Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The road grew narrower the farther the car took him from the city.

Glass towers and endless traffic melted into rolling fields, telephone poles leaning lazily toward the horizon.

The hum of engines and honking horns was replaced by the chirp of cicadas and the distant cries of gulls.

Changbin leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the world shift into something quieter, slower, almost timeless.

It was strange.

He had begged his parents for this, for weeks, he’d reminded them how little time they ever had for him, how his aunt had raised him more than they did, how he needed this summer before high school swallowed him whole again.

They hadn’t protested much, maybe they were relieved to be rid of him, maybe they thought a small seaside town would knock the city arrogance out of him.

Either way, here he was, suitcase at his feet, heart thumping with an anticipation he couldn’t quite name.

By the time the car pulled into the sleepy town, the sun had already dipped low, painting the sky with streaks of gold and rose.

Changbin sat up straighter, eyes darting to take in everything at once, the crooked shop signs, the laundry lines stretching across balconies, the cats weaving between people’s legs.

The air itself smelled different:

a mixture of salt, soil, and something green and alive, as though the sea carried the whole town in its breath.

The car stopped in front of a small, weathered house.

White paint peeled along the shutters, and wild bougainvillea climbed the stone walls as if to hide the imperfections.

Before Changbin could reach for the door handle, it swung open.

“Bin-ah!”

His aunt’s voice rang out like bells, and she appeared at the gate, apron still dusted with flour.

She hadn’t changed a bit:

same soft face, same warm eyes that creased with joy the moment they landed on him.

She hurried toward him, wrapping him in a hug so firm it made his throat ache.

“You’ve grown again! Too tall for me now,” she said, swatting his shoulder fondly before tugging him inside.

“Look at you, city boy! Skinny, too. You don’t eat enough, I can tell. I’ll fix that.”

Changbin laughed, the tension easing out of him as she fussed.

Inside, the house smelled like home, though he hadn’t lived here in years.

There was the faint scent of fried fish, soap, and dried lavender bundles hanging above the doorway.

His suitcase landed by the stairs with a heavy thud, but his aunt hardly let him breathe before pushing him toward the dining table, where a full spread already waited.

“You knew I was coming today,” he accused lightly, sliding into a chair.

“I knew, so I cooked everything. You need to eat, my Bin.”

She placed a steaming bowl of rice in front of him.

“Your parents said you’ve been studying too hard, always in some academy or lesson. Tsk. Here, we live slowly. You’ll learn.”

He smiled at that, spooning food into his mouth.

It was richer, more flavorful than anything he’d eaten in the city lately.

Maybe food carried love better here, he thought. Or maybe he was just hungry for more than meals.

When he finished, his aunt pinched his cheek, satisfied.

“Good boy. Now go. Explore! Don’t waste the evening stuck inside. The town is small, you’ll find your way back. Everyone knows me here, so they’ll know you too.”

Changbin blinked. “Now? But I just got here-”

“Exactly! And the air is beautiful now, just before sunset. Go walk. You need the sea breeze, Bin-ah. You’ll see.”

She all but shoved him toward the door, and though he rolled his eyes, a smile tugged at his lips.

She always knew how to take care of him, even when he didn’t know what he needed.

Outside, the streets were bathed in the golden glow of twilight.

Changbin shoved his hands into his pockets and wandered down the uneven cobblestone path, his sneakers crunching against the stones.

Every corner held something new, a bakery with bread cooling on its window sill, a fisherman mending his nets, children running barefoot with wild laughter trailing behind them.

The city seemed like a dream compared to this.

Here, time stretched like honey, warm and unhurried.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Changbin felt his chest loosen.

The streets wound like threads through the town, leading Changbin past storefronts that looked as though they had been standing for decades.

Wooden signs hung crookedly, their paint faded by the salt wind.

Flower pots crowded windowsills, spilling blossoms into the air like little bursts of joy. He slowed down as he passed them, his fingers itching to reach out and touch the petals. In the city, flowers came wrapped in glossy paper, bought for occasions and forgotten in a week.

Here, they looked as though they had grown with the houses themselves, alive, stubborn, thriving.

Everywhere he looked, people greeted one another as though they had all the time in the world.

A shopkeeper waved from behind a counter stacked with fruit.

An elderly man stopped his bicycle just to chat with a woman hanging laundry.

Their laughter carried easily through the salty air, unbothered, as though the sea had taught them how to breathe slower.

Changbin grinned without meaning to.

His chest buzzed with something light, giddy.

Maybe this was what freedom felt like:

no lessons, no schedules, no parents’ expectations pressing against the back of his neck.

Just him, the golden hour sun, and the promise of newness around every corner.

He was so wrapped in the novelty of it all that he didn’t notice the figure coming the opposite way until it was too late.

The collision was soft but startling.

His shoulder bumped against someone else’s, jolting him out of his daze.

“Oh, sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was-”

The words spilled out of him as he spun around.

The boy standing before him wasn’t much taller than him, but there was a presence about him, quiet, sharp-edged, like still water that might be deeper than it looked.

He held a small bundle of flowers in one hand, their stems wrapped neatly in paper.

The evening light caught on his hair, turning it into a dusky halo, though his expression remained unreadable.

Changbin’s apology hung awkwardly in the air.

The boy’s gaze met his, dark, cool, steady, as if he were looking straight through him rather than at him.

“I-I wasn’t paying attention,” Changbin tried again, scratching the back of his neck.

The boy didn’t reply.

He simply gave the smallest incline of his head, a look that could have been dismissal or acknowledgment, then stepped around him, walking on without breaking stride.

Changbin blinked after him, words catching uselessly in his throat.

He turned his head to watch the boy’s retreating back, the flowers still cradled against his arm.

There was something about the way he moved, calm, certain, untouched by the rush of the world, that rooted Changbin to the spot for a moment longer than he should have stayed.

By the time he shook himself free and continued down the street, his pulse was oddly quickened.

He told himself it was just the surprise of the bump, the embarrassment of being ignored.

And yet… his mind kept circling back to the boy’s eyes, cool as the sea before a storm

The sun was dipping lower when his aunt called him back with a wave from the street corner.

“Bin-ah! There you are. Come, come. We’re going to the shore. You can’t waste your first evening here without seeing the sea.”

Changbin jogged to catch up, still distracted, still thinking of flowers.

The path to the beach sloped gently downhill, the air thickening with salt and mist until, suddenly, the horizon opened before them.

The sea stretched out in endless blues and violets, the waves rolling and folding as though breathing with the world itself.

Changbin stopped at the sight, his chest tightening.

No skyscraper, no billboard, no city skyline could compare to this.

It was alive.

Endless.

Infinite.

His aunt laughed at his expression.

“I told you. The sea takes your breath, doesn’t it?”

She spread out a blanket on the sand.

“Go on. Sit. Watch. It has a way of showing you things you didn’t know you needed to see.”

Changbin obeyed, sinking into the sand as the sky burned itself into pinks and oranges.

The waves whispered against the shore, and for a long while, he simply sat in silence, soaking in the rhythm of it.

He felt small, but not in the suffocating way the city made him feel.

Here, small meant part of something vast.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed him.

Not twenty feet away, perched on a flat rock, was the boy from earlier.

The bundle of flowers was gone, but the profile was unmistakable:

The same cool posture, the same distant air.

He sat alone, gaze fixed out at the horizon, as though he belonged more to the sea than the land.

Changbin’s heart gave a little jolt.

He looked away quickly, pretending to focus on the waves, but curiosity tugged at him like a tide.

He stole another glance.

The boy hadn’t moved, hadn’t even noticed him.

And yet, somehow, just knowing he was there set Changbin’s pulse racing again.

The sea roared gently between them, the sun melted into the horizon, and Changbin wondered, why did it feel like this small, fleeting brush with a stranger might change the entire summer?

Chapter Text

Changbin woke to the sound of gulls.

Their cries threaded through the half-open window, sharp and insistent, dragging him out of sleep before the sun had fully risen.

For a moment he lay still on the small guest bed, sheets tangled around his legs, and wondered why he was awake so early.

In the city, mornings had always been a battle, alarms blaring, cars already honking outside the apartment, his parents rushing off before he even had breakfast.

He was used to sleeping through the noise.

But here, there was no wall of sound to hide behind.

Only the gulls, the faint rush of waves in the distance, and the smell of dew and salt drifting through the curtains.

He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

And then it came back to him, the boy.

The memory slipped in as effortlessly as the tide:

the bump in the street, the cool eyes that had barely acknowledged him, and then, later, that same silhouette at the shore as the sky caught fire with sunset.

Flowers one moment, waves the next.

Changbin wasn’t sure why it lingered so strongly, but it had followed him into his dreams and back out into the morning light.

It doesn’t matter, he told himself, swinging his legs off the bed.

People bumped into each other all the time.

Just because his mind couldn’t let it go didn’t mean it was important.

Still, when his aunt padded into the kitchen with a sleepy smile and set a plate of warm bread and jam in front of him, his thoughts wandered back to the shore again.

“You’re up early,” she said, raising her brows.

Changbin shrugged, chewing.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“The sea does that,” she replied knowingly, pouring tea into a chipped mug.

“Too big. Too loud. It keeps you awake until you learn to listen instead of fight it.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant, but he smiled anyway.

The bread was soft, sweeter than anything he’d had in months.

His aunt fussed over him for a while, making sure he ate, asking if the bed was too hard, if he needed another blanket, but when he slipped his shoes on after breakfast, she only waved him off.

“Go wander. You’ll find something new every time you walk. Don’t come back until you’re hungry again.”

So he did.

The town felt different in the morning than it had last time.

Yesterday it had been golden and glowing, alive with laughter and warm light spilling from shop windows.

This morning it was softer, quieter, still rubbing the sleep from its eyes.

Wooden shutters creaked open one by one as shopkeepers swept their doorsteps.

A baker carried out trays of fresh bread, the smell so rich it nearly pulled Changbin inside by the collar.

Cats stretched in the sunlight, blinking lazily at him from the tops of stone walls.

Down near the docks, he spotted fishermen hauling in their nets, voices low and steady as they worked in rhythm.

Everything about the town moved at a slower beat than the city.

There was no rush, no constant chase for the next thing.

Here, people seemed to live inside each moment instead of sprinting past it.

Changbin stuffed his hands in his pockets, letting his feet take him wherever they pleased.

He didn’t need a map, the streets curved like rivers, always leading back to the center.

He tried to imagine what it would be like to actually live here:

knowing every face you passed, trading hellos with the same neighbors for years, building a life stitched together with routine and familiarity.

It was so far from his own life that it almost felt like another world.

He was so lost in thought that he almost didn’t notice the boy walking toward him until the stranger stopped right in front of him.

“Hey.”

Changbin blinked.

The boy was maybe a little taller than him, with sun-warmed skin and hair that curled slightly at the ends.

His eyes were sharp but kind, the kind that made you feel seen in an instant.

“You’re new,” the boy said, tilting his head.

It wasn’t a question.

“Uh-yeah,” Changbin admitted. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.

“I’m… staying with my aunt. Just for the summer.”

The boy’s brows lifted.

“That explains it. I was gonna say, I know everyone here. If I don’t know you, you definitely don’t belong.”

Changbin laughed nervously.

“Guess I stick out, huh?”

“A little.” The boy grinned, the edge in his eyes softening into warmth.

“I’m Chan. What’s your name?”

“Changbin.”

“Changbin,” Chan repeated, testing it on his tongue as if filing it away.

“Alright, city boy, wanna see the real town? You’ll never get far just wandering around like that.”

Before Changbin could answer, Chan was already gesturing for him to follow, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to take a stranger under his wing.

Changbin hesitated only a second before jogging to catch up.

Chan led Changbin through the winding streets, sunlight spilling over the rooftops, illuminating every crack in the cobblestones and the faint dust that danced in the morning air.

The smell of freshly baked bread drifted from the bakery on the corner, mingling with the subtle salt tang carried from the nearby sea.

A cat arched lazily on a sunlit wall, blinking at them, while a few children darted past, chasing each other with bare feet and shouted laughter.

The town wasn’t just alive, it was breathing, and Changbin felt, for the first time in months, like he could finally breathe with it.

“You know,” Chan said, glancing at him with a teasing grin,

“you city kids are weird. You stare at everything like it’s exotic, but I swear it’s just normal life here.”

Changbin chuckled.

“I’ve never seen a town like this… everything feels slower, softer. Even the air feels different.”

Chan laughed.

“Soft air? You’re ridiculous. But yeah, I get it. City life beats you down so fast that even a quiet town feels magical. Don’t get too used to it though, you’ve got a lot to learn if you’re going to survive here.”

They turned a corner and stepped onto a narrow lane shaded by overhanging wooden eaves, and Chan stopped abruptly in front of a small, sunlit coffee shop tucked in between two older buildings.

The smell of roasted coffee beans, sugar, and warm pastries drifted out to greet them.

“This is my favorite spot,” Chan said proudly. “You’ll thank me later.”

Changbin paused, taking in the cozy interior.

Sunlight filtered through lace curtains, spilling soft patterns across the worn wooden floor.

A few regulars sat at small tables, talking quietly over steaming mugs. The hum of conversation and the faint clink of ceramic created a comforting rhythm.

Then, behind the counter, a boy about their age looked up and his face lit up instantly.

Bright eyes, blonde hair , wide grin, almost bouncing in place as he leaned over the counter.

“Chan! You brought someone!” the boy exclaimed, voice full of energy.

“Adopting another one of your lost city people, huh? Should I start a list?”

Chan rolled his eyes dramatically, though a smile tugged at his lips.

“Felix! Stop it, I’m not adopting anyone. He’s just… new in town, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Felix said, pretending to be unconvinced.

“You’re always adopting people without asking me. One day you’ll bring in an army, and I’ll be here waiting with coffee and judgment.”

Changbin’s lips twitched into a smile, unsure whether to laugh or feel embarrassed.

Chan leaned casually against the counter, trying to look unimpressed, though Felix’s teasing made him flush slightly.

“You’re ridiculous,” Chan said.

“I just wanted him to see the town. That’s all.”

Felix’s grin widened.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re charitable, Mr. Town-Know-It-All. I’ll let it slide this time. But if he ends up moving in… don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Changbin extended his hand awkwardly.

“I’m… Changbin. Nice to meet you.”

Felix shook it firmly.

“Changbin! Good name. Welcome to our little chaos. Don’t worry, we only bite a little.”

“You’re welcome,” Chan muttered under his breath, smirking,

“for whatever trouble I’m unleashing.”

Felix waved them toward the counter.

“Alright, let’s get you settled. Drinks first, obviously. Vanilla latte for the city boy?”

Changbin nodded, feeling the cozy warmth of the shop settle around him.

Felix set to work, and as he did, he slid two small plates across the counter with a mischievous grin.

“And of course,” he said,

“the best part of this place, my famous brownies. You have to try them, they’re basically magic. Chan knows it, that’s why he drags everyone here.”

Chan laughed.

“See? Told you. You’re already part of the family now. Eat up, Bin, you’re going to need the energy for all the wandering I’ve got planned.”

Changbin took a bite.

The brownie was warm, dense, rich with chocolate, and just the right amount of sweetness.

The taste melted against his tongue and lingered long after he swallowed.

He looked up at Felix, eyes wide and sparkly.

“This… is amazing,” he admitted. “I’ve never had anything like this.”

Felix grinned, clearly proud.

“Of course. My brownies are famous for a reason. And now you’re part of the fan club. Congratulations.”

They claimed a small table by the window, sunlight spilling in and painting the floor in golden squares.

Changbin studied the room, taking in the mismatched chairs, the small chalkboard menu, and the scent of coffee that wrapped around him like a warm blanket.

It felt… safe. Comforting. Different from the sterile, rushed cafes of the city, where he’d always felt like another body shuffling past. Here, he mattered, even if he was new.

After a few sips and bites, curiosity got the better of him.

“Uh… do you know a boy? About my age? He was at the beach yesterday, quiet, had flowers with him. I bumped into him in town, too…”

Both Felix and Chan exchanged a knowing glance.

“Ohhh,” Felix said, leaning back with a conspiratorial smile.

“I think I know exactly who you mean.”

Chan nodded slowly, a small grin tugging at his lips.

“Yeah… sounds like Seungmin.”

Changbin’s eyebrows lifted. “Seungmin?”

“Quiet,” Chan explained.

“Keeps to himself. Not the type to join in all the time, but he’s… solid. Doesn’t rush, doesn’t talk unless he has to. And flowers? Yeah, that’s him. Always flowers.”

Felix chimed in, eyes twinkling.

“Stubborn, but harmless. Doesn’t like too much attention. Definitely not the kind to smile at strangers for no reason.”

Changbin felt an odd flutter.

The boy wasn’t just a fleeting image anymore, he was real, known, anchored by name and description.

Somehow that made him feel closer, and yet more distant at the same time.

“Don’t worry,” Chan said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“You’ll see him again. Town’s small. Paths cross sooner or later.”

“And when you do,” Felix added, smirking again,

“try not to bump into him like yesterday. He’s not great with strangers.”

Changbin chuckled, feeling a strange warmth spreading in his chest.

Somehow, even with the teasing and chatter, the sunlight and the smell of coffee, and the laughter echoing in the small shop, all he could think about was the quiet boy at the beach.

The morning light climbed higher, warming the small table by the window.

Changbin let himself relax into it, sipping his latte slowly, nibbling on Felix’s famous brownie, letting the conversation flow, the teasing settle around him like a blanket.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the name Seungmin echoed softly, a mystery woven into the rhythm of the town, waiting for him to follow.

After leaving the cozy coffee shop, with Chan paying despite Changbin already handing in cash, Changbin followed Chan down another narrow lane, sunlight spilling across the cobblestones and lighting up the shutters that had only just been pushed open.

His shoes clicked softly against the uneven stones, and for the first time in a long while, he felt no urge to check his watch, no pressure to be anywhere.

The town’s quiet rhythm tugged at him, gentle and steady, and he let it guide him as much as Chan did.

“Where are we headed now?” Changbin asked, glancing at Chan.

“You’re going to see one of the other local shops,” Chan said, waving vaguely at a small, weathered building with a faded sign hanging above its door.

“Hyunjin and Jeongin run it together with their parents, You’ll like it. Well, you might. Depends if you like… actual creativity and things you can’t just buy in a mall.”

Changbin raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

“Things you can’t buy anywhere else?”

“Exactly,” Chan said, grinning.

“Handmade stuff. Trinkets, crafts, small art pieces. Hyunjin makes most of it himself. Jeongin helps, mostly with the display and charming customers.”

Changbin followed Chan inside, and the warm light of the shop welcomed him instantly.

The air smelled faintly of varnish and wood polish, mixed with the sharp tang of paint.

Shelves lined the walls, each one crowded with delicate trinkets:

tiny carved animals, painted stones, hand-bound notebooks, little clay figurines that looked like they belonged in a miniature village.

The attention to detail was astounding.

From behind the counter, two boys looked up.

One, slightly taller with careful hands and paint-stained sleeves, was arranging a display of miniature boats.

That must be Hyunjin. His movements were precise, almost like a dance, and his eyes flicked up at the new visitors with polite curiosity.

The other boy, younger perhaps, smiled brightly as he stacked tiny wooden boxes on a shelf.

That must be Jeongin.

His smile faltered for a fraction of a second when he noticed Chan, a subtle blush rising on his cheeks

. Chan, in turn, seemed a little flustered, brushing at the back of his neck and avoiding Jeongin’s eyes for a moment.

Changbin noticed immediately, a small grin tugging at his lips, there was something unspoken between them, a gentle tension that made the air feel warmer.

Chan clapped his hands together.

“Hey, guys! This is Changbin. He’s new in town, staying with his aunt for the summer. Changbin, meet Hyunjin and Jeongin. They basically run this place.”

Hyunjin’s sharp eyes softened slightly as he gave a polite nod.

“Welcome. It’s always nice to meet someone new around here. Chan said you were exploring the town.”

“Yeah,” Changbin said, feeling a little shy but smiling anyway.

“It’s… really beautiful. Everyone’s so kind.”

Jeongin’s blush lightened as he held out his hand to Changbin.

“It’s nice to meet you. Chan’s right,  the town’s small, but there’s a lot to see if you know where to look.”

Changbin shook it, noticing the faint tingle of tension still lingering between Jeongin and Chan.

They exchanged brief, quick glances, smiles tight but warm, before turning back to him. “Thanks,” he said.

“I really like your shop. Everything is… amazing.”

These handmade trinkets had a quiet charm that made Changbin’s chest lift in a different way.

He wandered down the aisles slowly, letting his fingers brush against the carved wood, the smooth stones, the tiny painted figurines.

Each piece seemed infused with care and attention, and he could see why Chan had been eager to bring him here.

Hyunjin noticed his interest and straightened up, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“I make most of these myself. The clay figurines, the painted stones… it’s a hobby, mostly, but it helps to pay the bills.”

“They’re beautiful,” Changbin said, genuinely impressed.

“You put so much detail into each one.”

Jeongin leaned against the counter, still smiling softly, and glanced at Chan as if asking for silent approval.

Chan caught the look and blushed slightly, shifting his weight awkwardly. “He does, yeah,” Jeongin said finally.

“Hyunjin can spend hours on one little figure and still come back the next day to tweak it.”

Changbin grinned.

“I get it. I… really like it. Everything feels personal. Alive, like you said.”

The four of them lingered in the shop for a while, talking lightly, joking with Chan as he teased both Hyunjin and Jeongin, and laughing along at the playful banter.

Changbin couldn’t help but notice the subtle exchanges between Chan and Jeongin, little smiles that lingered too long, hands brushing against each other when passing objects, the occasional shared laugh that seemed to leave them both slightly flushed.

It was endearing, quiet, and made the whole space feel warmer, more intimate.

Eventually, Changbin stepped closer to the counter.

“I… have a question,” he said, hesitating.

“Do you know a boy? About my age? He was at the beach yesterday, quiet, had flowers with him. I bumped into him in town, too…”

Both Hyunjin and Jeongin exchanged a look, small smiles tugging at their lips.

“Ohh,” Jeongin said softly, glancing at Chan again before turning back to Changbin.

“I think we know exactly who you mean.”

Hyunjin nodded. “Yeah… Seungmin. He’s quiet, keeps to himself, spends most of his time with flowers or working at the flower shop. Not very outgoing, but he’s good. You’ll probably see him again if you stay around.”

Changbin blinked, a flutter of excitement and curiosity in his chest.

“Seungmin…”

“Small town,” Jeongin added with a grin.

“People cross paths eventually. You’ll find him.”

Changbin smiled to himself, walking back down the street with Chan.

He watched the subtle, nervous glances exchanged between Chan and Jeongin and couldn’t help but feel like a quiet observer of a delicate story unfolding right in front of him.

His thoughts kept drifting back to Seungmin, the quiet boy by the shore, the mystery mingling with the warmth of the town and the new friends he’d already met.

After lingering in the trinket shop for a while, Changbin realized how quickly the hours had passed.

Sunlight streamed through the small windows, and though he hadn’t noticed it before, his stomach rumbled faintly.

“I… should probably head back soon,” Changbin said reluctantly, glancing at Chan.

“My aunt will be expecting me.”

Chan nodded, trying to mask the slight disappointment in his expression.

“Yeah… I should probably get going too. But don’t worry, we’ll explore more tomorrow. Maybe I’ll show you the pier, or the cliffs.”

Hyunjin and Jeongin walked them to the door, waving as they left.

Changbin couldn’t help but notice the small blushes that still lingered on Chan and Jeongin’s faces whenever their eyes met, subtle and quiet, almost like a secret Changbin was catching on to.

“Thanks for showing me around,” Changbin said sincerely.

“Your shop… it’s amazing. I’ll definitely come back.”

Hyunjin gave a polite nod.

“Glad you liked it. Come by anytime. And don’t worry, Chan usually tags along, so you won’t get lost.”

Jeongin smiled warmly.

“Yeah. See you around, Changbin. Enjoy the rest of your walk.”

As they stepped back onto the sunlit street, Chan glanced at Changbin and smirked.

“See? Told you, small-town charm. You get used to it fast.”

Changbin laughed softly.

“I think I could. It feels… different from the city. Good different.”

They wandered down a narrow alleyway, the buildings close enough that the sunlight only peeked in along the edges.

The faint scent of the sea drifted in from somewhere close by, mingling with the earthy smell of the alley.

Changbin’s eyes wandered, taking in every detail, he faded paint on a shutter, the delicate ivy climbing up a brick wall, the sound of footsteps echoing softly against the stone.

Chan suddenly stopped, nudging Changbin gently.

“Hey… look over there.”

Changbin followed his finger and saw a boy about his age sitting cross-legged on the ground, a small, orange cat perched contentedly on his lap.

The man’s hands moved carefully over the cat’s fur, scratching it with ease, while he hummed a playful tune under his breath.

The cat purred loudly in response, kneading at the man’s legs.

“That’s… Minho,” Chan whispered, almost like not wanting to disturb him.

“He works at the fish shop nearby. Always cheerful, a little dramatic sometimes… and crazy about cats.”

Changbin blinked,

a small smile tugging at his lips.

He took a cautious step forward, but almost immediately started sneezing.

His eyes watered slightly.

“Uh… I think I’m… allergic,” he admitted, rubbing at his nose.

Chan chuckled softly.

“Don’t worry, Bin. He doesn’t bite. Usually.”

They approached slowly, stepping lightly over the cobblestones.

Minho looked up as they neared, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He grinned widely at them.

“Well, if it isn’t Chan! And a new face! Who’s this?”

“This is Changbin,” Chan said quietly,

“staying with his aunt for the summer. Changbin, meet Minho. He’s… well, you’ll see.”

Changbin managed a small wave, sneezing again as the cat brushed against his leg.

“H-hello…”

Minho laughed, holding the cat away for a moment.

“Ah! So you’re allergic, huh? Don’t worry, I can keep the furry menace in check. Sort of. He likes to judge people before accepting them.”

The cat wriggled back into Minho’s lap, purring louder.

Changbin sneezed again, his eyes watering, and Minho reached into a small bag by his side to pull out a pack of tissues.

“Here, here! Don’t let my furry friend get the best of you,” Minho said, offering the tissues.

“By the way, I run the fish shop right over there,” he added, pointing down the alley.

“Best fish in town. Not that you can taste it now, sneezing your way through the street.”

Changbin laughed, despite the watery eyes.

“Thanks… I think I’ll survive.”

Minho leaned back slightly, brushing the cat’s fur again and giving Changbin an approving smile.

“You survived the first encounter. That’s a good start. Most people flee.”

Chan nudged Changbin, trying to hide his amusement.

“See? I told you everyone’s friendly here.”

Changbin glanced at Minho, watching him laugh, gesture, and fuss with the cat.

There was a liveliness to him, a warmth and a little chaos that made the alley feel alive.

Even with the sneezing and itchy eyes, Changbin felt… at ease, as if the town itself was wrapping him in a soft, welcoming rhythm.

After a few quiet minutes, Minho waved them off dramatically.

“Alright, adventurers, you’ve had your dose of alleyway magic. Go on, explore, but don’t get lost, or at least come back before Chan complains too much.”

Changbin stood, brushing at his nose lightly, smiling at Minho and the cat.

“Thanks… I’ll try.”

Chan gave a mock salute.

“Alright, Bin. Let’s get moving before your aunt starts sending a search party.”

As they walked down the alleyway, sunlight warming their backs, Changbin felt lighter than he had in months.

He thought about the trinket shop, the coffee shop, Hyunjin and Jeongin, and Felix teasing Chan.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of the quiet boy at the beach lingered, Seungmin.

Somehow, the thought didn’t feel unreachable anymore.

The town felt full of stories waiting to unfold, small surprises tucked into alleys, shops, and the rhythm of everyday life.

And Changbin couldn’t wait to discover them all.

By the time Changbin finally reached his aunt’s house, the sky was beginning to turn soft shades of gold and pink.

He waved goodbye to Chan at the gate, grateful for the day’s adventures and already anticipating tomorrow.

“Thanks for everything, Chan,” he said with a warm smile.

“See you tomorrow?”

Chan grinned, giving a small salute.

“You bet. Don’t get lost on your way back, though with your city instincts, maybe you’ll survive.”

Changbin laughed and waved as Chan disappeared down the lane.

He stepped into his aunt’s house, the familiar scent of home immediately wrapping around him like a blanket.

His aunt greeted him with a hug that was impossibly warm and comforting.

“You must be starving,” she said, ushering him toward the kitchen.

“Dinner’s ready. Eat up, and then you can go enjoy the sunset, just like yesterday.”

Changbin sat at the table, the simple meal filling him with a quiet contentment.

Conversation with his aunt was gentle and unhurried, the kind of talk that made him feel grounded and welcome in a way the city never had.

After finishing his dinner, he excused himself quietly.

The pull of the shore was irresistible.

He grabbed a light jacket and slipped out into the evening, the wind carrying a faint salt tang and the distant sound of waves.

The beach stretched before him, familiar yet infinitely comforting.

The sun was sinking low, painting the sky with oranges, pinks, and purples, just like yesterday.

Changbin made his way to the same spot he had discovered before, sitting on the sand and letting the waves lap quietly at the edges of his thoughts.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw him.

Seungmin.

Sitting on a rock just a few meters away, cradling a small bouquet of flowers in his hands.

The boy looked up briefly, eyes meeting Changbin’s for a heartbeat, and then returned his attention to the flowers, arranging them gently as if they were fragile pieces of the world.

Changbin’s heart skipped.

The quiet boy from yesterday, the mystery in the town, the one he couldn’t stop thinking about, he was here again.

For a long while, Changbin just sat, watching the sun dip lower, the waves glinting with the last golden light, and Seungmin, so still and calm in contrast to the restless tide.

The air was soft, the world quiet, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.

Changbin let out a contented breath, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Tomorrow, he thought, he would see more of the town.

Maybe he would see Seungmin again.

For now, he simply let the moment linger, the sun, the sea, and the boy with the flowers, quiet as a secret waiting to be discovered.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight spilled over the rooftops of the small town, warm and golden, carrying the faint tang of the sea.

Changbin stepped out quietly from his aunt’s house, eager to explore, a piece of toast hanging from his mouth in-between his teeth.

Each cobblestone beneath his sneakers seemed to whisper stories of the town, of quiet corners waiting to be discovered.

He passed the familiar streets, shutters opening, children chasing each other in the square, the baker already kneading dough, and let himself wander farther today.

The air smelled faintly of salt and flowers, a promise of something magical tucked into the ordinary.

Rounding a corner, he spotted Chan behind the counter of his small shop, straightening displays with meticulous care.

“Hey, Bin!” Chan called.

“Morning!”

“Morning,” Changbin replied, smiling.

“I’m heading out to explore.”

Chan smirked.

“Good. I’ve got errands this morning, so you’re on your own. Don’t get lost, okay?”

Changbin waved and walked on, the town’s quiet charm guiding his steps.

He wandered past familiar lanes and discovered a small alley he hadn’t noticed before.

At its end, a tiny flower shop burst into view, tucked between two larger buildings.

Its wooden sign was faded, paint curling at the edges, but flowers spilled over the doorway in a riot of color, sunflowers, daisies, hydrangeas, wildflowers, and their scent drifted toward him, sweet and earthy.

Inside, the shop was bright and warm, sunlight filtering through lace curtains onto the wooden floor.

Behind the counter, a boy practically radiated energy.

“Hi! Welcome! Don’t touch the orchids, they’re moody today!” he called cheerfully.

Changbin blinked, startled, then smiled.

“Hi… I’m Changbin. Just looking around.”

“I’m Han Jisung!” the boy said, bouncing on his toes.

“I work here with Seungmin. He’s a little quiet, don’t expect him to chatter much, but he’s amazing with flowers. Totally precise. Zen mode activated.”

Changbin glanced toward Seungmin, who stood in a corner at a small workbench.

His movements were deliberate, twisting stems into a delicate crown.

Every flower seemed to respond to his hands, each stem placed with care.

He looked up briefly as Changbin watched, calm, observing, then returned to his weaving.

“I… I like the shop,” Changbin said softly.

“It’s… really nice.”

Seungmin’s quiet voice met his ears.

“Thanks. We like to keep things orderly. Flowers respond better when treated gently.”

Changbin nodded, heart fluttering slightly.

Jisung clapped his hands excitedly.

“See! He talks sometimes! Don’t let the quiet fool you.”

Then, with an almost conspiratorial grin, Jisung asked,

“Wait! When’s your birthday?”

“Uh… August,” Changbin replied.

“Perfect!” Jisung exclaimed. He darted over to a shelf and plucked a delicate pink gladiolus.

“Your birth flower! Strength, integrity, sincerity. That’s you! Take care of it, it’s your little guardian now.”

Changbin took it, smiling warmly.

“Thank you… that’s really thoughtful.”

Seungmin’s soft voice followed from the corner.

“Gladiolus suits you. Upright, understated… meaningful. You’ll take care of it, city boy.”

Jisung’s excitement didn’t wane.

He bounced around the shop, showing Changbin every bloom, explaining their meanings as if each one held a story meant to be shared.

“Daisies! Innocence. Sunflowers! Adoration. Hydrangeas! Gratitude. Lilies! Purity. Forget-me-nots! True love!” His words tumbled out in a flurry of laughter and energy.

Changbin laughed too, feeling lighter than he had in days.

He wandered among the blooms, touching petals gently, breathing in the fragrances, listening to Jisung, and occasionally glancing toward Seungmin.

The quiet boy’s hands worked with such precision, twisting stems into the crown or weaving small garlands, that it almost felt sacred, as if each movement held a secret meaning.

“You’re… really good at that,” Changbin said softly, nodding toward Seungmin’s crown.

“It’s relaxing,” Seungmin replied calmly.

“And it matters how you place each stem. Attention is everything.”

Changbin felt a warmth spreading in his chest at the quiet simplicity of Seungmin’s words.

He watched for a while longer, entranced by the delicate weaving, the calm presence, the contrast to Jisung’s exuberant energy.

By the time he left the shop, gladiolus carefully wrapped in his hands, the sun was lowering in the sky, casting long, golden streaks across the town.

He walked home slowly, savoring the soft evening air.

Once in his room, he placed the gladiolus in a small vase by the window.

The petals caught the last light of day, glowing softly.

Changbin lingered a moment, admiring the flower and feeling a strange, quiet happiness. It was a small, simple thing, but it reminded him of the morning, the flower shop, and the calm boy weaving quietly in the corner.

After dinner with his aunt, he grabbed a light jacket and stepped out toward the beach.

The path felt familiar and comforting, guiding him past the quiet streets, the air now tinged with salt and the faint chill of evening.

The sun was low over the horizon, spilling gold and pink across the sky.

And there, on the same rock as the day before, sat Seungmin, hands busy weaving something delicate from stems.

He looked up briefly as Changbin approached, eyebrows raised slightly in quiet surprise, then returned to his work without a word.

Changbin walked closer and settled onto the sand beside him, careful not to disturb his concentration.

The sound of the waves was steady, rhythmic, grounding.

He could see Seungmin’s hands moving with calm precision, each twist and turn of the stems deliberate and purposeful.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Changbin’s thoughts drifted back to the flower shop, Jisung’s energetic chatter, and the meanings of every bloom he had learned.

And now, sitting here beside Seungmin, he understood a little more, the quiet presence, the care, the attention, it was all the same lesson flowers had taught him that morning.

The sun dipped lower, casting the world in soft gold, pink, and lavender.

Changbin felt a deep calm settle over him, the kind that made the city feel very far away, and this small town feel like home.

He didn’t need to speak, the quiet between them was comfortable, grounding, and alive with possibilities.

Seungmin’s hands continued weaving, delicate and precise, and Changbin simply watched, feeling the warmth of the summer evening, the sand beneath him, the soft scent of the sea, and the unspoken connection that had begun, quietly, like the roots of flowers taking hold in fertile soil.

And as the sun finally kissed the horizon, casting a shimmering gold across the waves, Changbin knew that this, these moments, these quiet sunsets, this slow, gentle discovery, was exactly what he had been searching for.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled over the quiet town, brushing the rooftops with gold and painting the cobblestones in soft warmth.

Changbin inhaled the crisp air, the faint tang of salt from the sea drifting in with the gentle breeze.

He paused for a moment, letting himself simply exist in this slower rhythm, so unlike the city.

The streets were quiet except for the early creak of shutters and the distant clatter of carts, and for once, Changbin felt no rush.

He had barely stepped onto the path when Chan appeared, bounding toward him with his usual chaotic energy.

“Bin! There you are!” Chan called, his grin impossibly wide.

“You were going to wander around all morning by yourself, weren’t you? Come on, you have to see the cliffs today. Trust me, you cannot miss it.”

Changbin laughed, allowing Chan to loop an arm through his.

“Fine, fine. But you’re carrying the blame if I fall off a rock.”

“The cliffs won’t eat you!” Chan teased, tugging him onward, in the early morning his Australian accent sounded more pronounced.

“Come on, they’re beautiful, I promise!”

As they neared the cliffs, the town fell behind them, replaced by rolling fields dotted with wildflowers and low shrubs.

The dirt path became rougher, the wind tugging at his sleeves and hair, carrying with it the steady roar of the waves below.

Up ahead, the group had already scattered across the rocky landscape, their voices mingling with the rush of the sea.

Jisung bounced along the rocks, pointing at every flower he spotted.

“Bin! Look at this one! It’s called a glaucous aster, it means hope! And those tiny purples? Scabiosa, for love at first sight!” He clapped his hands with delight.

“The cliffs are alive today!”

Changbin smiled at the little details he had never noticed, the way flowers clung to the rocks, how the wind tangled strands of hair around his fingers, and the steady rhythm of the waves below.

Seungmin stood quietly a little apart from the group, near the edge where the cliffs dropped toward the water.

He didn’t move much, but the calm precision in his posture drew Changbin’s eyes again and again.

There was something about the quiet, about the stillness, that made the crashing waves feel softer somehow.

As he walked along the rocks, Changbin couldn’t help but notice the subtle intimacies around him.

Minho brushed a strand of hair from Jisung’s face, leaning in to whisper something that made Jisung giggle and tilt his head shyly.

He blinked in surprise, he hadn’t realized they were dating.

Felix darted ahead, laughing, and bumped lightly into Hyunjin, steadying him with a small, lingering touch of hands.

The blush on both their faces made Changbin grin to himself.

Another couple.

He could feel the warmth spreading in his chest, a mix of delight and quiet awe at how natural their closeness felt.

Even Chan and Jeongin, though less overt, were attentive, guiding each other over rocks, laughing when one nearly slipped, exchanging soft smiles that spoke of something unspoken but tender.

Changbin realized slowly that this group was full of small, quiet, but very real connections.

He kept his eyes wandering, and then something caught his attention:

a patch of wildflowers growing between the cracks of the rocks.

Pale purples, soft yellows, tiny whites swaying in the wind.

Carefully, he bent down and picked a few, holding them in his hands.

Taking a deep breath, he walked toward Seungmin, feeling the familiar flutter of nervousness in his chest.

“I… I thought you might like these,” he said softly, holding out the small bouquet.

Seungmin’s eyes flicked to the flowers, and then he let out a quiet laugh.

“These… are weeds.”

Changbin froze, eyes wide.

“We… weeds?”

Seungmin’s smile was small but warm, and it caught Changbin off guard.

For the first time, Seungmin was smiling at him, not just a polite glance, but a soft, genuine smile.

Changbin’s heart fluttered so hard he felt it in his throat.

“But,” Seungmin continued, tilting his head slightly,

“if you like them, that’s what matters.”

Changbin’s cheeks burned, and he smiled back, shy but happy.

He wasn’t sure why, but seeing Seungmin smile like that made everything feel… lighter, like the breeze over the cliffs or the sunlight reflecting off the waves below.

The group carried on around them.

Minho helped Jisung steady himself on a narrow rock, brushing petals from his hair, while Felix and Hyunjin joked as they balanced along the rocks, hands brushing, fingers lingering.

Chan helped Jeongin navigate a tricky path, nudging him gently with a soft smile when their shoulders brushed.

Changbin wandered a little further, feeling the cool wind on his face, watching the sunlight dance across the ocean, feeling the gentle warmth of the group’s small connections.

And then he returned to Seungmin, sitting beside him on a flat stretch of rock, close enough that their shoulders brushed lightly.

They were quiet at first, just watching the waves crash far below.

Changbin’s heart was still racing from the earlier smile, and he could feel the pull of wanting to say something, anything.

Finally, he whispered,

“Do you… like coming here often?”

Seungmin’s dark eyes turned toward him, the corners of his lips tugging up in that soft, faint smile again.

“Sometimes. The flowers grow here easily and It’s… peaceful.”

Changbin nodded, glancing down at his hands and then back to the waves.

“It is. I… I like it too.”

A pause settled between them, comfortable, unforced.

Changbin’s gaze drifted to Seungmin, to the quiet strength in his posture, the warmth in his smile, and he felt something delicate and new stirring in his chest.

He leaned just a little closer, enough that their shoulders touched more fully, and Seungmin didn’t move away. Instead, he simply gave a small, acknowledging nod, a wordless acceptance of this quiet closeness.

As the group began making their way back toward town, Changbin lingered for a moment, soaking in the feeling of the cliffs, the laughter, the warmth, and most of all, the soft presence of Seungmin beside him.

His mind buzzed with new impressions, the couples, the small romantic gestures, and the smile that Seungmin had given him.

By the time Changbin returned home, the sun was dipping toward the horizon, spilling warm orange and pink across the sky.

Without a word, he wandered down to the beach, where the familiar sight of Seungmin sitting on a rock brought a quiet, steady happiness to his chest.

He sat beside him, letting the waves crash below and the wind tug gently at his hair, feeling the calm of the town, the cliffs, and the small but meaningful connections of the day settle around him.

For the first time, Changbin realized that this slow, winding summer could hold more than just quiet adventures, it could hold something gentle, fragile, and entirely new.

And perhaps, he thought, it had already begun.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled faintly of saltwater and fried onions when Changbin’s aunt pressed a wicker basket into his arms.

“Fish, bread, and something green that isn’t just seaweed. Maybe some fruit if you find anything ripe.”

She listed items like a general planning a campaign.

“And don’t come back with only sweets.”

Changbin groaned but shouldered the basket anyway.

“You say that like I don’t know how to shop.”

His aunt raised an eyebrow.

“You lived in the city. That’s not shopping, that’s delivery apps.”

He stuck his tongue out at her on his way out the door, which only made her laugh.

The town was already stirring, narrow streets alive with the hum of voices and clatter of stalls being set up.

