already know.”

There was a pause, long enough for the bar’s soft crackling jazz to fill the air between them. Mingyu leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice as though the world had to be shut out for this moment. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

Minghao didn’t look at him right away. He kept his gaze on the glass, on the red rippling surface, but Mingyu could see the way his shoulders loosened just slightly—as if hearing it out loud, even from a near-stranger, made the weight he carried a fraction lighter.

Finally, Minghao looked up, meeting Mingyu’s eyes. “Yeah, well… it still happened.”

“Put the past behind you,” Mingyu starts. “Sure, it happened, but it ended for a reason,” He said as he took a sip of his drink. His voice was steady, almost casual, but the way his eyes held Minghao’s made the words land heavier than they sounded.

Minghao blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

Mingyu leaned his elbow against the counter, lips quirked up like he knew he was about to sound ridiculous. “Lion King. Rafiki to Simba. You know? When he whacks Simba over the head with a stick and tells him to stop living in the past?”

It took a second before Minghao’s features softened, the corner of his mouth tugging into the smallest smirk. He shook his head, amused despite himself. “Ah… I haven’t watched that one in a hot minute.”

“You should,” Mingyu said, a little too quickly, grinning now. “It’s good. Still holds up.”

Minghao swirled the wine in his glass again, his eyes lowering as though he was turning the line over in his mind. The buzz of the bar filled the silence, soft chatter and clinking glasses, the faint hum of the band easing into another slow tune.

“You really think it ended for a reason?” Minghao asked finally, his tone quieter, more vulnerable.

“Yeah,” Mingyu replied without hesitation, his voice low but certain. “Things like that… they teach you something, even if it feels like shit at the time. Doesn’t mean you deserved it. Just means you know better now. You won’t waste time on someone who doesn’t see you for what you’re worth.”

Minghao let out a soft laugh, shaking his head at the earnestness in Mingyu’s words. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Not easy,” Mingyu corrected gently, “but worth it.”

Minghao looked at him then, really looked. The lighting caught on the sharp lines of Mingyu’s face, the sincerity in his expression—no hint of pity, no judgment, just a quiet kind of reassurance. Something about it made Minghao’s chest loosen, the bitterness he’d carried all day dissolving into something lighter, something almost bearable.

“Rafiki, huh?” Minghao murmured, raising his glass.

Mingyu tapped his own against it with a small grin. “Better than Scar, at least.”

Minghao huffed out a laugh and took a sip, the sound mingling with the music in the air, a little less weighed down than before.

He wasn’t in a bad mood anymore.

The night ended quicker than either of them would have liked. Minghao, glancing at the time on his phone, winced—he had a meeting the next morning, and the thought of walking into the room late again sent a knot through his stomach. He set his glass down, the faint ring of condensation left behind on the counter.

“I should head out,” he said, his voice reluctant but firm.

Mingyu nodded, though there was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes that he didn’t bother to hide. “Yeah, me too. Don’t want you falling asleep in the middle of your big meeting.”

They both stood, reaching for their wallets at the same time. The bartender, already familiar with their routine, slid the slips of paper across the counter. Mingyu tried to beat Minghao to it, but Minghao was faster tonight, signing his name with a small grin that was half victory, half tease.

“Next time’s mine,” Mingyu muttered, shaking his head.

“We’ll see,” Minghao replied, adjusting his coat before slipping his hands into his pockets.

They walked out together, the night air cool against their faces. The streets were quieter now, lined with the distant glow of shop signs and the hum of passing cars. For a moment, they simply stood there, side by side under the dim light of the bar’s awning, neither rushing to say goodbye.

“Get home safe,” Mingyu said finally, shoving his hands into his hoodie.

“You too,” Minghao answered, his eyes lingering just a second longer before he turned away.

They headed in opposite directions, the soft echo of their footsteps fading into the city’s rhythm. And though the night was short, there was a quiet certainty between them—that they’d both end up back here again, without needing to plan it.

Later that night, Minghao texted Mingyu without a thought; he thought of it as a friendly gesture. It wasn’t that serious for him.

He typed then deleted, and then typed again—god, since when were texts this hard to send?

He sighed then just typed and then sent it. He charged his phone and went straight to bed.

On Mingyu’s end, the buzz of his phone came just as he was about to knock out. He was sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other holding his phone loosely above his chest. When the notification lit up his screen, he expected it to be one of the group chats or some late-night email he could ignore until morning. But no—it was Minghao.

He sat up straighter without even realizing it, unlocking his phone with a kind of urgency that betrayed how much he’d been waiting for this without admitting it to himself. The message was short, almost careless, but it carried something heavier between the lines.

Minghao
hey, thanks for earlier.
I think i needed that
and i will watch lion king again because of that

It wasn’t a love confession. It wasn’t even much of a compliment. But Mingyu read it twice, three times, like there was a code he needed to crack, some hidden meaning Minghao wasn’t willing to say out loud. His lips curled into a smile before he could stop it.

He thought about replying immediately, fingers hovering over the keyboard, drafting something witty or lighthearted—something that would make Minghao laugh, or at least keep the conversation going. But then he stopped himself. He knew Minghao, knew how careful he could be with his words, how sending even a simple text probably meant more effort than he’d admit.

So instead, Mingyu locked his phone, leaned back into the pillow, and let the smile linger as he closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, sleep came easy.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few days since they last saw each other in the bar.

They message each other from time to time, but it didn’t feel the same. They both preferred to talk in person rather than through the screen.

Surprisingly, Minghao had a free day; his boss let him and the people on his team go on a whole 3 days without work off, which was odd for him; they’d never do this when there were projects happening. 

The three days off felt strange in Minghao’s hands, like he didn’t know what to do with something so fragile. He wasn’t used to breaks, not when projects were still running and deadlines were still looming. But his boss had been insistent, and so here he was—standing in his kitchen, the kettle whistling softly, Ella Fitzergarld playing faintly through the speaker.

The ritual of tea grounded him. The steam rising from the cup, the warmth curling into his palms, the silence of the morning broken only by the jazz. He had no real plans except one: to step out. A café maybe. A quiet place where he could people-watch and pretend the world didn’t demand anything from him.

He put on a scarf and a coat, the kind of lazy layering you only do when you have nowhere important to be. His footsteps carried him through winding streets, past storefronts opening their blinds for the day.

The weather was clear, people chose used bikes instead of cars today. The sun was shining very brightly that day as if it was saying that it had plans for Minghao, something he wouldn’t expect.

Sure enough, when he pushed open the door of the café, there he was.

Mingyu.

Seated by the window, coffee in hand, his long frame slouched casually but his eyes—those sharp, easy-to-read eyes—lit up the moment he noticed Minghao.

“What are you doing here?”

“To stare at people until they are really, really uncomfortable.”

Silence, complete silence. Minghao then realized that Mingyu hasn’t met his sarcastic side yet. “Obviously to have a cup of tea and eat some bread” he smiles as Mingyu welcomes him to the seat in front of him.

They spent the day together in that café, talking in real life which they found better rather than through text. What had felt heavy and stilted through the screen now flowed with ease between them. Minghao ordered tea, his usual, and Mingyu teased him for being predictable before ordering another cup of coffee for himself.

The small café was quiet, the kind of place where time felt suspended, and the two of them fell into conversation like it was the most natural thing. Minghao complained about his boss being too much of a perfectionist, about the piles of revisions that somehow never seemed enough. Mingyu, in turn, talked about how he’d been searching for a steady job but kept finding excuses to take days off, choosing instead to wander the city like a tourist who never quite settled.

They laughed over little things—the wrong order Mingyu once got at a restaurant, the time Minghao tripped on set and pretended it was part of the act. When their drinks grew cold, they ordered pastries, splitting them in half without even thinking about it.

It felt like a moment that was only made for them. The quiet hum of chatter from the few other customers faded into background noise, the clinking of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine dissolving until all that really mattered was the space between them.

Minghao leaned back in his chair, the (now cold) tea cradled in his hands, watching Mingyu gesture animatedly as he spoke about some restaurant he had stumbled into the other day. His laugh was loud, warm, and it echoed faintly against the café walls, and Minghao couldn’t help but smile despite himself.

Mingyu, on the other hand, kept stealing glances at Minghao—the way his eyes softened when he was amused, the way he absently stirred his tea even though it had long since cooled, the way he seemed more alive here than he ever did through the dull light of a phone screen.

It was nothing extraordinary, not really. Two people, two cups, a table, a late afternoon that stretched itself lazily into evening. But there was something sacred in the ordinary, something unspoken that sat comfortably between them. Like the universe had pressed pause, carving out a quiet corner of time where they could simply exist, side by side, with no obligations, no past, no weight pressing down on them.

Minghao thought it was strange how something so simple—just coffee, tea, and conversation—could feel like a refuge. Mingyu thought it was stranger still how natural it felt, like he’d been sitting at that same table with Minghao for years, even though this was only one of their many accidental meetings.

And maybe neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew: this was more than coincidence.

It was supposed to be a coincidence, just this once. But it kept happening.

The next day, Mingyu decided to take a walk by the lake. The autumn air carried the scent of drying leaves, crisp and earthy, and he relished the quiet crunch beneath his shoes. He didn’t expect to see Minghao again, not here, not so soon—it had barely been twenty-four hours since they’d met in the café.

Yet there he was, a camera slung around his neck, crouching low to capture the reflection of the trees on the water. The breeze tugged at his hair, a soft ripple of motion that almost looked like it belonged in the frame he was photographing.

They locked eyes across the path, and Mingyu laughed, sheepish but bright. “Don’t tell me you’re following me.”

“I was about to say the same thing,” Minghao replied, though his lips betrayed him with a laugh that matched.

The banter should’ve ended there, but neither of them moved. Mingyu lifted his camera again, aiming it toward the water, then tilting it slightly, as if reconsidering. “Stay there a second,” he called. Minghao tilted his head but humored him, standing by the path with his hands in his coat pockets. The click of the shutter broke the stillness.

“Did you just take a picture of me?” Minghao asked, half-teasing, half-genuinely curious.

Mingyu grinned, lowering the camera. “Not of you. Of the way the light fell on you.”

Minghao rolled his eyes, but his ears warmed. He walked closer, peering at the camera screen, where his outline stood silhouetted against the lake, branches curling overhead like a frame painted just for him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Mingyu said easily, “but the picture turned out nice, didn’t it?”

And so they walked the lake together, leaves crunching underfoot, their voices threading through the quiet like the low hum of a song. They didn’t plan this meeting, yet it felt inevitable, like the season itself had nudged them into each other’s orbit once more.

On the third day, it happened again—slower this time, like the city had conspired to delay the moment just to heighten the impact.

Minghao had wandered into a flower shop on a whim. The glass windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, the air filled with a quiet sweetness of roses, freesia, lilies—scents braided together into something calming. He didn’t usually stop at places like this, but something about the stillness drew him in.

He moved carefully between the rows, eyes lingering on a vase of lilies. Their petals curved delicately, pale and fragrant, like fragments of quiet mornings he wished he had more of. He reached out, fingers brushing against one soft edge, when a voice behind him—familiar, too familiar—broke the air.

“Not your style,” it said, casual, teasing. “You look more like a chrysanthemums kind of guy.”

Minghao’s shoulders stiffened before he turned, already shaking his head even as a smile tugged at his lips. And there he was again—Mingyu. Standing too comfortably among the blooms, holding a single stem of baby’s breath like it was part of a joke only he understood.

“You really need to stop showing up everywhere I go,” Minghao said, his voice a mix of mock exasperation and something softer he couldn’t hide.

Mingyu’s grin widened, his eyes alight in that way that made it hard to be annoyed. “Maybe the universe is just being obvious.”

“Universe? What is this, Serendipity?” Minghao asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with a faint smile.

Mingyu tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “What’s Serendipity?”

“The movie…” Minghao replied, a little too quickly, like he expected everyone to know it. His voice softened with disbelief, almost incredulous.

“I have yet to watch that,” Mingyu admitted, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“Seriously?” Minghao blinked at him, searching his face for any trace of a joke. 

There was none. 

“‘You don’t have to understand, you just need to have faith… faith in destiny?’” He even quoted the line, leaning into the weight of the words, hoping it might spark recognition.

“Not a clue,” Mingyu said, shaking his head, looking both apologetic and amused.

Minghao leaned back slightly, exhaling like he had just been told someone had never tried coffee. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he looked almost offended. “You’ve never watched it? Not even accidentally on TV? It’s literally the movie when it comes to fate and coincidences.”

Mingyu chuckled at his disbelief, clearly entertained by how seriously Minghao was taking it. “Should I add it to my list, then? You seem pretty passionate about it.”

“That’s an understatement,” Minghao muttered, though there was no heat behind it. He was already pulling out his phone, typing the title into Mingyu’s notes app before the other could protest. “You’re watching it. No excuses.”

Mingyu raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Fine, fine. But you’ll have to watch it with me.”

Minghao groaned, but the sound was threaded with reluctant amusement. He shook his head, staring at the bouquet in his hands to hide the way his mouth curved up.

He never knew he could be so disappointed in someone for not watching a single movie. And yet, in the same breath, he found himself oddly glad—it meant there was something they could share, something yet to come.

So, like the movie, Minghao tested it. His eyes flicked toward the flowers they were still holding, then back to Mingyu with that same half-serious, half-playful glint.

“Okay,” he said slowly, as if laying down the rules of a game only he knew. “I will write my initials on this specific flower. If you come across the same flower with my same initials anywhere but here, we’re meant to be.”

Mingyu raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curving into a skeptical smile. “I doubt—”

“Rule number one,” Minghao interrupted sharply, his voice firm, but the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed the amusement simmering underneath. “Do not doubt destiny.”

Mingyu chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe he was entertaining this. “And what if I never see this flower again?”

“Then maybe we’re not meant to be,” Minghao replied matter-of-factly, already fishing a pen out of his bag. He leaned over the chrysanthemum he had chosen, the tip of the pen scratching faintly against the delicate stem as he carved the small initials: X.MH

Mingyu watched, strangely transfixed by the care he put into the simple act, the way Minghao’s brows furrowed in concentration as though this little experiment carried the weight of something bigger.

“There,” Minghao said finally, straightening and holding the flower up between them like a seal of fate. “It’s out in the universe now.”

Mingyu snorted but smiled, reaching out to touch the petals with the tip of his finger. “Fine. If I find this again, I’ll believe you.”

“Not if,” Minghao corrected, his tone low, certain. “When.”

For a moment, they just stood there on the sidewalk outside the flower shop, chrysanthemums and baby’s breath between them, the city moving steadily around as though unaware that a pact—ridiculous or not—had just been made.

A few days later, Minghao was buried in work again—scripts scattered across his desk, his phone buzzing with messages from his team. He barely had time to breathe, let alone think about the little “test” he had made up that afternoon outside the flower shop. To him, it had been nothing more than a joke, a way to tease Mingyu and maybe lighten the heaviness of that day. He had already half-forgotten about it.

Meanwhile, Mingyu was taking a stroll outside, the kind of walk he often went on when the hours stretched too long. That morning had been tedious—applying for jobs, filling out forms, sending emails that felt like they were going into the void. He told himself he was patient, that the right opportunity would come, but in the meantime, he needed something to keep his hands moving, his mind occupied. A part-time job would have to be done by then.

By the time noon hit, he let the weight of his search fall off his shoulders and just walked. No destination, no urgency—just the rhythm of his feet and the autumn air guiding him along.

That’s when he spotted it.

A coffee shop he hadn’t noticed before, tucked neatly between a bookstore and a clothing boutique. Its windows were clear and wide, the faint hum of music spilling out as the door opened for customers coming and going. But what caught his eye wasn’t the coffee—it was the display right at the entrance.

Flowers.

Arranged in simple vases, tied with neat ribbons, the kind of decoration meant to draw you in with a bit of color and fragrance. Mingyu slowed his pace, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he remembered Minghao’s words. “If you come across the same flower with my initials anywhere but here, we’re meant to be.”

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

And yet—

His eyes scanned lazily across the blooms, not expecting anything at all, until they landed on it. A ribbon, tied clumsily but distinctly, with black ink scribbled into the fabric. At first, he thought it was just a logo, some branding from the shop itself. But when he leaned closer, his heart stumbled in his chest.

X.MH

The letters were small, faint, but clear enough.

Mingyu blinked once. Twice. He leaned back, rubbed his eyes as if exhaustion had finally played a trick on him. But no—the initials were still there, written exactly the way Minghao had written them.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His fingers hovered near the ribbon, not quite touching, afraid the letters would vanish if he did.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at it, the world moving on around him. And all he could hear, louder than the city, louder than his own racing thoughts, was Minghao’s voice: ‘Not if. When.’

His hands moved before his mind caught up. He fished his phone out of his pocket, angled the camera just right, and snapped the picture—close enough so the ribbon and those initials filled the frame, undeniable and sharp. His pulse raced as he stared at the photo, thumb hovering over the send button like it was a trigger.

Finally, he opened their chat.

The picture went first. Then, with a shaky grin tugging at his lips, he typed:

Mingyu
[photo]
does this mean we’re meant to be?

He pressed send before he could second-guess himself.

For a few moments, all he could do was stare at the screen, watching the tiny “delivered” mark appear, then the dots that showed Minghao was typing. The wait stretched longer than it should have, long enough for Mingyu to think maybe Minghao would roll his eyes, dismiss it as a coincidence, tell him to stop being ridiculous.

But then the reply came.

Minghao
see, i told you.
I’m getting off work soon, where are you?

Mingyu laughed, his relief spilling out in the sound. He typed back quickly.

Mingyu
that one coffee shop we make fun of because of its music taste

Minghao
I’ll see you there, Mr. Kim

Mingyu pocketed his phone, looked once more at the ribbon with Minghao’s initials, and felt something in his chest loosen—like the universe really was playing some strange game with them. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t mind being caught in the middle of it.

All this time, they both thought that the universe was making fun of them for bumping into each other until Minghao tested it.

Two people started to believe in fate again just by one simple test.

Maybe they really are meant to be.

Chapter Text

It’s been about 5 months since they first crossed paths.

One month since that ridiculous little “test on fate.”

And now Minghao stood in the middle of his bedroom, surrounded by a battlefield of shirts, jackets, and discarded pants, his breath coming out sharp with panic. The floor was a mess, his bed was a disaster, and the longer he stared at the growing pile, the more it felt like he was being swallowed alive by cotton and denim.

“What the hell does someone wear on a casual date?!” he groaned, tugging at his own hair before collapsing onto the edge of his bed. The word casual mocked him, because nothing about this felt casual. Not the way Mingyu had asked. Not the way Minghao’s chest had flipped upside down and spun in circles after he agreed.

It had started so innocently, so them.

Two nights ago, they’d been at the jazz bar again. Their usual haunt, their unspoken meeting ground. Minghao with his glass of red, Mingyu with his cocktail that always tasted too sweet for someone his size. They were talking about nothing—music, work, the same nonsense they always fell into—when Mingyu leaned back, smile tugging at his lips like it was both effortless and dangerous.

“Hey,” he said. “Wanna go out to dinner on Friday?”

Minghao had frozen. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he might’ve squeaked, the tiniest sound slipping past his throat before he forced a casual nod. Maybe it was the four glasses of wine making him bold, maybe it was Mingyu’s steady gaze pinning him there, but all he remembered was saying yes before he even had time to think about what it meant.

And now it was Friday.

Minghao hadn’t been on a date in a while—not since that messy breakup he never really talked about, not since he decided love was something he’d let pass him by. Running into Mingyu had never felt like a date. That was the universe’s fault, not his. Coincidence. Circumstance. Not planning.

But this? Mingyu had planned.

Which meant Minghao had to show up like someone worth planning for.

He picked up one shirt, tried it on, grimaced. Too stiff. Another one. Too soft. Another. Too bold. He checked himself in the mirror again and again, each time peeling off another layer, tossing it to the ever-growing heap at his feet. His room was a disaster, but his heartbeat was worse—racing, uneven, like it already knew this night was going to be different.

Finally, he sat back down, staring at the chaos around him. His hand reached automatically for his phone, hovering over Mingyu’s name.

Do I just ask what he’s wearing?

The thought made him laugh, but it didn’t ease the nerves clawing at him. Because no matter what Mingyu wore, Minghao knew—deep down—that tonight, he couldn’t hide behind coincidence anymore. Tonight, it wasn’t about the universe pushing them together.

It was about them choosing to meet.

He wanted to scream and cry, maybe even call a friend to help him pick an outfit. His fingers twitched over his phone, tempted to dial Soonyoung—he always knew what to wear and had that irritatingly sharp eye for detail. But no. The thought of admitting out loud that he was spiraling over Mingyu, of all people, was humiliating enough. Minghao shoved the phone aside and dragged both hands down his face.

God, Mingyu must have it so easy.

He pictured it: Mingyu standing in front of his mirror, hair already styled, slipping on whatever shirt fell closest to his hands and still looking like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Casual, confident, infuriatingly composed.

Except Mingyu wasn’t.

He, too, was pacing in his apartment, one jacket draped across the back of a chair, two shirts balled up on the bed, shoes lined up like soldiers waiting to be chosen. The floor was no cleaner than Minghao’s, and his frustration was loud enough to rattle the walls. He’d tried on half his closet already, tossing each rejected piece onto the growing pile with a muttered curse.

In his defense, it had been years. Years since he’d stood in this exact situation, palms clammy, throat tight, mind caught between anticipation and dread. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d buried the memory of this particular feeling until now.

The truth was, Mingyu had put dating aside. Not out of disinterest, but out of necessity. At twenty-three, when grief had swallowed him whole and responsibility became heavier than his own body, he decided love would have to wait. He couldn’t carry someone else’s heart while his own was cracked and bleeding. He owed it to himself, and to the memory of his father, to stop pretending he was fine and actually be fine.

So he took time. Too much time, maybe.

Now he was twenty-eight, standing in front of a mirror that refused to give him the answers he wanted. His reflection stared back at him, every hesitation written in the curve of his shoulders, in the way he kept tugging at his shirt collars as if the right one would suddenly feel perfect.

“Why am I nervous?” he muttered under his breath, laughing at himself. “It’s just a casual dinner.”

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t just dinner. It wasn’t just a coincidence. This wasn’t bumping into each other at a café, or catching sight of him by the lake, or laughing over flowers in a shop. This was a choice. A date.

And Mingyu, who once thought he’d closed himself off for good, felt every ounce of that choice burning under his skin.

“You know what? I’ll let the universe decide,” Minghao muttered to himself as he kicked aside a pair of black trousers and dove back into the mountain of fabric on his bed. Shirts of every color were strewn across the duvet, sleeves tangled like they were mocking him. He yanked one hanger free, squinting at the pale blue button-down. “If I close my eyes and grab, then whatever I land on… that’s fate. The burden’s on the universe, not me.”