The sea’s scent threaded through everything, sharp and familiar.

Changbin adjusted the basket against his hip and made for the fish market first, mostly because he wanted to get the smelliest errand out of the way.

It was chaos there:

fishermen hauling in gleaming catches, vendors shouting about freshness, Wives poking at scales.

Changbin froze in front of a table where rows of fish stared back at him with glassy eyes.

He frowned, leaning closer.

“Uh… which one of you is supposed to look… edible?”

A laugh cut through the noise.

Dry, sharp.

“You’re supposed to look for clear eyes, not start a conversation with them.”

Changbin turned to see Minho, hands in his pockets, watching him with barely concealed amusement.

“You again,” Changbin said, but he couldn’t help the grin tugging at his mouth.

“Unfortunately.” Minho leaned casually against the stall.

“What, did your aunt finally put you to work? I was wondering when you’d get initiated into errands.”

“I’m very capable,” Changbin muttered, poking at a fish.

“I’m just… taking my time.”

Minho arched a brow.

“By staring at fish like it owes you money?”

Before Changbin could think of a retort, another voice slid between them.

Calm.

Low.

“Those are already going soft. Don’t buy from this stall.”

“Hey! It's my stall, and their fresh.” Minho grumbled crossing his arms.

Changbin’s stomach did something strange at the sound.

He turned to see Seungmin standing a step away, his dark hair damp from the sea breeze, sleeves pushed up as he inspected the fish like he’d been born doing it.

In his hair a small daisy was present.

His expression was unreadable, as always, but his presence tugged at the air around them.

Changbin, desperate to not look like a complete idiot, blurted,

“Maybe we could… do the rest of the shopping together?”

Seungmin stilled.

Changbin fumbled.

“You know because I don't have much experience here like you soo-”

He winced, hoping he didn't just make a total fool out of himself.

Seungmins gaze flicked to Changbin, steady and assessing, as if weighing the request.

For a heartbeat too long, the market noise faded behind the silence between them.

Then Seungmin shrugged, as if it didn’t matter either way.

“Fine.”

It was ridiculous, how relief flooded Changbin at one syllable.

Minho, smirking like he knew far too much, excused himself with a lazy wave.

“Have fun, boys.”

They went the bread stall after seungmin chose fish for changbin because he was too scared to touch them.

Changbin puffed out his chest like he knew what he was doing, reaching for a round loaf that looked golden and perfect.

Seungmin’s voice cut in, soft but merciless.

“That’s stale.”

Changbin blinked.

“What? It looks fine.”

“Looks can lie.” Seungmin didn’t even look up as he nudged a fresher loaf forward with slim fingers.

“You’d survive maybe a day with that one.”

“Oh, and you’re the bread expert now?” Changbin shot back.

A pause.

Then, completely deadpan.

“Better than a city boy who’s never bought bread in his life.”

Changbin sputtered, then laughed despite himself.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Seungmin didn’t smile, not quite, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

At the fruit stall, Changbin was determined to redeem himself.

He picked up the shiniest apple he could find, holding it up like a prize.

“See? Perfect. No complaints this time.”

Seungmin leaned over, expression flat.

“That’s bruised underneath. Don’t just look at the shine.”

Changbin groaned.

“Okay, fruit genius.”

“At least I’m passing the class,” Seungmin murmured, setting aside a proper apple with quiet precision.

“Passing with attitude,” Changbin muttered, but there was no bite in it.

His grin gave him away.

They moved slowly through the stalls, bickering over the ripeness of peaches, the price of sardines, even the best kind of bread roll.

Each exchange was small, almost nothing, but the rhythm of it, Seungmin’s dry remarks, Changbin’s exaggerated indignation, felt like building something fragile between them.

Changbin spotted them as they walked past the edge of the market:

thin, scrappy stalks of green sprouting between cracks in the stone path.

They weren’t much to look at, tiny petals hanging on for dear life, but something about them made him think of Seungmin anyway.

So, naturally, he crouched down and picked a handful.

“Here,” he said, presenting them with an exaggerated flourish like he’d just discovered buried treasure.

Seungmin blinked at the flowers in his hand.

For a moment his eyes widened, actually widened, as he let out a tiny, sharp gasp.

“Wow,” he murmured, his voice unusually breathless

. “These are… rare. You almost never find them around here.”

Changbin’s chest swelled with pride, a smug smile tugging at his lips.

“See? I knew it. I knew I had an eye for these things. You’re welcome.”

Seungmin reached out delicately, cradling the little stems in his fingers like they were precious.

He even turned them slightly, as though admiring the way the petals caught the sunlight.

“Rare?” Changbin repeated, practically glowing.

“Like, rare-rare? Like festival-display rare?”

Seungmin hummed thoughtfully, still gazing down at the flowers with a soft expression.

“Mm. Very rare.”

Changbin grinned so hard his cheeks hurt.

“I knew it! Aunt always says I have terrible taste, but look at me now, finding the rarest flowers in town.”

Seungmin let the silence hang for just a beat too long.

Then, finally, he looked up, eyes glittering with the faintest edge of mischief.

“They’re weeds.”

Changbin’s face fell so fast it was almost comical.

“What?”

Seungmin’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile.

“Weeds,” he repeated, a little firmer this time.

“You’ve gifted me weeds. Again.”

Changbin gawked at him, utterly betrayed. “You-you tricked me!”

“You believed me,” Seungmin said simply, shrugging as he tucked the stems into his basket anyway.

“That’s not my fault.”

“You gasped,” Changbin accused.

“You made it sound like they were-were treasure or something!”

Seungmin’s smile deepened just barely, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking close.

“Guess I’m more convincing than I thought.”

Changbin groaned dramatically, burying his face in his hands as Seungmin started walking again.

But even as he caught up, muttering under his breath about evil flower boys and small-town scams, he couldn’t help the warmth buzzing through his chest.

Because for the first time, Seungmin hadn’t just smiled, he’d teased.

And that felt rarer than any flower Changbin could ever find.

By the time Changbin made it back to his aunt’s house, his basket was nearly dragging on the ground.

Bread, fish wrapped neatly in paper, a few apples that Seungmin had approved as “acceptable”,everything she had asked for was stacked neatly inside.

His aunt met him at the doorway, eyes crinkling with warmth.

“There you are, Binnie. I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost again.”

Changbin puffed his chest up a little as he set the basket on the counter.

“Lost? Please. I handled the market like a pro.”

She started unpacking the food, glancing up at him with a knowing look.

“Mhm. And what about the flowers in your room? Did you get more today?”

Changbin froze for just a second before clearing his throat.

“Uh, maybe. Sort of. Kind of. Don’t worry about it.”

Her smile widened, but she didn’t pry, just patting his shoulder as she busied herself with dinner preparations.

Changbin helped carry a few things into the pantry, but his mind was already elsewhere, tugged toward the shoreline like the tide pulling back to sea.

Dinner passed in an easy haze.

His aunt fussed over him, piling more food on his plate than he could possibly finish, telling him little bits of town gossip that he only half-listened to.

All he could think about was how the sun was already dipping lower in the sky, painting the windows with streaks of orange and gold.

The moment the meal ended and dishes were stacked, Changbin excused himself with a rushed, “Going for a walk!” before darting out the door.

The salty breeze hit him instantly, brushing through his hair as he jogged down toward the beach.

His sandals kicked up sand when he reached the shore, and the sight stole his breath just like it always did:

the horizon aflame with sunset, waves curling and unfurling in rhythm.

And there, just like before, Seungmin.

He was sitting on the same smooth rock, the tide whispering at its base, a small bundle of flowers at his side.

For once, when Changbin’s footsteps crunched closer, Seungmin didn’t keep his eyes fixed on the ocean. Instead, he looked up.

Their gazes met.

It wasn’t long, not even more than a second, but Seungmin’s lips curved, soft, faint, but unmistakably a smile.

Changbin’s chest stuttered.

He sat down beside him without a word, sand cool beneath his palms as he leaned back and let the view swallow him whole.

The air was quiet except for gulls in the distance and the steady rush of the waves, but it didn’t feel heavy or awkward.

It felt… peaceful.

The kind of silence you didn’t need to fill.

Seungmin didn’t say anything, and Changbin didn’t push.

They just sat there, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching, watching as the sun sank lower and lower, setting the sky ablaze until it finally melted into dusk.

For the first time since arriving in this small, quiet town, Changbin thought...

Maybe he belonged here after all.

Chapter Text

Changbin didn’t think his first summer in the small seaside town would include being dragged out of bed at dawn by Minho, barefoot, hair sticking up in every possible direction, to attend what Minho called “a matter of life and death.”

But here he was, standing in Jisung’s living room, surrounded by seven boys dressed in black.

Felix sat on the couch, his shirt damp from Jisung’s endless tears, whispering soothing words into his ear.

Chan perched stiffly on a chair like the officiant of a grand ceremony, hands folded, grave.

Hyunjin leaned against the wall, trying, and failing, to suppress his laughter.

Seungmin sat in the corner, arms crossed, expression blank as stone.

Jeongin was sobbing into a tissue.

And Minho, beside him, had his hand clamped on Changbin’s shoulder, forcing him forward like he was a soldier reporting for duty.

On the table before them sat a framed photo of a goldfish taped onto cardboard, beside a small, empty bowl lined with pebbles.

Changbin blinked. “Is this-”

Minho whispered, sharp and reverent,

“Show respect.”

“My Goldie,” Jisung sobbed into Felix’s chest.

“He was… he was so beautiful, so brave! He always swam so fast when I tapped on the glass-”

“Because he was terrified,” Seungmin muttered.

“Seungmin!” Chan barked, scandalized.

“Not here.”Felix shushed Jisung softly, patting his back.

“He was the best swimmer, Ji. No one else could do laps like him.”

Changbin pressed his lips together to stop the laugh bubbling up his throat.

Surely this couldn’t be real.

Surely this was some elaborate joke the whole town was in on.

But then Minho leaned in and whispered in his ear, “You’re next.”

“What?” Changbin hissed.

“No, I can’t-”

Minho shoved him forward.

Six pairs of eyes stared at him expectantly.

Jisung sniffled, looking at him like he was the next speaker at a memorial service.

Changbin cleared his throat.

“Uh… rest in peace, Goldie. May the ocean embrace you in… eternal peace. Or, you know, the toilet.”

Jisung let out a fresh wail and collapsed further into Felix’s arms.

Hyunjin wheezed, clutching his stomach, until Minho smacked the back of his head.

“Quiet.”

One by one, they all stepped up.

Felix pressed his palms together, his Australian accent thick with emotion.

“Goldie, mate, you were the light of Jisung’s life. May you swim forever free.”

Chan followed, voice low and reverent.

“You taught us all about resilience, Goldie. No matter how small you were, you never gave up.”

Hyunjin stumbled forward next, tears of laughter streaking his cheeks.

“You were… you were so… shiny and wet.” he managed before cackling again.

Minho hit him harder this time.

Seungmin rose slowly, everyone waiting.

He stood before the little shrine, arms still crossed, and gave the bowl the briefest glance.

“It was a fish,” he said flatly.

Then he turned and sat down again.

“Seungmin!” Jisung shrieked, devastated.

But Minho was already stepping forward, head bowed like a priest.

His voice was smooth, dramatic, and far too intense for the moment.

“Goldie, child of the sea. You swam in circles, day after day, and yet you never faltered. You knew your purpose. You knew your home. You will be missed.”

He closed his eyes, sighing deeply, like he’d just performed a requiem.

Silence fell over the room, thick, absurd, holy silence, until Jisung whimpered,

“He deserves a proper send-off.”

So that was how Changbin found himself crammed into a tiny bathroom with seven boys, all lined up solemnly in front of the toilet.

Felix held the small bowl reverently, hands shaking as though it contained a royal crown.

Jisung clung to his arm, bawling.

“Would anyone like to say final words?” Chan asked.

Hyunjin coughed violently to disguise his laughter.

Seungmin sighed.

“Please just do it.”

Felix leaned down, whispering,

“Swim free, little guy,” as he tipped the bowl.

The limp goldfish slid into the water with a soft plop.

Everyone held their breath.

Jisung covered his mouth, sobbing loudly.

Chan reached out and pressed the handle.

The flush roared, water swirling, the tiny body disappearing into the pipes with a gurgle.

And just like that, Goldie was gone.

Jisung wailed, collapsing into Felix’s arms again.

Hyunjin laughed so hard he fell against the wall.

Minho crossed himself dramatically.

Chan muttered something about “ashes to ashes, water to water.”

Seungmin walked out without a word.

Changbin just stood there, dazed, wondering how this sleepy little town kept surprising him more and more each day.

But as he glanced at Seungmin’s retreating back, he thought he saw it again, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his lips.

The walk back from Jisung’s house was… quiet.

Too quiet, considering Changbin had just witnessed the most dramatic, over-the-top goldfish funeral in human history.

He was still in disbelief, his brain trying to process the sight of seven boys crowded around a toilet like it was the gates of heaven.

He risked a glance to his side.

Seungmin walked next to him, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the cobbled path.

His face was as unreadable as ever.

Changbin opened his mouth, closed it again.

What could he even say?

Nice funeral?

May your fish rest in forever peace?

And then it happened , Seungmin’s eyes flicked up, meeting his.

For a heartbeat, neither said anything.

Then, like a dam breaking, Changbin snorted.

Seungmin’s lips twitched, and suddenly the both of them burst into laughter, helpless and breathless on the quiet street.

Changbin doubled over, clutching his stomach.

“I- I can’t- he made us- pay respects-”

Seungmin was laughing too, shoulders shaking, his usually calm voice cracking.

“And Hyunjin- trying not to laugh- he looked like he was- choking-”

They staggered down the road together, laughter echoing off the houses until tears pricked the corners of Changbin’s eyes.

It felt like release.

Like something heavy had been cracked open.

By the time they reached his aunt’s door, Changbin was still wiping his face.

His aunt opened before he could even knock, hands on her hips.

“Finally! You’re late, Bin,” she scolded, eyeing the two of them suspiciously.

Then her gaze flicked to Seungmin, who lingered a step behind.

“And who’s this?”

Changbin opened his mouth, but Seungmin ,  straight-backed, polite, gave a short bow.

“Kim Seungmin. We met in town.”

Something softened in her expression immediately.

“Ah. Well, don’t just stand there. Come in. Both of you. Dinner’s already set.”

Changbin blinked. “Wait- both-?”

But his aunt had already ushered Seungmin inside, fussing over chairs and extra dishes.

Within minutes, the two of them were seated side by side at the small wooden table, bowls of rice and fish curry steaming in front of them.

It was… awkward.

Changbin tried to eat quietly, but every bite seemed too loud, every scrape of chopsticks against ceramic echoing.

His aunt kept slipping questions into the silence,  about where Seungmin lived, about his family, about whether he was eating enough.

Seungmin answered each politely but curtly, voice smooth but clipped, his expression unreadable. And yet, every now and then, Changbin caught the way his lips twitched, like he was fighting not to laugh again at the absurdity of the whole situation.

It was unbearable.

It was perfect.

At one point, when his aunt piled more fish on Seungmin’s plate, Seungmin’s shoulder brushed his as he shifted, a brief touch that sent a jolt through him.

When dinner was finally over, Changbin practically bolted for the door.

“Thanks, Auntie, food was great, really, we’ll be back soon!”

She just waved them off, satisfied.

“Don’t stay out too late!”

The moment the door closed behind them, Changbin exhaled.

“…That was-”

“Awkward,” Seungmin finished smoothly.

Changbin laughed, running a hand through his hair.

“So awkward.”

And then, as if by unspoken agreement, they walked.

Not toward the market, not toward town, but down the narrow path that led to the shore.

The sound of waves grew louder with each step until the sand stretched out before them, bathed in the soft burn of the setting sun.

They sat side by side, as they always seemed to end up, silence wrapping around them.

The horizon glowed with streaks of orange and pink, and the tide whispered against the rocks.

Seungmin leaned back on his hands, eyes fixed ahead.

His expression was calm, distant… but when Changbin glanced sideways, he caught it again, the faintest trace of a smile, small but real.

This time, Changbin didn’t look away.

For the first time, the silence between them wasn’t awkward.

It was theirs.

Chapter Text

Changbin had woken up restless.

The morning air in the town was too quiet, too soft, and after everything that had happened in the last few days, the laughter, the strange funeral for Jisung’s goldfish, the awkward dinner with his aunt and Seungmin, he found himself itching for something to do.

His aunt had already left him a list on the kitchen counter, telling him she’d be busy with her own errands.

Don’t get into trouble, it read at the bottom, her neat handwriting trailing off with a little flourish.

Changbin scoffed.

Trouble.

Him?

Never.

So he wandered.

His feet took him along the familiar cobbled path toward town, the salty air curling into his lungs, sunlight falling in golden streaks through the narrow alleys.

His eyes caught on the same flower shop he had passed before, their flower shop, with its weather-worn sign and rows of potted blooms lined neatly outside.

And there he was.

Seungmin, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair falling into his face, struggling with a heavy crate full of ceramic pots.

The sunlight caught in the strands of his hair, softening the cold edges of his expression.

Dirt smudged faintly across his knuckles as he tried to maneuver the crate inside the shop.

Changbin didn’t even think about it, he darted forward.

“Need a hand?” he asked, already slipping his hands under the edge of the crate.

Seungmin blinked at him once, flat, unimpressed.

“I have two.”

Changbin grinned, puffing his chest.

“Yeah, but mine come with muscles.”

He flexed, just enough to make the veins in his forearms stand out.

Finally- finally his workouts meant something.

Carrying pots?

Easy.

Piece of cake.

He hoisted the crate a little higher, trying not to show how heavy it actually was.

Seungmin didn’t even flinch.

He tilted his head, gaze flat as water.

“You’re straining your arms.”

“What-no, I’m not,” Changbin protested, shifting his grip.

The crate wobbled dangerously, nearly clipping his shin.

“Left hand under. Not the side. Unless you want to drop it.”

Changbin adjusted awkwardly, muttering under his breath,

“Still counts as heavy lifting.”

Before Seungmin could respond, Jisung came barreling out from inside the shop, eyes wide.

“Oh my god! If you break even one of those pots, Seungmin will actually kill you! And I’ll have to hold the funeral myself. Again!”

“Relax, I’ve got it!” Changbin snapped, muscles straining, but he still managed to stagger forward.

His biceps bulged, his back protested, but he kept his grin fixed.

Worth it, he thought, totally worth it.

Between Seungmin’s steadying hands and Jisung’s frantic commentary, the crate finally landed safely inside the shop.

Changbin dropped it onto the floor with a relieved huff, flexing his fingers dramatically.

“See?” he said, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow.

“Told you. Strong muscles. Useful muscles.”

Seungmin, already crouching to check the pots for cracks, didn’t look up.

“You’re loud.”

Changbin gaped.

“That’s what you got from all this? Loud?”

The flower shop smelled faintly of damp soil and lilies that morning, the bell above the door chiming as Changbin ducked inside.

He had barely taken two steps when someone launched at him like a cannonball.

“My son!” Jisung declared dramatically, flinging his arms around Changbin’s shoulders.

“You’ve returned to me!”

“…your what?” Changbin sputtered, off-balance.

“My son,” Jisung repeated matter-of-factly, ignoring his protests as he tugged him deeper into the shop.

“I adopted you yesterday in my head with Minho, It’s official. You belong to us now.”

Before Changbin could form a response, Jisung shoved a crate of terracotta pots into his arms.

The weight nearly made him topple.

“Wha-hey!” he grunted, bracing his legs.

“You’re the son,” Jisung explained sweetly, dusting off his hands.

“That means you do the heavy lifting. Isn’t that right, Minho?”

From where he was crouched on the floor, lazily petting a cat that had wandered in from the street, Minho didn’t even look up.

“Sounds fair. I had to carry him through his math homework once. Time he carries something back.”

Changbin gawked at him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at your fish stall?”

“I closed it.” Minho scratched under the cat’s chin, unfazed.

“The fish can wait. Cats are more important.”

“…you closed your entire stall for this?”

“Priorities.”

Before Changbin could press further, a cheerful voice called from the corner.

“Bin! You made it!”

It was Felix, perched on the counter where a pile of vases had been stacked precariously.

His apron still had cocoa powder dusted across the front.

“…wait,” Changbin blinked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be baking?”

Felix just grinned.

“Hyunjinnie said he was coming here, so I tagged along. Plus, if the coffee shop burns down, Chan’s fault anyway.”

“Excuse me?!”

Changbin spun and found Chan leaning against the wall like he owned the place, sipping iced coffee from felix's café’s plastic cup.

He shrugged at Changbin’s incredulous stare.

“I needed a break,” Chan admitted sheepishly.

“So I told Jeongin to cover for me.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jeongin piped up from the windowsill, where he was stretched out in the sunlight like a bored cat.

“I’m right here. You just abandoned your shop.”

“Jeongin!” Changbin practically yelped.

“You too? Don’t you work at-”

“I do.” Jeongin didn’t move an inch, squinting lazily at the sun.

“But it’s boring.

This place has better people-watching.”

“Better people-watching or better
Chan-watching?” Felix teased, waggling his brows.

Chan now lounging across a chair, rolled his eyes.

“You’re insufferable.” But the tips of his ears burned pink when Felix leaned over smirking.

Changbin just stared around the flower shop like he’d walked into an alternate reality.

“So… you all just left your jobs. To sit here. Why?”

“Because this is where the vibes are,” Jisung said simply, tugging a daisy from a nearby bucket and tucking it behind his own ear.

“Also because you’re here. You’re my son now. And sons must labor for their fathers. Pots over there, Binnie.”

He pointed toward the back.

Changbin sighed but hoisted the crate anyway, partly because he actually wanted to be helpful and partly because Seungmin was watching him from behind the counter.

Seungmin’s arms were crossed, expression flat, but his eyes flicked down to the way Changbin flexed under the weight.

“You’re holding it wrong,” Seungmin said finally.

Changbin tightened his grip.

“No, I’m not. I work out, you know. These arms don’t just-”

“Still wrong.”

“I literally have muscle-”

“Doesn’t make you smart,” Seungmin deadpanned, turning back to his stems and ribbons.

The shop erupted in laughter,Hyunjin nearly falling off his chair, Felix wheezing into his sleeve, Jisung clapping his hands like a proud father at a school play.

Even Minho’s cat blinked up as if amused.

And through the chaos, Changbin swore he saw Seungmin’s mouth twitch, just the smallest, tiniest curve, like he was trying not to smile.

The rest of the morning blurred into chaos.

Jisung assigned him chore after chore under the banner of fatherhood.

Minho demanded someone go buy sardines.

Jeongin refused to move from the window.

Hyunjin stole Felix’s apron to wear like a cape.

Chan tried to look responsible but ended up spilling half a bucket of water.

And through it all, Changbin’s arms screamed.

His back throbbed.

By the time the group finally dispersed and he staggered home, he felt like a wilted tulip.

Dinner was a haze of his aunt fussing, feeding him extra portions because he “looked too pale.”

He smiled weakly, excused himself when he could, and slipped out to the beach.

The tide was softer this evening, lapping lazily against the shore as if it, too, had grown tired with the day.

Changbin shuffled through the sand, each step a quiet wince.

His back still throbbed from Jisung’s so-called “fatherly chores.”

His arms felt heavy, his shoulders tight.

But none of it mattered when he reached the rocks.

Seungmin was there, as he always seemed to be, half-shadowed by the fading light.

His knees were drawn up, one hand propping his chin as he watched the horizon.

Changbin cleared his throat softly before lowering himself onto the sand beside him.

The grains shifted under his weight, his body aching at the motion.

He tried not to show it.

For a while, they just sat in silence, the sunset painting the waves in molten copper.

Then, unexpectedly, Seungmin spoke.

“Your muscles hurt.”

Changbin blinked, turning his head.

“…what?”

Seungmin’s gaze stayed forward, his voice even.

“You’ve been moving stiff since you sat down. They’re sore.”

“They’re not sore,” Changbin said quickly, a little too quickly.

He flexed one arm instinctively, forcing a grin.

“See? Totally fine. I work out all the time. This is nothing.”

“Mm.” Seungmin’s hum was quiet, disbelieving.

“I’m serious,” Changbin insisted.

“I could lift twice those pots. Jisung was just exaggerating. I’m built for this kind of thing.”

Finally, Seungmin turned his head, eyes flicking briefly to Changbin’s flexed arm.

His gaze lingered, unreadable, before he let it drop again.

And then, barely, almost imperceptibly, his lips curved.

A small smile.

Quiet, fleeting, but real.

Changbin froze, heart thudding harder than it should.

He wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled in his throat.

Instead, he just shifted, letting the cool breeze carry the moment.

The two of them sat shoulder to shoulder in the waning light, the sea murmuring secrets only it could keep.

And for one of the few times since arriving in this strange, small town, Changbin didn’t feel like a visitor anymore.

He felt like he belonged, if only because Seungmin had smiled at him.

Chapter Text

The morning was restless.

The shop was too loud, too crowded with laughter and voices and the ever-growing chaos that seemed to follow Jisung everywhere.

Changbin couldn’t stand still in it for long.

So he wandered.

He left the main street and its bustle behind, drifting past the bakery where Felix was hollering something cheerful out the window, past the fish stall Minho had abandoned again, past Chan’s smithy that had fallen silent in his absence.

The cobblestones grew quieter with each step until the only sound was the soft scuff of his boots and the occasional birdcall.

He didn’t have a destination in mind.

He just… walked.

And then he found it.

A patch of green, tucked away like a secret.

Wild vines curled along a half-broken fence, the grass soft and tall, dotted everywhere with little bursts of flowers.

White, yellow, violet.

The air was thick with the smell of earth and sun-warmed petals.

Changbin stopped at the edge of it, eyes widening.

It wasn’t the kind of place he would normally notice.

He wasn’t the type to linger on scenery, his gaze always dragged toward loud things, big things.

But standing there, with the quiet hum of bees and the sway of flowers in the breeze, something soft pressed against his chest.

And without meaning to, he thought:

Seungmin would like this.

The thought startled him, sudden and certain.

But once it settled, he couldn’t shake it.

So he turned on his heel and went straight to the flower shop.

Jisung nearly dropped an entire vase when the door flew open.

“Son!” he gasped, clutching his chest.

“You’re back so soon-you couldn’t stay away, I knew it-”

“Not now,” Changbin said, already striding past him.

“Not now?!” Jisung clutched at the air like he’d been stabbed.

“You come into my shop, my home, and you tell me not now? After everything I’ve done for you-”

But Changbin wasn’t listening.

His eyes had already found Seungmin, who was trimming stems behind the counter with the same calm, meticulous hands as always.

“You,” Changbin said breathlessly, pointing at him.

Seungmin raised a brow. “…me?”

“Yes. Come with me.”

Seungmin looked him up and down, unimpressed.

“Excuse me?”

“No questions. Just, come on.” Changbin’s voice was urgent, impatient.

He was already moving around the counter.

Seungmin tilted his head.

“You sound like a kidnapper.”

“I’m not kidnapping you!” Changbin protested.

“I’m showing you something.”

“Do I look like someone with free time?”

“Yes,” Changbin said firmly, and before Seungmin could argue further, his hand closed around Seungmin’s wrist, tugging him gently but insistently toward the door.

Jisung’s outraged voice chased them out.

“Seungmin! Don’t let him take you! This is betrayal of the highest order! I raised you both!”

“im literally a year older than you.” Changbin sighed as he left.

The bell chimed shut on his dramatics.

By the time they reached the clearing, Seungmin was giving him a look that could wither a man.

“This better not be some excuse to make me lift crates again.”

“Just, look.” Changbin stepped aside, letting the full view of the wild green patch fall in front of him.

Seungmin blinked.

His expression softened.

“…oh.”

He walked forward slowly, his eyes flicking over the swaying flowers, the long grass, the dappled sunlight.

His lips curved into something small, unguarded.

“You like it,” Changbin said quietly, almost surprised at how relieved he felt.

Seungmin’s gaze lingered on the blooms.

“I already know this place. I come here sometimes. It’s… peaceful.”

“Wait, you know about it?”

Seungmin smirked faintly.

“You thought you’d discovered a secret treasure?”

“…yeah,” Changbin admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, you did.” Seungmin crouched, plucking a stem with careful fingers.

“It’s just not yours.”

Changbin watched, unsure what to say, until Seungmin glanced up at him again.

“This is where I usually make flower crowns.”

“Flower crowns?”

Seungmin gave him a flat look.

“Yes. Flower crowns.”

“Like the things kids wear in plays?”

“Like the things that look nice,” Seungmin corrected smoothly.

He held up the stem.

“Want to learn?”

Changbin hesitated.

“…me?”

“You.”

Ten minutes later, Changbin was glaring at a crumpled mess of stems in his lap.

“This is impossible,” he muttered.

“It’s literally not,” Seungmin said calmly, fingers weaving blossoms together with effortless precision.

“My hands are too strong for this delicate work,”

Changbin grumbled, trying to twist another stem without snapping it.

It broke in half instantly.

“See? I’m built for lifting weights. Not…” he waved vaguely,

“…flower… braiding.”

“It’s just twisting and tucking,” Seungmin said, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Not just twisting and tucking! There’s… technique! And finger dexterity! And…”

He trailed off miserably, watching Seungmin finish another perfect crown.

“You’re hopeless,” Seungmin sighed, and then, without warning, set the crown neatly on Changbin’s head.

Changbin froze. “Wait, what are you-”

“It suits you,” Seungmin said simply, lips twitching.

“…really?”

“No,” Seungmin said flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Changbin groaned.

Later, at home, he set the crown Seungmin had given him on his desk like it was something precious.

And then, stubbornly, he gathered more flowers, stealing from his aunt's garden.

It was harder than he expected.

His fingers bent stems the wrong way, knots slipped loose, petals fell to the floor.

But he kept at it, tongue caught between his teeth, until, finally, he had something crown-shaped.

It was lopsided.

Fragile.

The kind of thing that would fall apart if you sneezed on it.

But it was his.

That evening, the beach was awash in lavender and fire, waves crashing soft against the shore.

Seungmin was already there, perched on their usual rock.

Changbin’s stomach tightened.

He sat down beside him, crown in hand.

“…I made this,” he said, holding it out.

Seungmin blinked, surprised.

He reached to take it, only for the stems to sag, half the crown collapsing pitifully in his fingers.

A few petals dropped into the sand.

Changbin winced. “Okay, it’s not great. But I tried.”

For a moment, Seungmin just stared at the broken mess.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

Soft, quiet, but real.

“It’s awful,” he said, amusement lacing his voice.

“I know,” Changbin groaned.

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

But Seungmin only shook his head, still smiling.

Then, to Changbin’s shock, he picked up one of the loose flowers and reached forward.

Before Changbin could react, Seungmin tucked it gently behind his ear.

Changbin blinked.

“…what are you-”

“Decoration,” Seungmin said simply.

He plucked another flower from the ruined crown and set it in Changbin’s hair.

Changbin’s chest stuttered.

He swallowed, then snatched a flower and leaned closer, tucking it carefully into Seungmin’s hair in retaliation.

Seungmin’s lips quirked.

Another flower.

Another counter.

Soon they were both laughing quietly, the pile of broken blooms dwindling as they placed them in each other’s hair.

Seungmin’s usually neat dark strands grew tangled with white petals and bright yellows, while Changbin’s head became a messy garden of mismatched colors.

By the end, they were ridiculous, two boys covered in flowers, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder by the sea.

Seungmin was still smiling, faint but warm, when Changbin reached for the last flower.

This time, he didn’t joke.

He leaned in slowly, tucking it behind Seungmin’s ear with a care that surprised even himself.

Their eyes met.

Close.

Quiet.

The waves filled the silence.

“…better than a crown,” Seungmin murmured.

Changbin’s throat felt tight.

He only managed a nod.

And they sat like that, the sun slipping below the horizon, wrapped in flowers and something neither of them wanted to name just yet.

Chapter Text

The sea was still silver when Changbin was shaken awake.

He blinked into the pale light pooling through his window, the sound of impatient knocking echoing through the house.

“Changbin!” a voice sang out.

“You’re wasting prime tide time!”

Only one person in town had that much cheer before breakfast.

He stumbled to the door, hair a mess, hoodie half on.

“Felix-what?”

“The tide’s low!” Felix said like that explained everything.

“We’re all going tide pooling! Come on!”

Changbin groaned. “Felix, it’s dawn.”

“Exactly,” Felix chirped.

“That’s when the good crabs come out.”

Before Changbin could process what that meant, Felix grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the cliffs.

The morning was brisk and clean, the air smelling of salt and damp stone.

The cliffs were wide open to the sea, waves curling against the rocks below.

The group was already scattered around, a chaos of color against the grey-blue water.

Jisung was the loudest.

He’d managed to slip at least twice in the span of five minutes and was now being held up by Minho, who looked both concerned and unimpressed.

“You’re fine,” Minho muttered, steadying him.

“I almost died,” Jisung gasped, clutching his arm.

“It’s ankle-deep, Jisung.”

“Water is water! Death is death!”

Jeongin crouched near a tide pool, enthusiastically pointing at tiny creatures while Chan nodded like an attentive dad.

“See, hyung, this one’s missing a claw-oh! And this one’s molting! Look, look-”

“That’s incredible,” Chan said earnestly, eyes soft with amusement, him looking at jeognin with a fond smile.

Meanwhile, Hyunjin and Felix sat near the edge, Hyunjin leaning against Felix’s shoulder, giggling about something secret.

Felix kissed the top of his head absentmindedly, sunlight flickering across their hair.

Changbin couldn’t help smiling.

The whole scene looked like something out of a painting, loud, bright, and beautiful.

And then he spotted Seungmin.

He sat a little apart from the chaos, on a wide rock overlooking the pools.

His sleeves were rolled up, his fingers tracing lazy circles in the water.

The breeze ruffled his hair, and he looked… peaceful.

Like he belonged here in a way that no one else quite did.

Changbin hesitated, just watching. Felix noticed and grinned.

“You should sit with him,” Felix whispered.

“I-no,” Changbin said, too quickly.

Felix’s grin only widened.

“You’re literally staring at him.”

“I’m not-”

But Felix had already run off to join Hyunjin, leaving Changbin to sulk his way down the rocks.

He approached quietly, careful not to slip like Jisung.

Seungmin looked up the moment he got close, expression unreadable.

“You’re really bad at balancing,” he said.

“I wasn’t balancing!” Changbin protested. “I was walking!”

“Right,” Seungmin said flatly, returning his gaze to the pool.

Despite the teasing, Changbin sat beside him.

The rock was cold under his hands, but the view was breathtaking, little worlds inside the tide pools, starfish and anemones glowing in trapped sunlight.

“It’s kind of magical,” Changbin murmured.

Seungmin hummed.

“It’s quieter before everyone shows up.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Sometimes. It’s calm.”

“I can see why,” Changbin said.

“Though the company’s not bad either.”

That earned him the faintest flicker of amusement.

He wanted to keep talking, but for a while, neither of them said anything, just watched tiny ripples move between the rocks.

Around them, laughter echoed, Jisung slipped again, Minho sighed loudly, Felix was calling everyone over to look at a hermit crab.

Changbin was about to point out a shell when something soft brushed his shoulder.

He froze.

Seungmin’s head had tipped lightly against him, eyes half-lidded, hair brushing Changbin’s cheek.

It wasn’t deliberate, it looked like the kind of thing that just happened when someone felt comfortable.

But it sent heat up Changbin’s neck all the same.

He tried to breathe normally.

Failed.

“Are you tired?” he asked quietly.

Seungmin’s reply came lazy, almost a hum.

“A little. You’re warm.”

“Ah.” Changbin swallowed hard.

“Cool.”

“Not really.”

Changbin blinked, unsure if that was teasing or literal, but Seungmin didn’t move.

So they sat like that, Seungmin’s head resting on his shoulder, the waves whispering below, sunlight threading through the mist.

For the first time, Changbin didn’t mind being perfectly still.

Later, when the sun climbed higher, everyone began collecting “treasures” from the pools.

Jeongin filled his pockets with shells, showing each one to Chan like a proud kid and Chan was staring at him like he was his world.

Jisung found a shiny rock he immediately declared sacred.

Felix and Hyunjin found matching shells and promised to make necklaces out of them.

Minho discovered a sea glass shard and handed it wordlessly to Jisung, who beamed.

When Seungmin bent to pick up a small, smooth shell shaped like a spiral, Changbin followed.

“It’s pretty,” Changbin said.

Seungmin looked at it for a moment before handing it to him.

“You keep it.”

Changbin blinked.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Consider it payment for letting me nap on you.”

He didn’t quite smile, but his eyes softened, and that felt like more than enough.

By the time they made it back to town, everyone was sun-warmed and salt-sticky.

They said their goodbyes with lazy waves, each one clutching their little treasures.

Changbin walked home through the golden haze of evening, the sound of the waves still clinging to his skin.

When he stepped into his room, he saw the little things that had somehow become his collection:

the flower Jisung had given him, still carefully kept in a vase,

the wilted but precious crown Seungmin had woven for him,

and now, the pale spiral shell resting in his palm.

He placed it beside the flowers, adjusting it until it caught the light just right.

Somehow, it looked perfect there,  like the sea and the garden had quietly met in his room.

He smiled to himself.

Maybe they had.

The beach glowed like spilled honey as the sun began to dip, the tide curling close to shore in slow, shimmering breaths.

Changbin’s feet sank into the damp sand as he walked, the wind tugging gently at his hair, carrying the smell of salt and warmth.

He spotted Seungmin right away.

Same place as always, the flat rock that had started to feel like it belonged to both of them now.

Seungmin was sitting with his knees drawn up, head tilted slightly as if listening to something only he could hear.

His shoes sat beside him, half-buried, and the evening light caught in his hair like tiny threads of gold.

Changbin didn’t call out.

He just walked over and sat down next to him, close enough that the warmth of Seungmin’s shoulder brushed faintly against his.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

The only sounds were the soft crash of the waves, the wind sighing through the dunes, and the occasional distant call of a gull.

Then, quietly, Seungmin said,

“Do you miss home?”

The question came out so suddenly, so simply, that Changbin blinked.

He stared at the horizon, the line where the sea met the bruised lavender of the sky.

He thought about the city, its noise, its rush, the endless mirrors of glass buildings.

And then he thought about this place, the tide, the laughter, the smell of bread from Felix’s bakery, the sound of Seungmin’s voice saying his name just once.

“Sometimes,” he said finally.

“But… not when I’m here.”

Seungmin turned to look at him, and for a heartbeat, the setting sun painted his face in gold.

There was something in his expression, something quiet, something searching.

“Why?” he asked softly.

Changbin’s lips twitched into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Maybe because this feels more like home than home ever did.”

The words hung there between them, heavier than the air. Seungmin didn’t reply, he just looked away, toward the water, and the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was warm, fragile, real.

After a while, Changbin leaned forward, pressed his hand flat into the cool, wet sand, and lifted it to reveal a clear print, the outline of his palm and fingers etched beside the incoming tide.

“There,” he said, trying to sound light.

“Proof I was actually here.”

Seungmin tilted his head, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

“You think I’d forget?”

“Just in case,” Changbin murmured.

Seungmin rolled his eyes but leaned down, pressing his own hand next to Changbin’s.

His fingers were slender, his palm smaller, but their prints fit side by side like they belonged there.

When he lifted his hand, a small drop of water fell from his fingertip and darkened the space between them.

“The tide’s going to wash them away soon,” Seungmin said quietly.

Changbin glanced at him, smiling a little.

“Then we’ll just make new ones tomorrow.”

For the first time that night, Seungmin laughed, a soft, fleeting sound that dissolved into the wind.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Changbin teased gently.

Seungmin didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned back on his hands, close enough that their shoulders brushed again, and both of them watched as the waves rolled in and began to blur their prints into nothing.

The sun sank lower, painting everything in shades of amber and violet.

The last light caught on the curve of Seungmin’s cheek as he turned, looking at Changbin with something softer than a smile.

“You talk too much,” he said finally.

Changbin huffed a quiet laugh.

“And you listen too much.”

Seungmin hummed, eyes back on the sea.

“Maybe that’s why it works.”

They stayed there until the water touched their shoes, until the sand cooled beneath their palms and the world dimmed into twilight.

When Seungmin finally stood, brushing his hands clean, he said softly,

“See you tomorrow, city boy.”

Changbin looked up, half-smiling.

“You better.”

And as Seungmin walked away, the sea erased their handprints, one small wave at a time, but Changbin didn’t care.

He knew they’d make new ones.

Chapter Text

The morning sun had barely crept over the rooftops when Changbin heard a soft knock at his door.

He opened it, rubbing sleep from his eyes, only to find Seungmin standing there with a basket in his hands and a calm expression.

“Put on your shoes,” Seungmin said simply.

Changbin blinked.

“What? Why?”

“Just do it,” Seungmin replied, turning on his heel before Changbin could question further.

Half awake, half curious, Changbin hurried to follow, tugging on his jacket as he jogged after him.

“Are we… going somewhere?”

Seungmin didn’t bother turning around.

“We’re collecting flowers.”

“Flowers?” Changbin repeated, as if the word didn’t quite make sense.

“For my grandma,” Seungmin said.

“She uses wildflowers for her tea blends. They grow around the hills behind town.”

He handed Changbin the basket, a small wicker one, neatly kept but fraying at the corner.

The ribbon tied around the handle fluttered in the breeze.

“You hold it,” Seungmin added.

“I’ll pick.”

Changbin laughed lightly.

“You’re really good at giving orders.”

Seungmin shot him a sideways look that said so what? and started walking again.

They followed the narrow dirt path that curved around the village and opened into a stretch of grassland speckled with color.

The air was fresh, tinged with salt from the nearby sea. Changbin could hear the distant sound of gulls and the whisper of waves against rocks.

The hills rolled softly beneath their feet, dotted with tiny flowers, pale yellow, lavender, and soft pink.

Seungmin crouched down to pick a few, handling them gently as though even brushing too hard would bruise them.

Changbin knelt beside him, trying to mimic what he saw.

His fingers, used to lifting crates and climbing walls, fumbled with the delicate stems.

“These are small,” Changbin murmured, staring at one of the flowers between his fingers.

“They’re perfect,” Seungmin said quietly, placing another into the basket.

“They grow without needing anyone to care for them.”

Changbin looked up at him, the sunlight spilling across Seungmin’s hair, making it shine faintly gold.

“That sounds lonely.”

Seungmin didn’t reply right away.

His gaze flicked toward the horizon, where the sea glimmered through the gaps in the grass.

“Not really,” he said at last.

“They’re just used to standing on their own.”

The wind tugged at their sleeves, carrying the smell of salt and wild mint.

They continued collecting in silence for a while, Seungmin moving with quiet certainty, Changbin following close behind, occasionally getting distracted by a butterfly or tripping on uneven ground.

When the basket was nearly half full, Seungmin sat down on a rock, brushing dirt off his palms.

“Let’s rest for a bit,” he said.

Changbin dropped down beside him with a relieved sigh.

“You could’ve warned me we’d be hiking before breakfast.”

“That was the point,” Seungmin said, though a small smile flickered across his lips as he handed Changbin a bottle of water.

They sat together for a while, letting the stillness settle around them.

The hum of insects and the soft swaying of grass filled the space between words.

After a few moments, Changbin glanced sideways.

“Hey, Seungmin…”

Seungmin hummed in response.

“What about your parents?”

Seungmin’s posture stiffened slightly.

He looked down at the basket between his shoes.

“They’re in the city.”

“Do they visit?”

“No.” The answer came quickly, sharp like a snapped twig.

Changbin hesitated, then softened his voice, he knew exactly what it felt like to have parents that barely visited.

“That must be hard.”

Seungmin stayed quiet for a few heartbeats, then exhaled slowly.

“It was. When I was little. But I live with my grandma now. She’s enough.”

Changbin nodded, watching him carefully.

“She sounds nice.”

“She is,” Seungmin said after a pause.

“She’s strict, but she makes the best tea you’ll ever taste.”

“That’s a big claim,” Changbin teased gently.

“You’ll see for yourself someday,” Seungmin muttered.

Changbin smiled, but didn’t press further.

They stayed there until the shadows began to stretch longer across the meadow.

The basket was now brimming with color, each flower carefully placed by Seungmin’s hand.

When they started back toward the village, Changbin carried the basket without complaint.

As they reached the small street lined with pastel houses, Seungmin said quietly,

“You don’t have to walk me home.”

“I want to,” Changbin said simply.

Seungmin didn’t argue this time.

They stopped at a modest wooden gate covered in vines. Beyond it, a little house sat under the shade of a mango tree.

Flowers bloomed everywhere, on the porch, on the windowsills, even along the path.

An elderly woman, small and pretty, was watering a row of pots when she spotted them.

Her face lit up immediately.

“Ah, Seungminnie! You brought a guest!”

Seungmin groaned under his breath.

“Grandma, he’s not-”

But she was already bustling forward, smiling wide.

“So this is the boy helping you pick flowers, hm?”

Changbin bowed politely, awkward but sincere.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Changbin.”

“What a nice name!” she said, patting his arm.

“And what strong arms, too. You must eat well!”

Seungmin’s face turned pink. “Grandma-”

Changbin, on the other hand, beamed.

“I try, ma'am.”

“ah boy! Don't call me ma'am call me grandma if your Seungminnie' s friend, You’ll stay for tea, won’t you?”

Before Seungmin could intervene, she had already ushered them inside.

The house smelled of honey and dried herbs.

There were jars everywhere, filled with petals, powders, and roots.

Changbin sat at the small wooden table, looking around in wonder while Seungmin sank into his chair with an expression that said 'please let the floor swallow me.'

Grandma poured tea into two cups, the liquid golden and fragrant.

“This one’s from the flowers you just picked,” she said proudly.

Changbin took a sip, and his eyes widened with sparkles.

“This is amazing!”

Seungmin rubbed his forehead.

“Don’t encourage her.”

But his grandma laughed, delighted.

“You see, Seungminnie? Someone appreciates my work!”

Changbin nodded eagerly.

“It’s sweet, but not too much. And it smells like sunshine.”

Seungmin mumbled something about “dramatic city boys,” but there was the smallest twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Seungmin's grandma even made breakfast for Changbin, proudly watching him eat.

After tea, Seungmin’s grandma insisted on packing a small pouch of dried petals for Changbin to take home “for luck.”

When they finally stepped back outside, the sky was blushing pink with evening.

Changbin waved politely to the old woman before turning to Seungmin.

“Your grandma’s the best.”

“I’m aware,” Seungmin said dryly, though his ears were still red.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I think she likes me.”

“She likes everyone.”

Changbin grinned.

“Still counts.”

They walked the rest of the way to the town  together.

The sun was melting into the horizon, the air warm and still.

Evening always found Changbin by the shore.

The rhythm of the sea had become the rhythm of his summer,  the hush of waves, the salt on his tongue, the smell of wet sand that clung to his clothes long after he’d gone home.

Every night felt like a small secret shared between him and the ocean.

And every night now, it wasn’t just him and the sea anymore.

Seungmin was there.

Always in the same spot, near the smooth curve of rocks that caught the light just right at sunset.

Tonight was no different, he sat with his knees drawn up, arms loosely draped around them, eyes tracing the horizon like he was reading something written across it.

Changbin slowed as he approached, clutching the little bottle of tea Seungmin’s grandmother had gifted him earlier that day.

His aunt had laughed when he’d slipped out again after dinner, saying,

“Go on then, Binnie. The sea’s not going anywhere.”

But she’d smiled that knowing smile.

The sea was calm that evening, gold spilling across the water, the waves quiet enough to whisper.

Changbin and Seungmin walked the shoreline without a word, their steps falling into rhythm with the surf.

They didn’t bring flowers or shells this time, just themselves and the habit of always finding each other when the day ended.

When they stopped, Seungmin crouched down and pressed his palm into the wet sand, changbin followed him, pressing his hand as well.

“You know,” he said quietly, tracing the edge of the print with a fingertip,

“you remind me of the sea.”

Changbin tilted his head, pretending to think.

“Because I’m loud?”

“That too,” Seungmin said, smiling.

“But mostly because you’re always moving and your strong, You crash into things but… somehow, everything feels alive around you.”

Changbin stared at him, half amused, half caught.

“Then what about you?”

Seungmin blinked. “Me?”

“You’re like a wildflower,” Changbin said before he could stop himself.

“You grow anywhere. You don’t need anyone to water you. You’re willowy and,” his throat caught,

“pretty. Like a flower.”

The word slipped out too soft, too true.

Seungmin froze, and the faintest pink bloomed on his cheeks.

“Pretty?” he repeated, voice a little shy, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

Changbin swallowed hard but didn’t back away this time.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Pretty. Like the kind of thing you don’t want to touch because it might fall apart.”

He laughed a little under his breath, trying to lighten it.

“And you smell nicer than a flower shop, so it’s not even wrong.”

Seungmin’s laugh broke through the air, small and surprised, it made Changbin grin wide, proud of himself for drawing it out.

“Stop saying things like that,” Seungmin muttered, glancing away, but his voice was soft, not sharp.

Changbin leaned in slightly, teasing,

“Why? You don’t like being called pretty?”

Seungmin looked at him then, really looked, the wind pushing his hair across his forehead, the last of the sunset painting the edge of his smile.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured, but there was warmth hiding behind the words.

Changbin just chuckled, then pressed his hand beside Seungmin’s in the sand, their prints touching, overlapping a little.

When the tide crept in, instead of moving away, they stayed there, letting the water curl around their fingers.

And when Seungmin leaned just a little closer, close enough that Changbin could feel the edge of his shoulder brush against his,  neither of them moved.

They stayed until the sky went lavender and the sea swallowed both handprints whole.

Chapter Text

The morning was quiet, too quiet.

The sky outside the kitchen window was still pale and sleepy, and the sound of waves drifted in from the distance.

Changbin sat at the table, stirring his tea though it had already gone cold.

His aunt was humming softly somewhere in the other room, the smell of toast and honey floating through the house.

Then his phone buzzed.

Mom.

He blinked at the name for a long second before swiping to answer.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Binnie,” came the voice, clear, brisk, not unkind, but not exactly warm either.

“You sound tired.”

“Just morning,” he said, rubbing his neck.

“How are you guys?”

“We’re fine. Your father says hi.”

A pause.

He could hear muffled voices, drawers opening, the clatter of dishes, life moving on without him.

He smiled faintly anyway.

“I’ve been helping Auntie around the house. There’s this flower shop I go to sometimes, and-”

He hesitated, just for a moment, before continuing,

“-and there’s this boy there. His name’s Seungmin. He’s quiet, but nice, and he's really pretty. He, uh, likes flowers more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Mm-hm,” his mother said distantly.

“That’s… nice, dear.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but then there was a sharp beep, the call cut off.

He stared at the screen, the “Call Ended” message glowing faintly before fading.

Just like that.

He sat there for a few seconds, phone in his hand, the silence pressing against his chest.

“You were talking about someone,” came his aunt’s voice softly from behind him.

Changbin startled.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, trying to sound casual.

“Just, someone from town. My friend, Seungmin.”

Her gaze lingered.

“Your friend,” she repeated, slowly.

“And your mother hung up right after you said his name.”

Changbin blinked.

“What? That’s not-”

But she didn’t look convinced.

She moved closer, sat across from him, and folded her hands.

“Binnie,” she began gently, “I need you to know something about our family.”

He frowned. “What about them?”

She took a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the window, the sea glinting in the distance.

“They don’t… accept certain things. Certain people.”

Changbin tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, voice barely above a whisper,

“they don’t believe people of the same gender should love each other.”

The words hit heavier than he expected.

He stared at her, confused and defensive all at once.

“That’s not, I mean, Seungmin and I aren’t like that. We’re just friends.”

Her expression softened.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” she said.

“But you should understand why your mother might not want to hear that kind of story.”

He went quiet.

Then she sighed, leaning back.

“When I was younger, I fell in love with a woman. She was gentle and patient and made me feel like the world wasn’t so cruel. But your family… didn’t take it well. They told me to end it, that it was wrong. So I left. I came here, and she came with me.”

Her eyes grew distant, her voice trembling just a little.

“We built a small life by the shore. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. Until she got sick.”

Changbin’s chest tightened.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She smiled, a small, sad smile.

“Don’t be. She loved this town. She said the sea here never judges, it just… listens. Maybe that’s why I stayed.”

The silence between them stretched, full of the soft hum of waves and the ticking clock.

Finally, she looked at him again, her tone gentler.

“Whatever you feel, Binnie, for anyone, don’t let them make you believe it’s wrong. Even if it’s just friendship. Even if it’s more. Just… don’t let them take it from you.”

Changbin’s throat ached as he nodded.

“Okay.”

She smiled faintly, then stood, patting his shoulder as she passed.

“Now eat your breakfast before it turns into cement.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and looked down at his untouched tea, the reflection of the pale morning sky rippling across the surface.

His phone sat beside it, silent.

And somewhere beyond the window, the waves kept rolling, steady and unbothered, like the world was reminding him that some things keep going, even when others don’t.

The day after the call, the air felt heavier.

Maybe it was the clouds pressed too low over the horizon, or maybe it was something that had settled inside him, something he couldn’t shake loose no matter how many times he tried to breathe it out.

He told his aunt he was going for a walk.

She didn’t stop him, just nodded from the kitchen, her eyes soft with understanding that made him feel even worse.

He didn’t really know where he was going.

His feet took him down the cobblestone paths, past the scent of salt and baked bread, past people who waved like they already knew his name.

The town was small enough that it felt like everyone lived inside the same heartbeat.

And somehow, without even thinking, he ended up in front of the flower shop.

The bell chimed softly as he stepped in.

The air smelled like lavender and soil and something faintly sweet, sugar, maybe, or memory.

Jisung was behind the counter, hair messy, humming off-key to whatever song was in his head. When he saw Changbin, his face lit up.

“Oh, hey! Look who’s here again! You can’t stay away, huh?”

Changbin forced a laugh. “Guess not.”

Seungmin was near the window, crouched low, trimming stems and rearranging blooms into buckets of color.

He looked up at the sound of Changbin’s voice, just a small glance, just a half-smile, but something about it made Changbin’s stomach twist.

That same kind of twist that had started after his mom’s call.

Seungmin straightened, brushing dirt off his hands. “Morning,” he said softly.

Changbin nodded, looking everywhere except at him.

“Morning.”

He walked over to help Jisung, pretending to be interested in the tags, the ribbons, the way the light hit the petals, anything to keep his hands busy, anything to stop his heart from reacting to the fact that Seungmin was standing only a few feet away.

But his hands still brushed Seungmin’s once when they reached for the same shears, and he felt that same spark, not electric, not loud, but soft.

Dangerous.

He pulled back too quickly, mumbling, “Sorry.”

Seungmin blinked at him, a little puzzled, then just nodded and went back to work.

The silence between them grew awkward.

Even Jisung, who could normally fill a room with noise, seemed to sense it.

He looked between them once and then, wisely, excused himself to the back, muttering something about needing to check inventory.

So it was just them.

Changbin crouched near one of the pots, trying to look like he had a reason to be there.

He could feel Seungmin’s quiet presence nearby, calm, steady.

The kind of presence that made him feel safe and exposed at the same time.

And he hated that it made his chest feel warm.

His aunt’s words from that morning echoed in his head.

'They don’t believe people of the same gender should love each other.'

'Even if it’s just friendship.'

'Even if it’s more.'

He tried to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Are you okay?” Seungmin asked suddenly, voice soft but firm.

Changbin looked up, startled.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You seem… different today.”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, maybe too quickly.

“Just tired.”

Seungmin didn’t look convinced.

He tilted his head, eyes studying him in that quiet way that always made Changbin feel seen.

Too seen.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Seungmin said finally.

“You can just… exist here, you know. You don’t always have to talk.”

The words were kind.

Too kind.

And that kindness made something crack in him, just a little.

Because that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

To be near him.

To feel this, whatever this was, without it meaning something he wasn’t supposed to feel.

But every time Seungmin smiled, every time their shoulders brushed, every time his laugh slipped out like sunlight through cloud , it made Changbin’s chest hurt in a way that scared him.

He was supposed to like girls.

He was supposed to be normal.

He wasn’t supposed to think the shape of Seungmin’s mouth when he smiled was pretty, or that the way his voice softened at the end of a sentence was enough to make his pulse jump.

He wasn’t supposed to feel any of it.

So he didn’t.

He wouldn’t.

“I should go,” Changbin said suddenly, voice quiet but sharp.

Seungmin blinked. “Already?”

“Yeah. I- I just remembered something.”

He didn’t look back as he left the shop, the bell chiming softly behind him.

The air outside was cool, smelling faintly of sea spray.

He stopped at the corner of the street and pressed a hand to his chest, trying to calm the thudding there.

It was just the sea breeze, he told himself.

That’s all.

Just the sea.

But as he walked back home, the sound of Seungmin’s soft “You can just exist here” kept following him, quiet and unshakable, all the way to his door.

The sky was soft that evening,  streaked with gold and rose, fading into a gentle twilight.

Seungmin was already on the rocks when Changbin arrived, hair catching the last light, eyes distant as he watched the waves fold and unfold like secrets whispered to the shore.

Changbin hesitated a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets.

He didn’t know why he had come here again.

Habit, maybe.

Or perhaps some pull he didn’t want to admit.

“You came,” Seungmin said softly when he noticed him, a faint, warm smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” Changbin replied, forcing a grin that felt brittle even to him.

“Couldn’t miss the ocean.”

He sat down, but deliberately left a space between them.

It felt necessary.

Safe.

For a while, they didn’t speak, the waves providing a soft, steady soundtrack.

Then, Seungmin shifted closer, a movement so natural that Changbin almost let himself relax.

His shoulder brushed Changbin’s, then he leaned in, resting his head lightly on Changbin’s shoulder.

The touch, gentle and trusting, made Changbin flinch violently.

“Ah- sorry!” he blurted, jumping back.

“I- I thought there was a bug or something.”

Seungmin blinked, a small frown forming.

His lips pressed together, and he tilted his head, a hint of hurt in his eyes.

“Oh… right. A bug,” he murmured, voice quieter than usual.

Changbin forced a laugh, uneven and hollow.

“Yeah… bugs.”

Seungmin’s gaze lingered on him for a beat, then fell to the water.

He hugged his knees to his chest, a faint tension in his shoulders.

Changbin noticed, though he didn’t want to. Something about Seungmin’s posture made his chest tighten even more, a quiet echo of guilt.

“You’ve been… different lately,” Seungmin said quietly, his voice soft but slightly wounded.

“I’m not,” Changbin said quickly, voice too sharp.

“Just… tired. Long day.”

Seungmin’s lips pressed together in silence.

He nodded once, but his eyes flicked toward Changbin with a hurt that he tried to hide, like he didn’t want to admit how much that small rejection stung.

The waves rolled in, brushing their feet, and for a moment, Changbin wondered if he should reach out again, try to make it right.

But the fear clawed at him, fear of what he felt, fear of wanting more than he was allowed to.

“I should go,” Changbin said abruptly, standing.

“Aunt will need help with dinner.”

Seungmin didn’t stop him, though the frown on his face deepened slightly.

“Right,” he said softly, tone distant but quietly hurt.

“See you… tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Of course,” Changbin said, even though his chest felt tight.

He didn’t mean it, not fully.

Changbin walked away, leaving Seungmin there, shoulders tense, staring after him with the quiet sting of someone who’d hoped, and been gently pushed away.

When Changbin closed his door behind him the world narrowed to the size of his room.

The light from the street lamp fell in a thin bar across the floor and the smell of salt and sun and Seungmin’s faint perfume, as harmless as it was, clung to his clothes like an accusation.

He sank against the door, knees drawn up, and the sound of the sea that had followed him home thudded in his ears like a pulse.

He could still feel the weight of Seungmin’s head, the warmth of it, a small, simple thing that had been so natural and safe.

And the memory of how he’d jerked away felt like something raw beneath his ribs.

He told himself a thousand rational things, but they looked small when he said them aloud in his head.

It was just a head on a shoulder.

It was a reflex.

You’re being ridiculous.

The words skittered and tore at the quiet around him, but each one landed guilt-shaped.

What if, he thought, the truth was worse, that it wasn’t just comfort he wanted anymore?

The thought itself arrived like a cold tide.

Not a gentle questioning, but a roaring, accusing wave that washed away the little safe things he had kept in order:

His room, his aunt’s careful routine, even the idea that one day he’d go back and everything would be exactly as it had been.

If he let it become more than it was, if he admitted that the shape of Seungmin made his chest skip or that the warmth of his hand made him want things he hadn’t planned for, what then?

He pictured his mother’s voice, brisk and distracted, hanging up the moment she heard a name she didn’t approve of.

He pictured the old faces he grew up under, the small verdicts that had built themselves into his childhood, wrong, unacceptable, shameful.

He saw the windows of his old life closing like shutters.

He imagined his father’s silence as worse than anger: a final, unanswerable disinterest.

He imagined the neat, clinical words parents use when they decide a child is a project that went wrong and must be corrected.

And most viciously, he pictured being told to leave.

Not in an angry way but in a practical one:

your room, your life, your passport to safety - taken away because you’d chosen the wrong person to like.

The basket of warmed tea his aunt had handed him before, the little, quiet kindness of it , felt both like a home and a line to walk away from.

This life had been arranged carefully, it was fragile and precious.

Being liked by Seungmin felt like standing too close to a ledge, a place where the ground might give if he even tilted toward it.

He pressed his palms into his eyes hard enough to blur everything.

He thought about how, in the flower shop, Seungmin moved as if everything that lived should be handled with patience.

He pictured the sea, huge and indifferent, and wondered why it felt safer to be him, to be big and loud and moving, than to be a small, quiet thing that could be hunted down and judged.

If he admitted his feelings, if he let them be real and named, he would lose more than comfort.

In his mind, there was a parade of losses queued up like dominoes:

a mother’s tenderness closing off, his father’s coolness turning to dismissal, the aunt who had given him a home having to defend him to relatives he could already hear murmuring.

He imagined the words:

'You chose this, you brought shame, you forced our hand.'

He imagined the slow erosion, invitations stopped, calls unanswered, the invisible cord of belonging cut.

He saw himself, one morning, with a bag, looking at a house that would no longer feel safe.

The images were irrational, sudden, and merciless.

They made his breath come in stabs.

He made himself stand anyway, go to his shelf, and pick up the treasures Seungmin had given him:

the seashell still faint with salt, the brittle little flower crown placed like a talisman.

He turned the shell over in his palm until the edges warmed and the hollow sounded like a remembered shore.

He smoothed a petal that had softened under his thumb and felt something small and stubborn inside him unclench.

It’s not Seungmin’s fault, he reminded himself, because truth needed anchors.

He didn’t ask for this.

He thought of the way Seungmin had rested his head as if resting it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

That confident softness made his throat tighten with gratitude and grief all at once.

Seungmin had given him nothing but care;

Changbin had given himself panic.

The thing that hurt most wasn’t the possibility of losing anyone else.

It was the thought that he might be the one to walk away first, to preempt rejection by pushing away the only person who’d found a way to make him want to stay.

He imagined lying to himself, saying he felt nothing, pulling back until the distance between them was safety.

He imagined the relief of pretending.

And worse, the small, secret shame that such a maneuver would bring , the quiet knowledge that he had let fear choose for him, that he had elected to shrink rather than risk being seen.

The room seemed small, full of his own breath.

Outside, the town moved on, neighbors in the street, the distant slap of a gate closing.

He reminded himself:

being afraid was not a sin.

Hiding from danger was a survival skill.

But living, he realized with a slug of sorrow, demanded risk.

He folded his hands and whispered to himself, because words were the only small magic left in the dark.

“It’s not his fault,” he told the crown, the shell, the quiet room.

“It’s mine. I’m the one who’s afraid.”

Somewhere beneath that sentence was the fierce, aching truth:

he did care.

He cared enough to be terrified of losing everything.

He cared so much that the thought of naming the feeling felt like a betrayal or a promise.

Outside his window, the sea kept breathing, patient as always.

The world did not change just because he had named a fear.

But in the narrow space between one heartbeat and the next, Changbin let himself feel it full,

the weight of what he might lose, the tender, impossible thing he might gain.

He went to bed with the seashell cupped in his hand, its hollowness matching the hollow in his chest, both full of small, sea-shaped echoes.

He did not have answers.

He only had the quiet knowledge that tomorrow he would wake up and have to decide, again, how to move:

toward the ledge, or away from it.

And for the first time since his mother’s call, the thought of walking toward something instead of running from it trembled into being like a small, stubborn light.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed since that evening on the beach, the one that started with laughter and ended in silence.

The one where Seungmin’s head nearly rested on Changbin’s shoulder before Changbin flinched, stood up too fast, and mumbled something about needing to get home.

He hadn’t meant to hurt him.

He hadn’t meant to move away.

But the memory of Seungmin’s face, startled, eyes wide and unreadable, kept replaying every time Changbin blinked.

They still saw each other.

That part hadn’t changed.

At the beach, every evening, both of them would somehow end up there.

Neither said why.

Neither mentioned the last time.

Sometimes Seungmin was already there, sitting on a rock with his knees hugged to his chest, tracing shapes in the sand with a stick.

Sometimes Changbin came first, staring at the horizon as the waves rolled in, pretending to be lost in thought while his heart thudded at every sound of approaching footsteps.

Their conversations had shrunk, from stories and laughter to quiet questions that barely filled the space between them.

“How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“Work busy?”

“Not really.”

And then silence.

The kind that wasn’t peaceful anymore.

Seungmin still smiled sometimes, soft and small, but it didn’t reach his eyes like before.

He tried once, lightly bumping Changbin’s shoulder like he used to, the smallest gesture of closeness.

Changbin froze.

Didn’t look at him.

That was the last time Seungmin tried.

The next evening, he brought two cans of soda.

He didn’t hand one to Changbin, just set it beside him and sat a little further away.

The gesture was quiet, polite, and it hurt more than any argument could have.

Changbin wanted to thank him.

Wanted to tell him that he didn’t mean to pull away, that he just-

He didn’t even know what he was afraid of.

Maybe it wasn’t Seungmin he feared.

Maybe it was himself.

The way his heart reacted around him, the warmth, the way his voice softened, the way he kept noticing tiny things:

how Seungmin’s laugh cracked at the edges, how the sunlight caught in his hair, how every touch lingered.

He told himself it wasn’t right. That this was just confusion, something fleeting.

If he really… felt something, then what?

What would his parents say?

His mother, who could barely listen to his stories without hanging up mid-sentence?

Would they look at him like they looked at his aunt, a mistake, something to be left behind?

The thought made him sick.

He walked home that night with a heavy chest, the shell Seungmin had given him clenched tightly in his hand.

He told himself he could stop thinking about it, stop thinking about him.

But when he reached his room, his eyes fell on the little things that shouldn’t matter but did, the flower crown still hanging by the window, now wilted but somehow still beautiful, and the seashell on his desk that caught the fading sunlight.

It wasn’t Seungmin’s fault.

He whispered it to himself like a prayer until he believed it.

It wasn’t Seungmin’s fault at all.

He told himself it was fine.

He told himself space was good.

He told himself that the air around Seungmin was just too much lately, the warmth of his laugh, the way his head had almost rested on his shoulder that night, the fleeting scent of sea salt and flowers that clung to him.

He shouldn’t think about those things.

He shouldn’t want to.

To distract himself, Changbin started spending his mornings in town.

He’d wander aimlessly at first, buying coffee he barely drank or sitting near the pier pretending to watch the fishermen.

One morning, he found himself in front of the flower shop again, Jisung’s family’s place, its small wooden sign painted with faded blue letters.

He almost walked away, but Jisung saw him from inside and shouted,

“Hey! Help me move these boxes!”

Before Changbin could protest, he was being dragged inside.

The scent of soil and blooming petals filled the air, grounding yet suffocating all at once.

The backroom was filled with crates, pots, fertilizer, and water buckets stacked higher than Jisung’s head.

“Just put them by the wall,” Jisung said, tossing him a grin.

“You’re my free labour for the day.”

Changbin snorted.

“I’m regretting coming here already.”

“Too late!”

He started moving the boxes, muscles straining, the faint hum of soft music from the shop floating through the air.

From somewhere behind the counter, he heard Seungmin’s voice, quiet, gentle, thanking a customer.

Changbin froze, heartbeat skipping before he forced himself to keep lifting.

He didn’t look toward the front.

He couldn’t.

Every time Seungmin laughed, his grip on the boxes tightened.

Every time the bell above the door rang, his chest tightened too.

When Seungmin finally stepped into the back to grab more ribbon, he paused mid-step, eyes flicking to Changbin.

“Oh,” Seungmin said softly, surprise flickering across his face.

“Didn’t know you were here.”

Changbin wiped his hands on his shirt, not meeting his gaze.

“Yeah. Jisung needed help.”

“Right.”

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly awkward,  it was worse than that.

It was familiar.

It was what used to be comfortable but now hurt in small, invisible ways.

Seungmin didn’t push.

He just gave him a small nod and slipped back to the front, the faint rustle of flowers marking his exit.

Changbin let out a slow breath.

You’re fine, he told himself.

You’re just being stupid.

He could almost hear his mother’s voice in the back of his head.

That kind of feeling isn’t right, Changbin.

He gritted his teeth and lifted another crate.

The bell above the door rang again later that afternoon.

“Han Jisung!” a deeper voice called out, cheerful but commanding.

Jisung popped his head out.

“Dad! You’re early.”

Changbin turned, the older man had the same warm grin as Jisung, but sharper eyes that landed squarely on him.

“And who’s this strong young man helping out?” he asked.

“Changbin,” Jisung replied.

“He’s been saving me from breaking my back all morning.”

Mr. Han chuckled, crossing his arms.

“You work hard, kid. We could use someone like you around here for the summer, someone steady. Interested?”

Changbin blinked.

“Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously,” Mr. Han said with an approving nod.

“Jisung’s… not the most reliable with heavy lifting.”

“Hey!” Jisung protested.

But Changbin found himself smiling despite everything.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice softer.

“I think I’d like that.”

From the front counter, Seungmin looked up, eyes meeting his for the first time in days.

Changbin’s chest fluttered,  just for a second, before he looked away, pretending to focus on the box in his hands.

That night, as he walked home, the scent of flowers still lingered on his clothes.

He told himself again that it was just a job.

Just work.

That it meant nothing.

But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Seungmin’s small, surprised smile.

And the ache in his chest wouldn’t go away.

The sea was quieter that evening.

Or maybe Changbin was just too lost in his head to hear it properly.

He hadn’t meant to end up here again.

His feet had just taken him down the familiar dirt path, through the dunes, past the old driftwood log where Seungmin liked to sit.

The sun was dipping low, a soft orange bleeding into violet.

The kind of evening that looked too gentle to hold anything painful.

And there he was,  Seungmin.

Sitting by the waterline, knees drawn to his chest, face tilted toward the horizon.

His hair ruffled gently in the breeze.

For a second, Changbin froze, unsure if he should turn around and leave before he was seen.

But Seungmin looked up.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, neither said a word.

Changbin gave a small, unsure wave.

Seungmin returned it with a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He patted the sand beside him wordlessly.

Changbin hesitated, but the pull of habit was stronger.

He walked over and sat down, not too close, but not far either.

The ocean murmured between them, filling the silence.

The air smelled like salt and faint jasmine from the flowers that grew near the dunes.

The waves lapped softly at the shore, retreating, returning, retreating again, like a heartbeat unsure of its rhythm.

“How’s work?” Seungmin asked finally, voice careful, almost too casual.

Changbin scratched the back of his neck.

“It’s fine. Jisung’s dad offered me a job at the shop. Started today.”

“Oh.” Seungmin’s lips curved slightly.

“That’s nice. You’ll do well there. You’re… reliable.”

“Thanks.”

It should’ve been an easy conversation, but the words felt heavy.

Every time Seungmin looked at him, Changbin could feel his chest tighten, like something inside him wanted to move closer, and something else screamed not to.

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Seungmin glanced at him.

“You say that every time. I always come here.”

“I know.” Changbin smiled faintly, then looked away, letting the quiet settle again.

Seungmin picked at the sand between his fingers, drawing small circles.

“You’ve been… distant.”

Changbin’s throat tightened.

“Just been busy.”

“I get that.” A pause. Then softly,

“You don’t have to force yourself to talk to me, you know.”

Changbin’s heart dropped a little at that, the calmness in Seungmin’s voice hurt more than anger ever could.

He wanted to say that’s not it.

He wanted to say you didn’t do anything wrong.

But the words tangled somewhere in his chest, buried under the weight of fear and guilt.

So instead, he mumbled,

“You always overthink stuff.”

Seungmin gave a quiet laugh that didn’t sound like one.

“Maybe.”

The sun sank lower.

The sky turned a deeper shade of gold.

Changbin stole a glance at him, his profile soft against the glow, the tiny smile lines near his eyes, the small shell bracelet on his wrist that matched the one Changbin kept hidden in his drawer, the one they exchanged one day during one of their evening meet up.

Something warm ached inside him.

And he hated himself for it.

They sat like that for a long time, two silhouettes framed by the last light of day, the waves whispering secrets they were both too afraid to name.

When the tide crept closer, brushing Seungmin’s toes, he stood up and brushed the sand from his jeans.

“I should head back.”

Changbin nodded, still looking out at the water.

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight, Changbin.”

He didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded again.

When Seungmin’s footsteps faded behind him, Changbin let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

The sea kept moving, endless, steady, untamed, and he felt painfully small beside it.

He told himself again that this was for the best.

That distance was safer.

That pretending was easier than losing everything.

But as the last trace of Seungmin’s warmth faded into the wind, he felt the lie settle heavy in his chest.

Chapter Text

By the time the third morning rolled around, the silence between Changbin and Seungmin had settled like a low fog, thick enough to feel, too awkward to name.

They still saw each other, of course.

At the flower shop when Changbin came in to help with deliveries, or when he passed Seungmin trimming petals behind the counter.

But where there used to be small smiles and quiet chatter, now there were only brief nods and clipped words.

“Morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Need help with this?”

“I’ve got it.”

Every exchange ended the same way, an invisible wall rising higher between them.

It was during a late afternoon delivery run that Jisung finally cornered him.

Changbin was in the back room, stacking empty vases, when Jisung leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and a too-knowing look in his eyes.

Felix hovered nearby, pretending to organize ribbons but obviously eavesdropping.

“Alright, what’s going on?” Jisung said bluntly.

Changbin blinked. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. You and Seungmin. You’ve been acting like divorced parents who share custody of the flowers.”

Felix snorted into his sleeve.

Changbin rolled his eyes and turned back to the vases.

“You’re imagining things.”

“No, he’s not,” Felix said, stepping in.

“Seungmin’s been quiet all week. Even Hyunjin noticed, and he’s been too busy making coffee hearts for Minho to care about anyone else.”

Jisung pointed a finger.

“Exactly! Something happened between you two. Did you argue?”

“No.”

“Then?”

Changbin hesitated, jaw tightening.

“Nothing happened. People can just… drift.”

Jisung stared at him for a moment, like he was trying to read the truth off his face.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Bin,” Felix said gently, “he looks sad.”

That hit harder than he expected.

Changbin’s hand stilled on the vase.

He didn’t look up.

“He just sits by the window now,” Felix continued, voice softer.

“Doesn’t even make crowns anymore. Says he doesn’t feel like it.”

Jisung groaned dramatically.

“Great. Both of you are acting like someone died. It’s a flower shop, not a funeral.”

“Leave it,” Changbin muttered.

Jisung raised a brow.

“I’ll leave it when you stop looking like someone told you your protein powder got discontinued.”

Felix gently elbowed him to shut up, then looked at Changbin again.

“You don’t have to tell us. Just… don’t let it stay like this, okay? Seungmin’s not the type to say when he’s hurting.”

Changbin finally met his eyes, and for a second Felix could see all the things he wasn’t saying, the guilt, the confusion, the fear sitting like a stone in his chest.

He swallowed hard.

“I’ll think about it.”

That night, after everyone had left, Changbin lingered behind to close the shop.

The air smelled faintly of lavender and soil.

He swept the floors, wiped the counters, folded stray ribbons, all the while trying to drown out Felix’s words.

But as he turned off the lights, his gaze fell on the small table by the window.

A few wilted petals lay there, pale yellow, curling at the edges.

The remains of a half-finished crown.

He stood there for a long time, hands in his pockets, until the shadows deepened and the sound of waves carried faintly from beyond the town.

Seungmin had been there again.

He just knew it.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything.

The evening air was heavy with salt and wind.

The sea was calm today, lazy and unbothered, nothing like the storm inside Changbin’s chest.

He told himself he was just walking.

That it was just habit.

That it wasn’t about Seungmin.

But the path always curved here, down to the beach, past the dunes and weathered rocks, where the horizon met the world in quiet surrender.

And there he was.

Seungmin sat where he always did, cross-legged on the sand, tracing something faint in the dirt.

His hair fluttered in the wind, brown strands glowing in the last of the light.

For a moment, Changbin just stood there, unsure if he should go closer or turn around.

But Seungmin looked up first, eyes softening in recognition.

“Hey.”

Changbin hesitated, forcing a small nod.

“Hey.”

He sat down beside him, leaving a stretch of sand between them, not too close, not too far.

For a while, they said nothing.

Only the soft hiss of waves filled the air.

The silence should have been comfortable. It used to be.

Now it felt like standing on the edge of something that could crumble any second.

“You’ve been distant,” Seungmin said finally, voice quiet but steady.

Changbin’s throat tightened.

“Just been busy.”

Seungmin huffed, a small, disbelieving sound.

“Too busy to even look at me?”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Changbin stared at the sand, fingers tightening around nothing

“That’s not-”

“Then what is it?” Seungmin pressed, a tremor in his voice.

“Because I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”

“You didn’t,” Changbin said quickly, almost too quickly.

“Then why?”

“Seungmin-”

“Just tell me!” His voice cracked, desperate.

“You keep looking away like I’m something you shouldn’t be near! You act like-like I disgust you or something!”

The way his voice broke made Changbin flinch.

“No, that’s not-”

“Then what?”

The silence was unbearable.

Every sound , the crash of waves, the breeze brushing against his skin, felt too loud.

His heartbeat was everywhere.

He couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t say that every time Seungmin smiled, something in him ached, something he’d been told all his life was wrong.

Couldn’t say that looking at Seungmin felt like standing too close to sunlight, and he didn’t know if he wanted to move or burn.

So he said nothing.

And Seungmin laughed, but it wasn’t happy.

It was sharp and shaky.

“You know what’s funny? I thought you liked being around me.”

“I do,” Changbin said instantly, and hated how weak it sounded.

“Then why do you look like you hate it now?”

He felt the words pile up in his throat, panic, fear, guilt,  and somewhere between them, anger surfaced, desperate for a way out.

“I said it’s not you!”

“Then what is it?” Seungmin yelled, voice breaking.

“You won’t even tell me!”

“Because it doesn’t matter!”

“It does to me!”

That did it.

Changbin’s control snapped, fear twisting into frustration and anger.

“God, Seungmin, you always do this!” he shouted.

“You always have to care too much!”

The words came faster now, sharper, almost cruel.

“You’re always there, smiling, talking, following me around like-like a puppy,  you think this means something!”

Seungmin’s expression froze.

“What?”

“Maybe it doesn’t!” Changbin’s voice rose, his chest tight, breath uneven.

“Maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe you should stop acting like we’re something we’re not.”

The second the words left him, regret punched through his stomach, but panic wouldn’t let him stop.

“You don’t even know me,”

he continued, voice trembling but fierce, like shouting could drown the guilt.

“You don’t know anything about me! You just decided I was worth your time, and now you’re acting like- like I owe you something for it!”

Seungmin just stared.

His eyes, wide and glassy, looked almost unreal in the fading light.

He looked like he was waiting for a punchline.

When it didn’t come, he swallowed.

“Is that really what you think?”

Changbin’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“You think I’m just... following you around?”

Seungmin whispered.

“Because I’m bored?”

“Seungmin, I didn’t-”

“No, say it,” he interrupted, voice shaking.

“Say what you really think of me.”

“I don’t-please, just stop-”

“Stop what? Caring?”

“Yes!” The word tore out of him before he could stop it.

“Stop caring! I don’t want it!”

It was so quiet after that he could hear the waves roll in and retreat, again and again.

Seungmin’s shoulders stiffened.

His jaw trembled once before he bit it down.

“…Got it,” he said finally, voice small, fragile.

He stood, brushing the sand off his hands, his movements slow, deliberate, the kind people make when they’re holding back tears.

“I thought you were kind,” Seungmin said, eyes on the horizon.

“Guess I was wrong.”

He turned, and even though the wind was loud, Changbin still heard the faint, broken sound of him sniffing.

And then he was gone, his figure small against the fading gold of the sea.

Changbin stayed frozen.

The waves came and went, brushing his shoes, but he didn’t move.

The words echoed back to him, each one heavier than the last.

'Stop caring.'

'I don’t want it.'

He dropped his head into his hands, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

He hadn’t meant it.

Not any of it.

But then, what did he mean?

He dug his fingers into the sand.

His mind spun too fast to keep up with.

Why did it feel so wrong to push Seungmin away, yet so terrifying to let him close?

Why did his chest burn every time he thought about the look on Seungmin’s face, that shock, that hurt, like Changbin had just proven the worst part of his fears true?

He told himself again and again:

He was just a friend.

Was.

But the way his heart stuttered whenever Seungmin smiled didn’t feel like friendship.

The way his throat tightened when Seungmin got too close didn’t feel like friendship.

It felt like drowning, in warmth, in guilt, in something he wasn’t ready to name.

He thought about what his aunt said, about this love being something his family would never accept.

He thought about his mother’s voice on the phone distant, uninterested, cold.

He thought about what would happen if she ever found out about this confusion, this fear.

And the thought alone made him feel sick.

He sat there until the sky turned dark and the stars began to flicker.

When he finally stood up, the sand where Seungmin had sat still held the faint outline of his handprint.

Changbin stared at it for a long time before brushing it away.

It didn’t help.

Because no matter how hard he tried, the shape of Seungmin’s hand was still pressed somewhere deep inside his chest.

Chapter Text

The sea had gone quiet.

Or maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe it was just Changbin who couldn’t hear it anymore.

The window in his room stayed open, the curtains breathing in and out with the wind.

The sound of the waves still reached him from afar, faint, constant, like a heartbeat muffled under too many layers of guilt.

He hadn’t gone outside in three days.

Not to the town.

Not to the flower shop.

And definitely not to the beach.

The thought of the sand, the waves, the place where he’d yelled, where he’d broken something, made his stomach twist until he felt sick.

He lay in bed most of the time, eyes tracing the ceiling, thoughts chasing themselves in endless circles.

Every word he’d said came back like a bruise pressed too hard:

Stop caring.

I don’t want it.

He could still see Seungmin’s face, that moment of confusion when the words had hit, then the quiet collapse that followed.

It was the kind of expression that didn’t leave you.
It clung to him, like salt on skin.

His aunt knocked on his door that morning.

“Changbin?”

He didn’t answer.

The handle turned anyway, creaking softly.

She peeked in, worry written all over her face.

“You haven’t eaten much these days,” she said gently.

“Are you feeling alright?”

He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Just tired.”

Her gaze lingered.

She’d lost that brightness too, the one she usually had when she’d call him to breakfast, or ask him to help water the small garden outside.

Now she only sighed softly.

“You know, when you first came here, you wouldn’t stop running around. I almost thought you’d wear the town out before summer ended.”

Changbin looked down.

“Guess I ran out of things to see.”

She hummed quietly.

“Funny. I thought you were making friends.”

He flinched at the word. “Not really.”

Her eyes softened.

“Well, you can’t stay hidden in this room forever,” she said finally. “

The world keeps turning even when we want it to stop.”

She left before he could respond.

The smell of tea followed her, warm, comforting, undeserved.

When the door clicked shut, Changbin sank deeper under the blanket, dragging it over his head.

He didn’t deserve to be outside.

Didn’t deserve to see the others.

Didn’t deserve Seungmin’s voice, or his laughter, or the way he used to look at him like he meant something.

His mind kept playing the scene over and over again.

The way he’d shouted.

The way Seungmin’s expression cracked, like he was holding himself together just long enough to walk away.

He pressed his palms against his eyes until colors bloomed behind them, bruised pinks and purples.

He hated himself.

For the things he said.

For the things he didn’t say.

For what he felt, and for being too scared to name it.

Outside, he could hear distant sounds of life, children laughing, waves rolling, the faint hum of a car down the road.

The town carried on as if nothing had happened.

But for Changbin, everything had stopped.

By the third day, his aunt stopped knocking.

She only left small meals on the table, sometimes with a note that said,
“Eat while it’s warm.”

He did, sometimes.

Most times, he didn’t.

On the fourth morning, the flower crown Seungmin had given him finally wilted.

The petals, once soft and full of color, had turned dry and fragile.