He tossed the shirt onto the bed, squeezed his eyes shut, and thrust both hands forward into the chaos. His fingers brushed over cotton, then silk, then a scratchy wool sweater he hadn’t worn in years. He hesitated, heart pounding far more than necessary, before finally clutching at the first piece of fabric that felt halfway decent.

When he opened his eyes, he groaned. A plain white tee. Crisp, yes, but so painfully simple it felt like the universe was laughing at him.

“Really? This is your answer?” he scoffed, holding it up against his chest in the mirror. “All these options and you pick the shirt I wear to buy groceries?” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing as he tugged the shirt on anyway.

Across town, Mingyu stood in front of his own mirror with a nearly identical thought. He had tried button-ups, jackets, even a pair of slacks he bought for interviews. None of it felt right. He wanted to look effortless, but not like he hadn’t tried. Special, but not like he was screaming for attention.

Finally, he dropped into his desk chair, laughing under his breath. “Universe, you’re in charge. Just… don’t make me regret this.” He grabbed the first thing from the chair behind him—a dark green sweater he’d been saving for colder days—and tugged it over his head.

And just like that, the two of them, in different apartments and with the same reluctant faith, left their fates in the hands of the universe—without realizing how neatly the universe was about to tie its threads together

Chapter Text

Minghao was so nervous that he started practicing what to say during a date. It was like he was going to meet Mingyu for the first time again. He stood in front of his mirror, hair slightly damp from the shower, trying out sentences under his breath as if he were rehearsing lines for a play.

“‘So, how was your day?’ No, too boring. ‘You look nice tonight’? Ugh, cliché.” He groaned, throwing himself onto the bed only to spring back up seconds later. His reflection stared back at him, unimpressed.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know Mingyu—god, he knew him well. He knew the way Mingyu’s laugh came a beat too late when he found something genuinely funny, the way he’d tap the side of his glass absentmindedly when lost in thought, the way his gaze softened whenever he listened instead of spoke. But something about this being labeled a date made his chest tighten and his palms sweat like it was all brand new again.

He paced his room, muttering questions to himself. “Should I ask him about his day? Or his photography? Maybe talk about films, safer ground. No—what if I ramble?” He tugged at his sleeves, sat down, stood back up.

His phone buzzed—a message from Mingyu. 

Mingyu
I might run a bit late
I’m at war with my clothes…

Minghao froze. He read it once, twice, three times. Suddenly every practiced line dissolved, replaced only with the echo of his own heartbeat. He sighed, shaking his head with a small laugh.

Maybe he didn’t need perfect words. Maybe just showing up—nervous, flawed, real—was enough.

Still, he grabbed his jacket, whispered to his reflection like it might save him: “Okay, Xu Minghao. Just don’t embarrass yourself.”

And with that, he left, heart pounding as if it really was the first time all over again.

On Mingyu’s end, the night was chaos in its own right. His room looked like a battlefield—shirts draped across chairs, jackets tossed carelessly on the bed, shoes lined up on the floor as if they were soldiers waiting to be chosen. He had underestimated how hard this would be; in his head, dressing up for a date sounded simple, effortless. But when it came down to it, every option felt wrong.

Too casual? He’d look like he didn’t care. Too formal? He’d look like he cared too much.

He ran both hands through his hair, staring at his reflection in the mirror. “Why do I even look like I’m about to go into a board meeting?” he muttered, tugging at the collar of a shirt that was far too stiff for a dinner date. He tore it off and threw it into the growing pile.

His heart was beating in ways he hadn’t felt in years. It wasn't about whether Minghao would like him—they already got along. It was the weight of what this could become, the sense that tonight wasn’t just another night. He hadn’t dated since his early twenties, hadn’t let anyone in since losing his father. But Minghao… Minghao made the silence bearable, made the weight lighter without even realizing it.

As he buttoned up the shirt he finally decided on—clean, simple, flattering—he caught his reflection again. He looked different, lighter somehow. Nervous, yes, but almost… hopeful.

“Alright, Kim Mingyu,” he muttered under his breath with a grin, slipping into his jacket. “Don’t screw this up.”

He grabbed his keys, pocketed his phone, and stepped out the door, his heart racing as if he were running toward something he didn’t know he’d been waiting for.

They were both nervous—god, so nervous—that Minghao was actually stopped by a nice stranger on the street who told him his veins were popping out on his neck. Mortified, he laughed it off, muttered a thank you, and kept walking, but his hands immediately went to his collar, tugging at it like that would calm his pulse. He felt like he looked stupid, like no matter how much effort he put in, he was either underdressed or trying too hard.

What even is casual in this day and age? he thought bitterly. Chappell Roan with glitter cowboy hats and oversized sunglasses? Denim cut-offs with fishnets? How did people make casual look cool? Minghao wasn’t even a lesbian for fuck’s sake, so why was his brain pulling that as a reference point? He huffed, frustrated with himself.

He glanced at his reflection in a shop window while waiting at the crosswalk. Simple dark jeans, a loose white button-down tucked in just enough to look intentional, and a black jacket thrown over for balance. Clean sneakers, hair slightly styled. It was safe, minimal, effortless—everything Minghao wanted to look like on the outside, except his face was betraying every bit of panic he was holding inside.

Mingyu
okay clothes war stopped, I won.
now i’m really on my way.

Minghao stopped dead on the sidewalk and let out a laugh that startled a passerby. He covered his mouth, shaking his head, his anxiety loosening just a little. Of course Mingyu was struggling with the same thing. Of course he was late because of clothes, not because he was bailing.

“God, you idiot,” Minghao muttered under his breath, but the smile that crept onto his face didn’t fade even as the light turned green and people pushed past him.

For the first time all day, he let himself breathe. Maybe he didn’t look perfect. Maybe he didn’t need to. Because if Mingyu was fighting his wardrobe like it was life or death, then they were in the same boat. And that meant this wasn’t going to be some picture-perfect, magazine-cover date. It was just going to be them.

And suddenly, that thought made Minghao’s chest ache in the best way possible.

There Minghao was, standing in front of the restaurant Mingyu had told him to meet him at. His fingers fiddled with the strap of his watch, his other hand busy pulling at the hem of his jacket like it was suddenly the most uncomfortable piece of clothing he owned. A casual dinner, Mingyu had said. Casual. The word kept bouncing in his head, louder and louder until it made no sense anymore.

A casual dinner, right? Just food, conversation, nothing earth-shattering. It’s not like they were here to actually date, Minghao reminded himself. It’s more of a… friendly date. A chance to get to know each other more. Something normal. Something light. Something that only friends do. Friends, he repeated firmly, as though the word itself could anchor him to the ground.

And yet, the restaurant didn’t look very friendly casual. It was warm, inviting, the kind of place that buzzed with a low hum of chatter and laughter, couples sharing wine, groups of friends leaning close over pasta dishes. The lighting was dim in that deliberate way that made everything and everyone look a little softer, a little more romantic. Minghao’s stomach twisted. Was this really casual? Or was Mingyu just pretending it was casual to keep the pressure low?

He checked his phone for the tenth time, scrolling through the single text thread where Mingyu had written the name of the place, followed by a smiley face and the time. Nothing more, nothing less. Simple, like Mingyu always was. Still, Minghao felt like he was waiting for something to jump out of the screen—some hidden meaning, some reassurance that he wasn’t blowing this all out of proportion.

“Friendly,” Minghao muttered to himself, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Totally friendly.”

But then he caught himself in the reflection of the glass door, his hair styled neater than usual, his shirt pressed a little too perfectly, the nervous glint in his eyes betraying him. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Who was he kidding? This didn’t feel like something only friends did. This felt like something else entirely, something that made his chest tighten in ways he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And just as he was about to spiral again, a familiar voice called from behind him—warm, bright, teasing.

“Minghao?”

“Oh, it’s you! The guy from the bar!” Minghao said in a joking manner as he smiled, making the other smile as well.

Mingyu shook his head, laughter spilling out like it was the easiest thing in the world. “The guy from the bar? That’s all I am now?” He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, still slightly out of breath as if he’d rushed over, hair a little tousled from the wind. Minghao caught the way his shirt clung to him, crisp but not too formal—like he knew exactly what “casual” meant without even trying.

“You’re late,” Minghao added, crossing his arms in mock annoyance, though his lips were betraying him with the curve of a grin.

“I told you, I was at war with my clothes. And trust me, you’re looking at the survivor of a bloody battle.” Mingyu placed a hand over his chest dramatically, and Minghao laughed despite himself, the knot in his stomach loosening.

For a second, just a second, it didn’t feel like nerves. It felt like recognition. Like stepping into something they both already knew how to navigate.

“Come on,” Minghao said, tilting his head toward the restaurant. “Before you start another war.”

Mingyu followed, matching his pace, close enough that Minghao could feel the warmth radiating off him with every step. The city buzzed around them, neon lights bouncing off windows and the chatter of people spilling from open doors, but somehow it felt quieter between them. Like the moment was carved out just for two.

It was all going smoothly, Mingyu was able to make Minghao giggle from time to time, Minghao was able to rant about work like he always did—it was no different from the other times they met up in the bar except that they were in a totally different atmosphere with people serving them food, families on other tables laughing when their baby enjoys his meal or friends laughing out loud because they were telling each other old stories.

It felt nice, for once, they liked the change of atmosphere.

There was something grounding about it, something that made Minghao feel like he wasn’t floating in a fragile bubble that could burst at any second. The clinking of silverware, the waiter walking past with a tray balanced effortlessly, even the messy chatter from the table behind them—it all built a kind of background score, a hum that made the conversation between them feel even more real. He wasn’t just Minghao with the stiff posture and the polite nods; he was Minghao who rolled his eyes at Mingyu’s dumb jokes, Minghao who leaned forward just a little too close when his excitement spiked mid-rant, Minghao who got to be soft for a while without feeling like he’d regret it later.

And Mingyu, god—he looked so at ease. He rested his chin in his hand as he listened, eyes never straying too far from Minghao’s face, his smile shifting between teasing and thoughtful, like he was cataloguing every detail to bring up later just to make Minghao laugh again. It wasn’t suffocating attention, no. It was the kind that made Minghao want to keep talking, to fill the air with anything as long as Mingyu stayed looking at him like that.

When their food finally arrived, steaming and fragrant, they paused only long enough to thank the waiter before diving back into conversation, forks in hand but words tumbling faster than their bites. It was easy—so easy that Minghao caught himself thinking, Why does this feel like it’s supposed to be this way?

And when Mingyu cracked a joke at his own expense, causing Minghao to choke a little on his drink, the ripple of laughter they shared blended right into the restaurant’s noise, yet somehow it felt like the loudest sound in the room.

It was all going smoothly, Mingyu was able to make Minghao giggle from time to time, Minghao was able to rant about work like he always did—it was no different from the other times they met up in the bar except that they were in a totally different atmosphere with people serving them food, families on other tables laughing when their baby enjoyed his meal, or friends laughing out loud because they were telling each other old stories. It felt nice, for once, they liked the change of atmosphere.

Minghao poked at the food with his fork, eyes flicking up at Mingyu before darting back down again. “I still don’t get why you picked this place,” he teased lightly. “You don’t exactly strike me as the family restaurant type.”

Mingyu grinned, leaning back in his chair, a hand wrapped lazily around his glass of water. “What type do I strike you as then?”

“Loud,” Minghao answered instantly, earning a laugh from the taller man. “Like… I don’t know, the kind of guy who’d drag someone to some loud rooftop bar where the music’s too much and no one can hear themselves think.”

Mingyu tilted his head, amused. “That’s a pretty accurate read. Maybe three years ago, yeah. But now…” he glanced around at the cozy space, where a toddler at a nearby table was trying and failing to use chopsticks, “now I like this better. Places where you can actually talk. Hear someone’s voice instead of just nodding like an idiot.”

Minghao smirked, finally cutting into his food. “So I should feel honored?”

“You should,” Mingyu said without hesitation, and it was so direct that Minghao froze for a split second before laughing, trying to cover the way his stomach flipped.

They ate for a while, conversation weaving in and out, casual and comfortable. Minghao ended up ranting about a coworker who couldn’t tell the difference between a minor mistake and a catastrophic one. He gestured so animatedly with his fork that Mingyu had to duck to avoid getting stabbed.

They laughed a lot, like a lot to the point they didn’t even realize that they finished their food. This made them realize that they really do enjoy each other's company, from the jazz bar to “casual” restaurant dates like this—it all feels like a familiar feeling. Like the world made sure this night existed for them, and only them.

Mingyu was lucky that Minghao didn’t have work that day, especially since he has to go on set sometime soon which would mean they wouldn’t be seeing each other as often as before.

“So, what’s the next project about?” Mingyu asked, leaning forward like he already knew he was about to be entertained.

Minghao sighed, running a hand through his hair as though even explaining it felt embarrassing. “It’s your typical cliché K-drama. Marriage of convenience, contracts, ‘where is my wife’ type shit.”

Mingyu’s eyes lit up instantly, a grin spreading across his face. “Oh? I’m interested.”

Minghao looked at him in disbelief. “Really?”

“Of course,” Mingyu said, resting his chin in his hand, tone playful but his eyes attentive. “I mean, you did write it, didn’t you? You always pretend you hate clichés, but you’re secretly obsessed with them. I see you.”

Minghao narrowed his eyes, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. “I am not obsessed. I just… appreciate the structure. It’s comforting.”

“Comforting?” Mingyu repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What, like… arranged marriage, fake love turning real, dramatic confessions in the rain—those are comforting to you?”

“Yes,” Minghao said flatly, crossing his arms. “Because no matter how ridiculous it gets, you know it’s going to end the same way. Happily. People need that sometimes.”

Because it’s true—he wrote this entire script while he was already mourning a relationship he was still in. He always wondered when he would get this happy ending, and during that relationship? He knew he wouldn’t end happily. 

Sometimes he wishes he didn’t think of it that way because it manifested and turned out to be true. He was always writing the harsh reality before he even realizes that it’s going to happen to him soon enough; and in this drama he wrote? Female lead gets heartbroken because of her ex, she marries a guy as a rebound and for the sake of her family being happy—next thing she knows, he fell for her and she fell for him.

Mingyu tilted his head, considering it for a moment, then gave a slow nod knowing only a bit of Minghao’s past. “Okay, fair point. But wait—what’s your version like? Is it just another chaebol heir falling for the poor florist girl, or do you actually have a twist?”

Minghao smirked, leaning back in his seat. “There’s always a twist. But you’ll have to watch it to find out.”

“Oh, come on,” Mingyu groaned dramatically. “You can’t just bait me like that. Give me at least a hint.”

Minghao pretended to think for a moment, tapping his chin. “Fine. Let’s just say… the contract marriage isn’t the actual obstacle. It’s what comes after. When they realize pretending was easier than being real.”

Mingyu’s grin faded into something softer, his eyes lingering on Minghao like he was reading between the lines. “…That actually sounds really good,” he admitted. “Like, painfully good. The kind of thing that’ll make people throw their remotes at the screen and then cry about it later.”

Minghao chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s the goal.”

“You know,” Mingyu said, lips quirked up again, “if you ever need someone to play the brooding male lead who secretly has a heart of gold, I’d do it for free. Just saying.”

“Free?” Minghao scoffed, rolling his eyes but clearly amused. “You’d last two days before demanding catering upgrades and your own trailer.”

“Alright, true,” Mingyu laughed, leaning back with his hands raised. “But still. I’d kill the role.”

Minghao gave him a long look, the kind that was both skeptical and quietly fond. “You’d be too tall for the frame.”

“That’s discrimination,” Mingyu gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense, which finally made Minghao laugh outright, the sound soft but genuine.

And just like that, what started as a simple question turned into another one of those easy, endless conversations—where Minghao’s ideas spilled out, Mingyu’s teasing slipped in, and somewhere in between the banter, something unspoken but undeniable settled quietly between them.

They stepped out into the night, the cool air brushing against their skin, the city lights glowing faintly in the distance. Minghao tugged his coat tighter while Mingyu carried himself with the same easy stride, but there was a subtle shift now, a hum in the air that wasn’t there before dinner.

“You really didn’t have to pay for everything,” Minghao muttered, still pouting as they strolled toward the frozen yogurt shop nearby. “I told you—I’ll pay next time.”

Mingyu glanced down at him, grinning at the stubborn set of his lips. “You said ‘later,’ and this was later. Technically, I beat you to it.”

“That’s cheating.”

“No, that’s strategy.”

Minghao gave him a narrow-eyed look, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed his amusement. “Fine. Then frozen yogurt is on me, and you can’t argue.”

“Deal,” Mingyu said easily, though there was a teasing edge to his tone that made Minghao suspect he might try to sneak his card to the cashier anyway.

The shop was cozy, warm against the chill outside. They each built their cups—Mingyu going overboard with toppings, Minghao keeping it minimal but precise. When they stepped back into the night with their sweet treats in hand, the air felt softer somehow, like the world had slowed just for them.

The lake wasn’t the same as in daylight. At night, the water carried the reflection of the streetlamps, trembling with every ripple, and the path around it stretched quiet and inviting. Couples passed them occasionally, holding hands or laughing softly, and Minghao caught himself glancing at them more than once, though he quickly looked away before Mingyu noticed.

“Different, huh?” Mingyu asked, breaking the silence as they crunched lightly along the gravel path.

“Mm.” Minghao spooned a small bite of yogurt, savoring it longer than necessary. “It feels… quieter. Like the lake swallowed the noise from earlier.”

Mingyu hummed in agreement, taking a bite of his own, messy with toppings. “Romantic,” he almost said, but stopped himself, letting the word dissolve before it reached the air. Instead, he nudged Minghao with his elbow, light and playful. “Good choice on the frozen yogurt.”

“Of course it was,” Minghao replied smoothly, but his lips curved faintly as he stared out at the water.

Neither of them mentioned it—the way the night felt different, heavier but in a good way, the kind of weight you wanted to hold onto. The word lingered unspoken between them, resonating in silence. Instead, they walked, shoulders brushing now and then, letting the lake and the sweetness between them carry the rest.

“So…” Minghao broke the silence, his voice soft but deliberate, almost as if the night had been waiting for him to ask.

“So?” Mingyu echoed, his tone light, but there was curiosity beneath it, like he already knew where this was going.

“Come on,” Minghao pressed, nudging him gently with his shoulder as they walked. “Tell me why you frequent the bar. I told you mine the day we met, remember? Which was—” he trailed off, lips sighing at the memory, “kind of embarrassing since we had just met.” His voice faded, but his smile lingered, sheepish and warm.

The lake shimmered beside them, each ripple catching the pale glow of the lamps. Minghao spooned another bite of frozen yogurt, more for something to do than for the taste, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue. He kept his eyes forward, but the curiosity in him was restless, sparking in his chest.

“You always looked so… calm there,” Minghao continued after a pause, his voice quieter now, like the question was heavier than he wanted it to be. “Like you belonged to that place, even when the band wasn’t playing. I don’t know… it was comforting.” He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head at himself. “Meanwhile, I was just drinking to keep myself from thinking too much. Not exactly the best story to tell a stranger on the first night.”

The breeze moved through the trees, carrying the faint scent of water and earth. Minghao glanced at Mingyu briefly, catching the way his profile was lit in fragments by the lamplight, then looked away again before he lingered too long. His grip tightened on the paper cup in his hand, the cold slowly seeping through to his fingers.

“I guess what I’m saying is…” Minghao hesitated, his throat suddenly dry. “…if we’re going to keep running into each other—” his lips curved into a nervous grin, “—maybe I should get to know why you were always there, too.”

He didn’t press further, letting the quiet fall between them again. The night seemed to hold its breath, the lake reflecting back their silence as Minghao waited, not daring to look at him just yet.

“Well,” Mingyu started, tossing his empty cup into a nearby bin before tugging his jacket a little tighter around himself. His voice was steady, but there was a softness to it that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “My father and I always loved jazz. It was the only thing we bonded through, really. Without music, the house was just… too heavy with silence. He didn’t want the two of us disappearing into our own thoughts.”

Minghao slowed his pace instinctively, listening.

“The moment I turned eighteen,” Mingyu continued, eyes flicking briefly toward the ground before drifting out to the lake, “was the first day I went to that bar. It was always his dream to take me there once I was legal enough to drink. He wanted my first bar experience to be that bar, not some random loud place full of strangers who didn’t care about the music.” He smiled faintly, a ghost of something fond, but his gaze stayed fixed on the water, like he was holding onto something intangible while the words spilled out.

“I still remember the first song that played—Esperanza Spalding. It just… it stuck. Gave me this good impression of the bar, like the place itself was saying, ‘yeah, this is where you’re supposed to be.’ After that, we made it our little ritual. Every few months, we’d go there together, order a drink, sit back, and let ourselves drown in jazz. Just a father and son, you know? It was the one thing we didn’t need words for.”

His hands slipped into his pockets, shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. “Then, when I was twenty, he passed away. Everyone said it was a natural death. Pancreatic cancer.” He paused, the words deliberate, measured. “But to me… it felt like it was something else, too. Like the depression had worn him down long before the sickness did. He wasn’t old, not really—fifty, maybe. Too young.”

Minghao’s chest ached at the evenness of Mingyu’s tone. He wasn’t choking up, not anymore, but the grief sat in the quiet spaces between his words, like an echo that never fully faded.

“I grew up without a mom, so he had to try and play both roles. And I could see how much he struggled.” Mingyu’s lips pressed together, his jaw tightening before he let out a slow exhale. “I don’t blame him for not being able to do it all. I just… I wish I’d had the chance to tell him he was doing a really good job, that he could’ve taken a break, let himself rest. But what kind of kid thinks that way? At the time, I didn’t understand.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the path crunching softly beneath their shoes, the night air filling in where neither of them spoke.

“So yeah,” Mingyu finally said, voice quieter now, but sure. “It’s been eight years. I decided to put myself first, to let grief swallow me whole before I learned how to live with it. It’s not the same—it never will be—but eventually, things started to feel okay again. Different, but okay.”

He let the words hang there, letting the lake carry them, his gaze steady on the ripples that caught the light of the lamps above.

Minghao listened to his words like they were meant to be held carefully, like they might slip through his fingers if he didn’t pay close attention. He didn’t interrupt, not once. He just let Mingyu’s voice linger in the air, weaving itself with the sound of the water lapping softly against the shore.

The way Mingyu spoke wasn’t rushed—it carried the weight of someone who had repeated these truths to himself a thousand times in order to survive them. There was no catch in his throat, no sudden break, but that almost made it heavier, the quiet acceptance of a grief that had aged with him, shaping him silently.