He picked it up carefully, trying to fix it, but one of the flowers crumbled under his touch.

A lump formed in his throat.

It had been so delicate, and he hadn’t taken care of it, just like he hadn’t taken care of the boy who made it.

He put it back on the shelf beside the shell, beside the dried gladiolus, and whispered quietly,

“I’m sorry.”

The words got lost in the empty air.

When the moonlight stretched long and silver across his floor, his aunt knocked again.

“Changbin?”

Her voice was soft but firm, the kind of voice that didn’t ask , it told.

He hesitated, staring at the wall, then mumbled,

“I’m fine.”

The door creaked open anyway.

She stepped in, carrying a mug of warm tea, and sat on the chair beside his bed without saying anything for a long moment.

“You look terrible,” she said finally, her tone light but not mocking.

“I feel terrible,” he admitted.

“Then talk to me,” she said.

“You’ve been hiding for days.”

He wanted to lie, to say it was nothing, that he was just tired, that the summer heat was getting to him,  but the weight in his chest was too heavy to carry anymore.

He stared down at his hands.

“I said something awful.”

Her brow furrowed.

“To who?”

He swallowed.

“Seungmin.”

She didn’t react much, just leaned back in the chair, waiting.

“I didn’t mean to,” Changbin said, voice cracking a little.

“We were at the beach again. It was late, and I was tired, and he was just,  he was trying to talk, to fix things maybe, and I- I snapped. I said things I didn’t even mean. I just wanted to make him stop looking at me like I mattered.”

His aunt’s expression softened.

“What did you say?”

He laughed bitterly.

“Something stupid. Something that made him look at me like he didn’t even know who I was anymore.”

He buried his face in his hands, breathing unevenly.

“He didn’t deserve it. He’s just… he’s so good, you know? He’s quiet but not cold. He gets this look when he’s focused, like he’s listening to everything the world says at once. He always notices small things, like when I forgot to eat one day, he just left handed me a sandwich and a note that said ‘Don’t skip meals, idiot.’”

A small laugh broke through his tears.

“He’s such a pain. Always nagging me about being loud, about carrying too much and hurting my back, about smiling too much. But then he’d smile, and it’d ruin everything because-”

He stopped himself.

His throat felt tight.

His aunt didn’t move, didn’t speak,  just watched with that calm, patient expression she’d worn when she used to listen to his stories as a kid.

He took a shaky breath and went on.

“I think, no, I know, I liked being around him. Even when we didn’t talk, it just felt… right. Like when the waves go quiet for a second, you know they’ll come back. That’s what it felt like being near him.”

He blinked hard, staring at the floor.

“We started this thing, where we’d meet at the beach after everyone else left. Sometimes we’d just sit there. Sometimes we’d talk. Once we made flower crowns out of broken blossoms from his shop, he made me wear his, and said it looked stupid, but still even when my crown broke he wore it on his head like a trophy.”

The corner of his aunt’s mouth twitched.

“But that night…” His voice dropped to a whisper.

“He leaned on my shoulder, and I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t him, it was me. It was like- like everything I’ve been told my whole life started screaming in my head. That it’s wrong. That it’s not what I’m supposed to feel. That if I did, I’d lose everything, my family, my home, everything I’ve worked for. And then-”

He let out a long, shaky exhale.

“So I pushed him away. I acted like it was his fault. Like he’d done something wrong by just being kind.”

He laughed again, broken this time.

“And the worst part? He still looked worried for me. Even after I yelled at him. Even when I told him to stop caring.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“He’s probably better off without me.”

His aunt reached over, taking his hand gently in hers. “Changbin,” she said softly,

“that doesn’t sound like someone who doesn’t matter to you.”

He shook his head.

“It's too late. I ruined it. I said things that can’t be taken back.”

She was quiet for a long time, thumb brushing the back of his hand absentmindedly.

Then she said,

“You remind me of myself, you know.”

He looked up, at her, his eyes still wet.

“When I was your age, I met someone too. She was… everything. Kind, patient, a little too stubborn for her own good. And I thought what I felt was wrong. I tried to bury it. Pretend it was friendship. Pretend it wasn’t love.”

Her voice trembled just slightly.

“But pretending doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it hurt worse.”

She looked at him then, really looked, with eyes full of warmth and sorrow.

“Changbin,” she said softly, “you’re in love.”

The words hit him like a wave.

His breath hitched, chest tightening until it almost hurt.

“No, I- I can’t-”

“You already are,” she said simply.

“And that’s not something you can help. It’s not something you should hate yourself for.”

He shook his head, tears spilling freely now.

“But if I am- if I really am- then what happens when they find out? My parents, everyone- they’ll-”

“They’ll have to live with it,” she said firmly, her voice steady now.

“But you- you only get one life, Changbin. Don’t spend it running from the parts that make you who you are.”

He looked down, shoulders trembling.

“It hurts.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“It did for me too. But love isn’t wrong just because someone told you it is.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not suffocating.

For the first time in days, the sound of the sea outside didn’t feel like mockery, it felt like breathing.

Changbin wiped his eyes with his sleeve, sniffling softly.

“She would’ve liked him,” his aunt said after a moment.

He looked up, confused.

“My wife,” she said with a faint smile.

“She would’ve liked Seungmin. Especially if he makes you talk this much.”

A laugh slipped out of him, wet and cracked, but real.

His aunt stood and leaned down to press a kiss to his hair.

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” she said.

“The sea’s not going anywhere.”

When she left, the room felt different.

Not lighter, exactly, but softer.

Changbin stared at the flower crown and the seashell again.

His chest still ached, but the ache wasn’t hollow this time.

Maybe, he thought, the sea would still be waiting when he was ready.

And maybe Seungmin would too.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight felt heavier than usual.

Maybe it was because this was the first time in days that Changbin had opened his door, or maybe it was because the guilt sitting in his chest made everything weigh twice as much.

His aunt hadn’t said much when he told her he was going to the shop again, only offered a small, knowing nod and an extra piece of toast for the road.

He didn’t eat it.

His stomach had been too tight for days.

The walk into town felt strangely long.

The same cobbled roads.

The same bakery smell drifting through the air.

The same breeze that used to make him grin.

Only this time, every sound seemed muted, as if the whole town could sense what he’d done.

When the bell above the flower shop door rang, Jisung looked up from the counter.

For a second, his face brightened in surprise.

Then his smile softened, fading into something quiet.

“Hey,” Jisung said after a moment, voice cautious.

“Didn’t think I’d see you today.”

Changbin forced a smile.

“Yeah. Just… thought I’d come in. Help out.”

Jisung didn’t answer right away.

He just studied Changbin’s face like he was searching for something there, something he didn’t want to ask out loud.

Eventually, he just nodded.

“Sure,” he said, trying for a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“There’s a new shipment. Buckets need filling, stems need trimming. You know the drill.”

“Got it.”

The familiar rhythm should’ve been comforting, the scent of wet leaves, the cold touch of the metal buckets, the hum of bees hovering near the open window.

But without Seungmin’s quiet voice filling the space, it all felt wrong.

Usually, Seungmin would have been at the workbench by now, his sleeves rolled up as he arranged bouquets with that kind of effortless precision that made everything else seem clumsy.

He would have glanced at Changbin’s half-finished baskets and sighed in that fond, exasperated way that meant you tried, but you failed.

Now, the bench was empty.

The tools sat untouched.

The silence was too loud.

Changbin tried to distract himself by trimming stems, but his hands kept shaking.

He nicked his thumb once, hissed under his breath, and muttered, “Stupid,” at himself before wiping it with a paper towel.

Jisung looked over from the counter.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Changbin lied.

He turned back to his work, but after a moment, he couldn’t help himself.

“Where’s Seungmin?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but the words came out too quickly, too desperate.

Jisung didn’t look up right away.

He finished tying a ribbon around a bouquet, set it aside, and only then turned to face him.

“He hasn’t been here for a few days,” he said quietly.

Something inside Changbin twisted.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Jisung leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
“Said he needed some time.”

Changbin’s throat tightened.

“Right.”

The scissors in his hand felt heavier now.

He placed them down, staring at the half-finished bouquet in front of him, the petals bright and open, like they didn’t know how to stop blooming.

Jisung hesitated, then sighed.

“You two fought, didn’t you?”

Changbin didn’t answer.

“That bad, huh?” Jisung said softly.

“He didn’t say much, just that he was tired. Which, for Seungmin, means he’s really not okay.”

Changbin swallowed hard, trying to focus on the flowers.

“It’s fine. I’ll… I’ll fix it.”

Jisung’s voice gentled.

“Then go fix it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Changbin’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

“Because I already broke it.”

Jisung looked at him for a long time, something sad flickering behind his eyes.

Then he turned away, pretending to busy himself with the till.

“He really liked you, you know,” he said quietly.

“Even if he never said it.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Changbin stared at the flowers again, the same kind Seungmin used to braid into his hair that day, laughing quietly when Changbin’s fell apart.

The memory burned at the edges, too bright and too far away.

He stayed in the shop the whole day, helping Jisung with orders, carrying boxes, sweeping the floor.

Every so often, he’d glance toward the door, half-expecting Seungmin to walk in, holding a new basket or complaining about the heat.

But the door never opened.

By evening, when the sun dipped low and painted the petals gold, the only thing left in the shop was the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint echo of what used to be.

When Jisung locked up, Changbin lingered by the counter, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Tell him,” Jisung said as he turned the key.

“Whatever you need to tell him. Before he stops waiting.”

Changbin nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he could.

Outside, the air smelled like salt and the sea.

His feet turned toward the shore almost on their own, toward the place that still felt like theirs.

He didn’t know if Seungmin would be there this time.

But for the first time in days, he hoped he was.
The air by the beach was colder than usual that evening.

The sky was painted in orange and lavender streaks, the kind of light that made everything look like a memory.

Changbin stood at the edge of the sand for a long time before stepping closer, his shoes sinking into the soft ground.

He hadn’t meant to come here.

His feet just… wandered.

Maybe they’d been waiting for him to admit it, that he wanted to see Seungmin again, even if Seungmin didn’t want to see him.

The waves moved lazily, rolling and breaking like they didn’t care how heavy the world felt.

The same rock where Seungmin always sat was empty now.

No trace of him.

Just the outline of footprints fading near the tide.

Changbin stood there a while, staring at that empty space as if Seungmin might appear if he wished hard enough.

But the beach stayed quiet.

He lowered himself onto the sand, knees pulled close, fingers tracing circles in the damp ground. Everything reminded him of Seungmin, the soft laughter that used to cut through the wind, the way he’d squint when the sun hit his eyes, the quiet hums between words.

Now it was just silence.

Jisung’s words from earlier echoed in his head.

“He hasn’t been around lately.”

Changbin hated how his chest tightened at that.

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

He told himself that again and again, like if he repeated it enough times, it might finally be true.

But the truth was cruel and sharp, cutting through all the walls he’d built.

He missed him.

He missed him so much it hurt to breathe.

He looked out at the horizon, the sun halfway gone  and whispered into the wind, his voice breaking around the edges.

“Two more months…”

Two months until summer ended.

Two months until he’d go back home and pretend this place, this boy, had never existed.

The waves came closer, brushing his shoes.

The sea smelled like salt and goodbye.

He pressed his palms into the sand, eyes burning as the world blurred.

For once, he didn’t try to stop it, the ache, the guilt, the longing.

He let it sit in his chest like a tide that refused to go back.

He’d thought the distance would make things easier.

That pushing Seungmin away would make him safer, from his feelings, from himself.

But all it did was make everything quieter.

Lonelier.

When the first tear slipped down his cheek, he didn’t wipe it away.

Because maybe, just maybe, this was what he deserved.

Chapter Text

The beach was still glowing faintly when Seungmin turned away.

The sun was sinking low, dipping beneath the horizon, painting the water in soft pinks and golds , the kind of scene he usually would’ve pointed out to Changbin with quiet wonder.

But this time, he didn’t look back.

His throat burned.

His hands trembled.

His eyes refused to blink in case the tears started.

He hated crying.

He didn’t like how it made him feel weak, or how his voice always cracked near the end of a sob.

So instead, he walked fast.

Sand clung to the cuffs of his pants.

The waves whispered behind him, pulling back and forth, as if calling his name, but he didn’t turn around.

He wasn’t sure what had just happened.

Changbin’s face, angry, panicked, hurt, burned in his mind.

His voice echoed like a wave that wouldn’t fade:

“Maybe I shouldn’t have even talked to you.”

It had been a moment.

Just one second of silence too long.

One word too sharp.

But it cut through Seungmin like glass.

He kicked at a stray pebble, his jaw trembling.

He wasn’t even mad, not really.

Just… confused.

Because he didn’t understand what he did wrong.

The walk home felt longer than usual.

The road twisted through the trees, the scent of salt fading into damp earth and flowers.

His house, small, blue-roofed, with the creeping vines his grandmother loved, came into view.

The sight should’ve comforted him.

It didn’t.

His grandmother was sitting on the porch, peeling green mangoes into a bowl.

She looked up, her lined face softening into a smile.

“You’re late again,” she said gently.

“The tide almost caught up to the night.”

Seungmin forced a weak smile.

“Yeah.”

“Something wrong?”

He shook his head too quickly.

“No, just tired.”

She didn’t press, though her eyes lingered on him.

“You should eat something, dear,” she murmured.

“I made tea and rice cakes.”

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

His voice was quieter than he meant.

Her expression flickered with concern, but she only nodded.

“All right, then. Rest.”

Seungmin slipped inside.

The house smelled faintly of jasmine and salt, comforting, familiar, but tonight it made him feel hollow.

He walked straight to his room and shut the door softly behind him.

The silence that met him was heavy.

His eyes fell to the wild flowers hanging from the hook near his window.

Not really wild flowers.

Weeds.

It was brittle now,  the petals curled, the stems faded into soft browns.

But still beautiful.

Changbin had picked them for him, fumbling with each stem, his fingers too big for the delicate work.

He’d been so proud when he gave it to  Seungmin , grinning with that boyish laugh.

Thinking he found some rare type of flower when they were just weeds.

Seungmin’s chest tightened.

He reached out, brushing a fingertip over one of the wilted petals.

It crumbled slightly under his touch.

He still kept them.

Maybe that’s what it meant, things like that never lasted.

He sat down on the floor, his back against the wall, drawing his knees up.

He rested his chin on them, staring at the crown, at the shell on the table beside it, at the pressed wildflower in the glass jar.

All the small things that had meant something.

He’d thought they meant something to both of them.

Maybe he’d been stupid.

He could still remember the little moments, Changbin laughing when the tide soaked his shoes, the way he blushed when Seungmin brushed flowers in his hair, the quiet smiles that came so easily before all of this.

It had felt real.

And yet, now it felt like he’d imagined everything.

His heart ached with the thought, not the dramatic kind of heartbreak he’d read about in novels, but something quieter.

Lonelier.

The kind that settles in your chest and won’t leave.

Outside, his grandmother moved about softly, humming to herself.

The sound seeped through the walls.

He closed his eyes and listened.

He didn’t cry, though his throat ached for it.

Instead, he whispered into the still air:

“I thought you liked me.”

The words felt childish.

But they were true.

He’d thought maybe, just maybe, someone finally saw him.

The others had always been paired off in ways that made sense.

Jisung and Minho, they balanced each other, chaotic and calm.

Felix and Hyunjin, all laughter and touch, always finding their way back to one another.

Even Chan and Jeongin, quiet but steady, like two people who didn’t need words to feel safe.

And then there was him.

Seungmin.

The one who smiled from the edges.

The one who helped, who watched, who laughed when others did.

He’d thought Changbin was different.

Someone who didn’t just see him, but understood him,  who made the world softer in a way Seungmin didn’t know he needed.

And for a little while, it had felt like maybe he’d found his place.

His pair.

But maybe he’d been wrong all along.

A soft knock came on his door.

“Seungmin?”

He didn’t answer at first.

His grandmother’s voice came again, gentle.

“Do you want to talk?”

He swallowed.

“I’m okay.”

There was a pause, long enough for him to think she’d gone, then she said quietly,

“You’ve got such a kind heart, my boy. Don’t let someone else make you forget that.”

The words cracked something inside him.

He buried his face in his knees.

His shoulders trembled, but still he didn’t cry.

The tears stayed stuck behind his eyes, like the tide refusing to rise.

Night settled quietly.

The waves in the distance were a steady hum. Seungmin’s eyes were heavy, but his mind wouldn’t rest.

He thought about how Changbin had looked at him at the start of summer, curious, a little shy, like he’d never seen something worth staying for until that moment.

And how now, he couldn’t even look at him at all.

Maybe it was his fault.

Maybe he said too much, smiled too much, felt too much.

He turned his head toward the window.

The moonlight hit the flower crown, glinting off a single petal that hadn’t completely dried.

It looked fragile.

Beautiful still.

He whispered, barely a breath:

“I thought you liked me.”

And when no one answered, he finally lay down, pulling the blanket over his head, pretending that maybe, just maybe, when he woke up, this ache would be gone.

But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t be.

Morning came too early.

The light that filtered through the curtains was warm and golden, but Seungmin didn’t feel it.

He blinked at the ceiling for a long time before sitting up.

His body ached, not from lack of sleep, but from the kind of tired that lives inside your chest.

His grandmother had already gone to the market.

The house was still.

A cup of tea waited for him on the table, steam curling faintly from it.

She always remembered.

He tried a sip, but it didn’t taste like anything.

He looked toward the small windowsill, the one lined with potted herbs and that little jar with the pressed flower Changbin had given him.

The petals were dull now, but the sight of them still tugged at him.

He shouldn’t have gone to sleep thinking of him.

He shouldn’t wake up thinking of him either.

And yet, his feet found the familiar path to the beach before he even realized he’d decided to go.

The air smelled sharp with salt.

The wind combed through his hair and the morning waves rolled lazily, foaming at the shore.

It was quiet, no laughter, no humming, no footsteps beside his.

For a second, he half expected to see Changbin there, sitting on the rocks like always, waiting, smiling that uneven smile.

But the beach was empty.

The place where they usually sat still held traces of them:

a few dried stems scattered in the sand, half-buried by the wind.

The little basket they’d used last time lay overturned, the flowers inside withered and untouched.

Seungmin crouched beside it, his heart squeezing a little.

He brushed his fingers against one of the stems.

It was dry, brittle, but he could almost imagine how it looked yesterday, fresh and bright in Changbin’s hands.

He sat down quietly in the same spot they always shared.

The waves came close enough to lick the toes of his shoes, then retreated again.

For a long while, he just watched.

He didn’t cry.

There was no point.

Instead, he let himself remember.

The way Changbin’s laugh would echo off the waves.

The way he’d always complain about the sand, then end up lying in it anyway.

The way he’d call Seungmin’s name like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Seungmin pulled his knees up and rested his chin on them.

Maybe it was stupid to keep coming here.

Maybe this was what people did when they didn’t know how to stop missing someone.

But this place, the sound of the sea, the faint scent of salt and flowers, it still felt like them.

Even if one half of that “them” wasn’t here anymore.

He reached over and picked up one of the wilted flowers.

He twisted the stem gently between his fingers, the way he always did before braiding them into crowns.

But it snapped in two almost immediately.

He sighed softly, letting the pieces fall.

The horizon shimmered faintly under the sun, and for a moment, he thought he saw a shadow moving along the distant rocks, the familiar shape of someone tall, shoulders broad, hair dark.

His heart leapt before he realized it was only a fisherman.

He laughed quietly at himself, but it wasn’t a happy sound.

Maybe he’d just gotten used to having someone there.

Maybe that was all this was.

But when he closed his eyes, he could still hear Changbin’s voice, soft, teasing, warm.

And the memory hurt too much to be just habit.

The waves pulled back, leaving a little seashell glinting where he sat.

It was small and ridged, the kind of thing Changbin would’ve pocketed and called “treasure.”

Seungmin picked it up and turned it over in his hand before setting it beside the basket.

“See?” he murmured under his breath, to no one.

“Still saving your treasures for you.”

The wind carried his words away.

He stayed there until the sun climbed higher, until the tide started to rise, and still he waited, even though he knew Changbin wasn’t coming.

When he finally stood, brushing sand from his palms, he glanced once more at the basket, at the broken flowers, at the sea.

Then he whispered softly,  almost like a promise to the wind.

“I’ll still come tomorrow.”

He took a shaky breath.

“Even if you don't.”

Chapter Text

Every evening after the argument, Seungmin still went to the beach.

It wasn’t really about hope anymore, not after the way Changbin’s voice had cracked sharp against his chest like shattering glass.

It was just habit now, muscle memory, something he couldn’t let go of.

The walk there was always the same:

the faint smell of seaweed, the little dip in the sand before the flat stretch, the waves that rolled in soft and slow like they were tired too.

The only thing missing was him.

Every day Seungmin would sit on their usual spot, the flat rock that used to hold two shadows instead of one.

He would bring small things to fill the silence:

a basket of flowers, a few shells, once even a book he couldn’t read because his mind wandered too easily.

Sometimes he spoke out loud to the wind.

Just a little.

“You’d probably make fun of me for coming here again,” he’d mumble, brushing sand off his knee.

The wind never answered. It only sighed, low and hollow.

Each evening, when the sun began to dip, Seungmin would look toward the dunes, half-expecting to see that familiar figure, broad shoulders, easy grin, always a little too loud for the peace of the ocean.

But no one came.

The sea was constant.

He was the only one who kept changing.

On the fifth evening, the sky turned the same shade of orange Changbin used to say reminded him of sunsets back home.

Seungmin sat longer than usual that day, until the tide crept up enough to wet the hem of his pants.

Then he stood, brushing sand from his hands, and sighed.

“I’ll come again tomorrow,” he murmured to no one.

Tomorrow.

He always said that.

The next morning, he woke up feeling wrong.

The light that filtered through the curtains felt too bright, too warm.

His chest ached like someone had pressed a heavy stone there overnight.

He tried to get out of bed, but his body felt heavy, his throat sore from holding back everything he’d been swallowing down all week.

His grandmother knocked on the door, gentle as always.

“Seungmin, dear? You’re not going to the beach today?”

He blinked at the ceiling, his voice rough.

“Maybe later.”

But later never came.

He sat at the edge of the bed for a long time, his fingers twisting together until they hurt.

The room felt too quiet, filled with the faint ticking of the clock and the soft hum of something breaking inside him.

When his grandmother came in again, carrying a cup of tea, she froze at the sight of him.

Seungmin’s eyes were glassy, his lips pressed tight.

He looked like he hadn’t breathed properly in hours.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, setting the cup down.

“Talk to me.”

He tried to smile, but it looked wrong.

“I’m fine.”

She reached out, placing her hand over his.

“You’ve said that every day since he stopped coming.”

The words made something in him falter.

His lips trembled, and suddenly he couldn’t look at her.

He took a shaky breath, and then the first sob tore out before he could stop it.

It wasn’t loud at first.

Just a quiet sound, a choked gasp, as though he’d finally run out of ways to hold himself together.

His grandmother pulled him close, and he buried his face into her shoulder.

The tears came slowly, unevenly, like his body didn’t quite know how to release them.

“He-he just looked at me like I was nothing,” he whispered between breaths

. “Like I did something terrible. But I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

“I know, darling,” she murmured, rubbing his back.

“I just thought-” His voice cracked, shattering mid-sentence.

“I thought I found someone who saw me. Everyone else has someone, and I thought he-”

The rest dissolved into quiet sobs that shook his shoulders.

He clutched her sleeve tightly, afraid that if he let go, he’d disappear completely.

His grandmother’s heart broke at the sound.

“Some people push away the ones they care about most,” she said quietly.

“It doesn’t mean you weren’t worth loving.”

But Seungmin didn’t answer.

He just nodded weakly, tears still wetting her shoulder.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that,  just breathing and breaking, breathing and breaking, until his eyes burned and his chest hurt too much to cry anymore.

By the time he calmed, the sun was already beginning to set.

The beach would be glowing gold right now, the waves soft and low.

He almost went.

He almost stood up and told himself to go one last time.

But his body was too tired, his mind too sore.

So he stayed home.

That same evening, at the edge of the beach, Changbin finally came back.

He didn’t plan to.

He’d spent days pacing his room, fighting the urge, but something inside him cracked open at last, a pull too strong to resist.

The tide was low, the air cool against his face.

He scanned the horizon, heart pounding, looking for the boy who was always there before him.

But the beach was empty.

Only the half-buried petals of wilted wildflowers sat near their rock, the ones Seungmin had brought for braiding.

Changbin crouched beside them, fingers brushing lightly over the stems.

The petals crumbled beneath his touch, soft as dust.

He closed his eyes, the ache in his chest hollowing into something unbearable.

“Where are you…” he whispered.

The waves didn’t answer.

Only the wind did, faint, cold, carrying a sound that could’ve almost been a sob if the sea knew how to cry.

Chapter Text

Two weeks.

That’s how long it had been since Changbin last saw Seungmin.

Two weeks since his own words, sharp, panicked, cruel tore through the air and left silence in their place.

He’d replayed it every night since.

The look on Seungmin’s face, the quiet that followed, the way the waves had still lapped at their feet like nothing had happened.

He could still hear it sometimes, his own voice echoing in his skull, too loud, too final.

He hadn’t gone back to the beach.

Just once.

It used to be his favorite place, where Seungmin’s laughter blended with the tide, where they braided flowers under the fading sky.

But now it only reminded him of what he ruined.

He couldn’t bear to see the sand where Seungmin had stood, the place where their last conversation still lingered like a ghost.

Instead, he buried himself in work.

Or tried to.

Jisung had been surprised when he came back to the flower shop after disappearing for days.

The bell chimed, and there Changbin stood, eyes swollen from sleepless nights, shoulders heavy.

“You’re actually here,” Jisung had said softly, passing him a broom.

“Didn’t think you’d show up again.”

Changbin didn’t answer.

He just nodded, took the broom, and started sweeping.

He kept his head down.

He carried boxes, trimmed stems, and wiped the counters.

Anything to avoid the empty chair in the corne, the one Seungmin always claimed when he stopped by.

But every few minutes, his eyes flickered toward the door.

And every time, the door stayed closed.

Jisung noticed.

He didn’t say anything for a while, just sighed one evening and said quietly,

“He hasn’t been here, you know. Not once.”

Changbin froze mid-motion.

“He used to come by every day,” Jisung continued gently.

“Now he doesn’t even walk this street.”

Changbin nodded again, throat too tight for words.

That night, Changbin lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

His aunt had stopped asking if he was okay, she could tell he wasn’t.

He hadn’t eaten properly in days, barely spoke, barely looked human.

When morning came, he couldn’t stay still anymore.

Something inside him had started to ache in a way that felt unbearable.

He needed to do something.

So he left.

He searched everywhere.

Chan’s shop first, the same old bell.

Chan looked up in surprise.

“Bin? You look-”

“Have you seen Seungmin?”

Chan frowned.

“No. Is something wrong?”

“Just-if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.”

Before Chan could respond, Changbin was already out the door.

Next was Felix’s bakery.

The warm air hit him, smelling of sugar and cinnamon.

Felix’s hands were dusted white, his smile gentle.

“You’re looking for Seungmin, aren’t you?”

Changbin just nodded.

Felix sighed, wiping his hands on his apron.

“He hasn’t come by. Even when I told him I’d make those lemon pastries he liked.”

Changbin’s chest ached at the thought.

Felix reached out, but Changbin had already turned away.

“If you see him,” Felix called softly,

“don’t let him walk away this time.”

The quiet garden behind the flower shop came next.

The wind rustled through overgrown vines, petals brushing against the wooden fence.

Seungmin’s favorite spot, the one he always sat in while braiding crowns, was covered in leaves now.

The basket they used was gone, but the flowers they’d planted together still bloomed stubbornly, faces turned toward the sun.

Changbin stood there for a long time, staring at them, his chest tightening until it hurt to breathe.

He whispered, “I’m sorry,” but the wind only carried it away.

He checked Minho’s fish stall.

Jeongin and Hyunjin’s craft shop.

Every corner of the small town that had ever seen Seungmin’s smile.

Nothing.

Minho had just shaken his head, sympathy in his eyes.

“He hasn’t been out much. You really messed up, huh?”

Changbin didn’t even have the energy to deny it.

By the time the sun dipped into late afternoon, he was exhausted, physically, emotionally, completely.

His legs ached, his throat burned, and the ache in his chest had become something raw and constant.

There was only one place left.

He found himself standing in front of a small, ivy-covered gate, the house near the cliffs.

Seungmin’s grandma’s house.

He hesitated, hand hovering over the latch.

It felt wrong to show up like this, uninvited, after everything he’d done.

But he couldn’t leave without trying.

When the door opened, Seungmin’s grandma blinked in surprise.

“Oh, dear. Changbin, isn’t it?”

He nodded weakly.

“Yes, ma’am. I-I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to ask if Seungmin’s here.”

Her eyes softened immediately.

“He isn’t, sweetheart. He’s down by the beach. The one you two always used to go to.”

The air left his lungs.

“The beach?”

She smiled faintly.

“He goes there often. You might still catch him before sunset.”

He bowed quickly.

“Thank you.”

And then he ran.

The sky was painted in gold and rose when he reached the edge of the dunes, lungs burning.

The tide was rolling in, waves catching the light.

His heart hammered in his chest as his shoes hit the wet sand, his eyes scanning every shape, every shadow.

He prayed, please, please let him be here.

Because he didn’t know how to keep existing if he wasn’t.

By the time Changbin reached the edge of town, his lungs were burning.

He’d run the whole way, past Minho’s empty stall, past Felix locking up the bakery, past Jisung calling something after him that he didn’t hear.

His heart pounded louder than his footsteps as he cut across the narrow path toward the beach.

He had to make it.

He had to find Seungmin.

The sea came into view between the trees, and the sight hit him like a blow.

It was dark.

The sun had already fallen, swallowed by the horizon.

Only faint streaks of violet remained across the water, fading fast into the black.

The wind had grown colder, and the tide was higher now, licking at the sand where they used to sit.

He’d missed it.

Still, Changbin stumbled forward, half tripping down the slope that led to the shore.

His shoes filled with sand as he ran, scanning every inch of the beach for a familiar silhouette, for a quiet figure waiting by the water like always.

“Seungmin!”

His voice broke against the waves.

There was no answer.

Just the low rush of water and the soft whisper of night.

Changbin slowed to a walk, chest heaving.

The world around him was dim now, the kind of blue-black darkness that made everything look distant.

The moon hung pale above the cliffs, reflecting silver across the sea.

He stopped near the rocks, their spot.

The one they always returned to.

But tonight, it was empty.

No faint smile waiting for him.

No soft hum blending with the wind.

Only the sand, disturbed by footprints half-faded by the tide.

Changbin’s breath caught when he saw something small glint near the water, a single flower, lying on the sand.

He knelt beside it, his trembling fingers brushing its bent stem.

The petals were missing, plucked off and scattered nearby like quiet evidence of someone’s presence… and pain.

He swallowed hard.

He was too late.

Seungmin had been here, waiting, maybe hoping and he hadn’t come soon enough.

The cold breeze brushed his face, carrying the faint scent of salt and night air. It stung his eyes until they burned.

Changbin sat down, knees drawn to his chest, the flower resting limply in his hand.

For the first time in days, he let himself breathe, really breathe, and the sound that left his chest was halfway between a sob and a sigh.

He looked at the horizon, now nothing but darkness.
He used to love the evenings here, the warmth, the soft light that painted Seungmin’s face golden.

But tonight, it was gone.

And maybe that was the worst part?

He’d run, he’d tried, but it still wasn’t enough.

Now, the sea was the only thing listening.

And all it could offer him was the rhythm of waves , steady, distant, and indifferent, washing away the footprints that used to lead to Seungmin.

“Changbin...?”

Chapter Text

“Changbin...?”

His name came out barely above a whisper, carried by the sea breeze, soft, hesitant, like Seungmin wasn’t sure if he was seeing something real.

Changbin froze.

The voice hit him like a wave, familiar, trembling, achingly human after two weeks of silence.

His chest clenched painfully as he turned toward it. And there, standing a few meters away under the faint shimmer of moonlight, was Seungmin.

He looked the same and yet not,  his hair messier, his eyes tired, his expression unreadable in the dark.

He was wearing a loose sweater that swayed in the breeze, his hands tucked into his pockets like he was trying to anchor himself against the wind.

“Seungmin…”

Changbin’s voice cracked.

And then he was moving before he could think, half-running, half-stumbling across the sand.

Every step felt heavy and desperate, like his body was trying to catch up to the weeks of words he hadn’t said.

By the time he reached Seungmin, he was out of breath, but it didn’t matter.

He stopped only when he was close enough to see the reflection of the sea in Seungmin’s eyes.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The waves whispered between them, steady and endless.

Then Changbin’s hands trembled as he reached out,  hesitating,  before finally catching Seungmin’s.

He pressed them against his forehead like a confession, his voice breaking open as he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

It was quiet at first.

Then louder.

“I’m sorry, Seungmin. For everything.”

His words fell unevenly, tumbling out like stones he’d been carrying for too long.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I shouldn’t have-” He inhaled sharply, shaking his head.

“I said things that I didn’t mean, that I can’t take back. And I know I hurt you. I saw it. I saw it on your face, and I still walked away like a coward.”

His fingers tightened around Seungmin’s hands, the skin warm and trembling under his palms.

“I thought staying away would fix it. That maybe if I disappeared for a while, it’d make things easier for both of us. But it didn’t. It just made me feel like I was missing a part of something I didn’t even understand until you were gone.”

He lifted his head a little, eyes glassy under the moonlight.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“Every single day. I tried not to. I tried pretending I didn’t care, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You were in everything, the flowers, the sea, even the damn sky. I’d walk past the beach and it hurt just to look at it.”

He laughed weakly, breath catching.

“I’d see the shells, the flowers, the sand, and it just… reminded me of you. Of us. And I hated that I was the one who ruined it.”

The silence between them grew thick.

The ocean hissed against the shore.

Changbin looked down again, pressing Seungmin’s hands closer, as though the contact could hold him together.

His voice trembled when he continued.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just, I needed you to know that I’m sorry. Not because I feel guilty, but because you didn’t deserve any of it. You didn’t deserve me snapping at you when you were just trying to be there for me. You didn’t deserve to wonder if you did something wrong.”

He swallowed hard.

His voice softened, almost breaking.

“You didn’t. You never did.”

For a long moment, Seungmin just stood there, silent, still,  his expression unreadable.

Then he carefully pulled one hand free, only to rest it against Changbin’s cheek.

His thumb brushed over a tear that had escaped down Changbin’s face.

“You came back,” Seungmin said quietly.

“Of course I did,” Changbin breathed, eyes closing under his touch.

“I didn’t think you would.”

“I almost didn’t,” Changbin admitted.

“But then I thought about the beach. About you sitting here alone. And I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

The confession hung in the air, fragile and warm.

Seungmin’s expression faltered, relief, disbelief all tangled together.

His lip trembled slightly, but he forced a breath out and said, barely audible,

“Idiot.”

Changbin let out a small, breathless laugh, still choked by tears.

“Yeah. I know.”

Seungmin’s hand lingered on his cheek, and for a heartbeat neither of them moved.

The moonlight painted soft silver lines across Seungmin’s hair, across the sand between them. Changbin wanted to memorize this, the quiet, the salt in the air, the way Seungmin’s eyes finally softened again.

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then whispered,

“I thought I lost you.”

Seungmin’s voice was barely there.

“You almost did.”

The waves crashed somewhere behind them, gentle but insistent.

Changbin took a small, unsteady step closer. “Can I...?”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

Seungmin shifted just enough for their shoulders to brush, the barest ghost of a touch, but it was enough to make Changbin’s heart feel like it was finally beating again.

They stood there for a while, side by side, letting the silence say what words couldn’t.

The sea glowed under the stars, silver and endless.

And when Changbin finally looked at Seungmin, he caught a small, careful smile curving his lips, faint, but real.

It wasn’t forgiveness, not fully.

But it was a beginning.

And for now, that was enough.

By the time Changbin reached his aunt’s house, the moon was high.

His clothes were damp from the sea breeze, his shoes heavy with sand.

But for the first time in weeks, his chest didn’t ache. His eyes burned, yes, from tears and from the cold air, but his heart felt strangely light.

He paused at the gate for a second, staring at the small house.

The windows glowed with warm light, and he could see the faint silhouette of his aunt moving inside, probably cleaning up after dinner.

He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed this, the quiet comfort of a home that waited for him, even when he wasn’t ready to come back.

When he finally pushed the door open, the familiar scent of jasmine tea greeted him.

His aunt looked up immediately from her seat at the table, her eyes wide.

“Changbin?” she said, standing up.

“You’re back so late, dear, I was starting to-”

She stopped when she saw his face.

There was something different about it, not just the fatigue, not the tears that had long dried on his cheeks, but the faint, unmistakable softness in his expression.

Her worried frown eased into something gentler.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

Changbin blinked, surprised.

“How’d you…?”

His aunt smiled knowingly, folding her arms.

“Because that’s the only thing that could’ve put that look on your face again.”

He let out a small, breathless laugh.

“You always know, huh?”

She tilted her head.

“So? Did you fix it?”

Changbin stood there for a moment,  the question lingering between them, and then he smiled.

Not the forced, tired smile he’d worn for days.

This one was real, small and soft and full of something fragile but warm.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice breaking a little.

“I did it.”

His aunt’s eyes softened, and she stepped forward to brush his hair back, the same way she did when he was younger, when he came home bruised or crying or lost.

“I’m proud of you,” she said simply.

And that was all it took.

The last bit of tension in Changbin’s shoulders finally melted away.

He exhaled slowly, sinking into the nearest chair with a sigh.

The house felt warmer now, lighter somehow.

He closed his eyes, letting the silence wrap around him.

His aunt went to the kitchen without another word, and a few moments later, she placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him.

He looked up at her, and she smiled, that soft, knowing kind of smile that said you’ve grown.

Changbin wrapped his hands around the cup and whispered again, more to himself this time, a confession that felt almost like a prayer.

“I did it.”

And somewhere outside, beyond the quiet hum of the sea, the night finally felt kind again.

Chapter Text

When Seungmin finally walked back into the flower shop, the bell over the door rang like thunder.

It had been a few weeks since anyone had seen him, no quick trips to the market, no quiet visits to the beach.

Just absence.

And now he was here.

Changbin, who was arranging a vase (badly), froze.

Every single person in the shop, Jisung, Felix, even Minho who’d stopped by for no reason,  turned toward the doorway like an audience waiting for the next act of a play.

Seungmin stood there awkwardly, bag slung over his shoulder, eyes flicking between them.

“...Hi,” he said, voice low.

It was quiet for a second.

Then Changbin exploded.

“SEUNGMIN!”

Half the shop jumped.

He dropped the vase (thankfully empty) and rushed over, tripping over a bucket on the way, nearly sending a spray of carnations flying.

“YOU’RE BACK- I MEAN- YOU’RE HERE!” he stammered, catching his balance on the counter.

Seungmin blinked.

“Uh-yes?”

“Good! I mean, not good, because you were gone, which was bad, but now you’re here, which is good! Really good!”

Jisung muttered under his breath,

“Someone save him from himself.”

Seungmin tried to slip past him to the back of the shop, but Changbin followed like a particularly clingy puppy.

“I- I cleaned your table!” he announced proudly.

“And your scissors! And the display! And I reorganized the shelf alphabetically by flower species! Also, I bought you your favorite bread from Felix’s bakery but then a seagull took it so I bought another one-”

Felix snorted.

“He’s not kidding. He wrestled that bird for a croissant.”

“I WON,” Changbin said defensively.

Seungmin raised an eyebrow, trying (and failing) not to laugh.

“You… fought a bird for bread?”

“It was symbolic,” Changbin insisted.

“For forgiveness.”

“The bird bit him and he almost cried.”

It was chaos after that.

Changbin insisted on carrying every box Seungmin tried to lift (“I’ve been working out,” he said, nearly dropping one).

He loudly complimented every bouquet Seungmin made (“That’s so you! Elegant! Delicate! Beautiful!”).

He even tried to sing while sweeping, an unfortunate decision that made Hyunjin, who’d just walked in, wheeze into a handful of daisies.

At one point, Seungmin was trying to water the roses when Changbin tripped on the hose, soaked his own shirt, and proudly said,

“See? I’m helping.”

“You’re a disaster,” Seungmin muttered, but his lips twitched.

“Your disaster?” Changbin said without thinking.

There was a pause.

Felix gasped dramatically.

Jisung choked on his drink.

Seungmin just stared at him, cheeks pink, then looked away.

“You’re… loud.”

“I can be louder if it helps,” Changbin said immediately.

“Please don’t,” Jisung whispered.

By afternoon, the shop was in mild disarray, but it was alive.

Felix had put music on, Jisung was pretending to work, and Changbin was still following Seungmin like his personal bodyguard-slash-broom assistant.

When Seungmin turned to reach for a pot on a high shelf, Changbin grabbed it first, offering it to him with a grin.

Their fingers brushed, just barely, and Changbin froze.

There was a flicker of silence between them.

Seungmin, flustered, reached for the pot,  but then noticed something on Changbin’s face.

Without a word, he reached up and brushed a streak of dirt off his cheek with his thumb.

The shop noise faded.

Changbin blinked at him, face flushing, and Seungmin pulled his hand back quickly, pretending to inspect the pot instead.

“Still bad at staying clean,” Seungmin said quietly.

“And you’re still bad at pretending you don’t care,”

Changbin murmured before he could stop himself.

Seungmin’s breath caught.

Then, to everyone’s surprise,  he laughed.
It was small, unguarded, real.

For the first time in days, Changbin felt like he could breathe again.

Even Jisung and Felix exchanged a relieved look.

As Seungmin turned to arrange the flowers, Changbin watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders relaxed, the corners of his lips curved faintly.

He didn’t need to know that Seungmin had already forgiven him long ago.

All that mattered was that Seungmin was here, in the sunlight, surrounded by flowers, and smiling again.

That evening, as they closed the shop, Changbin stayed behind to help sweep up petals.

When Seungmin passed by the door, he paused for just a second and said softly,

“You don’t have to do all this, you know.”

Changbin looked up.

“I know. I just… want to.”

Seungmin hesitated, then smiled,  small, but warm enough to make Changbin’s heart trip over itself again.

“Okay,” he said.

“Then do it quietly this time.”

By the time the sun began to lower behind the cliffs, the day’s noise had melted into quiet.

The shops were closing one by one, the air carrying the smell of sea salt and bread.

Changbin had spent every spare minute darting from street to street, crouching by cracks in stone paths, and tugging up whatever grew wild between the fences.

Half of them were tangled stems.

Some still had dirt clinging to the roots.

A few were crushed from how tightly he’d held them while running.

But to him they looked beautiful, the kind of wild, overlooked things that Seungmin might secretly love.

He arranged them into a small, uneven bouquet with a string he’d borrowed from Jisung’s shop and, for good measure, wiped the dirt from his palms onto his jeans.

Then, heart thumping, he took the path to the beach.

The evening was painted in golds and violets, the waves slow and sleepy.

The sand still held the warmth of the day beneath his feet.

He saw him almost immediately, sitting in the same spot they always seemed to return to, knees drawn close, staring out where the tide met the horizon.

Seungmin didn’t look surprised to see him.

Maybe he’d known Changbin would come.

Maybe part of him had been waiting.

Changbin stopped a few steps away, breath uneven.

“Hey.”

Seungmin turned slightly, eyes soft but unreadable.

“Hey.”

The word hung between them, the sound of the sea filling the spaces that neither of them dared to fill with apologies yet.

“I, uh,” Changbin said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I brought you something.”

He held out the small cluster of wildflowers.

Some petals were wilted, one had already fallen to the sand.

Seungmin blinked, and for a second, Changbin worried he’d made a fool of himself again.

Then Seungmin reached for the bouquet, fingers brushing his.

“These are…” Seungmin tilted his head, examining them.

“Changbin, these are weeds.”

Changbin groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Again? Every time!”

And then-

Seungmin laughed.

It started as a small huff, but it quickly turned into a soft, breathy sound that made Changbin look up.

It was the kind of laugh that melted into the air, that sounded like the ocean might carry it away.

“I can’t believe you keep finding weeds,”

Seungmin said, shaking his head, still smiling.

“I swear they looked like flowers,” .

Changbin said helplessly.

“I thought they were, I don’t know, forgiveness-worthy at least.”

Seungmin looked down at the bundle in his hands, the corners of his lips still curved.

“Maybe they are.”

He hesitated, then stepped closer, close enough for Changbin to smell the faint scent of salt and petals clinging to his shirt.

“Seungmin?” Changbin whispered.

Seungmin didn’t answer.

He only looked at him, that quiet light in his eyes returning, something fragile and honest that Changbin hadn’t seen since before everything fell apart.

And then, without warning, Seungmin leaned forward and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss against Changbin’s cheek.

The touch was barely there, a whisper of warmth, gone as soon as it came, but it left every nerve in Changbin’s body trembling.

He blinked, stunned.

“What was that for?”

Seungmin smiled faintly, gaze lowering to the sand.

“For the weeds. For trying. For coming back.”

Changbin’s throat tightened.

“So… I’m forgiven?”

Seungmin let out a small hum.

“You were, long before this. I just wanted to see how many weeds it would take for you to notice.”

Changbin laughed, the sound half-shaky, half-giddy.

“You’re cruel.”

“And you’re dramatic,” Seungmin said, but there was no bite in his voice.

They stood there as the waves reached closer, brushing against their shoes, the night creeping softly around them.

The moon began to rise, and for a long, comfortable while, they didn’t speak.

Changbin finally said,

“You know, maybe I’ll just keep bringing you weeds. It can be our thing.”

Seungmin glanced sideways, pretending to think.

“If you do, you’d better make sure they come with another apology.”

“Or another kiss?”

Seungmin’s cheeks flushed pink, but he didn’t pull away when Changbin leaned just slightly closer, their shoulders touching as they both looked out toward the darkening sea.

For the first time in weeks, the beach didn’t feel heavy anymore.

It felt like a beginning, small and quiet and blooming, like weeds finding sunlight in the cracks of the world.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled through the flower shop windows, painting the counters in gold and green.

The air smelled like wet soil and chamomile, and maybe just a little like chaos.

Because chaos had a name, and it was Seo Changbin, currently standing at the counter looking suspiciously like he hadn’t stopped grinning since last night.

Jisung noticed immediately.

He dropped the watering can he was holding and gasped dramatically.

“Oh my GOD, why do you look like that?”

Changbin blinked, startled.

“Like what?”

“Like you just got proposed to!”

“I-what?! No!”

But Jisung was already shouting across the shop,

“FELIX! HYUNJIN! MINHO! CHAN! JEONGIN! Come look at this!”

Within seconds, the shop was flooded with noise, Felix burst through the door still holding a croissant, Hyunjin trailing petals behind him, Minho holding a net from his fish stall like he’d been mid-work, Chan sipping his coffee, and Jeongin looking mildly concerned but mostly entertained.

“Okay, okay,” Jisung announced, clapping his hands.

“Our boy here is glowing like a wedding lantern. Guess why.”

Felix tilted his head.

“He finally confessed?”

Hyunjin gasped.

“Wait, did Seungmin confess?!”

Changbin nearly choked on his own tongue.

“NOBODY CONFESSED! There’s nothing to confess!”

Jisung smirked.

“Oh? So what did happen last night, hmm?”

“It was just-” Changbin’s voice went embarrassingly high.

“-a kiss. On the cheek. For forgiveness!”

The room fell silent for exactly two seconds before exploding.

“You WHAT?” Felix squealed.

“That’s not just anything!”

Minho looked up from untangling his net.

“That’s a bold apology method.”

“It wasn’t bold!” Changbin protested.

“It was-it was just- friendly!”

Right then, the door opened with a soft chime.

Seungmin stepped in, cheeks still faintly pink from the morning air, and froze when he saw everyone staring at him.

“...What did I walk into?”

Hyunjin smirked.

“Your boyfriend’s confession, apparently.”

“HE’S NOT MY-” Seungmin sputtered, face instantly red.

“It was just a kiss on the cheek!”

Felix clasped his hands together.

“Oh no, both of you are hopeless.”

Chan sighed.

“This is going to take months, isn’t it?”

“I’m serious!” Seungmin said, his voice breaking a little.

“It’s normal! Friends do that all the time!”

Jisung blinked.

“What kind of friends do that all the time?”

“The close ones!” Changbin said quickly, as if that somehow helped.

Hyunjin was wheezing.

“So you’re telling me, you two kissed, and your explanation is that you’re just close friends?”

Seungmin crossed his arms stubbornly.

“Exactly.”

“And friends bring each other flowers every other day, too?” Felix added, teasingly.

“They were weeds!” Changbin snapped.

“Romantic weeds!” Jisung yelled.

“They weren’t romantic!” both Changbin and Seungmin shouted at the same time.

Everyone went dead silent for a beat, and then burst out laughing again.

Even Chan couldn’t hold it in this time.

“You two are unbelievable.”

“I don’t see what’s funny!” Seungmin huffed, cheeks puffed, which only made him look cuter and made Changbin hide his smile behind his hand.

Felix leaned toward Hyunjin.

“You know what’s tragic?” he whispered.

“They genuinely believe it.”

Hyunjin nodded, grinning.

“They think this is friendship behavior.”

Jeongin, thoughtful as always, added,

“It’s like watching two penguins trying to flirt and both insisting they’re just sharing body warmth for survival.”

“Exactly!” Felix said dramatically.

Meanwhile, Changbin and Seungmin were still defending themselves with the combined energy of two panicking puppies.

Changbin gestured wildly.

“I mean-friends can hug! Friends can hang out every day! Friends can… uh…” He paused, trying to think of more examples and immediately running out.

“Can kiss on the cheek!” Seungmin added quickly, as if helping.

The group collectively howled.

“Friends do that!” Seungmin said louder, over their laughter, his voice full of conviction and embarrassment.

Jisung grinned wickedly.

“Then maybe I should kiss Jeongin on the cheek every morning too.”

“Try it and I’ll throw you in the sea,” Jeongin replied flatly.

“See!” Seungmin said triumphantly.

“That’s why we’re just different kinds of friends!”

Felix wheezed, leaning on the counter for support.

“Oh no, they’ve built lore around it!”

By now, Seungmin was pink all the way to his ears and Changbin was trying very hard not to look directly at him because every time he did, that warmth from last night crept up again.

The rest of the group eventually left, still laughing and teasing all the way down the street.

The shop finally fell quiet again.

Seungmin exhaled, shoulders slumping.

“They’re all ridiculous.”

Changbin smiled softly, turning a small flower between his fingers.

“Yeah… ridiculous.”

Their eyes met, just for a second, and both of them quickly looked away, hearts beating a little too fast for just friends.

And yet neither of them questioned it.

Because friends do that, right?

The sky burned itself out slowly, turning from gold to violet to something between blue and dusk.

The sea breathed in waves that came close enough to touch their shoes, leaving trails of silver foam that shimmered before vanishing.

Changbin sat cross-legged in the sand, watching the horizon blur, a bouquet of half-wilted wildflowers lying beside him.

Weeds, technically, thin stems, uneven petals, leaves smudged with dirt.

But Seungmin had smiled when he’d taken them earlier, and that was enough.

He heard footsteps before he saw him.

Slow ones, hesitant, like Seungmin wasn’t sure if he should be there.

“You came,” Changbin said without turning.

“You’d just sit here sulking if I didn’t,” Seungmin replied softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he sat down next to him.

Close, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

Changbin tilted his head, trying to hide his grin.

“I wasn’t sulking.”

“You were definitely sulking,” Seungmin murmured, his tone teasing but quiet.

His voice softened the air around them, like even the waves wanted to listen.

They sat in silence after that.

The breeze tangled Seungmin’s hair, and Changbin found himself watching how the strands caught the light, brown and gold, like something the sea might’ve stolen from the sun.

When Seungmin shifted closer, Changbin felt it,  the warmth of his arm brushing against his own, the faint tremor in the air between them.

And then, carefully, Seungmin rested his head on Changbin’s shoulder.

Changbin stopped breathing for a second.

The world felt too fragile to move inside of.

He could feel Seungmin’s breath on his neck, soft, steady, and a little uneven.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Then instinct won.

He lifted one and brushed the hair away from Seungmin’s face, fingers tracing the curve of his temple before falling away.

Seungmin didn’t move.

If anything, he leaned in a little more, the weight of him warm and real.

“You didn’t pull away this time,” he whispered.

Changbin’s throat tightened. He smiled faintly, eyes on the sea.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

That earned him a small laugh, quiet but close enough to feel against his skin.

The waves came and went, and neither of them spoke.

The sun dipped lower until only its reflection lingered.

Seungmin’s hand, resting on the sand between them, shifted, brushing against Changbin’s.

Not quite holding, not quite accidental.

Changbin didn’t pull away.

“This is nice,” Seungmin murmured, his voice somewhere between sleepy and shy.

Changbin hummed in agreement.

“Yeah.”

A pause, soft as salt on the wind.

“Friends do this, right?” Seungmin asked after a while, his voice quieter, uncertain.

Changbin turned slightly, close enough to see the faint color rising in his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he said, almost too quickly. “Friends do this.”

Seungmin smiled, but it was a small one, almost secret.

“Right.”

Neither of them moved.

The sea rolled in, touching the edge of their shoes, and the air smelled of flowers and rain and something delicate they couldn’t name.

Maybe friends did this.

Or maybe they were both pretending they didn’t already know what it meant.

Chapter Text

It had been three weeks since Changbin had apologized, three long, peaceful, infuriating weeks.

Peaceful for them.

Utterly torturous for everyone else.

In those twenty-one days, Changbin and Seungmin had somehow managed to evolve from shy, awkward glances to full-blown married couple energy, without ever actually addressing it.

At first, it was small things:

Changbin started showing up at the flower shop earlier and earlier, always with a drink in hand.

Then Seungmin started packing him lunch boxes.

Then came the inside jokes, the soft touches, the habit of walking home together.

And now, as Jisung watched them literally feed each other strawberry tarts at the counter, he realized he was witnessing the slow breakdown of reality itself.

“Oh my God,” Jisung said, dropping the inventory list.

“You’re killing me. Both of you. Slowly.”

Changbin blinked, mid-bite.

“What? I’m just sharing.”

“With your mouth,” Jisung said flatly.

“You just shared food from your mouth.”

Seungmin frowned.

“He said he wanted a bite.”

“I didn’t mean for you to- never mind,” Jisung groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

“Why do I even try.”

Felix, leaning on the counter beside him, was grinning like an idiot.

“They’re so cute though.”

“They’re delusional,” Jisung hissed.

“Do you hear the things they say? ‘Friends hold hands while crossing the road,’ ‘Friends share desserts,’ ‘Friends cuddle during lunch breaks because the floor’s cold'-”

Hyunjin entered just in time to hear that last one.

“Oh, they’re cuddling now? I knew it.”

“They’re not cuddling!” Changbin said, panicking slightly.

“It’s-it’s temperature maintenance!”

Seungmin nodded, perfectly calm.

“Exactly.”

Minho, who’d been silently arranging flowers in the corner, muttered,

“Temperature maintenance. Right. And I sleep on the roof for vitamin D.”

Jisung groaned again, turning to Chan for support.

“Hyung, do something. They’re broken.”

Chan looked up from his book, squinted at the two offenders, Seungmin brushing crumbs off Changbin’s shirt like a doting spouse, and said,

“No fixing that, mate. Just let nature take its course.”

Felix giggled.

“Nature’s taking too long!”

By the third week, everyone had given up on reason.

Changbin and Seungmin were practically inseparable.

They worked together, ate together, and if one wasn’t around, the other looked slightly lost.

There was even a day Seungmin had gone home early because of rain, and Changbin stood outside the shop staring at the drizzle like a widow.

When Jisung told him to just go home too, Changbin mumbled,

“But who’ll hold the umbrella for him tomorrow?”

Jisung threw a pot at him.

Now, every afternoon was a new test of patience.

Today, Seungmin was sitting cross-legged on the counter, humming softly while weaving flower crowns.

Changbin sat beside him, his head resting against Seungmin’s knee as he held out stems for him to use.

“You’re good at this,” Changbin said quietly.

Seungmin smiled, brushing hair from Changbin’s forehead absentmindedly.

“You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

From the doorway, Jisung looked seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

“You two can’t just say things like that out loud! People are trying to function!”

Felix whispered to Hyunjin,

“Do you think they even know they’re flirting?”

“No,” Hyunjin whispered back.

“They think they’re breathing.”

It only got worse that evening.

Seungmin finished the flower crown and leaned forward to put it on Changbin’s head, delicate and careful.

Their faces were so close that Changbin froze, heart pounding like he’d been sprinting.

Seungmin smiled softly.

“Perfect.”

Changbin’s voice came out low, rough around the edges.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

And just like that, everyone lost it.

Hyunjin slammed a hand against the table.

“I can’t take it anymore!”

Felix was giggling uncontrollably.

Jisung dramatically faked fainting against Minho, who rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he could still see.

Jeongin just quietly left the shop.

Chan just laughed.

“Congratulations, boys. You’ve single-handedly destroyed Jisung’s will to live.”

Seungmin blinked in confusion.

“Why? We’re just being nice.”

Changbin nodded.

“Yeah, we’re just close friends.”

“Close friends,” Jisung repeated weakly.

“If you were any closer, you’d be inside each other’s skin.”

Felix wheezed.

“I think they like each other’s skin just fine.”

“Lix, stop,” Hyunjin said, nearly choking on laughter.

But the best part?

Neither Changbin nor Seungmin even flinched.

They just shared a look, one of those soft, wordless glances that carried too much weight,  and then turned back to their flowers, cheeks pink but smiles easy.

When everyone finally left the shop that night, Changbin stayed to help Seungmin and jisung close up.

The warm light of the shop flickered against their faces.

As Seungmin turned to lock the door, Changbin tugged his sleeve.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Thanks for… everything.”

Seungmin tilted his head.

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” Changbin said, grinning.

“Just… being you.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes but his smile was small and genuine.

“Friends do that, you know.”

Changbin’s grin widened.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “They do.”

And if their hands brushed, or lingered, as they walked home, neither of them said a word.

Behind them, Jisung was walking a few steps away with Felix and Hyunjin, whispering furiously,

“They’re so in love.”

Felix nodded, “Hopelessly.”

Hyunjin sighed, dramatic as ever.

“At this point, it’s a psychological experiment.”

And Jisung muttered,

“I give them two weeks before they accidentally kiss and still call it friendship.”

The sky looked like it had been brushed with watercolor,  lavender bleeding into orange, orange fading into rose.

The waves lapped lazily at the shore, their sound soft enough to blend into the sighs of the wind.

Changbin sat close to where the tide reached, knees pulled up, fingers idly tracing circles in the sand.

He wasn’t waiting, he told himself.

Just… here.

Just breathing.

But every few seconds, his gaze flicked toward the path where the cliffs met the beach.

When Seungmin finally appeared, the world seemed to quiet down a little.

“You came early,” Seungmin said, smiling as he walked over.

His hair caught the breeze, and he squinted at the light.

Changbin shrugged.

“Couldn’t sit still at home.”

Seungmin chuckled softly, then settled beside him, close enough for their elbows to brush.

“You? Restless? Never.”

“Only when you’re late,” Changbin teased.

Seungmin rolled his eyes, hiding a small grin.

For a while, the only sounds were the waves and the faint rustle of their clothes in the wind.

“Feels different today,” Seungmin murmured after a moment.

“What does?”

“The sea.” He tilted his head slightly.

“It’s… softer, somehow.”

Changbin smiled faintly, watching the reflection of sunset on his face.

“Maybe it’s because you’re softer today.”

Seungmin turned to look at him, brows furrowing playfully.

“You think I control the ocean now?”

“You control everything else,” Changbin said before he could stop himself.

The words hung between them, simple, but heavy.

Seungmin looked away first, laughing quietly, though a faint blush colored his cheeks.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Changbin grinned, but didn’t argue.

As the evening grew darker, Seungmin shifted closer, resting his head on Changbin’s shoulder.

Changbin froze for a moment,  then exhaled and leaned back slightly, letting him.

“You’re warm,” Seungmin murmured.

“Still carrying the sun,” Changbin replied, voice low.

“Then I’ll borrow some.”

Changbin smiled faintly, fingers twitching where they brushed against Seungmin’s hand.

The sky deepened into violet, and the first star appeared, small, but bright.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

They didn’t need to.

Then, softly, Seungmin said,

“When does your summer break end?”

Changbin stilled.

The question was innocent, but it hit like the tide pulling suddenly harder.

“In a month” he said quietly.

Seungmin lifted his head, eyes searching his face. “That soon?”

Changbin nodded.

“Yeah. Time’s kind of unfair that way.”

The silence that followed was heavier now, still gentle, but threaded with something that hurt.

Seungmin’s gaze dropped to the sand.

“Will you visit?” he asked, voice soft enough that it almost disappeared under the waves.

Changbin didn’t hesitate this time.

He turned to look at him fully, eyes steady, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Of course I will.”

Seungmin blinked, and his shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Promise?”

Changbin reached out, just barely, his pinky brushing Seungmin’s hand.

“Promise.”

Seungmin laughed quietly, the sound small but real.

“You better keep it.”

“I will,” Changbin said, and it sounded like a vow.

“You won’t even have time to miss me.”

“Too late for that,” Seungmin muttered before realizing he’d said it out loud.

Changbin froze, then smiled, something soft and aching in his chest.

“Good,” he said simply.

The waves moved closer, foaming at their feet.

Seungmin leaned against him again, and Changbin tilted his head slightly until their temples touched.

Neither spoke about how close they’d gotten, or how fast the days were slipping away.

They just sat there, the kind of quiet that meant I’ll miss this.

The kind of quiet that meant me too.

Chapter Text

The morning was loud.

Not because of Chan’s announcement, but because Changbin had somehow managed to burn rice and spill strawberry milk on his shirt before even sitting down.

Chan clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.

“Alright, listen up! The summer festival’s this weekend, stalls, lights, hanboks, everything. We’re all helping out, and no one’s allowed to disappear halfway like last year, Hyunjin.”

“I didn’t disappear!” Hyunjin protested, offended.

“I was buying ice cream!”

“Six ice creams,” Felix muttered.

“For yourself.”

Changbin grinned as everyone started bickering again, his mind already spinning with excitement.

“My first festival here,” he said dreamily.

“I’m gonna help with everything.”

Seungmin just stared at him like he was declaring war.

“You’re going to ruin everything,” he corrected.

He wasn’t wrong.

By noon, Changbin had nearly glued Jisung’s fingers together while making paper lanterns, dropped half a box of confetti, and managed to turn the banner upside down.

“BIN!” Jisung yelled, waving his half-stuck hand.

“STOP HELPING- I MEAN IT.”

Seungmin sighed from his corner but couldn’t stop the tiny laugh that slipped out.

Changbin looked so earnestly proud of himself that it almost hurt.

Later, when they were both assigned to the flower booth, Seungmin found himself regretting everything.

Changbin was supposed to tie ribbons around the bouquets.

Instead, he tied one around Seungmin’s wrist, humming happily.

“There,” he said, admiring his work.

“Now you match the daisies.”

“Changbin,” Seungmin said flatly,

“I am the one selling the daisies.”

“Exactly!” Changbin beamed.

“Branding.”

Felix walked by, snorting so hard he nearly tripped.

“You two are so married.”

Seungmin’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t untie the ribbon.

And the day didn’t stop getting worse, or better.

When Seungmin reached for the top shelf to grab flower garlands, Changbin immediately came over, all confident and tall (he wasn’t tall, seungmin is taller), insisting,

“I got it!”

He didn’t.

The entire shelf clattered down, petals everywhere, landing them both in a messy heap on the floor.

Seungmin froze, pressed against Changbin’s chest, staring up with his heart in his throat.

Changbin blinked, still holding him like the world might break if he let go.

“...You okay?” Changbin asked softly.

“Yeah,” Seungmin said, voice smaller than usual.

He could feel Changbin’s heartbeat, fast, steady, warm.

It was the same rhythm as his own.

For a second, neither moved.

Then Jisung’s voice pierced the air-

“GUYS, THIS IS A FLOWER SHOP, NOT A DAMN DRAMA.”

They scrambled up instantly.

Changbin turned red all the way to his ears, and Seungmin dusted his shirt off like it could erase the heat crawling up his neck.

The rest of the day went like that.

Changbin stealing petals to stick behind Seungmin’s ear.

Seungmin muttering insults but never taking them off.

The both of them pretending their fingers didn’t brush every time they reached for the same basket.

When the others passed by later, they didn’t even comment anymore.

They just stared.

Chan whispered something to Hyunjin.

Felix shook his head, muttering,

“They’re gone.”

By sunset, the flower shop was quiet.

The others had gone home, but the light was still golden and soft, catching the edges of Seungmin’s face.

Changbin leaned against the counter, watching him tie the last bouquet.

“You know,” Changbin said slowly,

“we’ve been doing this for hours, and it actually looks good now.”

Seungmin smiled faintly.

“That’s because I told you to stop helping.”

“Rude.”

“Honest.”

Changbin chuckled, then nudged closer, resting his arm on the counter beside him.

Seungmin didn’t move away this time.

The air between them was different, full of something unspoken, thick and fluttering.

Their hands brushed again, accidentally, but neither pulled back.

Changbin looked down at their fingers, then up at Seungmin’s face, finding that same hesitant warmth staring back.

“So…” Changbin murmured, voice dropping softer.

“Still think this is what friends do?”

Seungmin’s breath hitched, but he managed a tiny laugh.

“We’re really good friends.”

“Yeah,” Changbin whispered, smiling despite the obvious ache in his chest.

“The best.”

But when Seungmin’s shoulder brushed his on the walk home, just barely, just enough to feel it, Changbin didn’t move away.

And Seungmin didn’t either.

The festival preparations wrapped with the sun, leaving the town painted in gold and dusted in laughter.

Everyone had gone home by now, even Jisung, who’d dragged Hyunjin away after another failed attempt at tying festival ribbons into hearts.

But Changbin stayed behind, hands still faintly smelling of flowers and glue.

He knew where Seungmin would be.

Sure enough, he found him walking toward the beach, the one that had quietly become theirs.

The waves glowed in orange light, and the wind carried the faint scent of salt and crushed petals from the stalls nearby.

“Hey,” Changbin called softly.

Seungmin turned, his hair blowing messily across his forehead, a little tired but smiling, that soft, rare smile that always made Changbin’s heart stumble.

“You didn’t go with the others?”

Changbin shrugged, falling into step beside him.

“Didn’t feel like it. Thought I’d make sure the beach didn’t miss us.”

Seungmin huffed a quiet laugh, pretending that didn’t sound oddly sweet.

“How thoughtful.”

They walked along the sand in silence, waves brushing at their ankles, both pretending they weren’t walking closer and closer until their arms brushed.

The air between them was quieter than usual, not awkward, just thick.

The kind of silence that made every sound sharper.

The sea. The gulls.

The pulse in their own ears.

Seungmin bent down to pick up a shell, dusting it off.

“This one’s weird,” he murmured.

“It’s got two colors.”

“Maybe it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be,”

Changbin said, grinning at him.

Seungmin looked up, lips twitching.

“Sounds familiar.”

“Hey!” Changbin laughed, bumping his shoulder into Seungmin’s.

The touch lingered longer than it should have.

Neither moved.

The sun slipped lower, melting into the water. Changbin sat down first, pulling his knees up, eyes tracing the horizon.

“It’s weird,” he said quietly.

“I used to hate silence. Felt like I needed to fill it, you know? But with you, it’s just… easy.”

Seungmin glanced at him.

The light caught on Changbin’s profile, softening the usual sharp edges, the stubborn jaw, the mischievous grin turned thoughtful.

He wanted to say something teasing.

He didn’t.

Instead, he sat down too, close enough that their shoulders brushed again.

“You talk a lot,” Seungmin murmured.

“You listen a lot.”

“That’s what friends do.”

“Yeah.” Changbin’s voice was quieter this time, like he was testing the word and finding it didn’t quite fit anymore.

They sat there like that for a while.

Changbin absently scooped sand through his fingers.

Seungmin leaned back on his hands, head tilted toward the fading light.

Then Seungmin turned his head, just slightly,  and found Changbin already looking at him.

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

The world was orange and soft and fading around them, and all Changbin could see was the reflection of the sun in Seungmin’s eyes.

He’d seen him laugh, sulk, tease,  but never like this.

Never this open.

Changbin smiled, quiet and real.

And Seungmin smiled back, smaller, but something shifted.

That moment stretched, warm and endless, until Seungmin’s hand brushed his in the sand.

Not by accident.

Not this time.

Changbin didn’t say anything.

He just turned his palm up, and Seungmin’s fingers slipped into his.

It was nothing dramatic.

No words.

No confessions.

Just two hands finding each other after weeks of pretending not to.

The tide washed close, foamy and glowing, touching their shoes.

Changbin glanced down at their joined hands, then back at Seungmin,  who was looking at him with that same quiet realization in his eyes.

They both smiled.

And that was it.

That was the moment it clicked.

All the teasing, all the chaos, all the excuses about being “just friends”,  none of it could hide this anymore.

The sea knew it.

The sky knew it.

They knew it.

And none of them said a single thing.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight poured through the flower shop windows, warm and lazy, falling across bouquets and glass jars.

The shop looked softer than usual, like the calm before the storm.

Except the storm had already started.

Because in the middle of it all stood Changbin, proudly holding what looked like the world’s ugliest handmade paper lantern.

“I made this one!” he said, beaming.

Jisung stared at it like it personally offended him.

“You made it suffer, maybe.”

Felix, who was sitting on the counter with a basket of ribbons, snorted.

“Is that supposed to be a rabbit?”

“It’s a moon!” Changbin protested, indignant.

“You guys have no vision.”

Seungmin, who had been quietly sorting carnations since morning, finally turned around.

His eyes traveled from the crooked paper lantern to the glitter stuck in Changbin’s hair, and then to the smudge of blue paint on his cheek.

“…You’ve been helping for two hours,” Seungmin said flatly.

“And somehow you’ve made the shop worse.”

Changbin grinned, unabashed.

“I’m doing my best! This is my first festival, you know.”

Something about his excitement made Seungmin’s heart warm, even when it shouldn’t.

He quickly looked away.

“Try doing your best without destroying everything next time.”

Before Changbin could respond, the door swung open and Jisung strode in, voice far too loud for the morning.

“Announcement time!” he declared, clapping his hands.

“We’ve got our festival dates all set!”

“Festival dates?” Changbin echoed.

“Yup!” Jisung gestured dramatically.

“Minho and I, Felix and Hyunjin, obviously, and Chan somehow convinced Jeongin to go with him. So that leaves…”

He turned toward them with a grin. “You two.”

Seungmin froze mid-step.

Changbin blinked, utterly confused.

“What about us?” he asked innocently.

“You’re the only ones without dates.”

Changbin nodded, thoughtful.

“Ah, that’s okay. I’ll just hang with you guys!”

There was a beat of silence.

Seungmin’s jaw tensed.

Jisung just blinked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“…You mean you’re not going with Seungmin?”

“Why would I?” Changbin said, genuinely puzzled.

“We’re friends! I mean, we already spend time together.”

Seungmin’s expression didn’t move, but the smallest flicker crossed his eyes, something heavy and disappointed that he quickly buried under a tight smile.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Friends.”

Jisung muttered under his breath,

“You’re both going to kill me,” before storming off.

The day that followed was absolute torture.

Seungmin tried everything, subtle hints, obvious ones, and at one point even throwing metaphorical bricks of suggestion at Changbin’s thick skull, and none of it worked.

While everyone else paired off easily, his idiot was too busy hammering decorations into walls or singing to himself.

By noon, Seungmin was helping Felix arrange garlands when Changbin strolled past, humming, sleeves rolled up, arms flexing slightly as he carried buckets of water.

“Hey, Seungmin,” he said brightly,

“isn’t this fun?”

“Fun,” Seungmin repeated, staring at him.

“Sure.”

Changbin leaned on the counter, grinning.

“You’re not smiling. Festivals are supposed to make people happy, you know.”

“I’d be happier if someone got a clue,”

Seungmin muttered under his breath.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” he snapped, turning away.

Later, as they painted signs together, Seungmin tried again.

“You know,” he said casually,

“a lot of people go to festivals as… couples.”

Changbin nodded, focused on his brush.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that. Must be nice. You get to eat together and see the fireworks.”

Seungmin waited.

Nothing.

Not even a flicker of recognition.

“So,” he said, pushing,

“what about you?”

“Me?” Changbin glanced up.

“Oh, I’ll probably just hang with the guys.”

Seungmin inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Right. The guys.”

“Why? Did you have someone in mind?”

Changbin asked, all genuine curiosity.

Seungmin froze, looking at him, at the way his head tilted, his smile unguarded, the kind that made it impossible to stay mad for long.

But this time, he forced himself to hold that anger close.

“No,” he said finally, voice clipped.

“Not anymore.”

Changbin frowned, confused, but before he could ask, Jisung called him over for help.

By the afternoon, everyone was running around in pairs, laughing, planning outfits, teasing each other.

Seungmin just watched them, Felix trying to braid Hyunjin’s hair, Jisung and Minho bickering like always, Chan and Jeongin comparing lantern designs.

It was… nice.

Warm.

Whole.

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he and Changbin should have been like that too.

Instead, Changbin was currently tangled in streamers.

“Help,” he said cheerfully, turning in circles.

“I think the ribbon’s alive.”

Seungmin just sighed, rubbing his temple.

“You’re impossible.”

Evening came, and everyone gathered to pack up.

Felix nudged Seungmin.

“So, who are you going with tomorrow?”

Seungmin glared at him.

“Don’t start.”

Felix smirked.

“If Changbin doesn’t ask you, I’ll do it myself.”

“Wait, what?” Changbin turned immediately, frowning.

“No way. You can’t- I mean- he’s- we’re friends!”

And that was it.

That word again.

Friends.

It echoed in Seungmin’s chest until something in him finally snapped.

He slammed the basket he was holding onto the counter.

The noise made everyone jump.

“Fine,” Seungmin said sharply, voice shaking with anger he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Since you’re clearly too dense to notice anything-”

Changbin blinked, eyes wide. “S-Seungmin?”

“-I’ll just say it myself! Will you be my date to the festival or not!?”

The whole shop went silent.

Even Felix froze mid-laugh.

Changbin just stood there, staring, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“I- uh- wait- what-?”

“Just answer the question!” Seungmin yelled, cheeks red, chest heaving.

“I- yes! Of course! I’d love to?” Changbin blurted.

“Good!” Seungmin said, arms crossed.

“Then it’s settled.”

The silence that followed was deafening, until Jisung muttered,

“Holy hell, finally,” and everyone burst into laughter.

Changbin stood there still processing while Seungmin turned away, muttering under his breath,

“Honestly. Idiot.”

That night, as they walked home, the air felt strangely calm after the chaos.

Changbin risked a small smile.

“So… tomorrow’s our date?”

Seungmin gave a soft huff.

“Took you long enough.”

And though they didn’t say anything more, when their hands brushed by accident, neither of them pulled away this time.

The waves were gentle that evening, soft and slow, brushing against the sand in a rhythm that felt almost tired.

The sky had already started melting into shades of orange and lavender, and Seungmin sat with his knees drawn to his chest, watching the tide pull away.

He heard footsteps behind him,  the uneven, too-fast kind he’d learned belonged to Changbin.

“Hey,” Changbin said breathlessly, dropping down beside him.

“You didn’t wait for me.”

“I needed quiet,” Seungmin murmured, picking up a shell and turning it over between his fingers.

Changbin fell silent.

The air between them was full of half-spoken things, words neither of them knew how to start.

After a long pause, Seungmin sighed and muttered,

“You really are hopeless, you know that?”

Changbin blinked.

“What did I do now?”

Seungmin turned to him, brows furrowed, frustration bubbling up again.

“I gave you so many chances. So many hints! Everyone’s going to the festival with someone, and you- you just-” he broke off, throwing his hands up.

“You’re impossible!”

Changbin looked genuinely confused.

“Wait… you wanted me to-?”

“Yes!” Seungmin nearly shouted, glaring at him.

“To ask me! I wanted you to ask me, you idiot!”

The words echoed between them, carried away by the waves.

Seungmin’s cheeks flushed, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, slowly, Changbin’s expression softened.

He shifted closer, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.

“Then… Seungmin,” he said, “will you go to the festival with me?”

Seungmin stared at him, wide-eyed for a second, then huffed out a laugh, half exasperated, half fond.

“Finally,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Changbin smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry. I’m… not great at this.”

“I noticed,” Seungmin said, but his tone had softened.

He leaned sideways, resting his shoulder against Changbin’s.

The sound of the ocean filled the silence that followed, calm, familiar, steady.

Changbin didn’t move away this time.

He just smiled, letting the warmth of Seungmin’s shoulder press against his, his chest feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

The waves curled at their feet, and for the first time, the quiet between them wasn’t awkward, it was full.

Full of something unnamed, something just beginning.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered through the paper screens in warm, golden streaks, carrying the smell of rice porridge and the faint hiss of the kettle.

The small house buzzed with a quiet kind of excitement, windows left open to the sound of festival preparations echoing through the streets below.

Changbin was already dressed, but only half-right.

His aunt stood behind him, fussing with the knot of his pale blue hanbok, muttering under her breath about how she should’ve ironed it last night.

“Stop moving, Bin-ah, you’ll wrinkle it before you even step outside,” she scolded, tugging sharply at the sash.

“It’s already too tight,” he mumbled, trying not to fidget.

“That’s because you won’t stop eating tteok at midnight,” she teased, swatting his shoulder lightly before stepping back to inspect her work.

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling.

The whole town was alive today, he could hear laughter, distant drums, and vendors setting up their stands.

It made something in his chest flutter, a mix of excitement and nerves he couldn’t quite place.

His aunt noticed the way he kept glancing at the door.

“You’re really excited, huh? You’ve been looking out that window since breakfast.”

“Just… the festival’s my first one here,” Changbin said quickly.

“That’s all.”

She gave him a knowing look.

“Ah, sure. It’s not about seeing that flower shop boy again, right?”

Changbin nearly choked on his own breath.

“W-What? Seungmin? No, no, he’s just- he’s helping with the decorations, that’s all. We’re friends.”

“Friends,” she echoed, smirking.

“The kind that make you comb your hair three times before breakfast?”

“I-” Changbin froze, then groaned, dragging his hands down his face.

“Auntie, please.”

She laughed softly, tying the last ribbon on his sleeve. “You look handsome, my boy. Whoever you’re hoping to see, they’ll notice.”

Her words made warmth creep up his neck.

He picked up his small pouch of coins and snacks, pretending to ignore her as he slipped on his shoes.

Outside, the festival was already blooming to life.

Rows of paper lanterns lined the streets, their colors swaying like petals in the breeze.

The smell of grilled fish, honeyed rice cakes, and roasted corn filled the air.

Children darted between stalls, clutching pinwheels and cotton candy.

Changbin’s heart thumped faster with every step.

He didn’t know why he was walking so quickly, why every sound felt sharper, brighter, as if the day itself was holding its breath.

Maybe because Seungmin would be there.

Maybe because-

He stopped himself before the thought could finish.

“It’s not like that,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting the hem of his hanbok.

“He’s my friend. That’s it.”

Still, his pulse didn’t listen.

When they reached the plaza, his aunt smiled and nudged him.

“Go on, I’ll meet you at the food stalls later. Go find your ‘friend.’”

He didn’t even argue this time.

He just grinned sheepishly and jogged ahead, weaving through the crowd of people, eyes scanning for a familiar figure among the sea of colors.

He spotted Chan and Jeongin first, Jeongin balancing a box of lanterns while Chan directed where to hang them.

Felix and Hyunjin were already in the middle of a playful argument over who would get the larger flower crown from Minho’s stall, while Minho looked about two seconds away from throwing petals at both of them.

Changbin smiled as he passed them, calling out greetings, but he wasn’t looking for them.

His gaze moved restlessly over the crowd.

And then-

He saw him.

Seungmin stood a little ways off near a row of food stands, helping an elderly vendor arrange her display of sweets.

His hanbok was a soft gradient of white fading into a muted blue that almost matched the morning sky.

His hair, neatly combed and slightly parted, caught the light, and tucked behind his ear was a small, Gladiolus.

Changbin froze mid-step.

It was his birth flower.

He remembered.

The sight of it hit him like the rush of a wave, so gentle and yet powerful enough to knock the breath right out of him.

He felt something shift in his chest, like the first spark before a fire catches.

Seungmin looked up then, catching his gaze.

His lips curved into that familiar, shy smile that always managed to make Changbin forget what he was doing.

“Hey,” Seungmin called, waving a little.

Changbin walked up, suddenly very aware of how warm his ears felt.

“H-hey. You look-uh- ” His brain chose that exact moment to short-circuit.

“Nice. Really nice like pretty. I mean, the… the hanbok. And your hair. And the… flower. The everything.”

Seungmin chuckled, soft and amused.
“Thanks, Changbin. You clean up well too.”

That shouldn’t have made his chest feel this warm, but it did.

“Is your aunt here too?” Seungmin asked.

“Yeah, she’s off somewhere trying to win free mochi, I think.”

“Of course she is,” Seungmin said with a fond laugh.

He stepped closer, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off Changbin’s sleeve.

“You look nervous.”

“Me? No,” Changbin lied.

“Just… first festival and all.”

“Well,” Seungmin said, eyes bright, “then we’ll make it a good one.”

And before Changbin could reply, Seungmin grabbed his wrist lightly and tugged him toward the festival streets.

The crowd swallowed them up, the laughter, the music, the hum of summer, and for the first time, Changbin didn’t mind getting lost.

The street shimmered with color and sound.

Lanterns swayed above their heads, stalls crowded both sides of the narrow path, and laughter rolled like music through the humid air.

The rhythm of drums pulsed faintly from somewhere down the plaza, guiding the crowd’s steps like a heartbeat.

Seungmin led the way with quiet excitement, his hand occasionally brushing Changbin’s arm as they passed through the crowd.

Every touch sent a soft spark crawling up Changbin’s skin.

“There’s so much to do,” Seungmin said, scanning the rows of games and food stands.

“Where do you want to start?”

“Uh—food,” Changbin said automatically, earning a snort.

“What? It smells good.”

“You’ve already eaten twice this morning.”

“Festivals don’t count,” Changbin defended.

“Festival calories don’t exist.”

Seungmin laughed, eyes curling into crescents, and something about the sound made Changbin grin helplessly.

He didn’t know why, but seeing Seungmin happy, really happy, made the world feel like it was humming in tune.

They passed a group of kids shooting tiny arrows at paper targets, the stall owner shouting encouragements.

Changbin slowed down, eyes gleaming.

“Oh, I could totally win something there.”

“Oh no,” Seungmin murmured, lips twitching.

“You’re already getting that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re about to embarrass yourself in public.”

Changbin gasped in fake offense.

“Excuse you, I’m a man of many hidden talents.”

“Archery isn’t one of them.”

“We’ll see about that.”

A few minutes later, Changbin stood at the counter, bow in hand, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

Seungmin stood behind him, arms crossed and smiling so hard he had to look away when Changbin missed his third shot in a row.

“The target’s not even that far,” Seungmin teased.

“These arrows are rigged,” Changbin muttered, loading another one.

“They’re clearly off balance.”

“Right, the arrows. Not you.”

“You wanna try, Mr. Expert?”

Seungmin paid for a round and took the bow.

He adjusted his stance, narrowed his eyes, and released, his arrow hit dead center with a satisfying thwack.

The stall owner cheered.

“Winner! Pick a prize!”

Seungmin turned toward Changbin, smug.

“Hidden talents, huh?”

Changbin pouted, muttering something about unfairness as Seungmin browsed the prize shelf.

There were plushies in all colors, cats, rabbits, frogs, and a single floppy puppy with a crooked ear.

Seungmin turned to him, holding the puppy up.

“Here. To commemorate your valiant effort.”

“You’re giving me the prize?” Changbin blinked.

“You earned it,” Seungmin teased, placing the plush into his hands.

Changbin stared at it, then smiled softly.

“He’s kinda cute. A little lopsided, though.”

“Perfect match, then,” Seungmin said, trying not to laugh.

“Wow. Rude,” changbin held up the plushie next to Seungmin.

“looks more like you though.”

“haha very funny.”

They kept wandering, Changbin kept losing.

Every game he tried ended in glorious failure:

knocking over bottles, fishing rubber ducks, ring toss.

At one point, he threw a ring so far off target it landed in someone’s drink.

Seungmin nearly cried laughing.

“Stop laughing!” Changbin groaned, clutching his puppy plush like a wounded soldier.

“You’re supposed to be supportive!”

“I am! I’m supporting you emotionally while you ruin your reputation!”

“You’re the worst friend ever.”