Minghao’s frozen yogurt was melting in his hand, but he didn’t care. His eyes stayed fixed on Mingyu, on the way his gaze drifted far across the lake, searching for something—or maybe someone—who wasn’t there anymore. The night air felt cooler then, sharper, as if the world itself was pausing to honor the space between them.

When Mingyu said, “though it won’t be the same,” Minghao felt it, deep in his chest, like the words had knocked against something hidden inside him. He thought of all the things he never said to his own father, of the times silence filled the space where comfort should have been. He thought of regret, how it claws at you in the quiet moments, long after everyone else has stopped paying attention.

He wanted to say something—anything—that could lighten the ache in Mingyu’s voice. But what words could possibly fix that kind of loss? So instead, he took a small step closer, the edge of his sleeve brushing against Mingyu’s.

“You know…” Minghao finally murmured, his voice low, careful, “most people never get to have that kind of bond with a parent. Even if it was short, even if it was heavy… you still had that. And I think your dad would’ve been glad you remember him like this. Through music. Through something that made you both feel alive.”

The wind shifted, rustling through the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of the lake. Minghao’s lips curled into the smallest of smiles, though his eyes softened in the lamplight. “Besides, if it weren’t for him… we probably wouldn’t have met in that bar.”

They both laughed at that comment because it was true; if it weren’t for that bar, they wouldn’t be out together—like this—Minghao would probably still be crying over his last relationship while Mingyu lived the same routine he did every day.

They were like each other’s source of surprise.

It was strange, almost unsettling in its comfort, how natural it felt. Like they hadn’t stumbled into each other by chance but had been nudged closer and closer until this moment was inevitable. Minghao looked over at Mingyu, the way the soft lamplight from the path brushed against his cheekbones, highlighting his smile as he listened, and thought about how easily he could get used to this view.

Mingyu, in turn, glanced at Minghao—his slightly furrowed brow, the way his fingers toyed with the cup still in his hand, the quiet laughter that came a second too late—and realized how much lighter the world felt with him in it.

And once again, it felt like the universe planned this for the both of them. Like all the missed trains, late meetings, texts left unanswered, and nights spent alone had led to this—two strangers who weren’t strangers anymore, walking side by side, carrying pieces of each other’s lives without even meaning to.

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew: this was more than coincidence.

The air outside was thick with the scent of rain, though it hadn’t fallen yet. The ground was still dry, the streetlights casting long shadows as Minghao and Mingyu walked farther away from the lake together. Their footsteps echoed softly against the quiet street, a kind of rhythm that only belonged to late hours like these.

Minghao adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers brushing absently at the edge of his sleeve. He glanced at Mingyu, who walked just a little slower than him, hands tucked deep in his pockets.

“You always walk this slow?” Minghao teased, letting the question drift into the still air. His tone was light, but his eyes stayed on Mingyu, curious.

Mingyu tilted his head down, flashing a grin. “Maybe I’m pacing myself.”

Minghao squinted at him, amused. “Pacing yourself? What, are we in a marathon? We’re just walking back to my place.” He gave a soft kick to a pebble on the ground, watching it skip forward a few steps ahead of them.

“That’s the point.” Mingyu’s voice dropped lower, almost like he was sharing something secret with the night. “If we get there too fast, it ends too fast.”

Minghao slowed a little, his brows lifting in quiet surprise. He let out a short laugh—soft, unguarded. “You’re such a strange person.”

“Strange?” Mingyu feigned offense, widening his eyes just slightly. The streetlight caught on his smile anyway, ruining the act.

“Mm,” Minghao hummed, folding his arms loosely over his chest as he walked. His gaze flickered over Mingyu’s face, quick and sharp, before darting away again. “Strange. But in… a nice way.”

They fell into silence after that, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Minghao listened to the faint buzz of a neon sign across the street, to the wind brushing past tree branches. The sound of their footsteps filled the quiet gaps—Mingyu’s longer strides softened, adjusted to match his.

He risked another glance, catching Mingyu’s profile under the lamplight. His jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his hair shifted when the breeze pushed through—it all made Minghao’s chest feel oddly tight.

“Do you always walk people home?” he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet before it became too heavy in his head.

Mingyu chuckled, shaking his head. “No. Just you.”

Minghao’s ears warmed at that. He turned his face away quickly, pretending to study the cracks in the pavement. “…You’re really trying, huh?”

“I told you,” Mingyu said, his tone so sure it made Minghao’s steps falter for just a second. His eyes stayed forward, steady. “I don’t like routines. You’re not routine.”

The words sank in like water on dry soil, quiet but lasting. Minghao’s lips twitched against his will, a smile pulling through. He didn’t fight it this time.

And so they walked, side by side, the city humming faintly around them as though the night was theirs alone. Step by step, Minghao’s home came closer—but instead of feeling like an ending, it carried the weight of a beginning, something fragile, something unnamed.

“I still can’t believe you haven’t watched Serendipity,” Minghao said, his voice half exasperation, half amusement as he tugged his jacket closer around his frame. The night air carried a chill, and their breath misted faintly as they walked side by side.

Mingyu groaned, tipping his head back toward the sky. “Oh, we’re still at this?” His long stride slowed just enough to fall perfectly in step with Minghao, as though he was resigned to being teased the entire way.

“Of course we’re still at this!” Minghao’s eyes glinted mischievously in the lamplight, his lips quirking up. “You call yourself a film buff, you recommend movies to everyone, but you haven’t seen Serendipity yet?” He drew out the last word, his tone almost scandalized, but his laughter betrayed him.

Mingyu shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, pretending to sulk, though the corners of his mouth threatened to curve. “Hey, how about you watch The Lion King first?”

Minghao stopped in his tracks, turning to face him with mock disbelief. “The Lion King? You can’t compare those two!” His brows furrowed as if this was the most serious debate of the night, though his cheeks were warming in amusement.

“Of course I can,” Mingyu replied, grinning now, his dimples showing as he leaned down just slightly so his eyes caught Minghao’s. “It’s a classic. If you’re going to lecture me about movies, you should at least have that one covered.”

“Not until you watch Serendipity!” Minghao shot back, pointing a finger at him before turning to keep walking. His steps were quick, playful, but Mingyu easily caught up, laughing under his breath.

They moved through the quiet street like that, the argument circling back on itself again and again, neither willing to give in. Their voices carried lightly in the cool air, weaving between the sound of cars in the distance and the crunch of their shoes against the pavement.

“You’re impossible,” Mingyu said eventually, shaking his head. His tone was more fond than frustrated, though, and his gaze lingered on Minghao’s smile a little longer than it should have.

“And you’re stubborn,” Minghao countered, his eyes narrowing at him, though his lips betrayed him with another grin.

The banter hung between them like a thread, easy and familiar, making the night feel warmer than it really was. Neither realized how natural it had become—this back-and-forth, this playful tug-of-war that somehow pulled them closer with every step.

They talked about nonsense, letting the words tumble out like coins scattered across the pavement—small, ordinary things that somehow felt important in the moment. Minghao insisted that mango and rice was an unmatched duo, while Mingyu groaned dramatically, holding his head as though the very thought pained him. Then it was Mingyu’s turn to judge, going on about how he couldn’t believe Minghao had never once dipped bread into his coffee.

Minghao scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Because who does that? It ruins the bread.”

“It makes it better!” Mingyu fired back, his voice filled with mock indignation. “It’s soft, it soaks up all the flavor. That’s the point!”

“Or…” Minghao tilted his head, feigning seriousness, “…I just drink tea and avoid ruining perfectly good bread.”

Mingyu groaned again, though this time it turned into laughter, the sound echoing faintly against the quiet buildings they passed. He looked at Minghao with wide eyes, as if he’d just been told the biggest betrayal of his life. “Tea? That explains so much. You’re one of those people.”

“And proud,” Minghao answered with a smug little shrug, his smile tugging upward as the lamplight brushed across his face.

It wasn’t about the mango or the coffee or the tea. It was about the way the conversation never seemed to run dry, how one joke led to another, how their laughter tangled together so easily that it was hard to remember what had been funny in the first place. The night felt unreal, the kind of thing that belonged to someone else’s script.

A late, cold walk down quiet streets. The comforting rhythm of footsteps beside one another. The silly debates about food, punctuated by laughter sharp enough to cut through the chilly air. It had all the markings of a movie scene—not the dramatic kind, not the ones with grand confessions or sweeping gestures, but the quieter ones, the ones that made your chest ache with a warmth you didn’t know you needed.

And in that softness, in the smallness of it all, they found themselves more at ease than they had in a long time. Just two people, walking side by side, finding comfort in the simplest parts of being together.

The night air clung to them, crisp but not biting, the kind that made you wish you had just a little more time outside before the world swallowed you back into your own space. Minghao slowed to a stop in front of his building, the familiar sight of the entryway suddenly feeling new with Mingyu standing there beside him. The soft glow of the streetlamp overhead made the moment feel suspended, almost cinematic.

“You wanna come in?” Minghao asked, his voice casual, but there was something in the way his hand lingered on the strap of his bag, something hesitant—like maybe he wanted Mingyu to say yes.

Mingyu shook his head with a smile, one hand already slipping into his coat pocket. “Maybe next time. I want it to be a surprise.”

Minghao laughed lightly at that, his breath forming a small cloud in the cool air. “Okay then.”

For a second, it felt like the night would end there, a simple goodbye and the soft click of a door shutting. But before Minghao could turn the key, Mingyu’s voice cut through the silence—low, warm, deliberate.

“Thank you for tonight. I really enjoyed it.”

Minghao paused, his hand still resting against the doorknob. He looked back at him, eyes catching the sincerity in Mingyu’s expression. No jokes, no playful banter, just truth. It made something flutter unexpectedly in his chest.

“Me too, Mingyu,” he said softly, his lips curving into a smile that reached his eyes. “Thank you.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The night stretched out in the space between them—comfortable, lingering, as though neither wanted to let go just yet.

The corner of Minghao’s lips tugged upward, a quiet laugh escaping him as he leaned a little against the doorframe. The lamplight softened the sharp edges of his face, making him look almost boyish in that moment.

“Text me when you get home?” he asked, voice dropping low, almost shy. It wasn’t just a request—it sounded like a promise he hoped Mingyu would keep.

Mingyu grinned, teeth flashing as he tilted his head, already stepping backward toward the quiet street. “Will do, Mr. Tea Time.”

Minghao rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the warmth spreading across his face. “Okay, Mr. Haven’t Watched Serendipity Yet.”

They shared one last look—playful, reluctant, threaded with something neither dared name—and then Minghao finally pushed his door open, the creak of the hinges pulling him away from the night. Mingyu lingered a second longer on the sidewalk, hands stuffed into his pockets, smiling to himself before he turned to head home.

The steam from Minghao’s tea curled lazily into the air, carrying with it the faint aroma of chamomile. He sat by the window, mug cradled in both hands, the night outside still alive with the distant hum of the city. The room, once a battlefield of shirts and jackets, was now calm again—almost as if tidying up had been part of preparing himself for the quiet ending of the day.

His phone screen glowed softly on the table beside him, and he reached for it, thumb brushing across the message that had been waiting for him:

Mingyu (30 mins ago)
I just got home.
thank you for today, again.
I’ll see you wherever?
maybe the universe will find a way.

Minghao’s lips curved as he read it again, slower this time, letting the words settle in. The corners of his heart felt lighter, warmer—like he could hear Mingyu’s voice through the text itself.

Setting down his mug, he typed back, fingers hovering briefly over the keyboard before pressing send:

Minghao (just now)
I’ll see you when the universe wants us to meet
again.
(which could be tomorrow or the day after,
who knows?)

He set the phone down again but didn’t look away from the screen, waiting for the soft vibration, the tiny reply. Instead of impatience, though, he felt… steady. Like he had time. Like this was something that didn’t need to be rushed.

With a quiet sigh, Minghao leaned back against his chair, tea still warm in his hands, and thought to himself that maybe—for the first time in a while—the universe was being kind.

Chapter Text

At the end of the day, the sound of jazz will always consume the two.

It was never planned; it just so happens that when they want to surround themselves with music and cocktails, they always seem to bump into each other.

The first few times, it was amusing—almost unbelievable, like some cosmic trick being played on them. But as the weeks slipped by and the pattern became familiar, it shifted into something else entirely. They weren’t even surprised to see each other anymore, not really. What made their lips curve into smiles, what made their steps feel lighter, was the company they knew they’d find.

It became a rhythm of its own. After a day spent buried under deadlines or swallowed by silence, they knew—without saying it—that the bar would be waiting, and in it, so would the other. Minghao with his sharp wit and restless fingers tapping against his glass, Mingyu with his easy laugh that always seemed to bloom just when the music swelled.

They’d sink into their seats, sometimes side by side, sometimes across from each other, and the noise of the world outside would melt away. There were nights filled with conversation, quick and teasing, that made the hours blur like spilled ink. Other nights, they barely spoke at all, letting the trumpet or the piano carry the weight of silence for them, and even then—it was enough.

It wasn’t something they planned. In fact, neither of them dared to plan it. Planning meant control, and control felt too fragile for whatever this was. Instead, they leaned into the idea that maybe—just maybe—the universe had decided to be merciful. That it would keep folding their paths together, over and over, until it became impossible to imagine the bar without the other’s face appearing through the door.

And so it went: night after night, laughter after laughter, drink after drink, as though destiny was playing its own set list just for them.

They met again; it was no surprise anymore, not really, though it never failed to bring a faint rush of warmth to their chests. There was always a seat waiting—one of them would keep it open, whether at the bar itself or tucked away in a booth, sometimes even near the stage where the band played just loud enough to fill in the gaps of silence. It became a quiet ritual, unspoken yet understood, that wherever one sat, the other would follow.

Sometimes, they didn’t bother with words at all. They’d sit side by side, each lost in thought, letting the low hum of the bass or the soft wail of a saxophone bridge the distance. There was a comfort in that silence, the kind that didn’t demand to be broken, the kind that felt rare and precious. 

Other times, the quiet gave way to chatter—stories spilled out between sips of wine or the clink of glasses, details of their day told in rhythms as natural as the music around them. Minghao would complain about deadlines or clients who couldn’t make up their minds, his gestures sharp and animated, while Mingyu answered with his own stories, half-serious and half-joking, always finding a way to make Minghao roll his eyes and then laugh despite himself.

The nights blurred together like that, a mixture of stillness and noise, of shared drinks and stolen glances, of two people who seemed to find the world less heavy when they were together. Whether they spoke or stayed quiet, the result was always the same: they left lighter than when they had walked in, as if the simple act of being near each other was enough to steady the chaos of their separate lives.

Tonight was different.

They met again that evening, like they always seemed to do, as if some invisible thread tugged them toward the same place at the same time. Minghao nursed two glasses of wine, taking his time with each sip, while Mingyu let a single glass of whiskey rest between his fingers, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the bar. Neither of them had plans to get drunk, and though it was never spoken out loud, it was something they both understood—tonight wasn’t about escaping. Tonight was about presence, about the quiet comfort of knowing the other was near.

After a lull in the music and a moment where the night felt too good to waste behind four walls, Mingyu leaned closer, voice soft but sure. “Wanna go out and walk?” he asked. Minghao didn’t hesitate, only nodded with a small smile tugging at his lips. It was an easy agreement, the kind that came naturally now, as if saying yes to Mingyu had always been instinct.

They settled their bills before leaving, but this time there was a small shift. Minghao placed his card down quickly, insisting on paying for his own drinks. Mingyu’s lips curved into a pout, boyish and dramatic, the kind that made Minghao chuckle despite trying to look unaffected. He didn’t back down, though—there was something satisfying about not letting Mingyu shoulder everything. 

Still, Mingyu lingered on it, his expression exaggerated, as though Minghao had just robbed him of some unspoken role he wanted to play.

And yet, beneath the playful protest, there was no real frustration. Only warmth. Only the quiet thrill of leaving the bar together, side by side, their steps already falling in rhythm before they even stepped out into the night.

It was a quiet night, the kind that carried with it a softness only the late hours could bring. The streets were hushed, lined with the faint glow of street lamps and the occasional rustle of leaves in the cool air. 

No words had to be spoken between them. The steady sound of their footsteps was enough, the easy rhythm of their walk filling in the silence in a way that felt natural, as though conversation would have only disturbed the calm that surrounded them. The fact that they were together—simply existing side by side—was more than enough.

They had reached a point where presence outweighed words. They didn’t feel the pressure to fill every space with chatter, nor did they stumble through awkward pauses. Instead, the silence was comfortable, like a blanket draped across their shoulders, a quiet assurance that they understood each other without effort.

It was strange, almost surreal, how natural it all felt. They had only known each other for six months, yet the bond between them felt deeper, older, as though it had been cultivated over years instead of months. Their connection carried a familiarity that was hard to explain—an unspoken understanding that didn’t need validation, didn’t need to be rushed. 

They were already at that stage where they could sit in the quiet, let the world move around them, and still feel like everything was exactly as it should be.

And in that stillness, in that gentle silence, was where they found the comfort they didn’t know they had been searching for.

They also reached the part of the friendship where their days rarely passed without each other’s voices crossing a screen. It became routine in the most natural way—Minghao sending messages from his office, sometimes dramatic pleas for Mingyu to “save him from the depths of endless scripts and deadlines,” while Mingyu replied with the most absurd observations that had no real beginning or end. A picture of his lunch, a thought about why clouds never looked the same twice, or a stray memory that came to him on the bus. Their conversations never had to make sense; they only had to be shared.

The silence of the evening carried that same rhythm, that same gentle thread that stitched them together. They walked slowly, letting the calm spread into them, the air cool against their cheeks but never harsh. The cold breeze curled around them, but neither complained, as if being next to each other was enough warmth to carry through the night.

At one point, Minghao paused mid-step, tilting his head slightly, his brow furrowing. He swore he could hear faint music floating through the air—something soft, like a piano line or an old ballad, drifting from a window above. He stopped to listen more carefully, but the sound slipped away just as quickly as it came, leaving only the distant hum of the city.

He didn’t mention it. Some things felt better left unproven, like a fleeting magic you couldn’t hold onto. Instead, he smiled to himself, brushing it off as part of the night’s quiet spell. And beside him, Mingyu walked with his hands in his pockets, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, as if to say that even in silence, they were still tethered.

Mingyu chuckled softly, his eyes lingering on a couple sitting not too far away, their hands intertwined under the silver glow of the moonlight. The sight seemed to amuse him, though not in a mocking way—it was more of a tender laugh, the kind that slipped out without effort.

“What’s so funny, Mr. Kim Mingyu?” Minghao asked, his voice gentle, curious, as he turned his head toward him.

And gosh—how could someone look that good under the moonlight? Minghao caught himself staring at Mingyu’s side profile, almost like it was the first time he was seeing it. The sharp line of his jaw cast the perfect shadow, his glasses framed his face so naturally it was as though they were made just for him, and his skin—smooth and unblemished—reflected the glow of the night in a way that felt almost unreal. It was as if he had never been touched by storms, never forced to weather rough winds.

Mingyu had always been someone who quietly took care of himself, someone who built strength and calmness out of years of steady effort, and it showed in moments like this. Sitting there with him, Minghao felt a quiet warmth spread across his chest, a small but certain happiness. He was genuinely happy for him—happy that Mingyu had found ways to protect his light, to remain unshaken and steady, even when the world wasn’t always kind.

“Look at that couple, looking all lovey-dovey as if they’re in a movie,” Mingyu said, his lips tugging into that teasing smile he wore so effortlessly. His gaze lingered on the pair for a moment longer before he added, “wanna bet the ending of La La Land will happen to them?”

Minghao let out a laugh, soft but genuine, the sound blending in with the cool night air. “That is so mean,” he replied, shaking his head as if to scold him, though his grin betrayed him. “But yes.”

They both chuckled after, the kind of laugh that came easy when it was just the two of them. The couple across the park leaned into each other, unaware of the quiet commentary being made from a distance. Minghao tilted his head slightly, watching the way Mingyu’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. For a moment, the words La La Land lingered between them, heavy in their own way. They both knew what that story was about—love, timing, the painful beauty of something that couldn’t last.

But neither of them spoke further on it. Instead, the silence returned, not awkward but comfortable, like an old blanket thrown over their shoulders. Mingyu leaned back against the bench, stretching his long legs out in front of him, while Minghao kept his gaze on the sky, pretending he was more interested in the stars than in the boy sitting beside him.

Though the mention of La La Land coming out from Mingyu’s mouth made his heart skip a beat; Minghao was the biggest cinephile ever and that movie-musical always had a special place in his heart. The concept of the right person at the wrong time always spoke to him, and he always firmly believed that all his exes were people he was meant to be with but it was all just wrong timing.

He could feel his cheeks heat up, though Mingyu didn’t notice. The warmth was faint, creeping in slowly, and Minghao silently prayed that the dim light of the street lamps was enough to mask it.

“So, when will you watch Serendipity?” Minghao teased, the corner of his mouth curling upward as he nudged Mingyu lightly with his elbow.

Mingyu let out a small scoff and playfully rolled his eyes, his whiskey-laced laugh spilling into the night. “I thought we agreed that we both watch it at your house?”

“I never agreed to such a thing!” Minghao shot back, his tone dramatic but lighthearted, as though daring Mingyu to keep pushing the idea.

Mingyu tilted his head, flashing that grin that made it impossible to take him seriously. “Oh, you agreed. You just don’t remember,” he said, voice low and mischievous, as if he was trying to convince him of a memory that didn’t exist.

Minghao shook his head, chuckling, though he avoided Mingyu’s eyes this time, worried that one more look would make the heat in his cheeks impossible to hide. “You’re making things up again.”

“Maybe,” Mingyu admitted, his voice softer now, almost too casual. “But it wouldn’t be so bad, right? Watching it with me.”

The words hung there, suspended in the cool air between them, heavier than the teasing deserved. Minghao didn’t answer immediately—he just let the quiet stretch, pretending to think it over, though his heart was already beating a little faster. He finally smirked, masking the nerves with ease.

“We’ll see,” he murmured, his tone vague, but Mingyu caught the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—something that felt more like a promise than a deflection.

The only reason why Mingyu never watched the movie was because he wanted it to be a moment with Minghao. He knew it sounded silly—he’s had countless moments with him before, countless nights of laughter and conversation that would be etched into his memory forever—but to Mingyu, this felt like a step up. Watching Serendipity wasn’t just about the film; it was about choosing to experience something that Minghao loved, together. It was about creating a memory that was theirs alone.

Sometimes he felt like he was back in high school, fumbling with nerves, rehearsing words in his head the way a boy would before asking his crush on a movie date. The thought of sitting next to Minghao, the glow of the screen reflecting on his features, hearing him laugh at the parts he’s seen dozens of times already—just the thought alone made Mingyu smile to himself like a fool.

He always studied the way Minghao spoke about film. There was something magnetic in the way his whole being lit up when he talked about his favorites. His eyes would sparkle like he was holding entire galaxies in them, his smile would bloom bright and unrestrained, and his tone—usually calm and measured—would climb higher and higher with excitement, betraying just how much he cared. Mingyu found himself memorizing these details like they were lines of poetry, replaying them in his mind long after their conversations ended.

He took note of everything, almost religiously. Minghao’s favorite films were Serendipity (2001), Soul (2020), Someone Great (2019), and The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012). He’d written them down once, in the notes app of his phone, not because he’d forget, but because he wanted to hold them close—like a secret only he was entrusted with.

And then there was Past Lives. He knew how much it meant to Minghao, how deeply the film resonated with him. It wasn’t just admiration—it was aspiration. Minghao often said that his biggest dream was to create a project with that same quiet ache, that same delicate, timeless pull that Past Lives carried. Every time he spoke about it, Mingyu listened intently, as if his own heartbeat fell into rhythm with Minghao’s passion. He couldn’t help but think that one day, when Minghao finally did create that project, he would be there—front row, supporting him, the way he’s always wanted to.

And maybe, just maybe, they’d look back and laugh about how it all began with a promise to watch Serendipity together.

At one point, their hands grazed each other as they reached for the same cup of coffee on the small table between them, and the sensation was immediate—electric, undeniable. A shiver ran up Minghao’s spine, making him suddenly aware of every little detail about the space between them: the warmth of Mingyu’s hand, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air, the soft scrape of his sleeve as it brushed against Minghao’s wrist. Mingyu felt it too; a flutter that made him freeze mid-laugh, a sudden awareness of how close they were, how long their legs were brushing under the table without realizing it, how long Minghao’s gaze had been lingering on him in those quiet, thoughtful moments.

They both pulled back subtly, not enough to break the connection, but enough to notice the thrum of tension in their chests. Neither of them spoke, the silence stretching long enough that it almost became a character in their evening. Minghao’s mind raced—what the hell just happened? It couldn’t be something as insignificant as a brush of hands, could it? The intensity of the feeling caught him off guard, and for a moment, he felt almost dizzy with the sudden awareness of Mingyu’s nearness.

Mingyu, meanwhile, felt his heart stutter in a way it hadn’t in years. He tried to rationalize it, telling himself it was just the warmth of the coffee cup or the crisp evening air brushing against their exposed skin. But deep down, he knew better. He felt the pull, the undeniable magnetic charge between them that had been quietly building since the first accidental brush of hands in the jazz bar, since the laughter they shared over frozen yogurt, since the way Minghao’s eyes always seemed to light up when he talked about the films he loved.

Is it… even a small crush? Minghao thought to himself, almost aloud, and immediately felt a twinge of embarrassment. Because if it wasn’t small, then what was it? Something larger, more complicated, something that had been simmering quietly under the surface for months, growing like an unseen tide until tonight it was impossible to ignore.

Mingyu caught the hesitation in Minghao’s expression, that brief flicker of uncertainty, and it mirrored his own internal chaos. He laughed softly, a little nervously, trying to defuse the tension, but the smile couldn’t hide the flush rising to his cheeks. It’s more than a crush. It’s something that’s been there all along, simmering beneath the surface, quiet but relentless.

Neither spoke again for a while, though the air between them was thick with meaning. Every small movement—Minghao adjusting his chair, Mingyu leaning forward to take a sip—felt loaded, significant, intimate. They were both hyper-aware of each other now, their hands, their breath, the subtle warmth that lingered in the space where their skin had touched. It was no longer casual; it was charged, electric, and it frightened them just enough to make them acutely alive.

And in that unspoken tension, in the quiet understanding that neither could fully name, they realized something. Maybe it didn’t matter if it was a small crush or something larger. 

Maybe the fact that it made them both feel this alive, this aware, was reason enough to let it exist, to let the moment stretch and linger, like jazz notes suspended in the night.

There was just something in the air that night; maybe it was the cold that made him long for warmth, maybe it was the lingering scent of rain mixed with the faint smell of damp pavement and fresh leaves, or maybe it was just the way Minghao wanted Mingyu close, close enough to feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, close enough to steal a little warmth from him.

Maybe it was how the world around them seemed to soften, the city lights reflecting on puddles like scattered fairy lights, the faint hum of distant traffic blending with the occasional splash of footsteps on wet streets. 

Maybe it was the way the night wrapped around them like a story, like a scene straight out of a romcom, where the male lead takes the female lead home and everything pauses for just a second before the goodnight kiss—the kind of kiss that lingers not just on lips but on memory, on nerves, on the quiet thrill of something unspoken.

Minghao found himself thinking about it, about the possibility, the small, silly flutter in his chest that hadn’t been there before. The way Mingyu’s shoulder brushed his, the soft, unintentional graze of their hands, the way his laughter carried so easily through the chilled air—all of it felt orchestrated, as if the universe itself had paused for this perfect little moment.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Minghao started, his voice soft but playful, “if I had a project about this moment right now, would you co-write it with me?”

Mingyu raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as if weighing the offer. “Are you offering me a job?” he asked, half-teasing, half-curious.

“No, silly,” Minghao laughed, the sound carrying lightly through the quiet night, blending with the faint hum of distant cars and the occasional drip of leftover rain from the rooftops. “I’m saying that at this moment… right now… feels like it was written out of a movie.”

Mingyu blinked, his lips twitching into a smile as he looked at Minghao, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “A movie, huh?” he murmured, more to himself than to Minghao. “You really think it’s that cinematic?”

“I do,” Minghao said, glancing at the way the streetlights glimmered off the wet pavement, the reflections dancing like tiny spotlights around them. “The air, the quiet, the way you’re laughing at nothing and everything at the same time… it’s like the universe wrote it just for us. And maybe… maybe we could write it even better, together.”

Mingyu chuckled, shaking his head, though his smile betrayed a flutter in his chest. “Alright, co-writer,” he said, nudging Minghao lightly with his shoulder. “But only if the script lets me add in the dramatic music whenever you try to act all serious.”

Minghao laughed again, more freely this time, letting the warmth of the sound fill the space between them. “Deal,” he said, and for a moment, everything felt like it could be paused and saved, like a scene in a movie that you never wanted to end.

The air between them was quiet but electric, filled with unspoken words, possibilities, and the subtle, thrilling tension of two people discovering that maybe, just maybe, the story they were living was better than anything they could have written.

“I feel like at any moment right now, I’ll just sit down and you’ll start tap dancing, and we’ll tap dance together,” Minghao said, a playful lilt in his voice as he gestured vaguely to the wet pavement, the reflections of the streetlights making everything look like a stage.

Mingyu raised a brow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “La La Land reference?”

“Yes,” Minghao replied without missing a beat, his eyes sparkling. “Exactly that. The romance, the absurdity… the music in the air that makes everything feel bigger than it is.”

Mingyu laughed softly, shaking his head as he glanced at the puddles at their feet, imagining them as part of some cinematic scene. “I swear, you’re going to make me do it next, just to prove your point.”

“Do it,” Minghao challenged, his grin widening. “I’ll follow your lead.”

And for a heartbeat, they just stood there, the night wrapping around them like a scene from a movie—empty streets, faint jazz playing from somewhere distant, reflections shimmering under the dim lights. Something about the quiet made it feel impossible to leave, impossible not to imagine them dancing, even if only in that perfect, fleeting moment.

Mingyu’s laughter lingered in the air, and Minghao couldn’t help but think that maybe this night—this absurd, cinematic night—was exactly what they were both meant to find.

If Minghao could, he would have wanted this moment to stretch on forever, lingering like the soft echo of a jazz note that refuses to fade. He hadn’t felt this light, this untethered in a long time—not since before the heartbreak, not since the weight of work and expectations pressed down on him like a second skin.

Whenever he was with Mingyu, the chaos in his mind seemed to dissolve. The deadlines, the emails, the endless noise of life—all of it quieted, replaced by the simple presence of someone who somehow understood him without having to say a word.

There was something about Mingyu—something grounding. Just knowing he was there was enough to feel steady, enough to feel like, even for a fleeting moment, the world wasn’t so heavy. His laughter, his small gestures, the way he tilted his head when he listened—everything about him made Minghao feel safe in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Maybe that was why he enjoyed Mingyu’s company so much. It wasn’t just comfort; it was a quiet kind of magic, one that made the ordinary nights feel like something out of a movie, and the simplest moments feel infinite.

Eventually, they reached Minghao’s home without even realizing how far they had walked. The night had stretched lazily around them, the streetlights casting soft pools of golden light on the pavement, and the crisp air had begun to bite at their cheeks, making the warmth of the evening feel even more intimate.

Minghao reached the gate first, pausing for a moment as he turned the key in the lock. He looked back at Mingyu, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “Wanna come in?” he asked, his voice gentle, almost hesitant, inviting.

Mingyu shook his head, a playful grin spreading across his face. “I want it to be a surprise—the day we finally watch Serendipity.” His tone carried a teasing lightness, but Minghao caught the glimmer of something softer underneath, something unspoken.

Minghao nodded, feeling a sudden warmth rush to his cheeks, a mix of anticipation and something he didn’t quite have words for. “Alright,” he said, his voice a little quieter now, carrying the weight of the moment.

They lingered for a beat longer, just standing there under the glow of the streetlamp, neither of them quite ready to break the spell of the night. The quiet hum of the city surrounded them, but all Minghao could hear was the faint thrum of his own heart, and the comforting certainty that somehow, the universe had folded itself just right to bring them here, together.

Minghao stepped aside, letting Mingyu pass him as they walked up the small steps to the front door. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain and earth, and for a moment, they just stood there at the doorstep, lingering in the quiet together.

“I… had a really good time tonight,” Mingyu said softly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

“Me too,” Minghao replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead, though his voice wavered slightly with the warmth that bloomed in his chest.

Mingyu gave a small smile, one that made Minghao’s heart skip in ways he couldn’t explain. “Thank you for tonight,” he added, and it wasn’t just polite—it carried the weight of everything unsaid, every laugh, every shared glance, every quiet moment they’d stolen together over the past months.

Minghao opened the door wider, almost reluctantly. “Text me when you get home?” he asked, trying to sound casual, though his fingers tightened around the doorknob.

“I will,” Mingyu replied, stepping back just enough to wave before turning away. “Goodnight, Mr. Tea Time.”

Minghao chuckled, a soft, contented sound. “Goodnight, Mr. Haven’t-Watched-Serendipity-Yet.”

And with that, Mingyu disappeared into the night, leaving Minghao at the door with a quiet heart and a smile that lingered long after the door had closed.

——

Mingyu’s walk back home was slow, unhurried, guided mostly by instinct. He let his feet carry him wherever the wind nudged, down familiar streets lined with closed shops and glowing windows, past corners he had walked countless times but that tonight seemed different, charged with quiet magic.

The conversations he and Minghao had shared lingered in his mind like a melody that refused to leave, looping softly and insistently. He could still see Minghao’s face under the soft wash of the yellow streetlights, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about La La Land, how his smile stretched just a little too wide when he was caught in the joy of a story. His chest tightened and his heart fluttered at the memory, warm and insistent.

It was as if his mind had pressed pause on the night, freezing certain moments into a quiet, comforting core memory he could revisit whenever he wanted. Each step he took seemed to replay a scene in his head—the curve of a street corner, the shadow of a tree where they had laughed, the faint echo of Minghao’s laughter mingling with the crisp night air.

He passed a familiar park bench and paused, almost unconsciously, letting his gaze linger. For a moment, he could see them there, side by side, sharing frozen yogurt, arguing playfully over who had to pay, and the memory made him smile softly to himself. He took a deep breath, the chill of the night mixing with the warmth that rose from somewhere deep in his chest.

I really, really like him

And for the first time in a long while, Mingyu felt a quiet certainty settle over him, a gentle, unspoken acknowledgment that this—this feeling, this person—was something he didn’t want to let go of. He continued walking, each step lighter than the last, carrying the warmth of the night with him all the way home.

——

Minghao was in his house, settling into the familiar comfort of his nightly routine, a steaming cup of tea warming his hands. “Good night, Mr. Tea Time,” echoed in his head the moment he poured hot water into his mug, the words lingering longer than they should, curling around his thoughts in a way that made him smile softly to himself.

He hadn’t felt this comfortable around anyone in a long time, especially not someone who started as a stranger and somehow became the person he found himself constantly thinking about, checking in with, and updating on the smallest fragments of his day. The ease of it, the effortless way their conversations flowed, made him wonder how something so simple could feel so significant.

He leaned back against the couch, letting the warmth of the tea seep into his hands, though he quickly realized it had long gone cold on the table, abandoned in favor of his swirling thoughts. He could still hear Mingyu’s laughter in his mind, picture the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the quiet confidence that seemed to radiate from him even in the smallest gestures.

All of it—the late-night walks, the frozen yogurt, the playful bickering, the shared silences—pressed together into a single, undeniable feeling. Minghao sank fully into the cushions, letting himself just exist in the warmth of the memory, letting it settle like a soft blanket over his chest.

“Shit. I like him,” he muttered to himself, a grin spreading across his face as if admitting it out loud made it all the more real. And for the first time in a long while, that realization didn’t scare him—it felt like the start of something he actually wanted.

Chapter Text

Minghao was finally on set, and the news hit him like a punch to the gut—the kind of punch that knocks the air out of you and leaves your brain scrambling for a coherent thought. 

Both of the lead actors had called in sick. 

On top of that, the location they had painstakingly booked was only available for this specific day. Changing the schedule wasn’t an option; the budget was already stretched thin from props, costumes, set design—everything that made the scene look like the cinematic vision Minghao had spent months building.

He felt his chest tighten and his stomach sink at the same time, a cocktail of panic, frustration, and exhaustion swirling inside him. He wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. He wanted to scream at the absurdity of it all. He wanted to march right in front of the crew, the director, even the production assistants, and shout, “Movies cancelled! Let’s all just live the rest of the year without getting paid!”

Instead, he stood frozen, letting the silence of the set press in around him. The lights glimmered off the polished floors, the camera equipment loomed like silent witnesses, and he could hear the faint rustle of the crew shifting nervously, unsure how to comfort him—or maybe unsure how to fix the mess.

He ran a hand down his face, tugging at his hair, heart racing. Every little plan, every painstakingly prepared shot, every mood board he had spent nights obsessively perfecting seemed to crumble into dust in front of his eyes. The frustration wasn’t just professional—it felt personal, as if the universe itself was conspiring to test the limits of his patience.

And yet, amid the chaos and the helplessness, a stubborn part of him refused to break. He inhaled deeply, letting the smell of the studio—the faint metallic scent of lights and cables, the lingering fragrance of set paint—fill his lungs. He straightened his shoulders, determined to figure something out. There had to be a way. He couldn’t just let all of this go to waste. Not now, not after everything he had poured into it.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “we fix this. Somehow, we make it work.”

Even if it meant working miracles on an impossible day, Minghao knew he wouldn’t give up. The thought of giving in wasn’t even a flicker in his mind; failure was temporary, frustration was sharp, but the love for the craft—his stubborn, relentless drive to create something real—was permanent.

He thought of one thing; at least film how pretty the set looks. Maybe the shots could be used for the trailer, or maybe for behind-the-scenes content. He didn’t know. He just wanted to make something out of the chaos, to capture some fragment of the day before it disappeared entirely.

The director called for a break, giving Minghao a small reprieve from the suffocating pressure. He didn’t want to sit with the crew or talk to anyone; he needed somewhere quiet where he could hear his own thoughts, somewhere he could just exist without the weight of schedules, budgets, or sick actors pressing down on him.

He found a corner near the window, sunlight cutting through the blinds, dust particles floating lazily in the streaks of light. He leaned against the wall, phone in hand, and just… let himself be.

Minghao
tell me one reason why i love my job

Mingyu
to meet that one actor guy you like
hollywood
um..
to shit on timothée chalamet
okay i need context…

Minghao
on set filming today
guess what?

Mingyu
chicken butt
Sorry
go on

Minghao
both actors called in sick
and it just had to be today
Because! the set we’re filming on is extremely expensive and we don’t have the budget to do another day!
I want to scream and cry

He stared out the window as he typed, letting the frustration pour into his texts. He wasn’t expecting solutions, not from Mingyu—but even the idea of sharing it made the weight feel slightly lighter, like a crack of light through an otherwise stormy day.

Mingyu
shit… that’s awful.
are you okay?

Minghao
physically? fine
mentally? i want to throw something at the wall

Mingyu
if it makes you feel better, imagine me in a tux arguing with timothée chalamet and losing dramatically

Minghao
…i can see it. and now i feel slightly better

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Maybe the day wasn’t a total disaster yet. Maybe there was still a way to salvage some of it. And at the very least, Mingyu was there on the other side of the screen, making him feel like he wasn’t facing the chaos alone.

All he could think about was having a drink—something strong, something that would burn just enough on the way down to match the sting of the day. A glass of wine, maybe, paired with a little cheese, the kind of small indulgence that made frustrations feel more manageable, more distant.

But the nearest bar was too far from the set, and the thought of dragging himself all that way, only to sit alone with his own bitterness, made him lose the will entirely. The want evaporated as quickly as it came.

“Goddammit,” he muttered to himself, running a hand down his face. The word came out heavy, half-breathed, like it had been building at the back of his throat all day. He tilted his head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, and for a moment, he wished he could just disappear into the quiet.

——

On Mingyu’s end, he wasn’t having the best day.

He tried to start it right, the way he always did—Esperanza Spalding playing softly in the background, a full breakfast laid out in front of him, the kind of routine he clung to for a sense of stability. Then came the part he dreaded: opening his laptop, refreshing his inbox, and bracing himself for the responses.

And sure enough, there it was again.

Dear Kim Mingyu, we are sorry to inform you…

He almost laughed at the familiarity of it. At this point, rejection had become its own kind of ritual, folded neatly into his mornings like coffee or eggs. Still, every email chipped away at him, quiet reminders that the world didn’t seem to think he was good enough. As if the universe itself was whispering that he should just quit before he’d even started, retire without ever having worked.

He hated the thought of leaning back on his father’s money, hated the idea of being seen as dependent. He wanted to earn his own, carve something that was his. But his father’s voice always lingered in the back of his head, steady and calm, reminding him to take things slowly. Mingyu didn’t know whether to resent it or cling to it. Sometimes, he felt like he was caught between both.

He just wanted something stable, something constant, something that gave him purpose each day—something that could push him to step outside, even for a little while, so the world didn’t feel so far away.

It wasn’t that he hated where he lived. In fact, he cherished it. Every corner of the house carried traces of his dad—photos, furniture, the faint scent of cologne still lingering on certain shirts he hadn’t been able to give away. It was comforting in its own way, like living inside a memory. But sometimes, those same walls pressed in on him, heavy with silence, heavy with grief. On those days, the air felt too thick to breathe.

And somehow, almost always, Minghao seemed to know. Even without words, without Mingyu confessing anything, it was as if Minghao could read the unspoken weight hanging over him. A text would arrive at the exact moment he needed it most—something small, silly, or thoughtful—and it was enough to keep him grounded.

Mingyu found himself clinging to that routine, almost subconsciously. The way the universe seemed to conspire through Minghao. The way Minghao’s name lighting up his screen felt like oxygen. Sometimes, he caught himself checking his phone every few minutes, waiting for something that hadn’t yet come. And when it did, he’d reread the words over and over, smiling at their ridiculous inside jokes, at the way their conversations spiraled from nonsense to sincerity without warning.

It was strange, he thought, how someone could make a screen feel less empty, how a few lines of text could carry so much warmth. Minghao had become his favorite kind of distraction—one he didn’t want to let go of.

——

The day ended quicker than Minghao expected. What had started as a disaster—the kind that could ruin a schedule, a mood, even a career milestone—was no longer the weight on his shoulders. The actors who called in sick that morning surprised him by personally reaching out, apologizing, and even offering to cover part of the set costs. That in itself wasn’t something that should have happened—it was the production’s responsibility, not theirs—but they had said it with so much kindness and sincerity that Minghao didn’t have it in him to protest. 

And maybe, just maybe, part of him was still reeling from the fact that his favorite actors had called him directly, like he wasn’t just a small name in the credits but someone worth reassuring. 

He had to stop himself from full-on fanboying in front of the staff.

The ride back to the city was quiet. He got on the bus with the rest of the crew, all of them worn out and slumped into their seats. The soft rumble of the engine and the occasional whisper of conversation filled the air, but for the most part, exhaustion spoke louder than words. Minghao tucked himself by the window, pulled out his earphones, and let music fill in the silence.

Japanese Denim by Daniel Caesar began to play.

Not everything in his playlist was jazz, contrary to what people thought. Jazz was for calming evenings or soft, slow mornings when he wanted the world to ease into him gently. But otherwise? He drifted toward R&B, something warm and smooth, something that lingered.

This song in particular was one of his favorites because of how easily it sparked images in his mind. He could see it play out like a film scene: two strangers constantly bumping into each other in the city. One of them, carrying a cup of matcha, dressed in jorts with a Taylor Swift The Eras Tour tote bag swinging by their side. The other, holding a black coffee, simple as ever in a plain black shirt and fitted jeans, no bag, just AirPods in. 

The encounters weren’t grand, weren’t cinematic in the obvious sense—they were fleeting, wordless, yet charged with something unexplainable.

Minghao liked to think of fate that way. Not as fireworks or lightning strikes, but as quiet inevitability. As the universe gently pushed two people toward each other until they finally noticed. Meeting someone once and then seeing them again, and again, and again—it wasn't a coincidence. It was the universe whispering, This one. This person belongs to you.

The song’s line echoed against his chest like a soft knock. You don’t even know me…

You don’t even know me, but why are we constantly meeting? Why do you keep showing up in places I don’t expect? Why is it that every thought, every scene, every chance encounter in my head somehow bends back to you—

Oh my god.

Minghao felt his throat tighten as he pressed his forehead lightly against the cool bus window, trying to let the chill ground him. His lips curved despite himself, a helpless little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Of course. He was thinking of Mingyu.

And once the thought settled, it refused to leave, only growing warmer, louder, until it felt like the song was no longer about two strangers at all. It was about them. About how Mingyu slipped into his days so naturally that it almost felt orchestrated. About how Mingyu lingered in his head long after they parted ways, until even music like this pulled him back.