“And yet, you keep following me,” Seungmin said, smiling as he tugged Changbin toward a new stall.

When they stopped, it was in front of a display of small prizes, keychains, trinkets, and a massive pink stuffed animal that looked like a rabbit-pig hybrid.

“That’s…” Changbin blinked.

“That’s terrifying.”

“I like it,” Seungmin said. “I’m winning that one.”

He played, a game with scooping floating paper balls, and somehow won easily.

He turned, holding the rabbit-pig triumphantly, and handed it to Changbin.

“Here. You need someone to keep your puppy company.”

Changbin stared down at the oversized plush now in his arms, then at Seungmin’s grin.

“You’re seriously giving me this thing?”

“You earned it. For being entertaining.”

Changbin snorted, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable.” But the way Seungmin looked at him, bright-eyed and proud, made the teasing fade into something softer.

They wandered again, this time slower.

They bought skewers, sweet and spicy, still sizzling, and sat on the low stone wall near the river to eat.

Seungmin reached up once to wipe sauce off the corner of Changbin’s mouth, his thumb brushing lightly against his skin.

Changbin froze.

For a heartbeat, the world stilled, only the cicadas and the faraway laughter of children breaking the quiet.

Seungmin quickly pulled his hand back, cheeks flushing.

“Sorry- you had- uh- something.”

“Oh.” Changbin blinked.

His pulse felt loud in his ears.

“Thanks.”

They ate in silence after that, pretending it was normal.

Pretending that their knees weren’t touching, that their laughter didn’t linger too long, that their glances weren’t turning heavier with every passing second.

As the sun began to dip, the crowd grew louder, music swelling with the promise of fireworks later that night.

Changbin followed Seungmin through the flickering lantern light, still carrying the ridiculous pink rabbit-pig plush along with the floppy puppy, and pretending he wasn’t thinking about how Seungmin’s hand kept brushing his.

He wasn’t sure when it started, this ache in his chest whenever Seungmin smiled.

It wasn’t just fondness anymore.

It wasn’t just friendship. It was something that made his stomach twist, his words stumble, his heart race like it was learning a new rhythm just for Seungmin.

But every time he looked at him, he told himself not to.

Not to think too far.

Not to want too much.

Because wanting felt dangerous.

And yet, when Seungmin’s laugh rang out, soft, genuine, sunlight in sound, he wanted anyway.

By the time the sky deepened into indigo, the festival had reached its liveliest hour.

The sea breeze carried the scent of grilled meat and roasted chestnuts, laughter blending with the distant hum of traditional flutes.

Strings of paper lanterns rippled above them like floating stars.

Changbin had his sleeves rolled up, holding a meat skewers, and he looked almost too pleased with himself.

“You said you were hungry,” he said, waving one teasingly at Seungmin.

“So, I got us, ” he sniffed dramatically,

“the best chicken skewers this side of Busan.”

Seungmin raised a brow.

“You literally bought them from the first stall we saw.”

“Details.” Changbin took a bite, eyes closing in delight.

“Okay, yeah, this is heavenly.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes but smiled.

“Let me try.” He leaned in to take a bite from Changbin’s skewer, and for a brief, dizzying second, Changbin froze,  the distance between them barely an inch.

The warmth of the food, Seungmin’s soft hair brushing his arm, the faint scent of citrus shampoo, it all struck him at once.

His heart stuttered.

He swallowed quickly and forced a laugh.

“You could’ve just asked for your own, you know.”

Seungmin chewed, smirking.

“You’d eat both before I got one.”

“Fair,” Changbin admitted, chuckling.

He bought another and handed it over.

They walked side by side, shoulders brushing now and then, their steps syncing without them realizing.

Whenever Seungmin laughed, Changbin’s chest tightened, and whenever Changbin smiled, wide and sincere, Seungmin’s face grew warm for reasons he couldn’t explain.

Near the end of the street, a stall had been set up with floating lanterns, delicate paper globes painted with flowers, moons, and stars.

People were writing wishes on them before letting them drift out to sea.

Seungmin’s eyes sparkled.

“Do you want to?”

Changbin hesitated, then nodded, smiling shyly.

“Yeah. Let’s do one together.”

They picked a light-pink lantern, soft and round like the moon.

Sitting cross-legged near the sand, they shared a single marker. Changbin tapped the pen against his chin.

“What should we write?”

Seungmin thought for a second, the ocean wind brushing against his hair.

“Something simple,” he said.

“Like… I hope this summer never ends.”

Changbin smiled faintly, tracing the words on the paper.

“Yeah… that’s a good one.” His voice dipped lower, almost fond.

“You know, I kinda don’t want it to end either.”

The words lingered in the air like something too fragile to touch.

They both sat quietly, watching the waves lap at the shore.

The sounds of the festival dimmed around them, muffled by the soft hum of the sea.

Finally, Seungmin lit the lantern’s base with a match.

Warm light flickered between them, golden against their faces.

“Ready?” Seungmin asked.

Changbin nodded, their fingers brushing as they lifted it together.

The lantern wobbled, then caught the wind, floating upward slowly,  rising higher and higher until it blended into the field of glowing lights above the sea.

“Looks like it’s flying better than yours did last time,” Seungmin teased softly.

Changbin grinned.

“That’s because you’re here.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Seungmin blinked, the teasing fading from his face.

For a heartbeat, neither of them looked away, the sound of fireworks testing in the distance echoing faintly over the water.

Then Seungmin laughed, too quickly, brushing hair out of his eyes.

“You really say weird things sometimes, Binnie.”

“Yeah,” Changbin murmured, voice quiet.

“Guess I do.”

They stood together watching the lantern drift away until it disappeared into the glittering sky.

The air between them felt lighter, yet heavier somehow.

Both of them felt it but neither dared to name it.

Changbin broke the silence, a grin tugging back onto his face.

“Come on, Sunshine. There’s cotton candy with our names on it.”

Seungmin groaned.

“You’re never living that nickname down, are you?”

“Nope,” Changbin said cheerfully, bumping his shoulder into Seungmin’s as they walked.

“Not until you stop smiling every time I say it.”

Seungmin didn’t respond, but he didn’t deny it either.

And above them, one small lantern drifted quietly through the dark, carrying their unspoken wish:

'Let this never end.'

By the time the lanterns were lit, the night had softened into gold and violet.

The festival streets pulsed with music, laughter, and drifting scent of grilled food, but down by the edge of the beach it was quieter, the world holding its breath for the fireworks to begin.

Changbin’s heart had been restless all evening.

Even with the noise of the crowd, his thoughts kept circling back to the boy beside him, to the way Seungmin’s hanbok brushed against his when the wind shifted, to the little flower pinned into his dark hair, pale against the night.

His breath caught every time Seungmin smiled, and it scared him how natural it felt, how right.

He shouldn’t want to reach out, but his hand kept twitching toward Seungmin’s.

He shouldn’t keep staring, but he couldn’t stop.

The rest of their friends had already drifted a little ahead, Jisung and Minho laughing over shared candy, Felix leaning against Hyunjin as the latter pointed toward the sky.

Only Seungmin stayed close, quiet and steady, his eyes glimmering in the lantern light.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Seungmin murmured, glancing sideways.

He was smiling faintly, but his voice carried something unsure, like he’d noticed every time Changbin’s gaze darted away, every silence that felt heavier than it should.

Changbin tried to smile.

“Just taking it all in, I guess.”

“You’ve been ‘taking it in’ all day.” Seungmin’s tone turned teasing, but only just.

“You’ve also been walking into food stalls because you were busy staring at nothing.”

Changbin laughed weakly.

“Wasn’t nothing,” he said under his breath, quiet enough that Seungmin couldn’t quite catch it.

Then the first firework bloomed.

A sharp crack, then light, red and gold unfurling across the sky like a heartbeat.

Seungmin tilted his head up, his face awash with color, eyes wide in that way that made something in Changbin ache.

The reflection of the firelight danced on his cheeks, soft and unreal.

Changbin’s throat felt tight.

He wanted to tell him.

He wanted to say you look like the kind of dream I’m scared to wake from, but his fear clawed louder than his courage.

Instead, he just whispered,

“Min-ah.”

Seungmin turned, eyes meeting his, the distance between them barely a breath.

“Hm?”

The fireworks exploded again, brighter this time, the sound fading into a kind of quiet where only their hearts seemed to exist.

Changbin didn’t even notice he’d stepped closer.

His hand brushed against Seungmin’s sleeve, fingertips trembling.

He could see the reflection of firelight in Seungmin’s pupils, the faint tremor of his lips, and something in him broke.

Seungmin’s voice came out small.

“You keep looking at me like that.”

Changbin swallowed hard.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid to.”

The world seemed to still. He didn’t even know what to say, because it was true.

Because that was exactly it.

Before he could think of an excuse, Seungmin moved.

It was clumsy, hesitant,  a kiss barely lasting more than a heartbeat. But it was everything.

Every laugh, every touch, every quiet evening poured into a single moment.

Changbin froze, breath catching like the world had tilted.

When Seungmin pulled back, he was trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered quickly, voice fraying at the edges.

“I shouldn’t have- I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He stepped back a little, eyes darting down.

“You don’t have to- I’ll just go-”

But Changbin reached out, almost desperately , and caught his wrist.

“Don’t run,” he said softly. His voice cracked.

“Please, don’t.”

Seungmin’s breath hitched, his eyes wide.

Changbin’s heart was in his throat.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Min-ah. I don’t know what this means. But-” He swallowed hard, words trembling out of him.

“Every time I see you, I forget everything that used to scare me.”

His hand rose shakily, cupping the back of Seungmin’s neck.

“And maybe that’s what’s been terrifying me most.”

The fireworks boomed again above them, blue and gold this time, and in that wash of light, Seungmin looked at him.

His eyes were wet but shining, his breath trembling, like he wanted to believe him but didn’t dare to yet.

Changbin’s voice softened to a whisper.

“I tried not to fall for you, Min-ah. I really did.”

Seungmin’s lips parted, no words, just air and disbelief, and then Changbin leaned forward, closing the space that had never truly been there.

The kiss was slow this time, not rushed, not frightened, just warm.

Real.

The kind of kiss that carried apology and confession in one breath.

Seungmin’s hands found their way to Changbin’s chest, clutching his hanbok tightly as though he was scared he’d disappear if he let go.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were shaking.

The fireworks painted the sky above in white and pink, their faces still close, breaths mingling.

Changbin smiled weakly.

“You’re trembling.”

“You too.”

“Guess we’re both stupid.”

Seungmin laughed, soft and teary, brushing his thumb over Changbin’s cheek.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “but at least we’re stupid together.”

Another firework bloomed above, and this time, Changbin didn’t look up.

He just looked at Seungmin, thinking he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Chapter Text

Changbin barely remembered saying goodbye.

His mind was still spinning, his lips tingling, his chest so full it almost hurt.

The fireworks were still echoing somewhere in the distance when he half-ran, half-floated down the quiet streets leading home.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

His reflection in every shop window looked like someone who’d just seen the stars for the first time, flushed cheeks, wind-tousled hair, a grin he couldn’t wipe away even if he tried.

His fingers brushed his lips again and again, like he needed to make sure it had really happened.

Seungmin had kissed him.

And then he’d kissed Seungmin back.

The memory was dizzying, the way Seungmin’s hand had trembled when it touched his cheek, the faint scent of cherry smoke and sugar from the festival air, the wide-eyed look they’d shared before the world seemed to fall away.

When he finally reached home, his aunt was standing by the porch, still in her hanbok, her arms crossed but her expression warm.

“Back already?” she said, blinking.

“You left so excited I thought you’d stay out all night.”

Changbin laughed breathlessly, bending over to catch his breath.

“I- I was… with Seungmin.”

That earned him a raised brow and a knowing smile.

“Oh? And how did that go?”

He froze, then hid his burning face in his hands.

“It was… perfect,” he mumbled through his palms.

“Just- he was so-” He couldn’t even find the words.

“We kissed.”

His aunt’s eyes softened immediately.

“Ah,” she said, drawing the sound out in a teasing hum.

“So that’s what has you glowing like a lantern.”

Changbin groaned, laughing at himself.

“I think I’m actually going insane. My heart’s been racing since it happened.”

He leaned against the doorframe, eyes distant and dreamy.

“He looked so happy. Like- like all the fireworks were for us.”

His aunt chuckled and stepped forward, patting his cheek affectionately.

“First love always feels like that,” she said.

“Like the whole world is lighting up just for you.”

He nodded, biting his lip to stop the ridiculous grin stretching wider.

“I just… I didn’t know it could feel like this. So warm. So...right.”

She smiled.

“Then hold onto that feeling, Bin-ah. Don’t rush it. Just let it grow.”

Changbin hummed softly, his heart still fluttering.

He thought of Seungmin’s shy smile under the lantern light, the way their hands had brushed, the way he’d said finally before pulling him in.

As he walked to his room, the puppy plushie Seungmin had given him peeked out of his bag.

He placed it carefully on his bedside table, right next to the rabbit-pig hybrid Seungmin had won for him.

He sat down, staring at them, Puppym and Dwaekki, side by side.

Just like them.

Outside, the last few fireworks faded into the night, but inside Changbin’s chest, the light refused to dim.

The night air was still humming with the echoes of laughter and fireworks when Seungmin stepped through his grandmother’s gate.

The festival lights had faded behind him, but the memory of them, and of him, still burned bright in his chest.

His grandmother looked up from her sewing when she heard the door slide open.

“Seungmin-ah? You’re home early. I thought you’d stay out late with your friends.”

Seungmin froze for a second in the doorway, his fingers still curled around the handle.

He didn’t know how to explain it, the warmth spreading through his chest, the dizziness of it all.

He let out a small laugh, awkward and breathless.

“I, uh… I just needed to come home.”

Her brow furrowed, but she smiled gently.

“You look flushed. Was the festival that fun?”

Seungmin blinked, and then the words came tumbling out before he could even think.

“Grandma… I kissed him.”

She blinked at him, surprised, her needle stopping mid-air.

“You what?”

“I kissed him.” His voice came out softer this time, more certain.

He walked further inside, slipping off his shoes, his heart still thundering like it hadn’t stopped racing since the fireworks.

“I don’t even know what I was thinking, everyone else was with someone and it just- it felt right, you know? Like if I didn’t do it, I’d regret it forever.”

He sat down beside her, his hands restless in his lap.

The words were spilling out too fast now, like water finally breaking through a dam.

“He looked so happy, Grandma. We were watching the fireworks, and he turned to me with that stupid, bright smile- like he couldn’t believe any of it was real. And suddenly, I couldn’t either. My chest hurt, but in a good way. I just… leaned in before I could stop myself.”

Her eyes softened, a small knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“And what did he do?”

Seungmin laughed quietly, rubbing at his face.

“He froze. Of course he did. And I thought- I thought I’d made everything worse. I wanted to disappear right there. But then he looked at me, like-like he was scared and amazed all at once. And then he kissed me back.”

His grandmother reached out, laying a gentle hand over his.

“Ah… so that’s why you look like you’ve swallowed a whole sun.”

Seungmin’s face flushed crimson, but the laugh that escaped him was light, shy, and full of disbelief.

“It’s stupid. I didn’t mean for it to happen. But when he kissed me back, everything just… stopped. It felt real, Grandma. Like everything finally made sense.”

The old woman smiled, her thumb brushing his knuckles.

“And what do you feel now?”

Seungmin went quiet for a long moment.

His eyes wandered to the window, the night outside, still glowing faintly from the distant festival lights.

His heart thudded once, twice, before he whispered,

“I want to date him.”

The words hung in the air like a secret he’d been holding for far too long.

His grandmother didn’t laugh, didn’t tease.

She only smiled softly, pride and warmth shining in her gaze.

“Then you should tell him,” she said gently.

“When something feels that right, you don’t run from it, Seungmin-ah.”

He breathed out slowly, smiling without realizing it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice almost trembling with the weight of it.

“I think I will.”

That night, when he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the image of Changbin’s startled face under the fireworks wouldn’t leave his mind.

The way his lips had trembled, the way his eyes had softened, it played again and again until Seungmin pressed his hand to his chest and whispered into the quiet,

“I really like him, Grandma.”

And for the first time, he didn’t feel afraid to admit it , even if Changbin wasn’t there to hear it yet.

Chapter Text

Changbin hadn’t stopped smiling since the fireworks.

It was ridiculous, honestly.

Every time he remembered the way Seungmin had looked that night,  hair softly glowing under the bursts of color, lips parted, eyes reflecting the sky, his heart somersaulted like it was caught in its own fireworks show.

He’d barely slept.

Every time he shut his eyes, he saw that kiss again:

Soft, fleeting, but so charged that even the memory made him dizzy.

When he walked out to breakfast, his aunt nearly dropped her chopsticks.

“Why do you look like you just won the lottery?” she asked suspiciously.

Changbin blinked, trying to tone down his grin.

“No reason.”

“Did Seungmin say something?”

He froze.

“Wha- no! I mean, not really- we just, uh…” He rubbed his neck, ears turning scarlet.

She smirked. “It's about the kiss isn't it?”

He almost choked on his rice.

“I-I have to go- ”

“You’re glowing, Binnie.”

He escaped before she could tease him further.

But truth be told, she wasn’t wrong.

He was glowing, because for the first time, everything felt right.

The world was full of sunlight, laughter, and the faint scent of flowers on his hands.

And he was sure Seungmin felt it too.

The flower shop was unusually busy that morning.

Jisung was rearranging the carnations, Felix was sweeping (and making more mess) instead of being at his bakery like always, and Seungmin was bent over a bouquet, threading stems through ribbon.

His soft concentration made Changbin’s heart flutter all over again.

He stood there, grinning like an idiot, until Jisung looked up, squinted, and groaned.

“Oh no. He’s in love again.”

“I- what- no, I’m just happy!” Changbin protested, but it was too late.

Felix gasped dramatically.

“You confessed?”

“Well… not exactly-”

“Then Seungmin confessed?”

“I mean… kind of?”

Jisung’s voice went high-pitched.

“Kind of?! How can someone ‘kind of’ confess, Changbin?”

“It just- happened! During the fireworks!”

“Wait- wait- he kissed you?” Felix squeaked.

Changbin nodded helplessly.

The entire shop went silent for a second, then erupted into chaos.

“You kissed?!” Jisung yelled, clapping his hands like a seal.

“That’s so romantic,” Felix cooed.

Minho, entering from the back, just stared at them, also looking like he is ignoring his own stall for the day.

“Do I even want to know?”

“Seungmin kissed Changbin,” Jisung announced proudly.

Minho raised an eyebrow.

“And?”

“And now they’re dating!” Felix chirped.

“Are we?” Changbin asked weakly.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“…You didn’t talk about it?” Minho asked slowly, like speaking to a child.

“I was going to!” Changbin said defensively.

“I just-there were fireworks and- he looked-  and I- my brain stopped working, okay?!”

“Bro.” Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You have to talk to him today. Before you both combust from tension.”

Changbin nodded firmly.

“I will. Today.”

Unfortunately, “today” had other plans.

The first time Changbin tried to talk to Seungmin, it was mid-morning.

Seungmin was stacking flower crates in the back garden, and Changbin walked over, heart hammering.

“Hey, Seungmin, can we-”

The crate toppled.

Changbin lunged to catch it.

Water splashed everywhere.

Both of them jumped back, blinking in shock, dripping petals.

Seungmin looked up, flustered.

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” he stammered.

He almost said it right there.

“Actually, Seungmin-”

“Jisung! Felix broke the hose again!” Minho shouted from the front.

Seungmin sighed, already walking away.

“We’ll talk later, yeah?”

Changbin deflated.

“Yeah…”

Attempt two happened at lunch.

Seungmin sat on the low garden wall, chewing on kimbap, sunlight catching in his hair.

Changbin sat beside him, determined.

He took a deep breath.

“Seungflowe- I mean- seungmin, about last night-”

“Ah, you got rice on your cheek,” Seungmin said absentmindedly, reaching over to wipe it off.

Changbin froze.

His brain short-circuited.

“Uh- what?”

“There, now what were you trying to say?”

Seungmin smiled softly, brushing it away.

Changbin was sure his heart had stopped.

Then Jisung shouted from the doorway,

“Hey! You two, no PDA on work hours!”

Seungmin immediately pulled his hand back, pink dusting his cheeks.

“It wasn’t PDA!”

Changbin sank into his seat.

He might as well give up and let fate bully him.

Attempt three was even more terrible.

Everyone was cleaning up.

Felix was sweeping again (badly), and Seungmin was counting ribbons.

Changbin turned to him.

“Seungmin, can I talk to you-”

The bell on the door jingled.

“Hey, guys!” Hyunjin sang, walking in dramatically with Chan and Jeongin.

“We brought snacks!”

Seungmin brightened instantly.

“Oh, perfect timing. We’re almost done.”

Changbin closed his eyes, praying for patience.

“Someone kill me,” he muttered under his breath.

“Later,” Minho said from behind the counter.

“After you somehow manage to confess.”

By now, Seungmin had started to notice.

He wasn’t oblivious,  Changbin had been hovering like a nervous butterfly all day, cheeks pink, sentences half-finished.

Every time Seungmin looked at him, Changbin looked away like he’d been caught doing something illegal.

And honestly, Seungmin was getting impatient.

Because last night, the fireworks, the kiss, the way Changbin had looked at him after,  it hadn’t been nothing.

It had been real.

And he’d spent all day waiting for Changbin to say something, anything.

By the time they finished cleaning, Seungmin was chewing on his lower lip, irritated.

“Changbin?” he called as they stepped out together.

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

He blinked, startled.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You’re acting weird,” Seungmin said bluntly.

“I’m not!”

“You almost called me ‘Seungflower’ at lunch.”

Changbin flushed scarlet.

“That was- I meant Seungmin!”

“Sure,” Seungmin muttered, rolling his eyes but hiding a smile.

They walked in silence for a while, feet brushing against sand as the evening wind cooled.

Changbin’s mind screamed at him:

'say it now, you idiot!'

He turned to Seungmin, took a breath-

And then Hyunjin’s voice echoed down the road.

“WAIT! YOU TWO FORGOT THE KEYS!”

Both of them jumped.

Hyunjin came running, waving a ring of keys like a victorious hero.

“You’d lock us all out, geez.”

Changbin wanted to cry.

Later that night, when the group met at the pier for snacks, the chaos continued.

Jisung, half-asleep, leaned on Minho’s shoulder while Felix chased Jeongin around for stealing his tteokbokki.

Chan was trying to calm everyone down, unsuccessfully, and hyunjin had discovered a very nice spot to lay on the shops floor.

Changbin and Seungmin sat side by side, the soft hum of the sea around them.

Changbin tried again. “Seungmin-”

“Are you two dating now or what?” Jisung blurted from across the table.

Changbin nearly choked on his drink.

“What- no-”

“Yes,” Hyunjin said dramatically.

“They have to be. They’re glowing.”

“We’re not glowing,” Seungmin said quickly, voice higher than usual.

Felix giggled.

“You literally are. Look at your face.”

Seungmin covered his cheeks with both hands.

“It’s hot, that’s why!”

“Sure, sure,” Minho said dryly.

“And I’m secretly a sunflower.”

The teasing didn’t stop for hours.

By the time they all dispersed, both Seungmin and Changbin were red as roses and hopelessly flustered.

When they finally got to the beach, their usual place, just the two of them now, the air was quiet.

Only the gentle rush of waves and the glow of lanterns remained.

Seungmin sat down on the sand, pulling his knees up, and sighed.

“You really are terrible at saying things, you know that?”

Changbin blinked.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been trying to tell me something all day,” Seungmin said, voice soft but sure.

“And I’ve been trying to let you. But somehow, the universe really hates us.”

Changbin laughed weakly, rubbing his neck.

“You noticed.”

“How could I not? You’ve been acting like I’m about to explode or something.”

“Because I-”

He hesitated, his heart pounding.

Seungmin tilted his head, eyes warm in the dim light.

“You what, Binnie?”

“I really like you.”

The words came out in a rush,  raw, unpolished, but true.

Seungmin blinked.

Then he smiled, slow and dazzling, like the moon’s reflection on water.

“I know,” he whispered.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say it.”

Changbin stared, dumbfounded.

“Wait- you knew?”

“Of course I knew.”

“…Since when?”

“Since you started staring at me like I hung the stars in your sky.”

Changbin groaned, covering his face.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Mm. But you like me anyway.”

He peeked through his fingers, and Seungmin’s grin softened into something tender.

The world felt still,  just the two of them, the sea, and everything they hadn’t said until now.

Changbin finally dropped his hands, smiling helplessly.

“You know, I tried like seven times to say this today.”

“Yeah, I counted.”

“…You what?”

“I kept score in my head. It was funny.”

“Seungmin!”

Seungmin laughed,  bright and warm and worth every single interruption.

When he leaned against Changbin’s shoulder, their hands brushed, and this time, Changbin didn’t pull away.

He laced their fingers together quietly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Seungmin didn’t say anything.

But his smile, small and shy against the sound of the waves, said everything.

The sea wind had softened by the time Changbin found his voice again.

The laughter between them faded into something quieter, a still, glowing calm that made every heartbeat feel too loud.

Seungmin still hadn’t let go of his hand.

Their fingers were loosely entwined, brushing and warm, their shoulders pressed close.

The moonlight turned Seungmin’s skin to porcelain and his eyes to liquid silver.

Changbin took a slow breath.

“Seungmin.”

“Mm?”

“I meant it,” he said quietly.

“Everything I said. I really like you.”

Seungmin turned to face him fully, that soft smile curling at the edges of his lips again.

“I know.”

“But I don’t want you to just know,” Changbin said, words tumbling out, clumsy but real.

“I want to say it properly. I want to do it right this time.”

Seungmin’s brows lifted slightly, the faintest blush blooming on his cheeks.

“Do what right?”

“This.” Changbin’s pulse roared in his ears.

He squeezed Seungmin’s hand, his thumb brushing slow circles against the back of it.

“Seungmin, will you go out with me?”

It hung there in the air,  fragile and glowing, the kind of question that carried the whole world in its weight.

For a second, Seungmin just stared, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Then his lips parted in the smallest, softest laugh.

“Finally,” he whispered.

“Finally?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Changbin blinked, caught between shock and disbelief.

“So… is that a yes?”

Seungmin’s smile widened, the kind that always made Changbin’s chest ache a little.

“It’s a yes, Binnie.”

The name hit him like sunlight after rain.

Changbin let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“You’re sure? Because I might be kind of awful at this dating thing-”

Seungmin interrupted him by leaning in, pressing a feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You’ll learn,” he murmured.

“I’ll teach you.”

Changbin’s brain went blank.

“That’s unfair.”

“You asked,” Seungmin teased, resting his chin on Changbin’s shoulder, voice a quiet hum against his neck.

“Now you’re stuck with me.”

“I think I can live with that,” Changbin said softly.

The world felt very small then, just them, the ocean sighing in the distance, and the slow thrum of two heartbeats falling into rhythm.

Seungmin tilted his head up, whispering so faintly it could’ve been mistaken for the wind.

“Good. Because I wasn’t planning on letting you go anyway.”

Changbin smiled, a real, unguarded smile that reached his eyes, and leaned forward to kiss him again.

This time, there were no fireworks, no chaos, no interruptions.

Just the gentle sound of waves and the realization that, finally, they’d found each other exactly where they were meant to be.

Chapter Text

Changbin hadn’t even had breakfast before chaos began.

He was humming in the kitchen, buttering toast, smiling like he’d swallowed sunshine, when his aunt looked at him like he’d grown two heads.

“You’re… cheerful,” she said, eyes narrowed.

“I’m in love,” he said without thinking, then froze.

Her teacup clinked as she smirked.

“…Excuse me?”

“NOTHING!” he yelped, nearly setting his toast on fire as he bolted.

By the time he reached Chan’s shop, he was sweating and panicking.

He needed guidance.

Wisdom.

And maybe a tranquilizer.

“Hyung,” he said, bursting in,

“I need help.”

Minho, Hyunjin, and Chan looked up in perfect sync, like a panel of slightly evil judges.

Hyunjin grinned first.

“Oh no. What did you do now?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Changbin said, waving his arms.

“That’s the problem! I have to plan my first date with Seungmin and I have no idea what to do!”

Hyunjin screamed instantly.

“HE ASKED YOU OUT?!”

“WE BOTH DID! KIND OF! I DON’T KNOW!”

Minho put down his coffee.

“He’s broken.”

Chan smiled like a patient dad. “Sit down, Binnie. Start from the beginning.”

Changbin sat on the couch, clutching a cushion like a lifeline.

“He kissed me first,” he blurted.

“Then I kissed him again and it was- it was-”

“Gross,” Minho muttered, but his smirk betrayed him.

“-and now I have to take him somewhere for our first date,” Changbin continued,

“but it has to be perfect and romantic but not too romantic because he’ll tease me, and-”

Hyunjin gasped dramatically, grabbing a notebook.

“Say no more. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.”

“Oh no,” Chan sighed.

“Rule number one,” Hyunjin said, scribbling furiously,

“you must have matching outfits. Coordinated color schemes. Aesthetic photos for memories!”

“Rule number two,” Minho said dryly,

“ignore Hyunjin.”

“Rude!”

“Rule number three,” Chan added calmly,

“don’t overthink. Keep it something simple that feels like you two.”

Changbin nodded furiously.

“Okay, so… what feels like us?”

Hyunjin raised a hand instantly.

“Arguing and blushing.”

Minho raised his.

“Getting into mild trouble.”

Chan raised his.

“Beach. Always the beach.”

Changbin groaned.

“This isn’t helping!”

Hyunjin hopped onto the desk.

“Fine, fine. Let’s brainstorm. Mini golf?”

Minho scoffed.

“You think Seungmin wants to watch him miss a ball fifty times?”

“Painting café?”

“Changbin would drink the paint water by accident.”

“Bowling?”

“Would pull a muscle.”

“Romantic walk-”

“-would trip.”

“Okay, rude!” Changbin said, offended.

“I’m not that clumsy!”

Chan gave him a look.

“You once fell into the flower display.”

“It was slippery!”

Hyunjin was wheezing from laughter, half-falling off the desk.

“Oh my god, he’s hopeless.”

Chan clapped his hands like a teacher calming chaos.

“Okay, okay. We need structure. What’s the vibe you want?”

Changbin thought for a second.

“I just… want him to smile. Like that real smile, the one that makes his eyes squint. I want him to have fun.”

The room fell quiet for half a second, only half.

Then Hyunjin dramatically fanned himself.

“Awww, my heart.”

Minho pretended to gag.

Chan smiled, warm and proud.

“Then that’s all you need. Make it about him.”

Hyunjin grinned.

“Ooh, then bring him to a bunch of his favorite spots. Like a mini ‘Seungmin tour.’ Café, garden, beach, flower shop-”

“Good idea,” Chan said.

“You two can end with something quiet. Maybe lanterns again?”

Minho shrugged.

“That’s actually… decent.”

Changbin nodded eagerly.

“Yes! Okay! That’s perfect!”

“Great,” Hyunjin said.

“Now practice complimenting him.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Say something romantic.”

Changbin blinked.

“…You look nice?”

Hyunjin gasped like a drama actress.

“You look nice?! No, no, no! Say it like this, ‘You look so stunning, I forgot what words are.’”

“I can’t say that!” Changbin exclaimed.

“He’ll laugh!”

“Then let him! You’re supposed to make him blush!”

Minho folded his arms.

“You’re both idiots.”

“Oh really, what would you say, Romeo?” Hyunjin shot back.

Minho looked thoughtful.

“I’d tell him, ‘You make my life quieter just by being in it.’”

The room froze.

Hyunjin blinked.

“…Okay, I’m writing that down.”

“Stop stealing my lines!”

Chan sighed but was clearly fighting a smile.

“Alright, Lover boys. Focus.”

Hyunjin grinned.

“Next: practice physical affection. How are you going to hold hands?”

“What do you mean how? You just- you grab it!”

“No, no, there’s technique! Interlaced fingers or soft hold? Swing or no swing?!”

Changbin was going to die.

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!”

“Because this is entertainment!” Hyunjin yelled, nearly toppling a chair.

Then the door opened.

All three froze.

Seungmin stood there holding a box of pastries, expression blank, except for the faintest quirk of a smile.

“…What are you guys doing?”

Changbin’s brain blue-screened.

Chan smiled too quickly.

“Oh! Seungmin! Just…meeting up.”

Hyunjin, without missing a beat, yelled,

“WE’RE TEACHING BINNIE HOW TO KISS-”

Changbin tackled him.

“HYUNJIN!”

Minho burst out laughing, nearly choking on his coffee.

Seungmin blinked, then slowly raised an eyebrow.

“…You’re what?”

“NOTHING!” Changbin wheezed from the floor, pinning a still-cackling Hyunjin.

“Oh no,” Chan said, covering his face.

Seungmin put the pastries down and smirked.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“You didn’t!” Changbin said, voice high and panicked.

Hyunjin sang,

“Oh, he definitely did~”

Seungmin chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

And just like that, he left, the door closing behind him, leaving behind a humiliated, red-faced Changbin and three very entertained witnesses.

Hyunjin was on the floor wheezing.

“That was the best moment of my life.”

Minho nodded solemnly.

“I will treasure it forever.”

Chan patted Changbin’s shoulder.

“Well, Binnie… if he still agrees to date you after that, he’s the one.”

The rest of the day only spiraled further.

Changbin tried to buy Seungmin’s favorite snacks, tripped over a crate, dropped the entire bag.

Tried to pick flowers, a bee chased him halfway home.

Tried to write a note, the ink smeared into a blue blob.

By the time he showed up at the flower shop that evening, he looked like he’d fought in a war.

Seungmin looked up from trimming stems, smiling softly.

“Rough day?”

Changbin sighed dramatically, leaning on the counter.

“You have no idea.”

“Want to tell me?”

Changbin looked at him, really looked.

The soft light, the tiny smile, the faint dusting of pollen on his sleeve.

And suddenly, all the chaos didn’t matter.

He grinned.

“Not really. I just want to see you smile again.”

Seungmin froze, then flushed pink, looking away quickly.

“You’re terrible.”

“Hyunjin would disagree.”

“Hyunjin’s insane.”

They both laughed, quiet and easy and full of something warm.

Maybe he didn’t need a perfect date plan.

Maybe this, chaos and comfort and laughter, was already it.

The room smelled faintly of ocean salt and laundry soap, the kind that clung to the sheets long after they dried in the sun.

Changbin was halfway through fixing the cuff of his white shirt when his phone buzzed against the nightstand.

The soft smile that had been on his face, the one that had been there all morning, honestly, faltered when he saw the caller ID.

“Mom.”

For a second, he debated letting it ring out.

But guilt, old and dull, won as usual.

He swiped to answer.

“Hey, Mom.”

There was a long pause, filled with nothing but background murmurs, papers shuffling, someone speaking faintly in English on the other end.

Then,

“Oh. You picked up.”

“Yeah,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Just got back from the pier. Auntie made noodles-”

“That’s nice,” she cut in, her voice already elsewhere.

“Listen, I don’t have long. Your father’s in a meeting, but he said to remind you about the new school term. Have you finished the transfer papers?”

He blinked.

“Not yet. I was going to do it next week.”

“Next week?” she repeated, distractedly.

“You know the semester begins in less than a month, right? We don’t want another delay like last year.”

Changbin pressed his thumb against his knee.

“Right.”

There was a faint sigh from her end, the kind that wasn’t frustration, just… indifference.

“We’ll have the assistant send the forms again. Just sign and return them. And maybe call your father sometime, he’s been saying he barely remembers what your voice sounds like.”

That made him laugh under his breath, not because it was funny, but because it was so typical.

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

“Good. Oh, and make sure you pack early. Your aunt told me you’ve been spending a lot of time out there , on the beach?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Then, lightly:

“Well, enjoy it while you can. You’ll be back in the city soon. Try to be more serious this year, alright?”

The line clicked dead.

Changbin stared at the blank screen for a long moment.

His reflection wavered against it, faint smile gone, eyes darker than he remembered.

He set the phone down carefully, like it was made of glass, and exhaled through his nose.

The clock ticked softly.

Somewhere outside, the sound of kids playing by the docks echoed up the hill, and the faint smell of fried dough drifted through the open window, the festival leftovers still clinging to the air.

He rubbed his face, willing the hollow feeling away.

They hadn’t asked how he was.

Not once.

Not what he’d been doing, or who he’d been with, or why he sounded happier than he had in months.

Just logistics. Deadlines. Paperwork.

For a brief, foolish second, he’d hoped they’d notice the difference.

That he’d sound lighter.

That they’d hear how he laughed again.

But of course, they didn’t.

Auntie’s voice broke through the silence from the kitchen, warm and grounding:

“Binnie! You’re going out, aren’t you? Don’t keep Seungmin waiting!”

He forced a grin, calling back,

“Yeah! I’ll be back before sunset!”

When he stepped outside, the late afternoon light caught on the waves, everything glowing gold and soft, the world too beautiful for how heavy he suddenly felt.

He pulled his phone out once more, staring at the dark screen, then shoved it in his pocket.

They don’t care, he told himself.

They never have.

But as he walked toward the familiar stretch of beach, the thought that echoed louder was:

I hope Seungmin’s smile still feels like home today.

It was the kind of afternoon that felt stolen, soft sunlight, sea breeze curling through the air, the sound of gulls somewhere distant.

The world was easy, slow, golden.

Seungmin kicked off his shoes the moment they reached the sand, running ahead toward the shoreline.

“Come on, slowpoke!” he called, turning back with a grin.

His rolled-up sleeves fluttered in the wind, hair messy from the salty air.

Changbin laughed faintly, his bag slung over one shoulder.

“You’re too energetic for someone who claimed to be tired ten minutes ago.”

“That was ten minutes ago,” Seungmin said simply, waiting until Changbin caught up before crouching to draw something in the sand.

A small, uneven heart.

And right beside it, a lopsided flower.

Changbin stared for a second too long.

“You’re getting sentimental.”

“I’m bored,” Seungmin replied without missing a beat, brushing the sand off his fingers.

“You’re supposed to draw something too.”

Changbin knelt down beside him and added a crooked turtle.

Seungmin blinked.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“It’s art,” Changbin said solemnly.

“Modern art.”

Seungmin snorted, elbowing him lightly.

“It looks like you dropped your stick halfway through.”

They ended up in a full-blown sand battle after that,  throwing handfuls at each other, laughing until they were both covered in streaks of beige dust.

Seungmin’s hair stuck up in odd directions, and Changbin couldn’t stop looking at him.

Couldn’t stop thinking how this was what happiness looked like.

They collapsed onto the blanket eventually, side by side, breathless.

Seungmin’s hand brushed against his when he reached for the bottle of water, and neither of them moved away.

The sun hovered low, the same orange-gold that had become the color of their days together.

Changbin didn’t realize he was staring until Seungmin turned toward him, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Changbin said quickly, sitting up and pretending to watch the waves.

“Just thinking.”

“You always say that when you don’t want to tell me something.”

Changbin smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Maybe some thoughts aren’t meant to be shared.”

Seungmin tilted his head, studying him.

“You’re weird lately.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. You get quiet all of a sudden. Then you stare at me like you’re about to say something and don’t.”

Changbin froze.

Then he forced out a small laugh.

“You’re imagining things.”

Seungmin narrowed his eyes but didn’t push.

Instead, he leaned back against the blanket, hands folded behind his head.

“Whatever you say, weirdo.”

Changbin lay down beside him, turning his head slightly so he could still see Seungmin’s profile, soft light against soft skin, eyes half-lidded in the sunlight.

He could stay like this forever.

But forever was twenty days.

And he was running out of time to tell him.

Chapter Text

The festival was over, but the town still shimmered with its ghost, paper garlands faded from the sun, glitter clinging to cracks in the pier, and laughter echoing faintly through the sea breeze.

Everything was quieter now.

Slower.

And that made it worse.

Changbin sat on the edge of his bed, tracing the numbers on his calendar with his thumb.

20 days left.

That was all the time he had before he’d have to leave, back to the big city, to the empty house where his parents would be voices through phones, not people at the dinner table.

Here, with Seungmin, he existed.

There, he waited.

He breathed in the salty air from the open window and whispered,

“I won’t waste a single day.”

19 days left.

The morning market was back to normal,  fishermen hauling crates, old women gossiping, the smell of fried dough curling through the air.

Seungmin tugged on Changbin’s wrist, dragging him toward a stall selling steamed buns.

“You need breakfast,” he said.

“I already ate,” Changbin lied.

“Liar,” Seungmin replied immediately, tearing a bun in half and shoving it toward his mouth.

“You get cranky when you’re hungry.”

Changbin bit into it, laughing.

“You know me too well.”

“That’s the point,” Seungmin said, smiling at him with such unbothered warmth that it almost hurt.

They sat on the pier, feet swinging, sharing bites.

The sun glinted on the water, and Seungmin hummed under his breath, a song Changbin didn’t recognize, but wanted to memorize anyway.

When Seungmin turned to face him, sunlight hit his hair just right, and Changbin thought, Nineteen days isn’t enough.

18 days left.

The flower shop smelled like honey and sunlight. Seungmin’s hands were stained green from trimming stems, his cheeks faintly flushed.

“You’re staring again,” he said.

“I’m allowed,” Changbin said easily, leaning on the counter.

“You’re pretty.”

Seungmin scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Flattery won’t get you out of work.”

“It might.”

“Nope.”

He handed Changbin a bucket of flowers to rinse.

Changbin took it without complaint, though he was more focused on the way Seungmin’s sleeve brushed his arm whenever he leaned close.

Outside, the cicadas hummed, loud and relentless, like time itself refusing to pause.

When Changbin left, Seungmin waved, his hand smudged with soil.

Changbin smiled and whispered to himself,

“Eighteen days...”

17 days left.

They hiked up the grassy hill overlooking the sea, the same one where Changbin found seungmin wildflowers that bloomed a month  ago.

Now it was empty, only wind and a few wilting  wildflowers swaying from the cold breeze as summer started to end.

Seungmin lay back on the blanket, one hand covering his eyes.

“It’s weirdly quiet today.”

“I like it,” Changbin said.

“Because you can stare at me in peace?”

“Maybe,” he admitted.

Seungmin laughed softly.

“You’re ridiculous.”

They shared lemonade and stories, voices low, laughter carried off by the wind.

When Seungmin drifted off to nap, Changbin just sat beside him, tracing clouds in the sky and counting down silently.

“Seventeen days left,” he whispered, brushing a blade of grass from Seungmin’s hair.

16 days left.

The dock creaked beneath them as they dangled their legs over the edge.