He closed his eyes, and for a second, the crowded bus disappeared. All he could see was Mingyu’s smile under the yellow glow of a streetlight, the way his laugh carried in the cool air, the way just being near him made everything else fall quiet.

He couldn’t help himself—his lips tugged upward without permission, a soft, almost bashful smile at the thought of Mingyu. There was just something about him. Something he couldn’t quite name, but something he felt in every bone of his body. Mingyu wasn’t the quiet type, not exactly, but he had this uncanny way of making Minghao’s world fall still. 

Even when they weren’t together, even when it was just words on a screen at 2 a.m., Minghao would read his texts and suddenly, everything else would fade into background noise. It was like Mingyu carried a kind of silence with him—not the heavy kind, but the comforting, warm kind you never want to end.

And then there was the strange realization Minghao had one night—that ever since Mingyu walked into his life about seven months ago, he hadn’t once truly thought about his ex. Sure, sometimes the topic slipped in when his friends mentioned it, and he would nod, maybe laugh it off, maybe even acknowledge a memory or two. But he never felt the ache anymore.

He never cried over it (except for the night they actually broke up,) never went home with that sharp hollowness in his chest. Mingyu made it feel like moving on wasn’t this impossible mountain he’d been dragging his feet up. Mingyu made it feel like he had already crossed it, without even noticing when or how.

And maybe that was the thing. Mingyu, with his clumsy jokes and his whiskey-soaked warmth and the way he always texted at the right time, made him believe that he had his life together, or at least that he could. Because what else could explain the sudden drive in him again? What else could explain why he wanted to wake up earlier, to show up on time, to fight for projects even when they were falling apart, to keep trying? 

The thought that someone out there, someone like Mingyu, was quietly rooting for him—whether it was through a teasing text or a simple “drink water, idiot”—was enough.

Minghao leaned back against the bus seat, breath fogging faintly on the glass of the window as he smiled at his own reflection. He hadn’t felt this way in a long, long time. Not since before the heartbreak, not since before the exhaustion of work dulled his edges, not since before he started believing that love might not happen to him the way it did in films.

God. He’s never felt this happy.

The song slipped into its last chords, and another began to hum softly in his ears. love by wave to earth. A song that always made his chest ache in that bittersweet, yearning way, as if it knew the secret parts of his heart before he could say them out loud.

And Minghao let the thought settle, warm and terrifying all at once.

Yeah. Maybe it was confirmed.

He was in love with Mingyu.

——

They both admitted one thing to each other: they liked each other’s company. They liked how easy it was to sit together without having to constantly find words to stitch the silence together. Because, truthfully, talking could be exhausting—sometimes silence was the kindest language. And with each other, silence never felt empty; it felt like something sacred, something only they understood.

Another thing they confessed, with shy grins and half-laughed tones, was how much they liked bumping into each other, as if fate had them on strings, tugging them into the same space over and over again. Neither of them said the obvious out loud—that maybe, just maybe, the universe was doing this on purpose. Instead, they played dumb, as if pretending it was all coincidence would save them from acknowledging what was really happening between them.

So here they were again, back at Moon River. The dimly lit jazz bar had its Thursday night lull, one of those slower evenings where only a handful of regulars occupied the booths and tables. The band had returned too, playing to a small but loyal crowd, filling the room with gentle brass and velvet voices. Tonight, their usual spot awaited them: the bar itself, polished wood and soft lights glowing off glass.

By now, a ritual had formed between them. Over the months, they’d memorized each other’s orders. Mingyu always got Minghao’s glass of wine before he even walked in, and Minghao always made sure Mingyu’s whiskey was waiting when he arrived first. It had grown into a silent pact, a little game wrapped in routine. Whoever got there first paid for both drinks, no questions asked. Which naturally turned into something playful—who would arrive earlier, who would win tonight? 

A small race neither admitted they cared about, though the small pout Mingyu sometimes gave when he lost suggested otherwise.

But the truth was, they didn’t pay much attention to the scoreboard. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that somehow, they kept ending up together. The bar, the drinks, the routine—it was only a stage for something greater: their company. And for them, that was enough.

The band was playing At Long Last Love, Sinatra’s velvet croon weaving through the dim room like smoke. The melody wrapped itself around them, lacing the air with warmth. Minghao, leaning slightly over his glass, smiled softly before speaking.

“You know, this song is from the movie that’s also called At Long Last Love? It’s directed by Peter Bogdanovich.” His voice carried that familiar spark, the cinephile in him unable to resist sharing a bit of trivia, eyes glinting with excitement.

Mingyu wasn’t even listening to the details. Not really. Not because he didn’t care, but because all he could think about was how stunning Minghao looked when he spoke like this. His eyes lighting up, his lips tugging into a grin as he leaned into his own passion, his voice animated in a way that made it impossible not to listen. Mingyu thought about how unfair it was—that someone could look so beautiful simply by talking about the things they loved.

He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t tease. He just watched him, soaking in the sight as if it were another melody layered over Sinatra’s song, one he wished would never end.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Mingyu blinked, caught off guard, his hand curling lazily around his glass as if it could hide the fact he’d been staring. The amber liquid tilted with the movement, catching the bar’s soft light.

“Like what?” he asked, tone even, though his lips twitched as if they might betray him with a smile.

Minghao raised a brow, leaning an elbow against the counter, his fingers lightly tapping the stem of his glass. “Like you’re zoning out but still listening to me,” he said, his eyes narrowing just slightly, but the corners of his mouth were curved upward in quiet amusement.

Mingyu let out a low chuckle, finally breaking his gaze to glance at the band onstage, though he knew the heat in his cheeks was already giving him away. “Maybe I’m just good at multitasking,” he murmured, swirling his whiskey slowly before taking a small sip.

Minghao tilted his head, studying him. “Mm. Or maybe you’re just not that good at hiding things.”

Their eyes met again, the tension soft but undeniable, like the pause between two notes in a song—hanging, waiting, almost humming.

In Minghao’s defense, he was tired—utterly drained—from shooting all week. The long hours on set, the constant repetition of lines, the adjusting lights, the endless takes that always felt like they were going nowhere… it was enough to wear down anyone. He hadn’t realized just how exhausted he was until the wine started to slip into his system. One glass, then another, and another after that. By the time he looked at the table, the bottle was nearly gone, and Mingyu’s slightly raised brows told him everything he needed to know.

Somehow, between his words about cinema, about stories he wanted to tell and projects that lived only in his head for now, he hadn’t even noticed he’d opened the second bottle. And worse—he hadn’t noticed he was halfway through that one too. A bottle and a half in, and the world tilted ever so slightly when he leaned against the bar counter.

No wonder he was dizzy. Minghao always thought he could handle two bottles, max, and maybe on any other night he would’ve been right. But tonight, his body betrayed him. The fatigue from work, the rush of adrenaline every time Mingyu laughed at one of his rants, and the low hum of Sinatra filling the background—it all blurred together into something heavier than he expected.

Here he was now, words scumbling in his mouth, falling over one another like clumsy dancers, and he wasn’t even sure if what he said was making sense. Every time he tried to form a thought, it came out softer, slower, his accent curling around the words in ways he usually controlled better. He kept pausing mid-sentence, lips parting, eyes blinking slowly as if chasing the thought that had already run away from him.

Mingyu paid for their drinks that night—not only because he was there first, but because Minghao was far too dehydrated, too out of it, to even think about paying. Before slipping his card to the bartender, Mingyu asked for two water bottles, shoving them into Minghao’s hands with that easy smile of his, as though hydration could magically undo the effects of half a bottle too many.

It didn’t.

Minghao still slumped against the barstool like gravity had grown heavier, his fingers slack around the neck of the bottle, his gaze somewhere between the floor and the haze of dim lights overhead.

The thing is, Mingyu had yet to memorise the way to Minghao’s home. He had been there—twice. Both times should’ve been enough to recall which streets to take, which corner store meant turn left, which cracked lamppost meant straight ahead. But he never paid attention. Both times, he was too busy watching Minghao speak, too busy letting the sound of his voice pull him along like a tide.

Minghao spoke like no one else did. His words weren’t just conversation; they stretched into something softer, deliberate, almost lyrical. He had a way of putting sense into things that shouldn’t have made sense at all—how a film could mirror life, how silence was a language, how bumping into each other was maybe fate and maybe not, but either way it was enough. Every time Mingyu tried to pin the directions into memory, he ended up memorising Minghao’s mouth instead. The curve of it when he spoke. The crease of his brows when he searched for the right word.

And now—now he was lost.

Not lost in the sense of being stranded in some dark street with no name. No, he knew exactly where they were: the stretch of sidewalk just outside Moon River, the lamplight flickering above them, the muffled hum of Sinatra still leaking out the bar’s windows. He was lost in the way that he didn’t know what to fucking do. Should he call a cab and pray the driver knew Minghao’s address? Should he try to guide them on foot and risk wandering in circles until the sun came up? Or should he just sit here, in this exact moment, with Minghao leaning against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world?

So Mingyu did the one thing his friends would do to him whenever he was the one stumbling through the night: he took Minghao to his own house.

Mingyu couldn’t believe this was happening—the person he really, really had a crush on, the person he had spent months pretending not to look at too long or think about too much, was about to stay at his house. Possibly overnight. His brain kept looping the word overnight like it was something scandalous. Then again, Minghao could very well sober up at 3 a.m. and decide to leave, slipping out of his apartment like the night had never happened. 

Mingyu hoped he wouldn’t.

And of course, Mingyu had been stupid enough not to bring his car. The walk back wasn’t that long, but for someone who had too many drinks? Could be tough.

Luckily, Minghao still had enough strength to keep moving forward, though it was more of a half-drift than a stride. His steps swayed, his breath catching on little hiccups, but he pressed on with Mingyu right there, steadying him with a palm against his back. It wasn’t much, just the lightest pressure to keep him upright, but Mingyu found his hand lingering longer than it should’ve.

The city at night was quieter than usual, the streets almost empty, the pools of orange light from the lamps bending across the pavement. Their shadows stretched together, one tall and solid, the other wavering and unsteady, like they were stitched side by side by accident.

One thing Mingyu learned about Minghao that night: drunk Minghao was hyper Minghao. He wouldn’t stop talking. It wasn’t the kind of senseless, slurred chatter most people spilled after too much to drink. It was constant, yes, but deliberate—like a floodgate finally cracked open. His words tumbled out faster than Mingyu could catch them, skipping from random thoughts about film and art to the color of the sky earlier that day, then suddenly into memories of home, his mother’s voice, the taste of certain dishes he missed.

It struck Mingyu then: Minghao wasn’t just talking. He was unraveling.

It was as if he were the lake—so still on the surface, so composed, but with everything moving beneath the water, unseen and restless. Mingyu realized in the quiet between Minghao’s words how much he had been holding in for years. All the things that never made it into conversation, all the weight he carried without asking anyone to notice. And now, for some reason, Minghao trusted him enough to spill it out here, under the dim glow of streetlights, with Mingyu’s hand keeping him steady.

“One thing I like about Someone Great is how they were able to capture the pain of breakups and how some people don’t know how to commit, but also how it shows the way people become automatically dependent on someone they don’t even see themselves marrying.” Minghao had started rambling about movies again, his voice a mix of casual commentary and something heavier underneath.

“Like… all she wanted was to be a writer in New York, right? And he didn’t want to do a long-distance relationship. But she tried—she really tried—to tell him that it was their dream, not just hers. Yet he still didn’t even… try.” His voice trailed off, the words fading mid-sentence. He blinked slowly, his expression caught somewhere between thought and memory, as if the movie had brushed against something too close to his own life.

“I’m not saying this because I haven’t moved on from my ex—which I have, by the way.” He glanced at Mingyu, almost defensive, almost like he needed to prove it. “But it just felt… really familiar. Because… when I got promoted at work, I got busier, of course. Long hours, late nights, less time for… everything. But I still tried to make an effort, you know? I still wanted to hold on, to make it work. And yet… he never reciprocated. He never really cared. Not about the relationship, not even about me, at least not in the way I hoped he would. And the more I look back, the more I realize that maybe he never did.”

Minghao let out a quiet laugh, the kind that wasn’t really humor but more like disbelief at himself. “That movie didn’t exactly hit home, but it gave me… flashes. Memories I wish I could just delete. Things I wish I didn’t have to remember, but I do anyway.”

He tilted the water bottle in his hand, watching the liquid shift inside before taking a slow sip. The pause lingered between them, filled only by the sound of the city around them, the faint hum of traffic in the distance.

“It’s a really good movie,” he said finally, softer this time, as though admitting it to himself. “It really is. And it hits you in this weird spot—you don’t even know it’s there until the film touches it, and suddenly you feel it. Even if it’s not the exact same pain, it just… sneaks up on you. If that even makes sense.”

His voice trailed off again, eyes darting toward Mingyu for reassurance, like he was waiting for a sign that it was okay to be saying all of this out loud.

“Like if that clinic in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was real,” Minghao said, leaning his head back against the couch cushion, voice slurring slightly from the leftover buzz of wine, “I’d go to it in a heartbeat and have him removed from my memory. Every trace of him—gone. Because I put in so much effort, just for what? To be cheated on with a girl who he swore was ‘just a friend.’”

He let out a sharp laugh, mocking, brittle. “‘I didn’t know you guys were dating,’ my ass.” He rolled his eyes hard enough that Mingyu thought they might get stuck there.

The bitterness in his tone wasn’t subtle; it carried years of swallowed anger that had been polished down into something sarcastic, something easier to laugh at than cry about. His hand gestured vaguely, almost dramatically, as though acting out the ridiculousness of it all would make it feel less like it actually happened to him.

Minghao sighed, dragging his palm across his face. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it? That I still remember every little detail of that night. The way his voice cracked when he tried to lie, the way she couldn’t even look me in the eye, the way I stood there—like an idiot—still trying to believe him. Still trying to believe us.”

He let his hand drop onto his lap, his fingers curling loosely around the water bottle Mingyu had given him earlier. “Movies make it seem so poetic, you know? Pain, heartbreak, betrayal—they’re all written with meaning, tied neatly into character arcs. But in real life?” He shook his head, bitter smile tugging at his lips. “In real life it just makes you feel small. Like you were never enough, no matter how much of yourself you gave.”

For a moment, his voice softened, the sharpness thinning into something almost fragile. “That’s why if that clinic were real, I wouldn’t even hesitate. Not because I’m not strong enough to live with it—but because I’d rather spend the rest of my life forgetting than remembering someone who didn’t even care if I was broken in the first place.”

Minghao pressed the rim of the bottle against his lips but didn’t drink, just held it there, his eyes faraway. “But of course, that’s just science fiction.” He exhaled slowly, a humorless chuckle escaping. “Lucky me, huh? Stuck with my memories, whether I like them or not.”

Mingyu just kept listening to him; his whole body leaning slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees, chin tilted so his eyes never left Minghao. It was rare—almost unheard of—for Minghao to unravel like this without stopping, without asking what Mingyu thought, without turning the conversation back around like he usually did. Tonight, though, the dam had cracked, and everything he’d been holding in for years came spilling out in messy words and half-laughed confessions.

Mingyu didn’t dare interrupt. He just sat there, letting Minghao’s voice fill the room, carrying a rhythm that was more honest than polished. Every word felt like a thread being pulled loose, and Mingyu wanted him to untangle as much as he needed.

Minghao, however, finally caught himself. He dragged a hand down his face, groaning, his cheeks flushed—not just from the alcohol but from the sudden realization of how much he had said. “I’m talking too fucking much,” he muttered, his words heavy, tangled with the slur of wine. “Fuck, I’m so fucking drunk…” he says, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as though hiding from his own admission.

Mingyu’s lips curved into the smallest smile, though there was nothing mocking about it. If anything, he felt a strange tenderness growing in his chest, watching Minghao like this—unguarded, messy, human. “You’re fine,” Mingyu said softly, voice low and steady, the kind of tone that felt like an anchor. “Keep talking if you want. I don’t mind.”

“That’s one thing I like about rom-coms… they make me feel what you make me feel, Gyu-ah,” Minghao slurred, his words barely coherent but earnest, and Mingyu froze mid-step. He didn’t even know where the hell the ‘Gyu-ah’ came from, but somehow it landed in his chest like a feather resting on bare skin.

“I don’t even… Fuck, Gyu. It’s only been seven months and I just… I couldn’t help myself but fall in love with you,” Minghao continued, voice breaking slightly, a tremor threading through his drunken honesty. Mingyu felt heat creep up his neck. He wanted to say ‘me too,’ but he held it back. This was Minghao’s moment, raw and unfiltered, and he wanted to let it resonate, let it linger. So instead, he just smiled, a quiet, soft smile, letting the words echo in his mind, letting them settle like a secret promise.

The walk to Mingyu’s house was quiet after that, only the soft shuffle of their footsteps on the pavement and the occasional slurred mumble from Minghao breaking the stillness. Minghao’s head lolled gently against Mingyu’s shoulder as they climbed the steps, the faint glow of streetlights catching in his tousled hair. He muttered half-jokes and fragments of thoughts that made Mingyu chuckle softly under his breath, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the moment.

The guest room was still cluttered with boxes, his father’s old clothes stacked neatly but densely, like silent guardians of memory. Mingyu hadn’t had the heart to move them yet; he didn’t want to erase the feeling that his father was still quietly watching over him. 

Tonight, he decided, Minghao would have his bed. It seemed easiest, simplest—soft, warm, welcoming. Mingyu would curl up on the couch in the living room, which could stretch into a makeshift bed if needed, and somehow that arrangement felt right, comfortable, natural.

He flicked the light on in his room, spilling a soft glow across Minghao’s flushed face. “Sleep here, Mr. Tea Time,” he said quietly, a note of care threading through the calm words. Minghao, head pounding, eyes half-shut, simply nodded and collapsed onto the bed without protest. His body softened immediately, melting into the sheets as though the bed had absorbed the day’s stress and offered him refuge.

Mingyu lingered at the doorway for a long moment. He watched Minghao’s chest rise and fall steadily, the faint twitch of his lips as he murmured in sleep, and felt the pull in his chest, the way his heart thudded painfully and beautifully at the same time. Every instinct told him to crawl in beside him, to wrap him in the blanket, whisper something comforting—but he held back. He wanted it to be slow, natural, something they both could savor without rushing.

The words Minghao had said earlier kept looping in his mind, gentle and impossible to ignore. He does feel the same way… The thought made him grin softly, almost shyly.

Quietly, Mingyu slipped out of the room and tiptoed to the bathroom. The rush of warm water and the crisp scent of soap grounded him, a calm ritual after the emotional storm of the night. Pajamas followed, familiar and comforting, a layer between him and the rawness of his feelings. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and settled onto the couch, feeling the soft fabric against his skin, the weight of it like a gentle hug.

Even then, he couldn’t stop thinking about Minghao—drunk, vulnerable, and undeniably his. His presence filled the space of the house in a way Mingyu had never noticed before, lingering in the sheets, in the faint scent of wine and mint in his hair, in the way his breathing resonated softly against the quiet of the night. 

The closeness without touch made his heart race. “Shit… he’s in my room, asleep,” he muttered under his breath, hugging the blanket tighter as if it could hold all the feelings he wasn’t ready to voice.

Exhaustion finally claimed him, the weight of the day and the warmth of Minghao’s nearness lulling him into sleep. And as he drifted, the even, gentle rhythm of Minghao’s breathing followed him into dreams, a quiet, grounding presence that made the rest of the world fade into nothingness, leaving only this one perfect, unspoken connection between them.

Chapter Text

Mingyu started his day like he did any other day. He woke up, checked his phone, and let the soft glow of the screen pull him gently into reality. A few unread messages sat there, some from his friends, some from group chats, but none caught his attention long enough to distract him. He tossed the phone aside after a while, rolled out of bed, and stretched until his joints cracked.

Like a habit, he turned on some jazz—something calm and steady, something that gave the apartment a kind of warmth that felt lived in. The quiet hum of the trumpet filled the corners of the kitchen as he began to set out ingredients. Eggs, bread, a bit of leftover rice from last night, and fresh vegetables he’d picked up a few days ago. Cooking always grounded him, always gave him something simple and sure to focus on. Chop, stir, taste, repeat.

But today wasn’t like every other day. Not really. Because this morning, someone else was still asleep in his room—the same someone who had spent half the walk home last night leaning against him, mumbling about rom-coms and broken hearts and dreams too heavy to carry alone.

Minghao.

The thought alone made Mingyu pause for a moment, knife hovering above the cutting board. He exhaled slowly and went back to slicing the tomatoes, but the smile tugging at his lips refused to fade. Minghao, in his bed. Minghao, whose head had rested so easily against his shoulder. Minghao, whose voice—unfiltered, unguarded—still echoed in his head like a secret Mingyu wasn’t supposed to hear.

He tried to focus on the sizzle of oil in the pan, but his mind kept slipping back to the image of Minghao sleeping peacefully, breathing slow and steady, the weight of exhaustion finally catching up to him. It felt unreal, like Mingyu had stumbled into a scene from one of those movies Minghao kept rambling about. The difference was—this wasn’t scripted, this wasn’t acted. This was real. And it was happening in his tiny apartment, with jazz filling the air and the smell of breakfast curling up into the quiet morning.

He found himself moving more carefully than usual, mindful of every sound, as though he didn’t want to break the spell. His crush—the person he liked so much it made his chest ache—was just a few steps away, still tangled in blankets on Mingyu’s bed. And Mingyu, for the first time in a long time, felt like maybe this ordinary morning wasn’t so ordinary after all.

Then his phone buzzed through the speaker—

Minghao
good morning..
I think someone broke into my home because why does the kitchen smell good
my head hurts like absolute shit

Mingyu
do you realize that you’re in my house right now?
like… how similar are our rooms for you to not recognize it?

All that was followed by a loud, startled, “WHAT?!” coming from Mingyu’s kitchen. Minghao stumbled out of the guest room in the clothes he’d slept in—soft, slightly wrinkled from the night—rubbing his temples with one hand as the other held onto his head like it might fall apart. The sunlight streaming through the curtains made him wince, and the memory of last night’s drunken rambling came back in full force.

Mingyu stood there, calm as ever, flipping pancakes and stirring eggs, the morning light glinting off his hair and making him look impossibly serene. Somehow, he managed to radiate warmth and normalcy while Minghao felt like an unmade bed with legs.

“Crap, crap—ah!” Minghao yelled, pressing his palms to his face, only to be followed by a massive headache that made his knees wobble slightly. He felt guilty in a way that was almost physical, a tight, twisting sensation in his chest. How had he let Mingyu see him so vulnerable? He felt exposed, fragile, hungover, and completely dependent on Mingyu’s patience. The thought made him want to crawl back under the covers and disappear.

“I’m so, so, so sorry for being an inconvenience! I—why didn’t you just take me home—?” His voice cracked mid-sentence, betraying the hangover and the residual embarrassment from last night.

Mingyu, calm and collected, turned slightly to face him, giving a small, reassuring shrug while plating the eggs. “It’s okay, you’re fine. I… I still don’t know where you live, so I brought you to my home…” he says with a small smile on his face “Ta da…!” His tone was light, teasing, but there was something in the way he said it—something gentle, unhurried, caring—that made Minghao’s shoulders loosen slightly despite the pounding in his head.

Minghao blinked, still gripping his temples, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. He felt so, so lucky. Lucky that he didn't have to go on set today, lucky that Mingyu didn’t look annoyed or frustrated, lucky that the person he’d been falling for, slowly, quietly, was taking care of him without complaint.

“I… I really—thank you,” Minghao finally muttered, voice rough, barely above a whisper, but full of sincerity. He shuffled closer to the counter, leaning slightly on it as if it were a lifeline, watching Mingyu move around the kitchen with a rhythm that was both mundane and mesmerizing. Pancakes flipped, eggs stirred, tea poured—the ordinary magic of someone caring enough to make breakfast for you when you’re a mess.

Mingyu glanced at him, smirking faintly. “Tea for Mr. Tea time?” he asked, holding out a steaming mug. Minghao’s fingers wrapped around it, the warmth seeping into his chilled, still-dizzy hands. He took a careful sip, letting the bitterness and heat anchor him to reality, to the present moment, and somehow—he felt better.

“Yeah… yeah, this is good,” he muttered, eyes still soft on Mingyu. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever stop feeling lucky—or nervous—around him. And maybe, he thought, that was the thrill, the quiet, constant pull he hadn’t realized he’d been craving.

Mingyu smiled again, more warmly this time, as if reading his thoughts. “Don’t worry about last night. You’re not an inconvenience. You’re—well, you’re just you, and I guess… that’s worth a lot.”

Minghao’s chest tightened, a mix of embarrassment and something else he didn’t name yet. He wanted to say so many things—apologies, thank-yous, maybe even something that hinted at last night—but instead, he just nodded, sipping the coffee slowly and letting the quiet, ordinary comfort of Mingyu’s care wash over him.“Did I… say anything stupid last night?” Minghao asked, voice still rough from sleep and hangover, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his mug. His eyes were wide, hesitant, like he was bracing for judgment.

Mingyu shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Other than ranting about Someone Great? No, you didn’t.” He lied gently, for Minghao’s sake, letting the words hang in the air with a calm reassurance. He could see Minghao relax just a fraction, shoulders dropping, the tension easing from his expression.

Minghao blinked slowly, a sheepish grin forming. “Right… okay. Good. Because I feel like I… I said a lot.”

“You did,” Mingyu admitted lightly, leaning against the counter, “but it was… kind of nice. To hear you talk about stuff you actually care about.”

Minghao’s gaze softened, a warmth creeping into his eyes despite the pounding in his head. “Kind of nice?” he repeated, almost like he was testing the words, afraid they might vanish if spoken too loudly.

“Yeah,” Mingyu said, shrugging lightly, though his smile deepened. “You’re… passionate, you know? About everything. It’s… kind of infectious.”

Minghao’s lips twitched, half-smile, half-grimace. “Infectious, huh? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” Mingyu said quietly, voice low, steady. He paused, then added, almost to himself, “You’re just… you, and I like that.”

The words lingered in the kitchen air, gentle and weighty all at once. Minghao didn’t respond immediately, only sipped his tea slowly, letting the warmth settle into him, and for a moment, the headache and embarrassment felt a little lighter—because Mingyu had said it, really said it, and that was enough.

Minghao sort of forced himself to eat a few pancakes Mingyu cooked for him, despite not being the type to eat breakfast every morning. He pushed the fork through the soft, golden edges, chewing slowly, more out of obligation than hunger. His thoughts wouldn’t shut up—they kept yelling at him to eat because it would be a waste if he didn’t, because if he didn’t eat, the hangover would only stay longer. But still, guilt sat heavy in his chest, heavier than the headache that pulsed behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry… I really shouldn’t have—why did I even let myself have a second glass?” he mumbled, voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet of the kitchen. His shame was sharp and unrelenting, circling around the memory of last night. He hated that Mingyu had seen him that way, unguarded and sloppy, his words running out of him without control. Minghao prided himself on being composed, on always holding himself together, but alcohol stripped him down to the softest parts of himself.

And that was the problem.

One thing about Minghao: he only let himself get drunk around people he trusted. He didn’t like vulnerability, but with Mingyu, it was different. He trusted him—deeply, instinctively, like his guard just crumbled without effort. But trust was dangerous, because underneath it, Minghao carried a truth he wasn’t ready to hand over yet: he liked Mingyu. No, he really liked him. That giddy, restless kind of crush, the kind that made his stomach twist like he was seventeen again. And the thought that he might have spilled it all last night—confessed without meaning to—made his pulse hammer.

His fork hovered in the air as the panic crawled up his spine. What if he had said it? What if Mingyu knew? What if last night he’d ruined the fragile balance they had, and Mingyu was only being polite this morning?

The panic didn’t help the headache. It only sharpened it. Minghao rubbed his temple with the heel of his palm, barely realizing that Mingyu had been watching him the whole time. He tensed, the stiffness in his shoulders betraying his inner chaos, and before he could spiral further, he felt a warm, steady hand patting his back.

“Hey, relax,” Mingyu said softly, like he knew exactly what was going on inside his head. His tone was calm, grounding, carrying that natural reassurance that always seemed to surround him. “You didn’t say anything. If you did, I already would’ve said something.”

It was a lie, of course. Mingyu knew it, and he hated lying to Minghao of all people, but he couldn’t bring himself to shatter this fragile morning. He wanted Minghao to feel safe, not exposed. If it meant carrying the weight of last night’s confession quietly, he’d do it. He’d keep it safe like a secret between his chest and the walls of his room.

Minghao glanced at him, uncertain, eyes flickering as if searching for cracks in Mingyu’s words. But Mingyu only offered him a small smile, warm and steady, and for a moment Minghao let himself believe him. He let himself breathe, even if the doubt still lingered at the edges of his thoughts.

The pancakes sat half-eaten on his plate, but Minghao didn’t care about them anymore. What mattered—what scared him most—was that he trusted Mingyu too much. And sometimes, that trust felt dangerously close to love.

“Do you wanna… wear my clothes? Just so you’re comfortable? Well—that’s if you don’t have work… Do you?” Mingyu stammered, nervously looking at Minghao. His words stumbled out like loose stones tumbling down a hill, unpolished but sincere. The thought of Minghao in his clothes made his heart stutter violently in his chest. He didn’t even realize how far gone he was until the image flashed in his head: Minghao, hair still messy from sleep, draped in one of his oversized shirts. Shit. He was gone—so gone.

“I don’t have work today, thank god,” Minghao giggled, a soft, unguarded sound that made Mingyu’s stomach twist. He sounded relieved, almost boyish, the kind of laugh that made the weight on his shoulders seem a little lighter. “I honestly didn’t want to go on set today anyway.” He paused, leaning back slightly in his chair as if admitting it made him feel even freer. Then, with a sly tilt of his head, he added, “But that’s only if you want me to. And not you saying it for the sake of being nice.”

Minghao’s teasing tone tugged at something inside Mingyu, both flustering and comforting him all at once. He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck, trying to hide how fast his heart was beating. “I mean it. I… I want you to. It’s not about being nice.” His voice dipped, quieter now, almost shy. “I just think you’d… you’d look good.”

That made Minghao grin, wide and mischievous, but beneath it, something softer glimmered in his eyes. “You think so?”

Mingyu almost cursed himself for blurting it out, but it was too late now. His cheeks burned. “Yeah,” he muttered, fumbling with the edge of his plate, as though pancakes could save him from this spiral. “I think you’d look better in my clothes than I do.”

Minghao let out another giggle, the kind that filled the kitchen with warmth, brighter than the morning light streaming in through the curtains. He rested his chin on his hand, watching Mingyu with an expression that felt dangerously close to fondness. “Careful, Mingyu. That sounded like flirting.”

Mingyu’s jaw went slack for half a second before he chuckled, trying to mask his panic with humor. “What if it was?”

For a moment, the world seemed to still. The sizzling pan on the stove, the faint hum of the jazz still playing on Mingyu’s phone, the clink of cutlery—it all faded into the background. Minghao looked at him, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion but softening almost instantly, and Mingyu swore he saw a faint blush spread across his cheeks.

Minghao leaned back with a sigh, breaking the tension. “Fine. Let me see what you’ve got, then. But if your fashion sense betrays me, Gyu, I’m blaming you for the embarrassment.”

Mingyu practically jumped up from his chair, trying to hide the grin stretching across his face. “Don’t worry,” he said, already heading toward his room, “I think I know what’ll suit you.”

He didn’t admit that he had thought about this before—what Minghao would look like in his hoodies, how soft the fabric would fall against his frame, how natural it would feel seeing him in the little details of his life. He grabbed one of his favorite shirts, oversized and comfortably worn, paired with sweatpants that would hang just right. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was warm, lived-in, his.

When he returned, Minghao was still at the table, sipping water, looking both amused and curious. Mingyu handed the clothes over sheepishly, trying not to imagine how good they would look.

Minghao raised a brow, holding them up. “Sweats and a shirt? You’re really going for the boyfriend aesthetic here, huh?”

Mingyu’s ears burned, and he laughed it off, “Just try it on, okay?”

And as Minghao disappeared into the bathroom with the bundle of clothes, Mingyu sat back down, pressing his palms to his face, muttering under his breath, “Fuck, I’m so gone.”

The day went on—the two decided to go out to a café.

Minghao was in Mingyu’s clothes.

Going out with him.

For a café.

Mingyu tried to act like it was normal, like this was just two friends grabbing coffee, but inside, he was completely spiraling. The sight of Minghao slipping on his hoodie, sleeves too long and bunching at his wrists, sweatpants hanging a little loose on his frame—it was almost too much. Mingyu couldn’t stop thinking about how natural it looked, as though Minghao had always belonged in them, as though this was something they’d been doing for years.

He kept his composure as best he could, grabbing his wallet and keys, holding the door open like it was nothing, but the whole time he was buzzing with a nervous energy he couldn’t quite tame. He didn’t know if anyone else could see it, but to him it felt like his chest was glowing neon red.

Minghao, on the other hand, seemed… relaxed. Too relaxed, almost. He adjusted the sleeves of the hoodie, tugging them over his palms, and glanced at Mingyu with a soft grin. “So this is the kind of comfort you live in, huh?”

Mingyu chuckled awkwardly, scratching at his neck. “I mean… yeah. Not bad, right?”

“Not bad at all,” Minghao replied, looking down at himself for a second before meeting Mingyu’s eyes again. And that was it—just that simple look, paired with the smallest smile, and Mingyu’s heart did a whole summersault in his chest.

They walked to the café side by side, the silence between them comfortable, not the kind that begged to be filled. Every now and then, Minghao’s shoulder brushed against his, and Mingyu wondered if Minghao noticed, if he was pulling away on purpose or if he was letting it happen.

When they got to the café, Minghao slid into the booth first, tucking himself into the corner, pulling the hoodie tighter around him as if it belonged to him. And maybe that was the part that hit Mingyu hardest—not just seeing Minghao wear his clothes, but seeing how right it looked, how easy it felt.

Mingyu sat across from him, trying to ignore how every movement Minghao made seemed to carve itself into his memory.

“My treat.” Minghao said firmly, eyes glued to the menu as if the words were casually placed between the lines of lattes and croissants. He didn’t even bother making eye contact.

Mingyu blinked, caught off guard. “No—hey! It’s supposed to be my treat!” His voice came out a little too quickly, a little too defensive, like he’d been rehearsing this moment in his head and hadn’t expected Minghao to get there first.

“You let me stay in your house while I had the worst hangover, now I’m in your clothes—I owe you,” Minghao countered, finally lifting his gaze, his tone stubborn but softened by the faintest curve of a smile.

No you don’t, Mingyu wanted to say. He wanted to tell him that he didn’t owe him anything, that letting him stay was the easiest decision he’d ever made, that the clothes weren’t really a debt but a quiet wish come true. He wanted to tell him that just being here, across from him, was more than enough—more than Mingyu had dared to ask for.

But instead, he laughed lightly, shaking his head, trying to mask the warmth blooming in his chest. “Fine. But next time, I’m not letting you win this argument.”

Minghao arched a brow, teasing. “Next time?”

Mingyu felt the tips of his ears burn. He busied himself with the napkin dispenser, muttering, “Yeah. Next time.”

And Minghao just let it hang there, that next time, smiling softly into his menu like he hadn’t just made Mingyu’s heart skip a beat.

Chapter Text

Minghao doesn’t know how he got here.

The last thing he remembered was just saying yes—yes to whatever his friends were suggesting, letting the words tumble out of his mouth without a second thought. He didn’t even register that his yes had agreed to going out, to stepping into someone else’s space to have a drink or two, to be surrounded by chatter, laughter, and that vague, warm smell of beer and fried food.

The week had been relentless. It had started with him collapsing at Mingyu’s place, nursing a hangover and thinking about nothing except how lucky he was not to have to navigate that morning alone. The memory still made his chest tighten a little—the way Mingyu had fussed over him, quietly and carefully, like he already knew exactly what Minghao needed without being asked.

Then came the workweek, a blur of lights, cameras, and deadlines that felt impossible to meet. The stress of the project pressed down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake. Every morning, he forced himself into the routine of acting, directing, filming, only to leave the set drained, replaying every mistake and imagining all the ways he could have done better. Each night, he’d close his eyes hoping for relief, but it never came—not until he was distracted by Mingyu’s voice or that brief moment of laughter at the café, or the quiet shared silence in the car on the way home.

And now, here he was, ending the week at his friends’ house, a place he had no real claim to, instead of resting in his own bed. It felt almost absurd, ridiculous even, to trade the comfort of solitude for more noise, more people, more “fun.” And yet, there was something calming about it, in its own chaotic, imperfect way. He leaned back against the couch, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, trying to force his mind to slow down.

The thing is, he no longer had an excuse to not see his friends. He hasn’t seen them in months, and the most he does to talk to them is to text them, updating them about things, work, and his… love life?

Minghao doesn’t know how they got to that conversation. 

He just suddenly realized that they were talking about Mingyu.

Minghao tried to pinch himself a few times to see if he was drunk. 

He wasn’t.

“So, Xu Minghao,” Seungcheol started, his tone deliberately casual, though everyone at the table knew there was nothing casual about the way he stretched out the words. “Tell me about this Kim Mingyu you’ve been talking about lately.” He made sure to emphasize both names, drawing them out just long enough to make Minghao’s head snap up from his glass.

The effect was immediate. Wonwoo and Soonyoung, who had been engaged in their own quiet banter at the other end of the couch, fell silent almost in unison. Both pairs of eyes turned to Minghao, curious and unashamed. It wasn’t often they saw him like this—light on his feet, a little glow in his cheeks, something new flickering behind his eyes.

The truth was, none of them had seen Minghao this genuinely happy in months. Maybe longer. Even during his last relationship, which they’d all silently agreed felt mismatched from the start, Minghao never radiated this kind of energy. Back then, he had smiled, sure—laughed, played the part—but there was always something missing. A kind of emptiness in his gaze, like he was walking through his days half-present, half-detached. He looked like he was always somewhere else, his body moving but his mind far away.

And they hadn’t liked his ex, not one bit. They never said it out loud—Minghao was private, and the last thing they wanted was to push him further away—but it had been written all over their faces. They hated the way Minghao’s shoulders tightened when their name came up. They hated how he worked himself raw, pouring everything into that relationship only to come back to them looking drained and worn thin.

But now? Now Minghao was different. He was lighter, somehow. Like someone had finally loosened the weight he carried, unclenched the fists he’d been holding at his sides. His skin looked clearer, his posture straighter, his laugh more frequent and unrestrained. He had that unmistakable post-breakup glow—not the brittle, forced kind where someone tries too hard to prove they’re doing better, but the real kind. The kind that came from no longer forcing yourself into spaces where you didn’t belong.

Minghao wasn’t exhausting himself anymore. He wasn’t drowning under late-night work or burning himself out to distract from the silence. He looked motivated, eager, alive—like he had finally found something, or maybe someone, worth keeping pace with.

And all of it pointed to one person.

Kim Mingyu.

Soonyoung tilted his head, a slow grin spreading as if he could already hear the story forming. Wonwoo leaned forward, propping his chin in his hand, his sharp gaze fixed firmly on Minghao. Seungcheol smirked, satisfied with the effect of his question.

Minghao, for his part, tried to play it cool. He shrugged, eyes flickering down to the drink in his hands, lips pressing together like he could stop the smile threatening to give him away. “What about him?” he said, his voice even, though the tips of his ears betrayed him, flushed pink.

Seungcheol raised a brow. “Don’t ‘what about him’ me. You’ve been dropping his name in every other sentence for the past two weeks. Thought we wouldn’t notice?”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung chimed in, teasing but not unkind. “Every time we ask what you’re doing, it’s either ‘I’m with Mingyu’ or ‘Mingyu said this,’ or ‘Mingyu recommended that.’ It’s like your life suddenly has a soundtrack and his name is the chorus.”

Wonwoo chuckled lowly, though his eyes never wavered from Minghao’s face. “I think what they’re trying to say is… you look different lately. In a good way.”

That made Minghao pause. His smile faltered, replaced by something softer, quieter. He ducked his head again, swirling the liquid in his glass like it held an answer he wasn’t ready to put into words. He could feel their eyes on him, could feel the weight of the unspoken question pressing against his chest: So… what is he to you?

And maybe he didn’t have the perfect answer yet. Maybe he was still figuring it out himself. All he knew was that when he thought about Mingyu—about his easy smile, his ridiculous jokes, the way he somehow made even the worst days feel lighter—his chest loosened. And for the first time in a long time, Minghao wasn’t afraid of where that feeling might lead.

He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “You guys are reading too much into it,” he said finally, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him.

Seungcheol leaned back, unconvinced but satisfied enough to leave it there for now. Soonyoung and Wonwoo exchanged a look—half amusement, half knowing—and returned to their quiet conversation. But the air had shifted, just slightly.

Minghao felt it. They all did.

“Well, there’s not much to say. We did meet at that jazz bar—” Minghao started, keeping his tone measured, like he could somehow disguise how much that memory still lingered in his chest. He could still see the warm amber glow of the lights, still hear the saxophone bleeding through the chatter, still feel Mingyu’s laugh buzz against his skin when they leaned too close.

He didn’t get to finish the thought.

“I KNEW IT.” Soonyoung’s voice cut through the room like a whip. He slapped his hand against the table, grinning wide as if he’d just won the lottery. “WONWOO, YOU OWE ME 5!”

Wonwoo blinked, slow and unimpressed, his hand hovering reluctantly over his pocket. “You’re seriously betting on his love life?”

“You said it wasn’t at the jazz bar!” Soonyoung pointed an accusing finger, delight dancing in his eyes. “Don’t you dare go back on your word now. You heard him. He just confirmed it.”

Seungcheol nearly toppled over in laughter, his drink sloshing dangerously close to spilling. “You guys made a bet over where they met? Are you twelve?”

“Yes,” Soonyoung said immediately, completely unapologetic. “And I am twelve with five more bucks than him.”

Wonwoo sighed the way only Wonwoo could, pulling a bill from his wallet and flicking it onto the table with a snap. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, though the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him.

Meanwhile, Minghao sat there, utterly caught between mortification and amusement. He covered his face with one hand, muffling the laugh that slipped out despite himself. “You guys are the worst,” he groaned, though the heat creeping up his neck told another story.

Soonyoung leaned forward again, eyes gleaming with victory. “No, no—don’t hide now. Go on. Tell us what happened after the jazz bar.”

Minghao peeked at them through his fingers, his lips twitching despite his best efforts. He hated how much they were enjoying this. He hated even more how easy it was for Mingyu’s name to pull that shy smile out of him.

Wonwoo leaned his chin on his palm, deadpan as ever. “Yeah, Hao. Don’t leave out the important details. Some of us just paid good money to hear this story.”

Soonyoung snorted so hard he almost choked, while Seungcheol pumped his fist like a victorious coach on the sidelines.

And Minghao? He finally gave up the act, laughter bubbling free as he shook his head. “You guys are insufferable.”

But for the first time in a long time, the word didn’t sound like a complaint.

The others noticed it immediately—the way Minghao’s voice loosened, the way his words tumbled out without hesitation, as if talking about Mingyu unlocked some hidden well of energy inside him. His smile wouldn’t fade, no matter how much he tried to keep it neutral. Every time Mingyu’s name left his lips, his eyes lit up, brighter than the wine glass he’d been ignoring on the table.

“He even—he made a La La Land reference,” Minghao said, gesturing wildly with his free hand like the story needed its own choreography. “Tell me you wouldn’t fall for that! Come on, you have to.” His voice had that unfiltered pitch that came when he was too wrapped up in the memory to notice how loud he’d gotten.

Wonwoo, perched on the couch with his usual unreadable expression, didn’t even blink. “Only you would,” he said flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest smirk.

Minghao shot him an incredulous look, eyes wide as if he couldn’t believe the sheer lack of romance in the room. “What do you mean only me? That’s, like, objectively charming!”

Soonyoung, who had been lounging against the arm of the sofa with his legs tucked under him, sipped his drink with theatrical slowness before chiming in, “I fell for Wonwoo because he’s a gamer and I love gamers.”

The room went dead silent.

Wonwoo turned his head so slowly it was almost comical, eyes narrowing at Soonyoung in disbelief. “…Excuse me?”

Seungcheol choked on his drink, sputtering into laughter. “That’s your big confession? Out of all the things—his brain, his music, his looks—you’re telling me it was the fact he plays video games?”

Soonyoung nodded, unbothered. “Yeah. What else is there?”

Wonwoo dragged a hand over his face, equal parts exasperated and fond, while Minghao absolutely lost it, laughing so hard he nearly spilled his wine. His cheeks were pink, both from the alcohol and from the warmth of finally letting himself be this open, surrounded by people who noticed the way his voice sparkled when he said Mingyu’s name.

And even though Seungcheol was still cackling and Soonyoung was doubling down on his deadpan declaration, the truth hung quietly between them: Minghao was happy. Really, genuinely happy. And they hadn’t seen him like that in a long, long time.

Minghao didn’t even realize at first how many times he’d unlocked his phone. Once, twice—then it became every five minutes, his thumb swiping almost on instinct, the screen lighting up just to disappoint him with silence. He told himself he wasn’t waiting for Mingyu, that he was just checking the time or scrolling through notifications, but his heart betrayed him each time, stuttering at the faint buzz of a new message that never turned out to be from him.