Seungmin was trying to skip pebbles into the tide, failing spectacularly.

“Okay, that one was tragic,” Changbin said, snorting.

“Don’t mock me. You’re supposed to teach me.”

“Then stop throwing them like confetti.”

“That’s a skill!”

Changbin reached behind him, picked up a flat stone, and flicked it into the water, it skipped three times before sinking.

“Show-off,” Seungmin muttered, then tried again.

His stone sank immediately.

Changbin grinned.

“Perfect. It’s consistent.”

They dissolved into laughter, the kind that made their ribs ache.

When the laughter faded, Seungmin leaned on Changbin’s shoulder, murmuring,

“This feels right, doesn’t it?”

Changbin froze, the words catching in his throat.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

“Too right.”

15 days left.

Seungmin insisted on cooking lunch.

Changbin offered to help, but was immediately banned from the kitchen after burning onions in under a minute.

“You’re a hazard,” Seungmin declared, pushing him toward the table.

“I’m emotional support,” Changbin defended.

“You’re emotional destruction.”

Still, Seungmin smiled as he cooked,  soft, domestic, sunlight streaming over his shoulders.

Changbin couldn’t look away.

When Seungmin finally sat down with two bowls of noodles, Changbin said quietly,

“You’d make someone a really happy husband one day.”

Seungmin blinked.

“Are you volunteering?”

Changbin almost choked on his noodles.

“I-uh- ”

Seungmin laughed, pink creeping up his ears.

“Relax. I’m kidding.”

But he smiled to himself afterward, and Changbin couldn’t stop thinking about it all night.

14 days left.

They walked barefoot on the sand, the water cool against their ankles.

The air smelled like salt and fading sunlight.

Seungmin bent to pick up a seashell.

“This one’s cute.”

“You say that about every shell.”

“This one’s cuter.”

Changbin took it from his hand, pretending to examine it, then tucked it behind Seungmin’s ear.

“Now it’s perfect.”

Seungmin froze, cheeks turning a shade of pink the sunset would envy.

Changbin smiled, a little shy.

“You make everything prettier.”

They sat on the sand till night fell, talking about nothing,  movies, bad cooking, how Jisung once fell off a bike trying to impress Minho nearly breaking his wrist.

It was easy.

Too easy.

When Seungmin yawned laying down in Changbin's lap, Changbin whispered to himself,

“Fourteen days left,” and wished the tide would just stop moving.

13 days left.

Changbin woke before dawn.

The town was quiet, only gulls echoing far away.

He sat by the window again, looking at the horizon, counting the sunrises he had left.

Thirteen.

Seungmin didn’t know.

He’d been blissfully unaware, planning their next picnic, asking what kind of ice cream Changbin liked best.

And every time Seungmin laughed, Changbin wanted to tell him everything, how he’d be gone soon, how his parents didn’t even know who he was becoming, how this was the happiest he’d ever been.

But instead, he just smiled and said,

“Tomorrow.”

He’d tell him tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The day was unusually quiet.

The kind of quiet where even the ocean outside seemed to breathe slower.

Changbin sat cross-legged on the floor of Seungmin’s room, flipping lazily through one of Seungmin’s music notebooks.

His back rested against the bed, the afternoon light spilling across his arm like warm syrup.

Seungmin was sitting on the bed itself, knees drawn up, a book forgotten in his lap as he watched Changbin with that same fond look he always got,  the one that made Changbin’s chest ache a little.

The ceiling fan hummed softly.

Outside, the waves kept their endless rhythm.

“Why do you always look like you’re thinking too hard?”

Seungmin asked suddenly, leaning forward.

Changbin looked up, startled.

“What?”

“You always get that look when something’s on your mind. Like you’re fighting it.”

Changbin smiled faintly, closing the notebook.

“Maybe I am.”

“Then stop,” Seungmin said simply, a teasing grin tugging at his lips.

“You’re supposed to be relaxing. It’s summer, remember?”

Changbin chuckled under his breath.

“Says the guy who never relaxes either.”

That made Seungmin roll his eyes.

“Touché.”

There was a brief silence after that, not awkward, but heavy with the sort of awareness that had been growing between them all summer.

Changbin could feel it: the weight of every glance, every brush of fingers, every laugh that lingered too long.

Seungmin shifted off the bed and sat beside him on the floor.

The wood creaked softly beneath them.

He was close,  too close.

“Hey,” Seungmin said quietly, voice gentler now.

“You know… I like being with you.”

Changbin froze.

His throat tightened, but he managed a faint,

“Yeah. Me too.”

Seungmin’s gaze dropped to his hands resting on his knees.

Slowly, like he was testing the air, he reached out and let his fingers brush against Changbin’s arm.

His touch was light at first, tentative, then steadier, tracing the curve of muscle beneath the skin.

“Your arms are ridiculous,” he muttered, half teasing, half mesmerized.

Changbin’s laugh came out shaky.

“Y-you think?”

“Mhm.” Seungmin’s voice was softer now.

“You’re so warm.”

His fingers trailed up to Changbin’s shoulder, then down again, drawing slow lines against his skin.

The world seemed to fade, the fan, the sound of gulls, even the waves outside.

There was only Seungmin, sitting close enough that Changbin could feel his breath on his cheek.

“Seungmin…”

Seungmin looked at him, eyes flickering between Changbin’s lips and his eyes.

“You can tell me to stop,” he said softly, but his hand didn’t move away.

Changbin didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t want to.

Every thought in his head,  about his parents, about the time running out, about everything he was terrified of, all blurred at the edges.

He just wanted this moment to stay.

Even if it was temporary.

Then Seungmin leaned forward, slow and uncertain but full of something that felt like gravity.

Changbin’s breath hitched.

His heart was pounding too loud to think.

And then Seungmin kissed him.

It wasn’t deep or messy, just soft, tentative, the kind of kiss that felt like a question more than a statement.

Changbin froze at first, his eyes fluttering shut only after a second.

The world tilted slightly, his heartbeat in his ears, the faint salt of the sea still clinging to Seungmin’s lips.

When Seungmin finally pulled back, he was smiling,  a little shaky, but proud.

“See?” he whispered. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Changbin stared at him, breathless.

“You- you really don’t hold back, huh?”

Seungmin laughed quietly, eyes glinting.

“Not when it’s you.”

He reached up again, his hand resting over Changbin’s heart.

“You’re trembling,” he teased.

“I’m not,” Changbin said instantly, which only made Seungmin grin wider.

But then Seungmin’s touch softened, his fingers tracing the edge of Changbin’s collarbone.

The movement was slow, almost reverent, not lustful, but full of quiet curiosity.

His thumb brushed against Changbin’s skin as if memorizing the warmth of it.

And that’s when panic began to creep in.

The reality of it,  his parents, their cold voices, the endless expectations waiting beyond this little town ,  it all rushed back in a wave.

What would they say?

What if they found out?

Changbin’s breath caught, his hands clenching slightly at his sides.

“Seungmin…” he said, his voice trembling just enough for Seungmin to notice.

Seungmin pulled back instantly, concern flickering in his eyes.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Changbin nodded too quickly.

“Yeah, I just-”

And then the door slid open.

“Binnie! Minnie! I brought- oh.”

Seungmin’s grandmother froze in the doorway, a basket of herbs in her hands and a knowing look forming almost instantly.

Both boys shot apart like startled cats.

“Grandma!” Seungmin blurted out, voice an octave too high.

“You’re- back!”

“I finished early,” she said smoothly, clearly fighting a smile.

“Should I… come back later?”

“No!” Changbin said at once, face burning so hot he thought he might actually combust.

The old woman raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching.

“Mmm. You two were… talking?”

“Yes!” Seungmin said immediately.

“Just talking.”

“On the floor?”

Seungmin’s ears turned red.

“It’s more comfortable.”

“I see.” She set down her basket calmly, giving them both a glance that said 'I’ve seen everything and I’m choosing mercy.'

“Well, carry on then.”

And just like that, she walked away, humming to herself.

Seungmin waited until her footsteps faded before collapsing into laughter.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he managed between giggles.

Changbin groaned, covering his eyes.

“I thought I was gonna die.”

“That’s what you get for freezing up mid-kiss,” Seungmin teased, bumping his shoulder against Changbin’s.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry,” Seungmin said, still smiling, his voice softening.

“You’ll get another chance.”

That made Changbin look at him, really look at him, and despite his embarrassment, his heart still skipped that same impossible beat.

Outside, the sea murmured softly, the sky already turning pink at the edges of dusk.

And though Changbin knew there were only thirteen days left now, he didn’t count them tonight.

Not when Seungmin was still smiling at him like that, like the world wasn’t going anywhere at all.

Chapter Text

The night was painted silver by the moon.

The sea shimmered in the dark, soft and alive, the kind of quiet that only existed in small towns and unspoken promises.

Changbin sat on the sand, his knees bent, Seungmin’s head resting comfortably against his shoulder.

Seungmin’s hand traced lazy circles over his arm, fingers gliding over smooth muscle as if trying to memorize every inch before time could take it away.

They’d spent the whole day walking along the shore, feet sinking into wet sand, laughter carried away by the wind.

And now, under the soft hum of the tide, everything felt slow, infinite.

“Your shoulder’s really comfy,” Seungmin murmured, voice drowsy with contentment.

“Is that a compliment or a complaint?” Changbin teased, smiling faintly.

“Definitely a compliment.” Seungmin tilted his head up, his hair brushing Changbin’s jaw.

“You should take it before I change my mind.”

Changbin laughed quietly, the sound swallowed by the sea breeze.

“I’ll take it then.”

For a while, they didn’t talk.

They just listened, the sound of the waves, the soft chirp of crickets somewhere far off, the faint hiss of the wind moving through the grass.

Seungmin closed his eyes, his fingers curling into Changbin’s sleeve.

“Do you ever wish time could just…” Seungmin trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the horizon,

“...stop? Like, just this moment. Right here.”

Changbin looked at him, at the faint moonlight on his skin, the soft rise and fall of his chest.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think I do.”

Seungmin smiled, turning his face up to look at him.

“You know, you’re the best boyfriend I could ever ask for,” he said softly, like it was just a fact of nature.

“Even if you act crazy sometimes.”

Changbin’s heart skipped.

“Boyfriend?” he repeated, teasing, though his pulse thudded in his ears.

Seungmin only grinned.

“You are, aren’t you?”

He leaned up and kissed him, slow and tender, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything but still gave everything.

Changbin froze for a second before his hand came up to Seungmin’s cheek, the warmth of his skin grounding him in that fragile, perfect moment.

When they parted, Seungmin rested his forehead against his.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Changbin’s chest constricted, his breath catching in his throat.

The words were everything he’d wanted to say,  everything he’d been too scared to admit even to himself.

He wanted to say them back, but they got stuck somewhere between his lungs and his tongue.

He only managed a shaky smile, brushing his thumb across Seungmin’s jaw.

If he’d known it was the last night they’d have, maybe he would have said it then.

The night air was heavy with salt and mist as Changbin walked back along the familiar streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the shore mixing with the distant rustle of palm leaves.

The sky was dark, almost ink-black, and the moon cast a fragile silver glow over the town.

Usually, this walk home was calming, a moment to reflect on the day’s small joys at the beach.

But tonight, every step felt weighted, every shadow exaggerated, and the anticipation gnawed at him.

Something felt… off.

As he approached his aunt’s house, the warm yellow glow of the living room light spilled out onto the porch.

It was too early for them to be up, or at least too early for everything to be so quiet, so tense.

Changbin’s heart thudded in his chest.

Something was wrong.

He hesitated at the gate, taking a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

He forced his legs to move forward, each step heavier than the last, until he reached the door and pushed it open.

The sight that greeted him froze him where he stood.

His parents were there, standing stiffly in the living room.

Their expressions were sharp, almost predatory.

The air smelled of formal authority, of control and anger.

The calm sanctuary of his aunt’s home, his little bubble, had been pierced.

Changbin’s throat tightened.

“What… what are you doing here?” His voice was small, unsure, almost breaking.

His father’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t play stupid with us, Changbin. Who is he? Who’s the boy you’ve been sneaking around with?”

Changbin felt a cold knot form in his stomach.

The words he had feared, the confrontation he had hoped would never come, had arrived in full force.

“I… he’s-he’s just a friend,” he began, his voice trembling, “Seungmin, he’s-”

“Friend?” His mother’s voice was sharp, cutting through him like ice.

“Don’t lie. We know what’s been going on. It’s… disgusting, Unnatural,  Filthy, You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The words were sharp, brutal, and deliberate.

Changbin’s knees felt weak.

His chest constricted as if the air itself had turned against him.

He opened his mouth, stammered, tried to explain, but his father’s voice cut over him like a whip.

“You think this is acceptable? Two boys? That you’d throw away everything for this… this nonsense? Your place in this family? Your life? It’s wrong, Changbin. It’s disgusting. I don’t even want to see you here in this house again like this, being a little faggot, shaming yourself Infront of everyone.”

Changbin’s hands trembled.

“I… I-” he tried again, but his mother leaned forward, her eyes blazing.

“No excuses. Pack up. Now. And take a good look at yourself, because everything you think you’re doing is wrong and disgusting. We didn’t raise you to be… this.”

His aunt stepped forward, her voice trembling but firm.

“Enough! You can’t treat him like this. He’s still a child, and-”

His mother shoved her back sharply. “This is none of your business. Step aside, i should have never pitied you, it's your fault he's like this, putting disgusting ideas in his head.”

His aunt visibly flinched.

“if the world finds love disgusting then it's the world that's the problem-”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” he mother snapped.

The house, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage closing in on him.

Changbin’s vision blurred with tears he refused to shed fully, his chest tightening with panic and helplessness.

The world he had known, the beach, the flower shop, Seungmin, seemed suddenly so far away, unreachable.

His father’s voice came again, heavy and authoritative.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to yourself? No one will accept this, Changbin. No one. Pack. Your. Things.”

“But father I actually love-”

Changbin felt a sting across his cheek, his father had slapped him.

Shock rooted him to the spot, freezing the air in his lungs. He never imagined it would come to this:

a hand raised against him by the man who should have been his protector.

His mother’s face twisted in disgust, her eyes narrowing at him as she spoke again.

“You’re disgusting. Pack your things before we decide for you.”

With shaking legs, he stumbled up the stairs, the world tilting around him.

Each step felt like moving through thick molasses.

His room welcomed him like a hollow echo of normalcy.

He slammed the door behind him, locking it, and sank to the floor, sliding down against the wall until he was curled into a trembling, broken heap.

The panic washed over him in waves.

His chest heaved, his limbs shaking uncontrollably, and for the first time, the weight of the summer, of Seungmin, of everything he had held onto, collapsed onto him in full.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t think.

He wanted to vanish.

He wanted the beach, the flowers, the shell, the small moments with Seungmin, all of it, back, but it was gone.

All gone.

He pressed his face to his knees, tears finally spilling over, warm and salty, the only outlet he had.

His thoughts spiraled into chaos.

If I let myself feel anything more, they’ll take it away.

If I let myself care, it will be destroyed.

Everything I love, they’ll ruin it.

Everything I am, they despise.

He clutched the small trinkets he had brought from Seungmin, flowers, a shell, memories of sunlit days, and held them close.

They were fragile, but they were his only solace.

They were a thread connecting him to a world that hadn’t yet rejected him completely.

Time blurred.

The crying slowed, replaced by a heavy, suffocating numbness.

He felt hollowed out, stripped of hope, yet holding onto that tiny spark.

That spark whispered that he had loved freely, that he had known happiness, even if it had been fleeting.

He lay back against the floor, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the beach, the laughter, Seungmin’s smile.

Even if it ends, even if they take everything, at least I have this.

At least I’ve felt it.

At least I’ve loved him.

The room was quiet now, except for his ragged breathing.

Outside, the night deepened.

The town slept.

The waves whispered against the shore, distant but comforting, a reminder that the world continued even when his own felt like it had shattered.

Changbin curled tighter, holding onto his small treasures, feeling the emptiness around him yet finding a fragment of warmth in their presence.

It wasn’t hope.

It wasn’t comfort.

But it was something.

Something to cling to.

Something that reminded him that he had lived, that he had loved, that he had dared.

And in the quiet darkness of his room, alone and trembling, Changbin allowed himself to feel all at once:

grief, fear, love, and a stubborn ember of defiance that refused to be snuffed out entirely.

Chapter Text

The sky looked sick that evening.

Gray clouds were stacked like bruises above the sea, and the wind had a bite that made Seungmin’s hoodie cling to him.

He stood by the usual spot, the flat patch of sand near the tide where they’d always met, where Changbin once said the sound of waves reminded him of Seungmin’s laugh.

Now it just sounded too loud.

Too cold.

He kept checking his phone even though there were no messages.

No missed calls.

Nothing.

He kicked at the sand.

It was damp and heavy under his shoes.

“You said you’d come,” he muttered, his breath coming out shaky.

He didn’t know who he was talking to,  the waves, the sky, himself.

By the time he saw Changbin, the rain had started.

Just a drizzle at first, soft against his face.

Changbin was walking down the path slowly, no umbrella, hair plastered to his forehead.

His eyes didn’t light up when he saw Seungmin.

Not like they usually did.

“Hey,” Seungmin said, forcing a smile.

“You’re late. I thought maybe- ”

Changbin stopped a few feet away.

He didn’t smile back.

Didn’t even blink much.

His jaw was set tight, and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets like he was holding himself together.

“Seungmin,” he said quietly.

His voice sounded wrong, empty.

Something inside Seungmin twisted.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen? You look like-”

“We need to talk,” Changbin said.

The words hit like ice water.

Seungmin laughed a little, trying to shake it off.

“That’s usually what people say before something bad, you know?”

Changbin didn’t say anything.

Seungmin’s laugh died.

“You’re scaring me.”

Changbin looked up finally, eyes rimmed red, with eye bags like he didn't sleep the whole night.

“I think… we should stop seeing each other.”

The wind howled.

The rain picked up.

For a moment, Seungmin thought he’d misheard.

“What...?”

Changbin’s throat worked as he swallowed hard.

“It’s over, Seungmin.”

Something cracked, sharp and invisible,  right in Seungmin’s chest.

“Don’t joke like that.”

“I’m not joking.”

The way Changbin said it,  flat, final,  made Seungmin’s breath catch.

“You- you don’t mean that,” he said, stepping forward, grabbing his arm.

Changbin didn’t flinch but didn’t move closer either.

“You said you loved me-”

“I never said that.”

It felt like the air had been punched out of him.

“What are you talking about?” Seungmin whispered, his grip loosening.

“After everything? After-”

“It was just summer,” Changbin said, looking away.

“That’s all. We had fun. But it’s time to stop.”

Seungmin blinked, the words echoing like static.

“Fun?” he said slowly.

“Fun? You kissed me like I mattered, Changbin! You- ” his voice cracked,

“you made me believe you-”

“It was a mistake.”

“Stop it.” Seungmin’s hands curled into fists.

“You don’t get to say that.”

Changbin just stood there, rain dripping from his hair down his neck, face unreadable.

Seungmin felt heat rush through his body, anger, confusion, grief all tangled.

“A mistake?” Seungmin shouted.

“You spent weeks with me! You said you wanted to meet my grandma, that you liked her tea, that you liked me-”

“I didn’t mean it.”

That did it.

Seungmin shoved him, hard.

Changbin barely moved, just rocked back slightly.

He didn’t even raise a hand to stop him.

“Say it again,” Seungmin demanded, his voice breaking.

“Say you didn’t mean it! Look me in the eye and say it!”

Changbin’s silence said it for him.

“God, you’re unbelievable,” Seungmin said, shaking his head, tears mixing with rain.

“You think you can just walk in here from your perfect city life, play around, make some small-town boy fall for you and then- then what? Go home? Forget it ever happened?”

Changbin’s jaw clenched, but he still didn’t speak.

Seungmin laughed, bitter and shaking.

“You people from the city, you all think we’re just some vacation story, don’t you? Something you can pick up, try out, and then leave behind when you’re bored.”

His voice got louder, rawer.

“My parents left me for that stupid city, and now you’re doing the same damn thing!”

He shoved him again, harder this time.

“Was this some kind of sick game to you? To see if you could make me fall for you?”

Changbin’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Fucking say something!” Seungmin screamed.

His voice cracked.

“Anything!”

But Changbin just looked at him, blank, distant, like he wasn’t really there.

“You’re a coward,” Seungmin spat, chest heaving.

“You don’t even have the guts to tell me why. You can’t even-” he took a shaky breath, his voice breaking,

“-you can’t even look at me right now.”

Changbin’s eyes flickered up just briefly.

That tiny movement made Seungmin’s throat tighten.

“You promised we’d watch the sunrise together,”

Seungmin said, his voice quieter now, trembling.

“You said i was as pretty as a flower. Was that a lie too?”

Nothing.

He stepped closer, almost pleading now.

“Changbin, please. Just tell me why.”

When there was still no answer, something inside Seungmin finally snapped.

“Fine,” he said, his voice rising again.

“Go then! Go back to your fancy city and your perfect parents and pretend none of this ever happened. Go back to wherever people don’t have hearts!”

The waves crashed louder, the wind nearly drowning him out.

Seungmin’s tears blurred everything, and his words came out choked, uneven.

“You can go to hell,” he yelled, his throat raw. “You hear me? You can go to fucking hell!”

He took one last breath, his voice barely more than a sob.

“I loved you, you bastard. I loved you.” His chest heaved.

“And now I hate you.”

Changbin turned away.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t say a word.

The rain poured harder, soaking Seungmin to the bone as he stood there, shaking, watching the person he loved walk away through the storm, the same spot where they once promised to meet forever.

When Changbin disappeared into the darkness, Seungmin finally dropped to his knees in the wet sand.

The sea roared on, swallowing the sound of his sobs.

Chapter Text

The morning air was sharp and cold, the kind that stung the inside of his lungs when he breathed too fast.

The city didn’t smell like salt or morning mist here.

It smelled like gasoline, iron, and freshly washed pavement.

Changbin had barely slept again.

His eyes were rimmed red, but he didn’t bother hiding it.

His parents didn’t notice; they never did.

His uniform was ironed, his bag packed, his tie perfect, all things his mother’s assistant made sure of before the car came to drive him to school.

But today, he didn’t take the car.

He told the driver he wanted to walk.

The man hesitated, then nodded, unsure if it was an order or a request.

So Changbin walked.

The streets were different here, long, straight, orderly.

No chipped fences or cracked benches, no stray cats curling up by doorsteps.

No warmth.

Just expensive silence and hurried footsteps.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the cracks in the sidewalk, his shoes scraping against the edge of the curb.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, maybe nothing.

Maybe he just wanted to feel tired enough to sleep that night.

The morning light was pale and unforgiving, hitting the glass buildings until they gleamed white.

He looked down, just to get away from it, and then stopped walking.

Between two slabs of pavement, where rainwater must’ve gathered days ago, something small and green had forced its way through.

A cluster of weeds.

Tiny, wild things, bent and uneven but stubbornly alive.

Their little buds were trembling in the wind, barely there, but familiar.

Changbin’s breath hitched.

His chest felt like it had been punched.

They were the same kind of weeds he used to pick from the sides of the boardwalk.

The same ones he’d thought were flowers.

The same ones Seungmin had laughed at and tucked behind his ear anyway.

His hand twitched before he could stop it.

He crouched down, staring at them, his throat tightening until it hurt to breathe.

The memory hit him like a wave,
Seungmin’s voice, soft and teasing.

“You really thought these were flowers, didn’t you?”

“They are to me,” Changbin had said, smiling.

“You’re hopeless,” Seungmin had laughed, but he’d kept them anyway.

Hopeless.

He could still hear the fondness in that word, the way Seungmin’s lips had curled up around it.

Now there was just the sound of the wind and the faint buzz of traffic.

Changbin reached out and brushed his fingers against the fragile green stems, afraid they’d snap under his touch.

He hadn’t realized his hands were shaking until he saw his shadow tremble against the pavement.

Something inside him cracked, quietly, like glass giving way under pressure.

He pressed a hand against his mouth, but a sob still escaped, small, broken, almost soundless.

He hadn’t cried since that night.

Not even when his father had slapped him, not when he’d packed his bag, not on the flight.

But now, kneeling on a dirty sidewalk over a patch of weeds, he couldn’t stop.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It was quiet and ugly, just tears sliding down his face, his breath coming in small, uneven gasps.

He wiped at his face roughly, but it didn’t stop.

He felt ridiculous, crying over weeds in the middle of the city,  but the pain had nowhere else to go.

Because these weren’t just weeds.

They were memories that refused to die, no matter how much concrete the world poured over them.

When he finally stood, his knees ached.

He stared down at the tiny plants one more time and whispered, so softly even he barely heard it,

“Hey, Seungmin. They’re even growing here, in the dirty city.”

Then he walked away, the ache in his chest heavier than his school bag, and the city suddenly felt too big for him again.

He didn’t notice the tears still drying on his face when he stepped through the school gates, or the way people turned to look.

He didn’t care.

He just kept walking.

The waves didn’t sound the same anymore.

Seungmin had grown up with the ocean outside his window, the way it murmured through the night, sometimes calm, sometimes wild.

It used to sound like home.

Now, it sounded like loss.

He sat on the same stretch of sand where they always met, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them, chin resting on his wrist.

The tide was low tonight.

It left tiny trails of foam that crawled up to his feet and retreated again, as if unsure whether to touch him.

Everything felt too quiet.

The town was small enough that everyone knew what had happened.

Or at least, they knew something had happened,  that the rich boy from the city had left without saying goodbye.

The aunt still came by the flower shop sometimes, quiet and kind, her eyes heavy with the sort of guilt Seungmin didn’t know what to do with.

He didn’t ask her anything.

Because what was there left to ask?

He still came to the beach every evening.

He told himself it was for the view, the sunset, the habit, but he knew it wasn’t.

It was because some part of him was still waiting.

The sand was cool under his palms, the air salted and warm.

He looked out to where the sea met the horizon, and for a moment, he could almost trick himself into thinking he’d see Changbin walking toward him , hair tousled, holding something stupid like a bunch of weeds, grinning like he had the world to give.

He laughed softly to himself, the sound small and hollow.

“You really were hopeless,” he murmured.

But he was more hopeless.

Hopeless for thinking summer could last forever.

Hopeless for thinking someone like Changbin could actually stay.

He tilted his head back, staring at the fading pink of the sky.

The sun had almost disappeared now, and the first stars were beginning to show, faint and shy.

He’d told him he loved him.

He’d said it right there on this same sand, breathless and happy, because he’d meant it.

Because for once in his life, love had felt like something warm, not something distant or cruel.

And Changbin hadn’t said it back.

He didn’t blame him anymore, not fully.

He just wished he’d known.

A small wind passed through, and Seungmin pulled his knees closer.

His shirt smelled faintly like salt and flowers, leftover from the shop that morning.

The petals clung to his hands sometimes, soft and fleeting.

He wondered if Changbin ever smelled like this anymore.

The first few days after he left, Seungmin couldn’t stop crying.

Then came the anger,  loud and burning.

He’d screamed at the sea once until his throat hurt.

Told it that he hated him, that he never wanted to see him again.

But the waves kept coming, calm and patient, as if they already knew he didn’t mean it.

Now, the anger had faded.

What was left was worse,  the kind of quiet that seeps into your bones and stays.

He pressed his palm into the sand, tracing lines absently, drawing little shapes.

Without realizing it, he wrote Changbin’s name,  then wiped it away before the next wave could.

“Coward,” he whispered to the sea, but his voice trembled.

He missed him.

God, he hated how much he missed him.

He missed his laugh, the way he said Seungmin’s name like it was a promise, the way he’d point out the smallest things, a crab, a shell, a bird, as if they mattered.

Everything with Changbin had mattered.

A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.

He wiped it away quickly, huffing a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.

He’d cried enough. He told himself he was done with it.

But the sea didn’t care.

It just kept whispering back the things he didn’t want to hear.

He stood finally, brushing sand off his hands, his knees.

The stars were brighter now, the waves darker.

He turned toward the path leading home, the same one they’d walked together a hundred times.

His grandma’s window light was still on up the hill.

She’d wait for him with tea, probably say something about how love hurts because it’s real.

She always had gentle words for everything, even for heartbreak.

Seungmin paused and looked back one last time.

The beach stretched out empty, the tide crawling in again, soft and slow.

He imagined Changbin there, kneeling on some faraway city street, finding the same weeds growing through the cracks.

He didn’t know why, but he hoped he did.

Because maybe then, just maybe, they were still looking at the same thing.

Chapter Text

The flower shop bell still chimed whenever someone walked in, but to Seungmin it sounded like it was coming from underwater, distant, soft, almost unreal.

He’d been showing up every morning, sweeping petals off the counter, tying ribbons, smiling when he had to.

Jisung kept hovering, cracking jokes that fell flat, asking if he wanted to grab dinner, if he was okay, if he’d please talk, but Seungmin never did.

He just nodded.

Mumbled.

Then went back to arranging bouquets he never looked at.

He was tired in ways he couldn’t explain.

Not the kind that sleep fixed, the kind that sat behind the ribs, pressing down until it hurt to breathe.

The sky that afternoon was gray again, the kind of dull light that made everything look colourless.

He was clipping stems when the bell rang, and he didn’t even bother looking up at first.

Then a voice, quiet, raw, hesitant, said his name.

“Are you… Seungmin?”

He looked up.

The woman standing in front of him looked familiar, maybe from the market, or from Changbin’s home.

But she was trembling.

Her hands twisted a handkerchief that was already soaked, her eyes swollen and red.

“Y-yes,” he said slowly.

She smiled, or tried to.

It was a small, broken thing that cracked before it even formed.

“I’m… I’m Changbin’s aunt.”

Something in Seungmin’s chest snapped.

His breath hitched, his hands stilled on the shears.

The world sharpened and blurred at the same time.

“Where is he?” he asked before he even realized the words had left his mouth.

His throat was tight.

“Is he- is he okay?”

The woman took a deep breath.

Her lips trembled.

“He’s in the city now,” she said, voice shaking.

“They… they made him leave. After that night.”

Seungmin’s stomach dropped.

“Made him- what do you mean?”

Her eyes filled again.

“His parents,” she said, the words coming in uneven bursts.

“They came home angry. They’d heard things, people talking. About him. About you two. They hit him. Told him he’d embarrassed them and disgusted them. That he had to break things off. They wanted to send him to the city already, but that night… they didn’t even give him time to pack properly. I tried to stop them. I tried.” Her voice cracked, raw with guilt.

“He couldn't even cry. He didn’t even eat for days. He just- he just left.”

The scissors in Seungmin’s hands slipped.

They hit the counter with a dull thud.

He stared at her, feeling everything inside him collapse in on itself,  the shame, the anger, the regret.

Every breath burned.

“No…”

“I should’ve done something,” she whispered.

“I should’ve taken him in. But they’re family, and I thought- I thought maybe they’d calm down. But they didn’t. He’s alone there. I only wanted to tell you because I… I see you here every day, and you look like you’re waiting.”

Waiting.

The word cut deep.

When she left, Seungmin just stood there, frozen.

The world outside the window looked exactly the same, and somehow that made it worse.

The street still hummed with quiet life, cars passing, someone laughing in the distance, the faint rustle of leaves.

And he couldn’t move.

He hated himself.

Hated that he’d yelled.

Hated that he’d shoved Changbin, that he’d told him to go to hell, that he’d said he hated him when all he’d ever wanted was to hold him close.

His breath quickened, as he saw his aunt leaves quietly, each step looked like it hurt.

He left the shop early, and Jisung didn't even ask why, just for him to get well soon.

Maybe he could see seungmins devastation even though he tried to hide it.

He spent that night lying awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

His mind played the same loop, Changbin’s empty expression, the rain, his own voice breaking as he screamed words he couldn’t take back.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

By morning, his throat felt dry and his heart hurt like it had been dragged across glass.

His phone sat on the table, screen cracked, silent.

He hadn’t called his parents in over a year.

They’d moved to the city, chasing better jobs, better people, better lives.

They’d left him here because he was easier to forget that way.

He stared at the phone for a long time before picking it up.

His thumb hovered over the number.

His heart thudded, loud and uneven.

Then he pressed “call.”

It rang once.

Twice.

Then a woman’s voice, his mother’s,  came through, sharp and unfamiliar.

“Seungmin?” she said, surprise laced with annoyance.

“It’s been a while.”

He swallowed hard.

“Yeah.” His voice was barely audible.

“I need to come there.”

There was a pause.

“Why?”

He didn’t answer right away.

The words felt heavy in his mouth.

“Someone I care about… he’s there. He needs me.”

She sighed, exasperated but not cruel.

“Fine. Your father can pick you up from the station.”

The line clicked dead.

He sat there, phone still pressed to his ear, until the screen dimmed.

His eyes burned.

His chest ached.

He hated himself for what he’d done, but for the first time in days, there was something else burning under the guilt.

Something that felt like resolve.

He didn’t know what he’d say when he finds Changbin.

He didn’t know if Changbin would even want to see him.

But he was going to go anyway.

He couldn’t let the story end like this.

Chapter Text

It had been weeks since the night he left the beach behind.

Weeks since the rain had washed the salt and confession off his skin.

Now the city was louder than he remembered, loud in a way that made him feel even smaller.

It was the kind of noise that ate silence alive:

Horns, voices, a thousand conversations he wasn’t part of.

Changbin walked to school with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

He barely noticed the sun between buildings or the way the air smelled faintly of summer’s end.

He only saw the grey, the motion, the endless cycle of faces that didn’t look at him twice.

His parents were the same.

Still working.

Still gone before breakfast.

Still silent at dinner.

When they spoke to him, it was only to correct something.

The way he sat.

The way he lingered too long looking out the window. Once, when he didn’t answer his father, the man only sighed like disappointment had become his default expression.

Changbin didn’t argue.

He didn’t even have the energy to.

The days blurred together, school, home, the empty house that didn’t feel like home.

He kept waiting to forget, to get better, to stop hearing the sound of Seungmin’s voice saying I love you in the space right before sleep.

But it was like a song stuck in the walls of his skull.

He started walking after school just to move.

Sometimes until it got dark, sometimes until his shoes hurt.

One of those afternoons, he found himself in an older part of town, quieter, where the streets narrowed and the shops looked half-forgotten.

He stopped when he saw a dusty sign that read

“Old Things. New Homes.”

Inside, the shop smelled of paper and sunlight caught in fabric.

It was cluttered, small lamps, books, old records, chipped teacups stacked too carefully.

He wandered without really looking until something soft brushed against his arm.

It was a small plush, a puppy.

Cheap fabric, one ear crooked, stuffing uneven.

Something about it hit him too fast to breathe.

It wasn’t his puppy, not their puppy, but it looked close enough that his chest pulled tight.

He picked it up without thinking, thumb tracing the loose thread on its paw.

For a second, he could almost hear Seungmin’s laughter, that bright, teasing sound that used to make his stomach flip.

He put it back down like it burned.

He left without buying anything.

Outside, the air was thicker.

His heartbeat was a slow ache.

He didn’t cry, he hadn’t cried since that night, but everything inside him felt too heavy, like if he stopped walking, it would all collapse.

He turned down a narrow alley toward the main street again.

His shoulder brushed someone’s as he passed, a hard bump that pulled him back into the moment.

“Sorry,” he muttered automatically.

When he looked up, his breath hitched.

The person had dark hair, skin kissed gold by sunlight, a small, startled look in his eyes.

For half a second, Changbin thought it was him.

Thought it was Seungmin.

But the stranger blinked and gave a polite smile before walking off.

Changbin’s throat ached.

He laughed under his breath, a short, broken sound.

Of course it wasn’t him.

He started walking again, trying to swallow the sudden sting behind his eyes.

He told himself it was fine.

He told himself he didn’t care.

And then, as he crossed the street, something in the distance made him freeze.

Standing by the next block, head turned toward a shop window, was a figure in a pale shirt and sand-colored pants.

The posture.

The hair falling slightly over the forehead.

The way one hand rested in his pocket, the other holding a small paper bag.

Changbin’s breath stopped completely.

It couldn’t be.

He blinked once, twice, heart thundering painfully.

But the boy turned his head slightly, and there, under the city sun, was Seungmin.

Not a memory.

Not a dream.

Not another stranger who looked almost like him.

It was him.

And Changbin didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

The sounds of the city dulled around him, cars, people, everything fading into a slow, ringing quiet.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the world was holding its breath too.

He didn’t believe it.

He didn’t dare to.

He just stood there on the edge of the pavement, heart breaking all over again, because if it was real, then everything he’d run from was standing right in front of him.

And if it wasn’t…

then he didn’t know what was left of him at all.

Chapter Text

The train screeched into the city like it was trying to warn him.

Seungmin sat motionless in his seat as people stood, stretched, pulled down their luggage.

The air inside the carriage smelled faintly of metal and the sharp tang of coffee spilled on old plastic.

Someone laughed.

Someone cursed.

The world was already moving too fast.

He stayed a moment longer after the doors opened, watching the stream of passengers flood toward the platform.

When he finally stood, the motion made him sway.

The bag on his shoulder felt heavier than it had when he’d packed it, like the air here carried gravity differently.

The station lights were harsh, fluorescent strips cutting through the dimness like knives.

Everything gleamed.

His reflection flickered on the tiled walls, blurred by movement, he barely recognized the pale face staring back.

He had imagined this moment differently.

He had thought returning to the city might feel like stepping back into something familiar, something that once belonged to him.

But it didn’t.

The city didn’t belong.

It devoured.

Outside, the noise hit him like a wave, horns, footsteps, voices layered upon each other until they became a single unending hum.

Cars rushed past in ribbons of light.

The smell of exhaust mingled with the faint sweetness of roasted chestnuts from a street stall.

Neon signs blinked at the edges of buildings like eyes that never slept.

He stood there for a moment, clutching the handle of his suitcase, unsure where to go even though he had an address written in his phone.

The world felt wider than it used to be, or maybe he had just gotten smaller.

When he finally hailed a cab, his voice came out quieter than he meant.

The driver didn’t respond, just nodded, pulling away from the curb.

The city blurred past the windows, lights streaking across the glass like falling stars.

Seungmin leaned his forehead against the cold pane, watching everything slip by too quickly to hold.

He thought of the seaside.

The air there had tasted clean, like salt and sunlight.

Here, every breath felt filtered through smoke.

By the time he reached his parents’ apartment building, the sky had already turned a bruised shade of violet.

The doorman didn’t recognize him, or pretended not to, and he didn’t bother explaining.

The elevator doors closed him in, humming as they rose.

He watched the numbers flicker upward, each floor another layer of distance between the person he’d been and the one trying to fit back into this world.

His mother opened the door before he could ring the bell.

She looked surprised, though he had texted earlier.

The surprise melted into politeness.

“You’ve grown thinner,” she said, stepping aside.

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Travel does that.”

His father appeared in the hallway, reading glasses perched on his nose.

“Back for good?” he asked, as though Seungmin had been away on a brief holiday.

“I’m not sure,” Seungmin said.

They both nodded, like that answer didn’t bother them.

His mother took his coat.

His father returned to the living room where the television murmured softly, the same news channel that had probably been running since morning.

Dinner was reheated leftovers.

No one asked what he had eaten before, where he had been, or what he had been doing.

The silence wasn’t cruel, just practiced, the kind that came from years of not knowing how to fill space.

He excused himself early, claiming fatigue, though he wasn’t tired.

His old room smelled faintly of dust and forgotten books.

Everything was as he had left it, bed perfectly made, a framed certificate still hanging crooked on the wall.

It was strange how time could move so violently elsewhere and yet stay completely still here.

He set his bag down by the desk and sat on the edge of the bed.

The sheets were too clean, the mattress too firm.

He pressed his hands together, staring at the lines of his palms as if they might still hold the warmth of someone else’s.

Outside, the city breathed, a low, constant rhythm.

Through the window, the skyline shimmered with restless light, towers reaching into the clouds like a promise and a threat at once.

He thought of how the sea sounded at night, that soft, endless hush.

The city had its own version of it, louder, sharper, less forgiving.

It wasn’t the same, but it filled the silence just enough to make him ache.

He lay back, eyes open, watching the light from a passing car sweep across the ceiling.

His phone buzzed once, a message from no one important.

He didn’t check it.

There was a letter in his bag, folded into an envelope so many times that the edges had started to fray.

He didn’t take it out yet.

Just knowing it was there was enough to make his chest tight.

He closed his eyes, letting the city hum seep into him.

The sound was too alive, too indifferent.

He wondered if Changbin had ever felt like this, small against a world that refused to stop spinning.

The thought came without warning, like the echo of a name whispered into a storm.

He tried to push it away, but it stayed, hovering behind his ribs like something unfinished.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

The city never went quiet.

Somewhere outside, sirens wailed, laughter broke out, an engine revved.

Every sound seemed to say the same thing, you’re back, but nothing waited for you.

By morning, Seungmin felt like he’d been awake the whole night.

The city didn’t greet him with sunlight, just a gray wash of sky and the smell of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

He sat by the window with a cup of tea he didn’t drink, watching people hurry along the sidewalks far below, umbrellas clutched like armor.

He wondered how many of them were looking for something they’d already lost.

He closed the door to his room and exhaled.

The air inside felt thicker than outside.

The walls were bare except for a single clock that ticked too loudly.

He sank onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried to steady his breathing.

He could still hear Changbin’s aunt’s voice in his head, trembling, apologetic.

“I tried to stop them, Seungmin. They called him horrible things. His father hit him. His mother told me to stay out of it. And then they packed up that night. He didn’t even get to say goodbye. He just kept asking if you’d be okay, because he knew he broke you.”

He’d listened in silence then, every word another stone sinking into his chest.

She had pressed her hands together, like she was praying for forgiveness.

“He’s in the city now,” she’d said softly.

“His parents moved him somewhere fancy, an academy for business, I think. They said he needed to ‘forget that summer nonsense.’ I don’t know where exactly, but… I think he’d want you to find him.”

So he’d come.

Even if it meant crawling back to the parents who had left him behind.

Even if it meant chasing a boy who might not want to be found.

He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw colors bloom behind them.

The exhaustion finally hit him, the kind that came from carrying something invisible and too heavy.

Outside, the sky turned purple.

The neon signs flickered to life one by one, painting his walls in shifting color.

The city pulsed.

He could almost feel its heartbeat.

The next morning, he left before his parents woke.

The city was quieter at dawn, washed pale and unfamiliar.

He took a bus without knowing where it went, tracing names of streets that sounded almost poetic, Rose Avenue, Riverline, East 9th.

He asked around at cafés, bookstores, even a few schools.