He tried to play it off, tried to keep the conversation flowing with Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Soonyoung, but his eyes always flickered down to the phone on the table, like it had its own gravitational pull. He didn’t want to seem crazy, didn’t want to look like one of those people who couldn’t function without a crush replying to them. But Mingyu wasn’t just a crush—he was the kind of person who made the air feel lighter, the kind of presence that lingered in Minghao’s head long after they said goodbye.

Every time he thought about him, Minghao found himself smiling for no reason, like some high schooler who just discovered what butterflies felt like. The kind of crush where the smallest interaction—Mingyu saying good morning, Mingyu making a stupid joke—could reroute his entire day. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing. He was twenty-eight years old, for god’s sake, and here he was, acting like he had scribbled Mingyu’s name in the margins of a notebook with hearts around it.

He pressed the lock button again, screen going black, and leaned back with a quiet sigh, trying to force himself to focus on the wine glass in front of him. But deep down, he knew—this wasn’t something he could just brush off. He had a full-grown, real-world life, responsibilities, projects piling on top of each other, yet here he was… with a high school crush. On Kim Mingyu.

And the worst part? He didn’t even want it to stop.

Minghao blinked, the rim of his glass still brushing against his lips when Soonyoung spoke. The words made him pause mid-sip, lowering the wine slowly as if the weight of the comment lingered heavier than the alcohol itself. His friends weren’t the type to sugarcoat, not when it came to him. They’d seen him through enough to know the difference between the smile he forced and the smile that came naturally.

Soonyoung’s voice, though slurred, carried a surprising steadiness. “On a serious note, Hao, you look really happy.”

Minghao let out a soft laugh, but it wasn’t mocking—it was the kind of laugh that came when you knew you’d been caught red-handed. He glanced down at the glass in his hand, watching the liquid catch the warm light of the room, before shifting his eyes back to his friends.

Seungcheol leaned forward, his tone gentler than usual, his sharp eyes softening. “I agree,” he said, nodding slowly. “I haven’t seen you like this since you and… you know…” he trailed off, careful, respectful even in his clumsy way of avoiding a name that didn’t need to be said, “…have been a thing.”

Minghao pressed his lips together, the ghost of his smile still tugging at the corners. He didn’t need them to finish the sentence. He knew exactly who they meant. His ex—the one he thought he could build a future with, the one who left him drained and second-guessing himself at every turn.

Back then, he thought he was happy. He played the part well enough, said the right things, smiled at the right times, but looking back, it was like wearing clothes that didn’t fit—they looked fine from the outside, but he was suffocating inside them.

Now, though… now it was different. He didn’t even realize how transparent he’d been about Mingyu until his friends pointed it out. The way his voice lifted when he said his name, the way his eyes probably gave him away no matter how hard he tried to play it cool. It was embarrassing, yes, but also relieving—because maybe, for once, he didn’t have to explain it.

He swirled the wine gently, chuckling to himself, cheeks warm not just from the alcohol. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice soft, almost shy. “I think I am.”

Instead, he exhaled, slow and steady, before a small smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah… I know what you mean,” he admitted, swirling the wine absently in his glass. “Back then, I thought I was happy. I tried to convince myself that I was. But now, looking at it from here, I can see how… forced it felt. Like I was living on autopilot.”

Wonwoo, who had been quiet, gave him a look that was softer than usual, almost protective. “You don’t look like that now,” he said simply.

And it was true. Minghao’s eyes, once dulled by exhaustion and heartache, seemed brighter these days. There was more color in his cheeks, a looseness in his posture that hadn’t been there in years. Even his laugh—god, his laugh—came easier now, bubbling up without hesitation.

He ducked his head, trying not to grin too wide as he admitted, “Mingyu makes it easy. He doesn’t even have to try, and suddenly my day doesn’t feel so heavy. It’s stupid, I know, but…” His voice trailed, shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug.

Soonyoung, tipsy and unfiltered, leaned forward with a lopsided smile. “That’s not stupid. That’s love, Hao.”

Minghao’s ears went red instantly, and he tried to mask it by taking a too-big sip of his drink. But even with the flush from the alcohol and the teasing from his friends, he couldn’t hide the truth written all over his face. For the first time in a long time, Xu Minghao looked like a man who was actually living—and not just surviving.

——

“Ah, there’s Mr. Jazz in the morning because I’m in love!” Jeonghan announced dramatically the moment Mingyu walked in, loud enough for the entire left wing of the restaurant to hear.

Mingyu rolled his eyes, but the grin on his face betrayed him. He didn’t even try to hide it—his lips curled naturally, easy and unbothered, the kind of smile that came when you were caught in the middle of something good. He set his jacket on the back of his chair and slipped into the seat across from his friends, still shaking his head at Jeonghan’s theatrics.

The restaurant was calmer than he remembered. It wasn’t the noisy chaos of peak hours—just the soft hum of conversation, the occasional clink of cutlery against plates, the faint shuffle of servers weaving between tables. The lights were dimmed to that comforting shade of yellow that made everything feel warmer, more intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath for you.

Mingyu glanced around as he sat, and something in him relaxed. The setting wasn’t extravagant, but it didn’t need to be—it was enough that it felt peaceful. The kind of place where laughter didn’t have to fight to be heard, where the weight of the week could finally lift off your shoulders.

“It can’t be that obvious that I like someone?” Mingyu chuckled, eyes scanning the menu but not really reading it. He was smiling without even realizing it, the kind of smile that gave him away more than any confession ever could.

“Oh, very obvious,” Jihoon replied flatly, not even bothering to look up from his phone. His thumb kept scrolling like this was the most casual thing in the world. “Way more obvious than Joshua’s thing for buff men his age.”

“Hey!” Joshua protested immediately, snapping his head up from his glass of water. His voice had that mix of indignation and helpless laughter, like he’d been caught in the middle of a joke he couldn’t undo.

“Is it not true?” Jeonghan asks, casually sipping his glass of water

Jihoon finally raised his eyes, still deadpan, “ It’s true. And don’t act like Mingyu’s smile isn’t screaming ‘rom-com main character in love.’”

Mingyu groaned, covering his face with the menu. “You guys are impossible.”

“Impossible?” Jeonghan grinned, leaning forward with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “No, Mingyu-ah. You’re impossible. Walking in here glowing like you’re in the final scene of La La Land—”

“Except with a happy ending,” Joshua cut in smoothly, smirking now, clearly embracing the chaos Jihoon had started. Mingyu just sighed, cheeks warming, knowing no amount of denial would save him tonight. His friends always had a way of cornering him, pulling things out of him without much effort.

“Who’s the guy though?” Jihoon finally set his phone down, eyes narrowing just enough to show he was actually paying attention now. There was no teasing in his tone, only a blunt curiosity that made Mingyu hesitate for a second before answering.

He shrugged casually—too casually. “I met him in the bar, you know that one—Moon River.”

Jeonghan immediately snorted into his drink. “Of course you did.” Joshua raised an eyebrow, amused. “At the jazz bar? That’s so you.”

“Not my fault fate likes a little background music,” Mingyu shot back, lips tugging into a grin he couldn’t suppress. Jihoon leaned back in his chair, unimpressed but definitely intrigued. “Figures. Only you would meet someone in a jazz bar and turn it into a meet-cute.”

“And only Mingyu,” Jeonghan added slyly, “would look at a guy in a dimly lit bar and think ‘wow, soulmate.’” Mingyu just grinned wider, his silence saying more than any defense could. The sparkle in his eyes gave him away completely, and his friends knew it.

Mingyu finally dropped the act, his grin softening into something quieter, something real. He leaned back in his chair, fiddling with the edge of his napkin before letting out a small laugh that didn’t quite mask the sincerity in his voice. “I don’t know, guys,” he admitted, glancing around the table at their expectant faces. “I really like him.”

The table stilled, just for a beat. Even Jeonghan, who had been seconds away from another teasing remark, paused mid-sip. Joshua tilted his head, curiosity sharpening into something gentler, and Jihoon raised an eyebrow, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the tiniest tug of a smile.

“You like him?” Jeonghan repeated, his tone softer now, though he still tried to keep it laced with mockery. “Like, actually like him?”

Mingyu’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t look away. He only nodded, his usual bravado nowhere in sight. “Yeah,” he said, quieter this time. “I think I do.”

For once, the teasing gave way to something warmer, the noise of the restaurant fading as the others exchanged looks—not of ridicule, but of recognition. Because beneath all the jokes and banter, they could see it: Mingyu wasn’t just flustered. He was falling.

Something itched in Mingyu at that moment, a restless tug he couldn’t quite name. The words he had just spoken to his friends still hung in the air, and with them came a sudden urge—to tell Minghao. To let him know that his name had slipped into the circle of people closest to him. It was a big deal for Mingyu, maybe bigger than he could explain. He hadn’t dated in years, hadn’t even let himself like someone in the way he was starting to like Minghao. Sharing his existence with his friends felt like crossing some invisible line, one he wasn’t sure he’d ever reach again.

His phone sat heavy in his pocket, almost calling to him. He could already imagine typing it out, something simple like “hey, I told them about you today.” He wondered how Minghao would respond—maybe with that quiet, amused tone, or a teasing “already?” Or maybe just a smile that Mingyu could practically hear through the screen. The thought made his chest tighten in a way both terrifying and comforting.

But reality kept him tethered. Minghao had his own plans tonight, his own circle of friends he hadn’t seen in a while. Mingyu didn’t want to intrude on that, didn’t want to be the reason a laugh went unheard or a story went unfinished. The last thing he wanted was to look clingy, or worse, needy. He was trying to respect the space between them, even if his instincts screamed to close it.

Still, his fingers twitched where they rested on the table, itching toward his phone like it was a reflex. He tapped the edge of the menu instead, forcing himself to stay present as Jeonghan and Joshua fell into another round of banter. He smiled when he needed to, laughed when it fit, but the thought lingered all the same—this new, strange desire to include Minghao in everything, even in moments where he wasn’t there.

And as he sat there, surrounded by friends and noise, Mingyu realized just how badly he wanted to share that noise with Minghao too. It wasn’t just about a message. It was about connection. About the quiet promise that this time, he wasn’t holding back.

“God, Mingyu. You are so gay,” Jeonghan blurted out suddenly, the grin on his face just a little too smug.

Mingyu groaned, pressing his palms into his face, which only made Jeonghan laugh harder. “Hyung, please—”

“Gayass, like Joshua,” Jihoon chimed in from his corner, deadpan but sharp enough to land the blow. He didn’t even look up from his drink, like it was just a casual fact of life.

“Hey…” Joshua turned to him, offended but also visibly trying not to laugh. He lifted his glass pointedly, muttering, “But it’s true.”

The table erupted, the laughter spilling into the cozy glow of the restaurant, and Mingyu sat there with his ears burning red, caught somewhere between mortification and the ridiculous warmth that came from finally being seen.

The day ended late for both of them—Seungcheol had insisted that everyone stay over, saying something about “one last high school sleepover,” and Minghao didn’t even argue. It was too late to head home anyway, and besides, he’d grown so used to this house. He had a guest room that wasn’t really a guest room anymore—it was his room, if he thought about it. The room where he left half his closet behind during those long nights of filming on set, where he’d crash without hesitation. The sheets smelled faintly like detergent and the window was cracked open just enough to let the autumn air slip through.

Minghao slipped into pajamas that he found folded neatly in the dresser—his pajamas, from who knows how long ago—and settled into the bed. He laid on his side, scrolling through his phone with the dim lamp casting a low golden light. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, screen glowing in the dark, and before he realized it, he was already typing.

Minghao
my friends know about you lol |
my friends know about y|
my friends kno|
my fri|
|

He stopped, thumb frozen above the keyboard. The drafts glared back at him, useless half-letters that looked both embarrassing and desperate. He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. What the hell is he supposed to say? He wanted to tell Mingyu, he really did—it was a big deal that he’d even opened up to Seungcheol, Soonyoung, and Wonwoo about someone new. But how do you casually drop that in a text without sounding like you were rehearsing your vows at two in the morning?

He typed again, deleted again. His phone filled with the rhythm of starting and stopping, a symphony of hesitation. He wanted to talk to Mingyu, even about nothing. Even about the fact that Seungcheol snores and Soonyoung drinks too fast. Anything.

And then—his phone buzzed. A new notification popped up, right as he was about to type hey.

Mingyu
I’ve been watching you type for 15 minutes.
are you okay?

Minghao’s heart dropped and then jumped, colliding into itself. He sat up, blanket pooling at his waist, staring at the message as though Mingyu had just caught him in the act of something far more incriminating than overthinking a text. A laugh, small and nervous, slipped out of his chest.

He clutched the phone tighter, fingers trembling as he typed back. Somehow, knowing Mingyu was on the other end, watching those three dots flicker in and out, made it feel both terrifying and comforting all at once.

Minghao
yeah i am
i think i accidentally left letters on the keyboard for too long
that it thought i was typing

Classic lie.

Mingyu
ah, makes sense.
so, how’s your day, mr. tea time?

Minghao
I’m very tired
my friend let me stay over at his house since it was too late
to drive back home
and no, it’s not because i’m drunk.

Mingyu
relax 
I wasn’t gonna say anything

And their conversation continued from there.

It was already late when they started messaging, even later when they said good night to each other.

It’s safe to say that the two of them are willing to give up sleep for each other’s company.

Chapter Text

It was the day Minghao had been waiting for.

The week had dragged itself out like chewed gum on pavement—work, meetings, filming, endless conversations that left his voice hoarse—but tonight wasn’t about any of that. Tonight was his. He had been planning it in the quiet corners of his mind, piecing together details like puzzle pieces until it formed the perfect picture: his ideal date. And now that it was finally here, he almost couldn’t sit still.

Food, snacks, and drinks were spread across his table like an offering. Chips in three different flavors, popcorn still warm from the stove, an unnecessary but endearing cheese platter because he thought Mingyu would appreciate it, bottles of soda and sparkling water sweating against the wood. He had four movies already downloaded—classics, comfort picks, the kind of films that made him giddy at the thought of sharing them. The lights were dimmed to that warm yellow glow he liked best, and his couch was layered with pillows and blankets. The entire living room looked like a fort built for two people who had no plans of leaving until sunrise.

God, he’d been waiting for this day—his ideal date, carved straight from the daydreams he usually shoved aside because they felt too indulgent. Movie marathons with someone he actually liked. Snacks carefully chosen to match both of their tastes. Drinks within arm’s reach. Pajamas that felt like clouds against their skin. The unspoken possibility that Mingyu might not go home at all, that they’d end up tangled in blankets at two in the morning, falling asleep with the credits rolling in the background.

Minghao sat on the couch and tried to calm down, but his thoughts ran faster than the clock. He wanted tonight to feel like the kind of night people wrote about, the kind that settled deep in memory. He thought about Luke and Lorelai from Gilmore Girls—their movie marathons, the easy intimacy of two people content just to be in the same space. He’d always loved those scenes, loved how the characters seemed to fold into each other’s lives through nothing more than popcorn, television, and familiarity. He wasn’t trying to be Lorelai, but he liked to think he had the same vibe: sharp-witted, film-obsessed, forever making pop culture references at the wrong time.

And now, the idea of Mingyu sitting on the other side of this couch, laughing too loud at the jokes, maybe leaning into him when the night got quieter—it was almost too much. Minghao felt like he could explode. His chest buzzed with an anticipation that made it impossible to stay still. The fact that they were watching his favorite movies too made everything worse—or better. He wanted to see Mingyu’s reaction, wanted to know if he’d laugh in the same places, if his eyes would soften in the same scenes.

He pulled his knees up, hugged a pillow to his chest, and tried to breathe. God, he was excited. It wasn’t just movie night. It was something more—something that might mean everything if it went the way he hoped.

Time check: it was 6 p.m. Mingyu could be here anytime soon.

Minghao kept pacing around his apartment, hands restless. He found himself dusting off corners that hadn’t seen a speck of dust in weeks, straightening already-straight picture frames, and adjusting the pillows on the couch again and again. The food on the table—meticulously arranged earlier—suddenly looked wrong, so he shuffled the bowls around like it was some sort of ritual. He knew no one would care about the layout when their eyes would be glued to the screen, but the nerves clawing at his chest wouldn’t let him stand still. He needed something, anything, to do until the doorbell rang.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and Minghao all but lunged for it, heart skipping a beat. He hoped it was Mingyu—something like “I’m on my way” or “almost there.” Instead, the screen lit up with Soonyoung’s name.

Soonyoung
good luck on your date, haohao!

Minghao groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Date.” Was it really a date? Or was it just a casual movie marathon with someone he really, really liked? He flopped onto the couch, staring at the message like it might morph into something less embarrassing if he blinked enough times.

Another buzz.

Seungcheol
oh that’s tonight?
yeah, good luck.
don’t talk too much between movies because of the framing.

Minghao huffed, thumbs moving fast.

Minghao
that was once, and can you blame me?
it was dead poets society…
also, is this even considered a date?
i mean we are just watching movies…

This time, Wonwoo chimed in, the bluntest of them all.

Wonwoo
“just watching movies” but you’re with mingyu
yes, it is a date.
and i’m pretty sure he likes you back.

The words stayed on Minghao’s screen a little too long. He didn’t realize he was smiling until his cheeks ached, his lips twitching into something soft, helpless. Oh god. It was a date. A movie date with Mingyu.

He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment, trying to calm the racing in his heart. Then, as if on cue, the doorbell rang.

Minghao froze. The doorbell echoed in his small apartment like a drumbeat, his nerves suddenly collapsing into his stomach. He scrambled off the couch, nearly tripping over the blanket he’d left on the floor earlier, muttering a curse under his breath. His hands were clammy, and for some reason, he smoothed his hair against his forehead like that would fix anything.

He took a deep breath, hand lingering on the doorknob longer than he should have. This was the first time Mingyu was actually coming over, not for work, not for some last-minute hangout, but for him. For Minghao’s favorite thing. A movie marathon. The thought alone made Minghao’s chest tighten with nerves, but it also quieted everything in his head. For once, all the noise—the stress, the exhaustion, the endless chaos of set work—faded into something softer.

When he opened the door, Mingyu was there, tall and warm, holding a paper bag stuffed with snacks he thought Minghao might like. It wasn’t much, but the effort, the thought, hit Minghao harder than it should’ve. They met each other’s gaze first, eyes catching in that wordless moment where time stretched a little too long, before both cracked into smiles that neither of them could hold back.

“Hey, come in, come in,” Minghao said, stepping aside quickly, voice slightly breathless even though he tried to play it cool.

Mingyu chuckled as he slipped his shoes off neatly by the door, shoulders relaxed but eyes curious as they wandered around the space. Minghao’s apartment was cozy, smaller than Mingyu expected, but it carried a strange calmness to it—piles of books stacked against the walls, DVDs lined up with care, and faint traces of incense lingering in the air. It wasn’t perfect, but it was him. And Mingyu thought it suited him in a way nothing else could.

He glanced back at Minghao, smile tugging at his lips. The promise he once made to himself resurfaced in his head—he wouldn’t step into Minghao’s space until it was for this, until it was something real, something that felt intentional. And now here he was, standing in Minghao’s living room, heart already pounding like he’d been waiting for this longer than he realized. Finally, it was happening. Finally, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

“So, what’s on our watchlist tonight?”

“Oh, you know… Soul, 10 Things I Hate About You, Someone Great, and saving the best thing for last: Serendipity,” Minghao said, almost too quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush of excitement as he set the lineup on the table between them. His smile stretched wide, the kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle, that revealed a piece of him he usually kept hidden. It wasn’t just excitement—it was comfort, the comfort of talking about something he truly loved.

For anyone who knew him, this wasn’t a surprise. His friends had long since memorized his little list of favorite films, almost as if it was another fact about him, like his birthday or his coffee order. Mingyu knew it too—how could he not? Every time they went home together, whether it was late after drinks or just another long day of work, Minghao would slip in some mention of one of these movies. Sometimes in a passing comment, sometimes in a full-blown tangent that lasted half an hour. 

Mingyu would never admit it out loud, but he lived for those moments. He loved the way Minghao’s face lit up when he nerded out over films, the way his hands would move as if the words alone weren’t enough to express how much he cared. It made him smile in a way nothing else did.

And of course, Serendipity had to be there. That one wasn’t just a film anymore. It had become a quiet, unspoken thread that connected them, like a secret they both knew but never named. Mingyu had never watched it—not once, not even when the opportunity was right there. It had been sitting on his list for months, maybe years, but he kept skipping it, waiting. Because somewhere deep inside, he knew. He knew he wanted the first time he watched it to be with Minghao. It wasn’t about the film anymore—it was about the moment.

“So,” Mingyu asked, his voice soft but playful as he leaned back against the couch, “we’re saving Serendipity for last?”

“Absolutely.” Minghao’s answer came without hesitation, almost like it had already been decided from the start. His tone carried certainty, but beneath it was something else too—something like hope. He hugged a pillow to his chest, not meeting Mingyu’s eyes for a second, as if the weight of that one word, absolutely, revealed more than he wanted to admit.

Mingyu caught it anyway. The certainty, the way Minghao’s shoulders eased as he said it. And though he didn’t say it out loud, Mingyu thought to himself, Yeah. Saving the best for last sounds perfect.

• Soul

There was a reason why Soul meant so much to Minghao. It wasn’t just because of the animation, or the music, or the story—it was because, at one point, it felt like his story too. There was a time in his life when he hit a wall so hard that even breathing felt like a chore. He didn’t know if he was happy doing what he was doing anymore. Every morning blurred into another, every accomplishment felt dull, and every schedule became another reminder that he was running on empty.

He remembered that particular week vividly—he had been juggling deadlines, shoots, rehearsals, and the crushing weight of expectation. Everything around him kept moving, fast and loud, and yet he felt stuck in place. He couldn’t even bring himself to pick up a pen or open a document. His head was a storm of noise and nothing all at once, and the only thing he wanted to do was disappear for a while.

Then that movie came out.

He watched it on a random weekday night, laptop dimly glowing against the quiet of his room. He ignored every single task that was due, closed every tab that reminded him of work, and let himself get lost in the film. The jazz, the color, the pacing—it all pulled him in, like he was being handed a small piece of clarity wrapped in music and animation.

And then came that line—22, sitting in the half-light, saying quietly, “I don’t know if what I’m doing is right.”

That hit something deep in him. Minghao paused the movie right there. He just stared at the frozen frame on his screen for a long time, blinking back tears he didn’t expect. Because he understood it. He was Joe Gardner in that moment—trying so hard to chase something, to make everything meaningful, that he’d forgotten what it meant to actually live.

At that time, he wasn’t working in film yet. He was stuck in a job he was never happy with—one he only took for the good pay. Throughout college, everyone around him had said the same thing: film won’t pay well unless you get lucky, you’ll never survive doing what you love. It was like everyone had already decided that he wouldn’t make it, that dreaming big was foolish. No one had faith in him—not even enough to imagine that he’d end up where he always wanted to be.

“You can’t crush a soul here. That’s what life on Earth is for.” That was one of his favorite movie quotes. And god, his soul was crushed, over and over again, in ways he didn’t even know a soul could be. He just wanted to create. To breathe through stories and lenses and lights. Film wasn’t a hobby for him—it was oxygen.

When he finally started working in film—the day he’d been waiting for all his life—he caught himself thinking something he didn’t expect.

“I’ve been waiting for this day my entire life. I thought I’d feel… different.”

And when that line came up on the screen, Minghao smiled faintly. His body went still, his fingers resting loosely on the remote. For a moment, it was like the world folded into itself. His mind drifted back to his first day on set. He had woken up before dawn, heart pounding like a kid on Christmas morning. He thought it would be the best day of his life—and it sort of was. But the longer the day went on, the more he realized that the dream he had been chasing all his life… just was. It existed. It wasn’t perfect or euphoric or larger than life—it was messy, exhausting, sometimes dull. And somehow, that realization hurt more than he expected.

It stressed him out more than he could handle. Some nights, he wanted to scream, cry, or just throw everything away. The camera he once adored started to feel like a burden. He stopped watching movies for a while, afraid they’d remind him of the joy he used to feel before film became his job.

But then—he was promoted.

Then suddenly he was in charge of everything behind the scenes—lights, production, producing.

And it wasn’t as bad anymore.

He realized that having control didn’t take the magic away. If anything, it gave him a sense of stability he hadn’t felt before, like he could breathe while still chasing the chaos he loved. The panic, the endless running around, the moments where nothing made sense—it all had a rhythm now. He could ride it instead of being crushed by it.

So watching Soul again, with all of that perspective tucked into the corners of his mind, felt… comforting. It was as if the movie had been waiting for him, knowing he’d arrive at this version of himself eventually. The jokes hit differently, the music felt warmer, and the words carried weight that hadn’t been there before. It was a gift, a reminder of who he’d been, who he’d become, and why he never wanted to give up.

When the credits rolled, they let the soft jazz from Disney’s score fill the living room, the little notes wrapping around the space like a warm blanket. Minghao’s eyes wandered over to Mingyu, whose hand was lazily dipping into the unfinished bowl of popcorn. “Holy shit,” he muttered, breathless—not from the movie, not really, but from the way everything felt when he shared it with Mingyu.

“So… thoughts?” Minghao asked, turning fully toward the boy beside him, jaw practically dropped as if he’d just witnessed the best movie in the world (which, in Minghao’s opinion, it absolutely was).

Mingyu paused, popcorn halfway to his mouth, eyes fixed on the rolling credits for a moment before turning to Minghao. He stayed quiet—just long enough for Minghao to wonder if he was overthinking it again—then he exhaled, trying to put words to the little storm of thoughts brewing in his head.

“I like how they emphasized that your spark isn’t your reason for living,” Mingyu started, voice a little hesitant but sincere. “Like… your spark doesn’t have to be something big or impressive. It can literally be anything—” he stopped mid-sentence, expression suddenly lighting up. “Oh my god. What if my spark is listening to Sinatra and walking all day? Is that why I’m unemployed?”

Minghao let out a short, surprised laugh, nearly choking on his drink. “You’re so stupid,” he said between snickers, pushing his shoulder against Mingyu’s. “That’s not what they meant.”

“Yeah, but think about it,” Mingyu argued, grinning. “I feel genuinely happy when I’m just walking around with my headphones on. No responsibilities, no deadlines, just me and Frank Sinatra talking about the moon and love and nonsense. Maybe that’s my spark. Maybe I’m, like… cosmically unemployed.”

“Cosmically unemployed?” Minghao repeated, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “You sound like you’d put that in your social media bio.”

“I would,” Mingyu said proudly, leaning back on the couch. “It sounds cool. Imagine: Mingyu, age twenty-something, professionally unemployed, spiritually enlightened.”

Minghao laughed again, a sound that filled the room more warmly than the movie’s jazz had moments ago. “You’re ridiculous. But—” he paused, softening just a bit, “I get what you mean.”

Mingyu hummed in response, waiting.

“You don’t need to chase something massive to feel fulfilled,” Minghao continued, staring at the screen where the credits still flickered faintly. “Sometimes, it’s the small things. Breathing. Watching the light hit the wall just right. Sharing popcorn with someone who won’t shut up about Sinatra.”

Mingyu turned his head toward him, smile quiet now, eyes softer. “You make that sound like poetry.”

Minghao shrugged, his lips curving slightly. “That’s life, isn’t it? A little messy, a little poetic.”

For a second, Mingyu didn’t reply. He just looked at him—really looked at him—like the movie had just taught him how to. And maybe, in a way, it did.

• 10 Things I Hate about You

One of the many things Minghao loved about this film was how Patrick managed to win over Kat—how their relationship, despite starting off as something transactional and absurd, never felt forced in the end. There was sincerity buried beneath all the teenage chaos, all the witty banter and the guitar solos and the stubbornness. Patrick didn’t fix Kat; he simply saw her, really saw her, even when she made it nearly impossible for anyone else to do so.

Once the popular scene of Patrick serenading Kat with Can’t Take My Eyes Off You started playing, Minghao caught himself smiling, the kind of smile that reached his eyes before he even realized it. There was something about that scene—about the way Patrick ran down the bleachers, unapologetically loud and ridiculous—that made Minghao’s chest ache in the most cinematic way possible. He wanted that. He wanted to feel what Kat felt: wanted, seen, worth the embarrassment of being serenaded in front of the entire world.

Beside him, Mingyu laughed softly as Patrick dodged the security guards on-screen. “God, this is peak romance,” he muttered, shaking his head with a grin. “I’d never do that, by the way. I’d pass out before I even reach the mic.”

Minghao turned to him, amused. “So you’re saying you wouldn’t serenade me?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that.” Mingyu leaned back against the couch, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “I said I’d pass out. Big difference. I’d still try before I die of embarrassment.”

Minghao laughed, hiding his smile behind his hand. “Wow, thanks. That’s so romantic.”

“I’m a man of effort, not grace,” Mingyu said, grinning, reaching for another handful of popcorn.

Minghao shook his head, still watching the screen, but something inside him softened. The movie played on—the part where Kat read her poem in class, voice trembling, eyes glassy with emotion. Minghao’s chest tightened again.

“I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair…”

The room went still except for Julia Stiles’ voice echoing through the speakers. Minghao blinked slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat. That scene always got to him. The vulnerability of it all. The way love—real love—was never about grand gestures or cinematic moments, but about being brave enough to admit that someone mattered, even when it hurt.

He didn’t even notice Mingyu watching him instead of the screen.

“You really like this movie, huh?” Mingyu asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Minghao replied, voice soft. “It’s honest. And… it reminds me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.”

For a moment, Mingyu didn’t answer. He just nodded, eyes flickering between the screen and Minghao’s profile illuminated by the soft light of the TV.

Then he said, half-joking, half-serious, “If you ever read me a poem like that, I think I’d combust.”

Minghao looked at him, trying not to smile. “Who says I’d write you one?”

“Oh please,” Mingyu teased, smirking. “You’ve definitely written one already.”

Minghao rolled his eyes, pretending to refocus on the film, but his lips betrayed him with the smallest, shyest smile.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But you’d have to earn it first.”

And Mingyu, grinning like an idiot under the flickering glow of the TV, thought to himself—he absolutely would.

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen this movie, but it feels like it has… more now,” Minghao muttered, mostly to himself, voice barely rising above the hum of the film. But Mingyu heard him. Of course he did—he’d been listening to every small thing Minghao said all night, cataloguing each word like it meant something.

He turned his head slightly, eyes shifting from the screen to the boy beside him. Minghao sat cross-legged on the couch, half-wrapped in a blanket, his face softened by the pale light of the TV. His hair fell slightly into his eyes, and every few seconds, he’d tuck it behind his ear, only for it to fall again. There was something so unguarded about the way he watched movies—like he forgot people could see him. He didn’t hide the way he smiled at certain lines, or the way his brows furrowed during sad scenes.

Mingyu couldn’t look away.

He tried to. God, he really did. He even forced his eyes back to the movie, but the warmth pooling in his chest told him that the real show wasn’t on the screen anymore. Minghao was right there, right beside him, so close that Mingyu could feel the heat of his arm through the blanket.

“More now?” Mingyu asked softly, his tone teasing but curious, eyes still lingering on him.

Minghao glanced at him, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now, “it’s different when you’re watching it with someone who actually listens.”

That hit Mingyu in the chest harder than he expected. He wanted to say something back—something clever, something that would make Minghao laugh—but all he could do was stare. He didn’t know how to explain it: how the simple act of sitting on this couch with Minghao made everything in his life suddenly make sense.

The movie played on, Patrick’s voice fading into the background as the room filled with that tender, golden quiet—the kind that only existed when two people were on the brink of something unspoken.

And Mingyu thought, fuck, how can someone look so pretty while watching a movie?

• Someone Great

Minghao probably doesn’t remember, but Mingyu does. He remembers exactly how Minghao started talking about this movie the first time it came up—somewhere between their third and fourth hangout, after a long day when the city felt a little too heavy and the lights from the bar blurred just enough to make people honest. Minghao had gone on about how Someone Great wasn’t just a breakup movie—it was a story about letting go, about realizing that love doesn’t always mean staying. Mingyu had listened quietly then, pretending to concentrate on his way back home while really just watching the way Minghao’s hands moved when he talked, how his eyes softened with the kind of ache that doesn’t quite go away.

He remembers how Minghao said that this movie gave him flashbacks—how it reminded him of what it was like to love someone who didn’t fit, no matter how much you tried to make it work. “It wasn’t bad,” Minghao had said, “but it wasn’t right either.” Mingyu had felt something tighten in his chest then. There was a certain kind of grief in the way Minghao talked about love, not bitter, but almost like it had taught him something that cost too much to learn.

Now, sitting beside him on the couch, Mingyu watched as Minghao pressed play, his expression calm, but his fingers fidgeting slightly with the hem of his pajama pants. The movie started—Gina Rodriguez’s laugh filling the room, the chaotic energy of friendship, heartbreak, and New York nights. Minghao’s eyes flickered across the screen, and Mingyu could see it—the way the film settled into him like an old memory.

Halfway through, during the scene where Jenny dances around her apartment with her friends, Minghao smiled. It wasn’t his usual kind of smile—it was small, almost bittersweet, like he understood exactly what the movie was saying without needing the words. Mingyu couldn’t help but stare.

He thought about what Minghao had said before, about how this movie was less about losing someone and more about finding yourself again. Watching him now, Mingyu realized something: maybe Minghao wasn’t looking for the kind of love that consumed him anymore. Maybe he was looking for one that let him be.

And maybe—just maybe—Mingyu wanted to be that kind of love for him.

That scene always hit him differently. “I can’t believe we broke up, I love you.” It was the kind of line that sounded too simple to hurt as much as it did, but in that moment, it shattered something inside him every single time. Minghao didn’t cry easily over movies anymore—he had trained himself to separate fiction from reality, to find comfort in the art rather than in the ache—but that line always managed to crawl under his skin.

He remembered the first time he watched Someone Great. He had been curled up on his couch, leftover takeout beside him, feeling a little too raw from another argument that wasn’t really an argument, just silence disguised as understanding. Back then, he didn’t even realize how unloved he felt, how much he was shrinking himself to keep someone else comfortable. And when the movie hit that moment, when Jenny texted Nate those words with tears running down her face, Minghao paused the movie and stared at his reflection on the black screen. It was like watching himself from a distance.

His ex was never someone worth texting such a thing to. There was never that kind of urgency, never that kind of love. It wasn’t like in the movies—no grand confessions, no fireworks. Just quiet detachment, the kind that made you realize one day that you’ve already stopped fighting for something that used to mean everything. When he found out his ex had cheated, he wasn’t even angry. He just felt... tired. Like he already knew. The betrayal was only confirmation of something he’d been pretending not to see.

But the part that lingered the most wasn’t the breakup scene—it was that dream sequence. Jenny lying in the middle of the street, sunlight hitting her face, imagining Nate finally giving her closure. Then Moon River playing in the background, the world moving slow and soft, like grief had its own rhythm. Minghao had paused there too, once upon a time.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t over his ex. He is over it. But it was the idea of closure that haunted him. The simple, selfish wish for an apology—not for the end itself, but for the way it ended. For the parts of him that had to be rebuilt quietly, alone. He wanted someone to look at him and say, “I’m sorry for the way I made you feel like you weren’t enough.”

But that apology never came.

Now, sitting next to Mingyu, the scene replayed, and Minghao realized he didn’t need it anymore. The ache had dulled, replaced by something warmer, something that didn’t hurt to carry. Maybe that was what growing up meant—realizing that closure isn’t always about the other person. Sometimes it’s just about being able to breathe again, and finding someone who makes that breath feel easy.

He smiled faintly, eyes on the screen, but Mingyu caught it. And though Minghao didn’t say a word, Mingyu understood.

When the credits rolled, Minghao turned to look at Mingyu. “What if I quit my job and move to New York to become a journalist?” he asked out of nowhere, voice soft but teasing.

Mingyu glanced at him, pretending to think seriously for a moment before replying, “Then I’ll follow you—maybe I’ll have a better chance of getting a job there.”

Minghao groaned, shoving him lightly on the arm. “Way to ruin the mood, Mr. Kim Mingyu.”

“What? I’m being honest!” Mingyu said, laughing.

Their laughter filled the room, blending with the faint hum of the credits music still playing in the background. For a second, the movie didn’t feel so far away—it felt like they were living in it, like maybe this was their own version of Someone Great.

Minghao was still laughing softly when he leaned back against the couch, the soft glow of the credits flickering across his face. “You’d hate New York,” he said after a moment, tone teasing but gentle. “Too loud. Too many people. No time for your morning jazz walks.”

Mingyu grinned, eyes still on the screen. “Then I’ll just make time. I’ll walk at night, when it’s quiet. You can write your New York Times columns about lost souls chasing their dreams, and I’ll be the guy getting lost in your metaphors.”

Minghao turned his head toward him, pretending to look unimpressed, but his cheeks betrayed him—they flushed pink under the dim light. “You’re such a dork.”

“I prefer romantic dork, thank you very much.” Mingyu smirked, nudging him with his shoulder. “Besides, if you really move to New York, someone’s gotta make sure you eat actual meals instead of just hot tea and bread.”

Minghao laughed again, quieter this time. “You’d really follow me?”

Mingyu didn’t answer right away. He looked at Minghao, the flickering light reflecting in his eyes, and for a moment, it felt like the movie had bled into real life—two people sitting too close, laughing too much, pretending it’s all a joke when it isn’t. “Yeah,” he finally said, voice soft, sincere. “I think I would.”

Minghao rolled his eyes but smiled anyway, trying to mask how much his heart was racing. “You’re impossible, Kim Mingyu.”

“And yet you invited me for movie night,” Mingyu replied, grinning.

“Touché.”

They fell into silence then, the kind that wasn’t awkward but full—like the pause between two lines of dialogue that said everything words didn’t have to. Minghao leaned his head slightly to the side, just enough for their shoulders to touch. Mingyu didn’t move away. Neither did he.

• Serendipity

There was a reason why Minghao was saving this one for last.

He wanted the movie that felt like him and Mingyu to be the final one of the night—because, well, you always save the best for last.

Minghao liked to believe that meeting Mingyu was the universe’s way of finally setting him up with his soulmate. Because really, how perfect was it to meet someone at a bar you used to go to only when you felt lonely? A bar where you’d sit in the same corner, drink the same wine, listen to the same jazz—waiting for something, someone—to make the world feel a little less heavy.

And then Mingyu showed up. Just like that. Like the universe had been quietly taking notes all this time and decided, okay, you’ve waited long enough.

So, yes, he was saving Serendipity for last. Because that’s what it felt like when he met Mingyu—an accident that wasn’t really an accident, a coincidence that didn’t feel like one. The kind of story you only see in movies, except this time, it was happening to him.

This time, they watched it in silence. No glances, no quiet laughs, no teasing comments to break the tension. Just the soft flicker of the screen lighting their faces in the dark. The movie played on, but it felt too close—like they were watching themselves instead of actors. Every line, every glance between the leads, mirrored something familiar. It was like watching their own story, projected larger than life, except this one had music swelling behind it and perfect camera angles.

When the popular scene came on—the one where the couple agrees that if they get off on the same floor, they’re meant to be—they both held their breath. The elevator doors opened, and the girl stepped out first. The boy didn’t. The scene lingered there, the ache of missed timing settling in.

Minghao’s chest tightened. Mingyu’s fingers twitched against the couch.

They didn’t look at each other, but both of them felt it—the ache of almost, the sting of fate playing tricks, and the quiet realization that sometimes love isn’t about getting off on the same floor. Sometimes it’s about the moment you turn around and realize you should’ve.

It was Mingyu’s first time watching it, which surprised Minghao—this was one of the classic rom-coms, the kind that everyone had seen at least once. The kind that kept you on the edge of your seat with every almost-confession, every missed train, every “what if.” It was the kind of movie that made you ache in the chest because you knew how close they were to getting it right, and yet, the timing never seemed to be in their favor.

Oh, how Minghao wished he could be in Mingyu’s place—to experience that for the first time again. To feel the nervous excitement that came with seeing two people who were so clearly meant for each other keep slipping through the cracks of time. He’d watched it too many times, memorized every shot, every line that hinted at destiny. But no matter how familiar it became, it never lost its magic. Maybe because it always reminded him of something—or someone—real.

He believed in signs because of this movie. Believed that the universe had a way of weaving people together through tiny, almost unnoticeable coincidences. He started paying attention to them after meeting Mingyu—like how they’d ordered the same drink without knowing, or how their birthdays were exactly seven months apart, or how Mingyu had been standing in the exact spot where Minghao had promised himself he’d never go back to, until he did.

And now, here they were—shoulders brushing lightly in the dim light of the TV, their breaths syncing unconsciously. Minghao kept stealing glances at him, wondering if Mingyu could feel it too—the strange pull, the quiet recognition of something that felt bigger than both of them.

He smiled faintly, eyes soft on the flickering screen. The movie had always made him believe that fate had a funny way of timing things. And somehow, sitting here beside Mingyu, it felt like the universe had finally gotten it right.

The initials on the book, the money, that damn elevator scene—it all felt so eerily familiar to both of them. Like the director had been watching from a distance, taking notes, predicting their future and wrapping it in a menacingly perfect rom-com bow. It was uncanny, the way certain lines hit too close to home, the way the story mirrored their rhythm—the miscommunications, the distance, the way they always found their way back no matter how far apart they drifted.

Who knew that a simple film could hold up a mirror to your own life? Minghao had always joked that movies were just reflections of someone’s heartbreak written prettily, but this one—this one felt like theirs. Every almost, every second too late, every heartbeat that came with waiting for the elevator doors to open—it was all there.

When the happy ending finally came, the kind of ending Minghao always wanted for them, the credits rolled over a soft song that made the silence in the room feel heavier than it should. It was around 2 in the morning—of course it was. What kind of movie marathon would it be if it didn’t end at the ass crack of dawn, with your emotions scattered on the coffee table between empty mugs and half-finished snacks?

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Minghao asked quietly, already halfway out of the blanket they’d been sharing. His voice was low, husky from staying up too long. He looked over at Mingyu, who shook his head with a small smile before muttering a sleepy “no.”

The kettle clicked on in the background, the soft hum of boiling water blending with the faint music still playing from the credits. Minghao leaned against the counter, staring into the cup as the teabag bled color into the water. He could still feel the weight of the movie lingering on his chest—the ache of something unspoken, the reminder of everything that could have been lost if life had gone just a little differently.

While Minghao stirred his tea, Mingyu quietly started cleaning up. He gathered the mugs, the crumpled snack wrappers, the stray popcorn that had somehow made it to the couch. It wasn’t much, but Minghao noticed—he always did. Mingyu’s small acts of care, done in silence, as if words would make them less meaningful.

When Minghao turned around, tea in hand, he caught Mingyu crouched by the coffee table, picking up a coaster. The TV light flickered across his face, and for a second, Minghao thought he looked like the movie’s lead—the same quiet longing, the same softness around the eyes.

Maybe that was the point of watching it again. Not to relive the ache of missed timing, but to realize that, this time, they did make it to the same floor.

And it was that comforting kind of quiet again—the kind that didn’t demand words or fill the space awkwardly. Just soft air and shared warmth. Mingyu noticed, like he always did, how Minghao would fall silent after a movie. It wasn’t boredom; it was the way he processed things. As if he was still inside the story, letting it linger, peeling it apart piece by piece in his head. Mingyu found it endearing—watching him like this, so thoughtful, so present even in silence.

“So,” Minghao finally said, setting his cup down on the counter as he leaned beside him, “thoughts on all four movies?”

Mingyu straightened up, pretending to think, lips pursed like he was about to give a serious film critique. “I see a pattern.”

“Pattern?” Minghao asked, raising a brow, half-amused.

“Yeah,” Mingyu continued, smiling faintly, “like… all of them were about timing, passion, and love. It’s very… you.”

Minghao blinked at him, caught off guard by the observation. “Really? That’s… the first time I’ve heard that.” A small laugh slipped out of him, light and disbelieving.

But Mingyu wasn’t joking. He smiled, soft and knowing, before he started gathering more of the empty cups. “Yeah. You’re the kind of person who believes in timing, even when it hurts. You’d wait, you’d hold on, you’d give it meaning—because to you, love isn’t just something that happens. It’s something you nurture.”

Minghao went quiet again, the weight of his words settling between them. His eyes softened, and for a second, he forgot to breathe. It was unfair how easily Mingyu could read him like that.

“Timing, passion, love,” Minghao repeated under his breath, almost to himself. “You make it sound like a thesis.”

“Maybe it is,” Mingyu said, chuckling. “Your thesis in life.”

Minghao nudged him playfully, but his smile lingered longer than it should have. “You’re annoying.”

“Admit it,” Mingyu teased, bumping his shoulder. “You love that about me.”

Minghao didn’t answer right away. He looked at Mingyu instead—the messy hair, the lazy grin, the warmth that made his chest ache in the gentlest way—and thought, yeah, I do.