Sometimes people shrugged.

Sometimes they looked at him like he was lost or crazy, which wasn’t wrong.

By afternoon, the weight of the search began to settle in.

His phone battery was dying.

His shoes hurt.

The air had that burnt smell of summer concrete.

He stopped at a small park, sitting on a bench half-covered in ivy.

The ground was littered with the tiny white weeds that grew everywhere in his seaside town, the same ones he’d once picked for Changbin, believing they were flowers.

His throat tightened.

He crouched down, fingers brushing over the petals.

They were soft, fragile, stubborn.

Somehow, they had found a way to grow here, between cracks, between worlds.

A car honked.

He stood quickly, swallowing hard.

The city didn’t stop for sentiment.

By evening, he returned home empty-handed.

His parents were eating dinner in silence, the glow of the television painting their faces blue.

“You’ve been out all day,” his mother said, her tone sharp but not curious.

“Where did you even go?”

“Nowhere,” he muttered.

“Don’t start wasting your time again,” his father said without looking up.

“If you’re here, do something useful.”

He bit back a bitter laugh.

Useful.

They’d left him alone for years, and now they wanted him useful.

“I’m fine,” he said, though he wasn’t.

They didn’t ask more.

After dinner, he stood on the balcony, looking out at the city lights.

The air was colder now, thinner.

Below, traffic snaked through the streets like veins.

Somewhere in that maze, Changbin existed, walking, breathing, maybe just as lost.

He wondered if Changbin still counted days the way he did.

The neon light flickered over his face, pink, blue, white.

He closed his eyes.

In his dreams that night, he saw the beach again.

Only this time, the waves were gray, and every time he tried to call Changbin’s name, the sea swallowed the sound.

Days passed like that, blurred, endless.

He made lists, crossed off schools, followed rumors, stared at people with broad shoulders and soft hair too long just to realize they weren’t him.

Sometimes, he thought about giving up.

Sometimes, he didn’t even think, just walked until the soles of his shoes wore thin.

Everywhere he looked, the city reflected versions of Changbin, in strangers’ laughter, in the quiet sound of distant music, in the way the evening light hit the buildings gold.

But none of them were real.

At night, he’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster and whispering the same thing under his breath, like a prayer he didn’t believe in anymore.

“I’ll find you. Just… wait a little longer.”

The city didn’t answer.

The next day, the city was colder.

It rained in the morning, not heavily, just enough for the streets to glisten and the sky to blur into silver.

Seungmin carried the cheap umbrella his father had wordlessly handed him before leaving for work.

He didn’t say thank you.

The map app on his phone glowed faintly as he walked.

His aunt’s last words kept echoing in his head:

“He’s somewhere near the central district, a residential block near a school. His parents wanted something close to their offices. I think the building’s name was something like Aria Heights.”

He’d written it down twice, just to be sure.

Aria Heights.

The name sounded too pretty for what it represented, like something out of a dream that didn’t want to end.

By the time he reached the district, the rain had stopped.

The city looked freshly washed, but not cleaner, just more reflective.

Puddles caught fragments of the skyline, shattering them whenever someone stepped through.

He followed the street names carefully, counting intersections, watching for signs.

The crowd thickened as he went deeper, suits, heels, children holding their parents’ hands.

Everyone had somewhere to be.

When he finally saw it,  the tall white building with gold lettering that read ARIA HEIGHTS.

he froze.

It wasn’t huge, but it was expensive-looking, the kind of place that smelled faintly of new money and old pride.

The glass door gleamed, polished enough to reflect the whole street behind him.

The walls were pale stone, the balconies framed with vines too carefully arranged to be natural.

His breath hitched.

He didn’t need to ask if it was the right one. He just knew.

He stood on the opposite side of the road, clutching the strap of his bag, staring up at the rows of windows.

Somewhere behind them, Changbin existed, maybe reading, maybe sitting silently the way he did when he thought too hard.

The idea almost broke him.

He stepped forward once, twice, then stopped right in front of the door.

The doorman gave him a cursory glance, his polished shoes squeaking slightly against the marble floor.

“Can I help you?” the man asked politely, his tone distant.

Seungmin opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

His tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of his mouth.

What would he even say?

Hi, I’m looking for the boy whose parents think I ruined him? The one who left after breaking my heart into a million pieces because his parent were homophobic?

No, there wasn’t a polite way to say any of that.

He swallowed, forcing a thin smile.

“No, sorry. Just… wrong place.”

The man nodded and turned away.

Seungmin stepped back until his heel hit the curb.

His chest ached in that slow, deep way that had nothing to do with air.

He looked up again, squinting against the light.

One of the windows on the fourth floor had sheer curtains that fluttered slightly, maybe from wind, maybe from someone’s movement.

His heart stuttered.

For half a second, he imagined seeing a silhouette there, short, broad-shouldered, familiar.

But it was gone as soon as it appeared.

The rain had started again, soft and unhurried.

Droplets slid down his umbrella, collecting at the edges before falling into tiny ripples on the pavement.

He wanted to run inside.

He wanted to shout.

He wanted to demand why Changbin had never called, never written, never fought harder to stay.

But more than all that, he was terrified.

What if Changbin didn’t want to see him?

What if everything he’d been holding onto,  the memory of soft hands, late-night laughter, the I love you whispered against the wind, had meant nothing to him?

He took one more step closer, then stopped again.

The air felt heavy.

His fingers trembled.

Maybe some part of him already knew that this wasn’t the right moment.

That walking through those glass doors would break something he wasn’t ready to break.

So instead, he did what he always did when things hurt too much,  he turned around.

He walked until the building disappeared behind the city’s curve, the rain soaking the edges of his jeans, the sound of cars and voices rising until it all blended into one long, endless hum.

He stopped at a corner café, ducking inside mostly to escape the rain.

The air smelled like roasted beans and wet pavement.

He ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, a small Americano, and sat by the window.

From here, he could still see the faint outline of Aria Heights through the mist.

His reflection in the glass looked transparent, like he was fading into the city.

He pressed his fingers against the window, tracing the faint blur of the building.

“Where are you?” he whispered, voice barely audible under the music playing softly through the café speakers.

The city didn’t answer.

Not like the waves used to.

But outside, in the puddles along the street, tiny white weeds had grown between the cracks in the sidewalk.

Just like before.

Just like home.

He smiled faintly, a fragile, almost broken thing,  and took another sip of his coffee.

It was bitter, sharp, and real.

And somehow, that felt enough to keep him searching.

Chapter Text

Seungmin had started waking before the sun.

Not because he wanted to, but because the city never really slept.

There was always noise, buses sighing at intersections, trucks growling down narrow streets, a neighbor clattering dishes two floors up.

The sound crawled into his dreams and pulled him awake long before morning light.

He would lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling.

The pattern of cracked paint had become something he traced like a map, searching for meaning in it, something that could tell him what to do next.

But there was nothing.

There never was.

His parents didn’t notice when he left.

They were already gone, or still asleep behind their locked door.

He didn’t bother with breakfast.

The stale air of the apartment pressed against his ribs until he had to step outside just to breathe.

The street below was always busy.

Workers in gray suits.

Vendors pushing carts.

A woman dragging a dog that looked as tired as he felt.

Seungmin walked past them, blending in, his steps automatic.

He carried nothing except a small, worn notebook where he’d scribbled the address, Changbin’s address, written in his aunt’s shaky handwriting.

The ink had smudged from how many times he’d folded and unfolded the page.

Every day, he took the same route.

Past the newspaper stand with the faded posters.

Across the bridge that smelled of rust.

Down a street where the air tasted faintly of gasoline.

The city was too loud.

It swallowed every thought, leaving only the sound of tires and rainwater and footsteps.

By the time he reached Changbin’s neighborhood, his shirt would cling to his back with sweat, or damp from drizzle.

The street was quiet compared to the rest of the city, an older part, where buildings leaned too close together and plants forced their way through cracks in the concrete.

He’d stop near the corner café, just across from the building where Changbin supposedly lived.

And then he would wait.

Sometimes for an hour.

Sometimes for three.

He’d tell himself that today, he would go up.

He’d press the doorbell, or ask the shopkeeper if she knew the boy with the shy smile who used to visit in summer.

But every time, his throat closed before he could move.

He’d stand there until the sky changed color, until his legs started to ache, and then he’d leave.

The next day, he’d do it again.

He never really thought about why.

Maybe it was guilt.

Maybe he was afraid that if he stopped coming, it would mean that what they had was really over, that his words on that stormy night had become truth.

He couldn’t bear that.

There were days when he’d catch sight of a figure behind one of the windows, a shadow that almost looked like him.

His heart would stop, his pulse rising to his throat, but then the curtain would fall back, and it would just be light playing tricks.

He learned the rhythm of the street.

When the mailman came.

When the children passed with their backpacks.

When the sky turned a dull silver in the afternoons.

He knew which cracks in the pavement filled with water after rain, which ones reflected bits of sunlight that hurt his eyes.

The city was suffocating, but he stayed.

He stayed because this street was the only place where hope hadn’t completely died.

That day, the rain had started early, thin at first, then steady.

He didn’t bother with an umbrella.

The drizzle soaked through his hair, his sleeves, the hem of his shirt.

It didn’t matter.

The world had been heavy for weeks; what was a little more weight?

He crossed to the other side of the road, avoiding puddles.

The flower stall at the corner had closed early

. The air smelled faintly of wet soil and exhaust fumes.

He looked up once at the apartment windows.

All dark.

Maybe he’d missed him again.

Maybe he was gone.

He stood there anyway, watching raindrops gather at the edge of the awning before falling.

The street blurred.

Cars passed, throwing water against the curb.

A child laughed somewhere behind him, the sound so pure it almost hurt to hear.

When his fingers started to go numb, he told himself he’d leave.

Tomorrow, he’d come again.

Tomorrow, he’d finally do it.

Even though feel down he knew he couldn't.

He turned away, his shoes splashing softly against the pavement.

And then-

A shape moved at the edge of his vision.

He froze.

Just ahead, someone was walking up the street, hands in pockets, hair damp with rain.

There was something in the way his shoulders curved, the slow pace of his steps, that sent Seungmin’s breath catching in his throat.

No, he thought.

It couldn’t be.

He’d imagined this too many times before.

But then the person lifted his head.

Even from across the street, Seungmin could see the shock flicker through those eyes, wide, startled, the kind of disbelief that looks like pain.

His mouth parted, soundless, as if the rain itself had stolen his words.

Changbin.

The world went completely still.

Seungmin didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The cars, the voices, the rain, all of it faded into nothing, leaving only the distance between them.

A few feet.

A few steps.

A thousand miles.

And in that silence, Seungmin finally realized how much the city had taken from him, and how much he’d been willing to give just for this one impossible sight.

He didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Changbin’s chest rose like he was about to speak, but no sound came out.

His eyes darted, uncertain, caught between running and staying.

The rain fell harder, tracing lines down their faces, down the world that had kept them apart.

And then, before either could take a single step, the light above them flickered, and the chapter ended.

Chapter Text

The air outside his house was thick with exhaust and the heavy smell of wet cement.

The day had ended long ago, but the city refused to rest.

Even the light that spilled from the windows above him felt artificial, white, sharp, nothing like the orange warmth of sunsets back by the beach.

Changbin’s bag strap bit into his shoulder as he walked the last few streets home from school.

The soles of his shoes scuffed the pavement, leaving faint streaks of dust.

The streets were loud and colorless, vendors shouting, cars honking, the echo of life moving too fast.

He’d spent the day half-awake, the drone of lessons and classmates’ laughter washing over him, none of it really sticking.

He’d thought of Seungmin again between classes, by the window, when the wind had felt too cold, and in the cafeteria, where the noise reminded him of how quiet it had been without him.

A month felt like a lifetime.

By the time he turned onto his street, his shoulders were heavy with everything unsaid.

His parents’ lights were on; another dinner waited where silence would feel thicker than words.

He exhaled softly, bracing himself for another evening that would blur into the next.

He didn't even feel the small drizzle of rain falling on his numbed skin.

And then-

He stopped walking.

Across the narrow road, under the dull streetlight that buzzed faintly in the dusk, someone stood still.

For a moment, his mind refused to catch up with his eyes.

He thought it was just another ghost of memory, something his guilt conjured in the spaces between breaths.

But the shape moved.

The shoulders rose and fell.

The faint shine of tears caught the light.

Seungmin.

His throat closed around the name.

Everything inside him went still, then rushed all at once.

He blinked hard, but the sight didn’t disappear.

He was really there.

His bag slid slowly off his shoulder, landing softly against his leg.

The air felt too thin.

He took one step forward, then another, his pulse loud in his ears.

“...Seungmin?”

His voice cracked, small and rough, as though it hadn’t been used in weeks.

Seungmin looked up, startled by the sound.

For a heartbeat, disbelief and something fragile flickered across his face, then broke, melting into relief so raw it hurt to look at.

“Changbin,” he breathed.

The sound of it almost undid him.

Changbin’s chest ached, every breath sharp and shaky.

He crossed the street slowly, his body trembling with something between fear and longing, until they were standing face to face.

Close enough to see the small tremor in Seungmin’s fingers.

Close enough to see the exhaustion beneath his eyes.

Changbin’s hands lifted on their own.

He hesitated for half a second, then cupped Seungmin’s cheeks, the warmth of his skin grounding him in reality.

“It’s really you,” he whispered, disbelieving, thumb brushing over a tear that hadn’t yet fallen.

“You’re here.”

Seungmin’s breath hitched.

His hands came up, smaller and colder, covering Changbin’s as if to hold him there, to prove he wasn’t dreaming.

His voice trembled, but the words were steady.

“Yes. I’m here.”

They stood there in the half-light, faces so close that their breaths tangled.

The city moved on around them, horns, footsteps, faraway laughter, but all of it blurred into static.

Changbin didn’t notice the tears until they hit the back of his hands.

Seungmin’s eyes glistened, and the sight made something in his chest crack open.

Then, like a cruel reminder, the sound of footsteps inside his house snapped through the quiet.

His parents.

Fear rushed back in a heartbeat.

He froze, eyes flicking toward the window where the curtains glowed faintly from the inside.

He could almost hear his father’s voice calling his name, could already imagine what would happen if they saw-

“Seungmin-” The word came out broken.

Seungmin frowned slightly, confusion softening his features.

“What’s wrong?”

Changbin’s breath came shallow.

“It’s not safe. Not here.”

Understanding flashed in Seungmin’s eyes, slow and painful.

But he didn’t move away.

Instead, he leaned forward just slightly, forehead almost brushing Changbin’s.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he whispered.

“I thought-” He swallowed, voice cracking.

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

Changbin closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, his hands still trembling against Seungmin’s skin.

“I thought so too,” he said quietly.

“Every day.”

Seungmin let out a small, broken laugh.

“Then why does it still feel like this hurts?”

Changbin had no answer.

He only let out a shaky breath and pulled Seungmin closer by the shoulders.

Not an embrace, not yet, just closeness, enough for their foreheads to touch, enough for their hands to find each other again.

The warmth between their palms was small, fragile, but real.

“I thought you’d hate me,” Changbin whispered, voice barely audible.

“I did,” Seungmin said, a whisper against his skin.

“But you’re still the only person I came here for.”

The words sank into him like rain.

They stayed like that, neither moving, both breathing in the silence.

The tension didn’t leave, it simply settled, softer now, heavy but almost comforting.

When Seungmin finally spoke again, it was quieter.

“You look tired.”

Changbin’s lips twitched weakly.

“You sound like my aunt.”

Seungmin’s laugh was a breath of warmth in the cold air.

“She says it because she cares about you.”

The sentence hit him harder than expected.

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking away.

His throat tightened, his chest burning.

Seungmin’s hand squeezed his gently in silent apology.

A car door slammed somewhere nearby, pulling them both back to reality.

Seungmin glanced up at the house, then back at him.

“Can I see you again?”

Changbin hesitated, torn between fear and the desperate pull of wanting more.

He finally nodded once.

“Tomorrow?”

His gaze met Seungmin’s again, the same eyes that had once looked at him by the ocean, softer then, brighter.

Now they held the same longing, only dulled by city air and too much time apart.

“Tomorrow,” Changbin whispered.

It wasn’t a promise.

But it was all he had to give.

They didn’t move for a long while.

Just stood there, the world blurring out around them, holding onto what little warmth the other offered.

When Seungmin’s fingers slipped through his again, Changbin held on tightly, afraid to let go.

Above them, the polluted sky swallowed the stars whole.

There was no beach here, no clear air, only the faint glow of smog-dimmed streetlights and the quiet ache of being found when it wasn’t safe to be seen.

When Seungmin finally stepped back, the world felt colder.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated softly, and this time, Changbin found enough voice to answer,

“Tomorrow.”

And when Seungmin disappeared into the fog of traffic and streetlight, Changbin stood there for a long time, the weight of his bag forgotten, the warmth of Seungmin’s touch still ghosting his palms.

He looked up at the dull grey sky.

It gave nothing back.

The city smelled of smoke instead of salt, and the quiet between his heartbeats reminded him how much beauty could be buried under fear.

Chapter Text

The day was too still.

Changbin knew the stillness of storms, the ones that waited before the thunder, thick, electric air pressing against your ribs until breathing hurt.

That’s what this was.

He’d walked home slower than usual, backpack dragging at his shoulder.

The afternoon had already begun to dim, the city sky a sickly gray that refused to open up into color.

The pavement smelled faintly of dust and gasoline.

When he turned the last corner, his steps faltered.

Seungmin was there.

Leaning quietly against the low wall that framed his house, hands buried deep in his sleeves, head tilted as if counting the passing cars.

He looked smaller than Changbin remembered him, swallowed by the noise of the city.

When he looked up and smiled, faint, uncertain,  Changbin felt something sharp twist under his ribs.

He wanted to run to him.

He wanted to tell him to leave.

He wanted to hold him until everything stopped hurting.

He wanted to let him go to keep him safe.

But before he could decide, the door opened.

His father’s voice tore through the air like a whip.

“Seo Changbin.”

Everything inside him went cold.

Seungmin straightened immediately.

Changbin’s fingers twitched.

His father stood framed in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, anger radiating from every breath.

Behind him, his mother, face pale, lips drawn tight, hovered in the hall like a ghost of herself.

“What is this?” his father demanded.

“You sneak around again? You think I wouldn’t find out?”

Changbin’s throat closed.

“I-”

“You shut your mouth,” his father barked, stepping forward, pointing an accusing finger at Seungmin.

“You. Leave. You don’t belong here.”

Seungmin froze, eyes wide.

“Sir, I-”

“I said leave!”

The sound made Seungmin flinch. Something ugly stirred in Changbin’s chest.

“Father, don’t yell at him-”

His father’s head snapped toward him.

“You’re defending him again? You think this is a game?”

“I’m not-”

“Then what is it?” his father roared, his voice echoing against the concrete.

“You think we raised you for this shame?”

Seungmin took a hesitant step forward, his voice soft, pleading.

“Please, it’s not his fault-”

The words barely left his mouth before Changbin’s father’s hand lashed out.

A hard shove to Seungmin’s shoulder sent him stumbling back into the wall with a dull thud.

“Stop!” Changbin shouted, grabbing his father’s arm, but the moment he did, the man turned on him instead.

The slap came fast, sharp, cracking through the air.

It wasn’t the first time.

But this time, it hurt more.

Not the sting, not the impact, the way it sounded, the way Seungmin gasped behind him.

“changbin-!”

Another shove.

Changbin hit the edge of the gate, breath catching.

His father’s face was red, trembling with fury.

“You disgrace us, you shame us in front of everyone, and now you touch him in front of this house?”

“Stop it!” Changbin’s voice broke, his vision blurring.

“You don’t even know him-”

“I don’t need to,” his father spat.

“I see what you’ve become, a dirty little faggot.”

Something small and helpless cracked inside Changbin’s chest.

Seungmin moved closer, trembling, his hand brushing Changbin’s sleeve as if grounding him.

His lips parted, maybe to apologize, maybe to defend him, but Changbin’s father’s gaze turned on him again, venom sharp.

“You-” he hissed, jabbing a finger in Seungmin’s direction,

“You turned my son into this. You filled his head with filth.”

Seungmin’s eyes shone wet.

“No, I-”

Before he could finish, the man pushed him again.

Harder this time. Seungmin stumbled backward, his back hitting the gate, the sound echoing.

That was it.

Changbin lunged forward, shoving his father’s arm away, standing in front of Seungmin like instinct.

His heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

“Don’t you dare touch him again!”

The words hung there, trembling, too loud.

His father stared at him as if he’d been slapped.

Then, low, dangerous:

“You’re going to regret that.”

The next hit wasn’t a slap, it was a fist, rough and heavy against his jaw.

Changbin’s head snapped sideways, pain flashing white across his vision.

Seungmin cried out, catching him before he fell.

“Stop! Please!” Seungmin’s voice was shaking.

His mother’s voice finally broke through the chaos,

“Enough, both of you!” but her husband ignored her.

“You think you’re a man now?” his father snarled, grabbing Changbin’s shirtfront.

“You think defying me makes you strong?”

Changbin could barely speak, but he met his father’s gaze anyway, jaw aching, blood at the corner of his lip.

“No,” he whispered.

“Loving him does.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

His mother looked at him, then at Seungmin, something breaking in her expression, eyes glassy but lips still pressed tight.

His father let go of his shirt like it burned him.

“If you walk out with him, you’re not my son anymore.”

The air felt cold and wrong.

Changbin wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, breath shaking.

“Then I’m not,” he said quietly.

“Changbin-!” His mother’s voice cracked then, all the restraint bleeding away.

“Please- don’t-”

But he’d already turned.

He took Seungmin’s hand, small, shaking, real, and pulled him toward the street.

Behind them, his mother reached out but didn’t move forward.

His father’s voice followed, cold and final:

“Don’t come back.”

The door slammed.

The echo carried down the block like thunder that never faded.

They didn’t speak.

Seungmin’s hand was trembling in his.

The streetlamps flickered to life, pale yellow light cutting through the dusk.

Changbin didn’t look back, he couldn’t.

His jaw hurt, his chest hurt worse.

But when Seungmin stopped walking, turning to face him with tear-bright eyes and trembling lips, Changbin felt his throat close up again.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Seungmin whispered.

“You shouldn’t have-”

“I had to.” Changbin’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t let them control me forever, I couldn't let them hurt you again.”

For a moment, neither moved.

The city hummed around them, buses, distant sirens, life continuing as theirs stopped in place.

Seungmin reached out and brushed his thumb over the bruise blooming along Changbin’s jaw, his touch painfully gentle.

Changbin caught his wrist, holding it there, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Seungmin whispered.

“Don’t be.”

They stood there under the dull, polluted sky, gray swallowing blue, stars lost behind the haze.

Their hands found each other again, not in desperation this time, but in quiet understanding.

The streetlight hummed above them.

The world went on.

Chapter Text

They walked for a long time.

Changbin didn’t remember how long, or where.

He only knew the sound of their steps, the faint rhythm of Seungmin’s breath beside him, the way the evening bled slowly into night.

His face ached; every pulse of his heartbeat made his jaw throb.

The air smelled like rain that would never fall.

They didn’t talk.

The city looked unfamiliar now, all steel and shadows, a noise he couldn’t process.

People passed by, heads down, uncaring.

For a moment, he thought about how strange it was that the world could keep moving when his had just fallen apart.

When they finally reached Seungmin’s house, the windows were dark except for the blue glow of a television somewhere inside.

The front door was unlocked.

Seungmin hesitated only once before pushing it open.

Inside, the smell of old paint and detergent greeted them.

A voice drifted faintly from the living room, Seungmin’s mother talking on the phone, laughing at something he couldn’t hear.

His father was asleep on the couch, one hand loosely gripping the remote.

They didn’t look up when the door shut.

Seungmin glanced toward them, his jaw tightening just a little, then nodded for Changbin to follow him quietly down the hall.

Neither parent asked where he’d been or who he was with.

They just… didn’t care.

The apathy felt like a strange kind of mercy.

The door to Seungmin’s room clicked shut behind them, muffling the outside world.

It was small, just a narrow bed by the window, a desk stacked with books, a few sketch sheets pinned above it.

The air felt lived in, soft and safe.

There were clothes draped over the chair, a stray hoodie on the bed.

Seungmin motioned for him to sit.

Changbin obeyed wordlessly, sinking onto the edge of the mattress.

The silence pressed heavy against them again, broken only by the faint hum of traffic outside.

For a while, neither spoke.

Seungmin crouched in front of him, eyes scanning his face like he was afraid to touch him.

“You’re bleeding,” he whispered finally, his thumb brushing at the split lip.

“You shouldn’t have stood there. You shouldn’t have let him-”

“I had to,” Changbin said hoarsely. His voice was thin, raw from yelling.

“He hit you.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.” Seungmin’s voice trembled.

“He’s your father-”

“No,” Changbin cut in, something fragile breaking in his tone.

“Not anymore.”

The words came out quieter than he expected, but final.

For a long time, Seungmin didn’t move.

Then, carefully, he sat beside him.

Their shoulders brushed.

Changbin’s hands trembled faintly on his knees, not from pain, but from the hollow space settling in his chest.

He’d expected rage or relief.

Instead, there was only emptiness.

He didn’t realize he was crying until Seungmin reached for his hand.

It started small, a hiccup, a breath that caught wrong.

Then another.

The tears slipped down silently, unstoppable, each one heavier than the last.

His chest tightened, and suddenly everything was spilling out, not words, just sound.

A small, broken noise that shook through him before he could stop it.

Seungmin’s arms wrapped around him before he fell apart completely.

The world narrowed to that, the faint warmth of skin against his cheek, the steady heartbeat against his ear, the scent of detergent and rain clinging to Seungmin’s shirt.

Changbin gripped his shirt in both hands, the sobs wracking his body now, uneven and harsh.

The tears burned.

His throat hurt.

His breath came in shuddering bursts he couldn’t control.

“I lost them,” he whispered, barely audible.

“They really- they meant it.”

“I know,” Seungmin murmured, his voice trembling too.

“I know.”

“I-” He choked on his words, tried again.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this. I thought I’d be… free.”

“You are,” Seungmin said softly.

“You’re free.”

Changbin shook his head weakly, tears soaking into Seungmin’s sleeve.

“Then why does it hurt so much?”

Seungmin’s hand slid into his hair, gentle, grounding.

“Because you loved them. And they hurt you anyway.”

The words broke something open.

Changbin let out a small, desperate sound,  half a sob, half a breath, and pressed his face into Seungmin’s shoulder, clutching him tighter.

Seungmin didn’t try to stop him.

He just held him, quiet and steady, his own tears falling silently onto Changbin’s back.

Minutes blurred into each other.

Outside, the night hummed with distant traffic and faint thunder.

When Changbin’s sobs finally faded into small, uneven breaths, he stayed where he was, forehead against Seungmin’s collarbone.

His body ached from crying, his mind from everything else.

But he didn’t regret it.

He didn’t regret choosing Seungmin, not for a second.

“I don’t care,” he whispered, voice rough, eyes still closed.
q
“I’d do it again. Every time.”

Seungmin’s fingers paused where they’d been tracing small circles along his arm.

“I know.”

The words hung in the dim light, quiet but certain.

Changbin pulled back just enough to see him, eyes red, face pale, lips pressed tight.

Seungmin looked as wrecked as he felt.

“Thank you,” Changbin said, his voice barely a breath.

Seungmin shook his head.

“Don’t thank me. Just… stay.”

So he did.

The clock ticked softly. The rain began to fall at last, light against the windowpane.

Changbin rested his head on Seungmin’s shoulder again, the space between them disappearing into something fragile but real.

He knew the world outside would still be cruel.

He knew tomorrow would come with its questions and consequences.

But for now, for this quiet, trembling moment, he was home.

Seungmin didn’t speak.

He just wrapped his arms around him, slow and certain, as if holding together what the world had tried to rip apart.

“I-” Changbin’s voice was wrecked.

“I tried to do everything right. I thought if I just… listened, they’d start acknowledging me. But it never stopped.”

His hands clutched at Seungmin’s shirt.

“I’m sorry I left you. I thought it’d make things easier, but it just… killed everything in me.”

Seungmin’s thumb brushed through his hair, gentle.

His voice came quiet, almost too soft to catch.

“It’s not your fault.”

Changbin pulled back slightly, eyes rimmed red.

“But I broke your heart, didn’t I?”

Seungmin smiled,  the kind that hurt to look at, tender and tired.

“Maybe. But I still wanted you to find me again.”

Silence lingered.

Then Changbin’s hand found Seungmin’s, fingers curling around them with hesitance that melted into need.

“Can we… try again?” he whispered.

“Even if it’s harder this time?”

Seungmin’s answer wasn’t loud, it came with a breath that felt like the first one after drowning.

“You never stopped being mine, even if when world hated us and probably still does.”

He reached up, brushing his fingers against Changbin’s bruised cheek.

Changbin leaned into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

For a while, neither moved.

They sat in the muted light of evening, holding each other, their hands trembling but linked, not as if they were rebuilding something new, but remembering what had always been there.

Then, after the quiet had stretched into something almost peaceful, Changbin asked softly,

“How… how did you know? About me. About what happened.”

Seungmin’s gaze dropped to their intertwined hands.

“Your aunt told me. She came to the shop a few weeks ago. Said you were gone, said your parents made you end it all. I didn’t believe her, not at first.”
He exhaled, long and slow.

“So I waited. I went to your house. Every day. Just in case.”

Changbin’s throat tightened.

He wanted to cry again, but this time it wasn’t from pain.

“You waited for me,” he whispered.

Seungmin’s lips lifted, barely.

“Always.”

And when Changbin leaned in, not to kiss him, but to rest their foreheads together,  the city outside hummed with its usual noise, lights flickering through the window.

It wasn’t the same sky as before, not the beach’s endless blue, but it didn’t matter.

They sat there under a muted, dusted evening, holding onto each other like something fragile and real, two boys who had been broken apart by the world and still somehow found their way back.

Chapter Text

They left before sunrise.

The city still slept, the streets slick with dew and silence.

Seungmin’s small backpack hung over one shoulder, Changbin’s hoodie hooded low to hide the marks along his face.

The train station was empty except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the sound of a vending machine buzzing in the corner.

Neither of them spoke much.

They didn’t need to.

Seungmin’s hand brushed against Changbin’s every few minutes, a small reminder:

You’re here, you’re safe, we’re going home.

The ride was long and still.

The further they went, the softer the world looked, glass and steel fading into green, the air turning clearer, the familiar smell of soil after rain returning like something half-remembered.

When the train slowed into the small town station, the air felt different.

Lighter somehow, but also full of ghosts.

Changbin froze on the platform for a moment, his breath catching.

He’d imagined coming back a thousand times, but not like this.

Not with bruises still aching under his skin and his heart pieced together by the boy beside him.

Seungmin looked at him quietly.

“We don’t have to rush,” he said.

Changbin nodded, but his fingers curled around Seungmin’s sleeve anyway, grounding himself.

They walked the winding streets together, past the grocery where Seungmin used to help his grandmother carry boxes, past the café they’d spent summer evenings in, past the bus stop where they’d said their first goodbye.

Everything looked the same, just quieter.

When they reached the small gate of Seungmin’s grandmother’s house, the old woman was already outside, watering her plants.

The watering can clattered to the ground when she saw them.

“Seungmin?” Her voice trembled.

Then her eyes shifted, landing on Changbin, and they softened in shock and concern.

“Oh, dear heavens-”

She hurried over, touching Changbin’s arm like she was afraid he might vanish.

“You poor boy,” she murmured, voice breaking.

“Your aunt’s been worried sick.”

Before they could explain, she was ushering them both inside, fussing over them, pulling out food, calling next door for Changbin’s aunt.

When his aunt arrived, the world seemed to pause.

She stopped at the doorway.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes filled instantly with tears.

“Changbin.”

He didn’t even have time to speak before she crossed the room and pulled him into her arms.

He stiffened, then melted, his breath hitching against her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You’re home now,” she said, holding him tighter.

“That’s all that matters.”

They sat together for hours, the four of them, Seungmin, Changbin, his aunt, and Seungmin’s grandmother,  while the whole story came out in halting pieces.

Seungmin spoke softly when Changbin couldn’t.

His aunt’s eyes darkened when she heard about his father, and she gripped his hand the whole time, shaking her head in disbelief.

By the end, she was crying again.

“You should have came to me sooner. You’ll stay here now, do you understand? You’re not going back there.”

Changbin nodded, and when he looked up, Seungmin was already watching him, a small, tired smile on his face.

The sun had started to set again, casting everything in that same warm hue that used to touch their summers.

Outside, the world smelled like wet soil and woodsmoke, the faint echo of laughter from kids playing down the street.

It wasn’t perfect, not yet, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like they could breathe.

Later, when everyone had gone to rest, Changbin found Seungmin standing by the garden fence, looking up at the dusky horizon.

He stepped beside him, their shoulders brushing.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Seungmin turned, smiling faintly.

“For what?”

“For finding me. For… everything.”

Seungmin shook his head, a small, tired laugh escaping him.

“You would’ve done the same.”

Changbin didn’t answer.

He just reached out, letting their fingers link, slow and deliberate.

The cicadas sang somewhere far off, the sky glowing orange and grey, no longer dulled, but gently alive again.

And for a moment, the world felt still enough to believe in healing.

The night air was cool when Changbin finally stepped outside.

The house was quiet now, his aunt asleep, Seungmin’s grandmother humming softly in the kitchen as she cleaned up.

The garden behind the house still smelled faintly of jasmine, damp earth, and rain.

Seungmin stood by the fence, hands tucked into his pockets, head tilted toward the darkening sky.

The sunset had long faded, leaving behind a stretch of bruised blue and orange that flickered weakly over the horizon.

Changbin stopped beside him, the wooden boards creaking softly under his shoes.

For a while, neither spoke.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy, as if every word would mean too much.

He could still feel everything:

The train ride, the tears, his aunt’s shaking hands, the way Seungmin had stayed beside him through it all, calm, quiet, unrelenting.

Finally, Changbin whispered, almost to himself,

“Thank you.”

Seungmin turned slightly, his brow creasing.

“Again?”

Changbin’s eyes didn’t leave the horizon.

His voice was low, trembling, but steady.

“For helping me break free.”

The words hung there, fragile, small, but so painfully real.

Seungmin’s breath caught.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at Changbin, at the tired eyes, the faint bruises, the slight curve of a smile that looked like the first sunlight after months of rain.

Then he moved closer.

Slowly, deliberately, their fingers brushed, then intertwined.

“Always,” Seungmin murmured.

The garden was quiet except for the hum of the night.

Somewhere far off, a dog barked, and a train horn echoed faintly from the distance.

The sky was darker now, but soft, not suffocating like the city.

Changbin turned to look at Seungmin, the corners of his mouth trembling into something halfway between a smile and a sob.

And Seungmin just held his hand tighter, the warmth of it grounding them both,  two people who had been hurt, lost, remade, and still somehow found their way back.

Chapter Text

The town smelled of salt and damp leaves.

The summer warmth had finally given way to a sharp, briskness in the morning air that made Changbin tug his jacket closer around him as he walked to school.

The sidewalks were damp with dew, and the familiar chatter of the streets seemed quieter, softer, as if the town itself had exhaled after a summer of chaos.

Changbin kept his hands buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes scanning the small town he had once feared leaving behind.

But now, it held a strange kind of comfort.

Safe.

Familiar.

And most importantly, Seungmin was here, waiting somewhere, always somehow appearing, even in the quietest corners of his days.

The first day back to this little town after the last weeks of summer felt odd.

School had started and changbin joined, the hallways smelled faintly of chalk and polish, and the windows reflected the faint glow of an autumn sun.

Changbin’s heart still jumped when he spotted Seungmin in the courtyard, leaning lazily against the low wall, a scarf wrapped around his neck, cheeks pink from the cool air.

Their eyes met, and Changbin felt the familiar warmth that had begun to reclaim its place in his chest.

He walked forward slowly, unsure if the nerves would ever truly leave him.

“Hey,” Seungmin said softly, eyes lighting up with a smile.

His hands, cold from the wind, were tucked into his pockets, but there was a subtle reach in his gaze, a quiet plea that made Changbin’s chest tighten.

“Hey,” Changbin replied, letting his hands emerge from the jacket and brush lightly against Seungmin’s.

The touch was fleeting, just enough to remind him that he was here, real, and finally, theirs.

By mid-morning, they had found a quiet corner of the school garden.

The air was sharp and cool, but when Changbin’s fingers brushed against Seungmin’s in passing, a flush spread across both their faces.

They ate the sandwiches they had packed in silence, sharing bites occasionally, their small glances carrying more meaning than any words could.

“Did you see Jisung today?” Changbin asked, breaking the silence with a soft laugh.

Seungmin grinned, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes.

“Yeah, he almost dropped the chemistry set on Felix. Again.”

They laughed quietly, the sound mingling with the crisp autumn breeze.

Moments like this, small, ordinary, unremarkable to anyone else, felt monumental.

They were reclaiming pieces of life stolen from them, one laugh, one brush of hands, one soft smile at a time.

After school, Changbin and Seungmin wandered toward the beach.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, painting the water a muted grayish-blue instead of the bright shimmer of summer.

The wind tugged at their scarves and jackets, and Changbin pulled his close around himself, though the warmth in his chest had nothing to do with the wind.

Seungmin walked beside him, shoulders brushing occasionally, the contact sending sparks of familiarity and comfort through Changbin’s nerves.

When they reached their usual spot near the sand, the town’s skyline a dull silhouette behind them, they settled down.

Seungmin rested his head lightly on Changbin’s shoulder, and  Changbin didn’t flinch.

He leaned in slightly, brushing Seungmin’s hair from his face, and whispered,

“You’re really here.”

Seungmin’s voice was quiet, almost choked, but steady.

“I am. And I’m not leaving, whether you like it or not.”

His hands tightened around Changbin’s, small but fierce grips that told him more than words ever could.

The cold air bit at their cheeks, but it didn’t matter.

Their warmth clung to each other, unshakable, a tether against the chill.

Changbin closed his eyes briefly, letting the soft pressure of Seungmin’s hand and the quiet of the evening fill him with a peace he hadn’t known for months.

Days slipped by in this rhythm.

They walked to school together, shared snacks, and walked back to the beach in the evenings.

Autumn’s light shifted faster than summer’s had, shadows stretching across the sand, but they didn’t care.

Every touch, every laugh, every quiet word was a stitch in the fragile but growing tapestry of their love.

One afternoon, Changbin tried to carry Seungmin’s books when a sudden gust of wind scattered them across the street.

Seungmin laughed, chasing after the heavier textbooks.

“You’re terrible at helping!” he teased, cheeks flushed from laughter.

“I’m trying!” Changbin replied, grinning sheepishly as he picked up a stack of notebooks.

His fingers brushed Seungmin’s as they passed them back, and for a moment, both froze, laughter suspended in the crisp air.

“Even when you’re hopeless, you’re mine,”

Seungmin whispered, a grin tugging at his lips.

Changbin felt his chest ache, but not in the old fearful way.

It was a warm ache, full of love and the thrill of finally being together without hiding.

Evenings became their most cherished moments like before.

They would sit on the sand, knees brushing, hands intertwined, sharing pieces of candy and stories from the day.

The sky above was dimmer than in the summer, the town's haze dimming the colors, the waves a muted gray.

Yet here, in their corner, the world felt small, manageable, safe.

Sometimes they didn’t speak.

Sometimes they just leaned against each other, letting the other’s warmth speak.

Changbin would trace lazy patterns on Seungmin’s hand, feeling the pulse of his heart, reminding himself that this was real, that he was alive, and that Seungmin was here with him.

Other times, they would talk quietly, sharing thoughts and jokes and teasing remarks.

Each word, each laugh, each brush of hands wove them closer together, healing old wounds and strengthening the fragile trust that had taken so long to build.

One evening, as the sun finally disappeared behind the gray skyline, Changbin leaned over and brushed Seungmin’s hair back from his forehead.

“I never thought we’d get here,” he murmured.

Seungmin rested his head against Changbin’s shoulder, fingers threading through his.

“Neither did I,” he whispered, voice soft but resolute.

“But we are. And we’re staying.”

The chill in the air was sharp, but the warmth between them was unbreakable.

They didn’t need words beyond that.

They didn’t need promises beyond what they already held in their hands and hearts.

As autumn deepened, the days grew shorter, but their closeness never wavered.

They studied together, cooked small meals, shared quiet walks in the town, and stayed up far too late laughing at trivial things.

Changbin’s chest, once heavy with fear and guilt, now felt light, brimming with the small joys of ordinary life shared with the person he loved most.

Seungmin would tease him endlessly, and Changbin would blush and pout, but the moments were gentle and playful.

At night, he would hold Seungmin close in bed, fingers brushing hair and cheeks, whispering reassurances to himself and to Seungmin.

“You’re mine,” he would murmur softly.

“And you’re mine,” Seungmin would reply, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

By the end of the week, they sat again on the beach, the autumn air sharp, but their closeness a shield.

The city’s silhouette was stark and imposing, but in their shared warmth, it didn’t matter.

Hands intertwined, shoulders brushing, and hearts aligned, they leaned into each other, finally allowing themselves to smile, laugh, and be wholly, undeniably happy.

Changbin let his head rest against Seungmin’s, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

For the first time in months, he didn’t feel fear.

He didn’t feel guilt.

He felt only the quiet, radiant joy of love, healing, and being together.

And in that quiet, bittersweet city sunset, they found something that summer had promised but never fully delivered:

Each other, finally safe, finally whole, finally home.

Chapter Text

The town was quieter now.

And summer finally faded away.

Autumn had fully settled in, and the days had shortened to a gentle, cool light that spilled over the streets like soft ash.

Changbin walked beside Seungmin, the air crisp in their lungs, scarves wrapped loosely around their necks, and hands intertwined without hesitation.

There was no fear, no guilt, no lingering panic, only the steady warmth of being together.

Changbin’s chest felt light, almost impossibly so, after months of turmoil, heartbreak, and uncertainty.

Each step beside Seungmin was a reminder of what they had endured, what they had fought for, and how much they had healed.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Seungmin said, brushing a strand of hair from his face as they walked.

His thumb stroked lightly over Changbin’s hand.

“Everything okay?”

Changbin shook his head slightly, smiling softly.

“I’m just… savoring this. Every moment. I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this again.”

Seungmin laughed quietly, a soft, tender sound that made Changbin’s chest ache with happiness.

“I know. Me neither. But here we are.”

They reached their usual spot near the beach, where the water lapped quietly against the shore.

The skyline loomed faintly behind them, bright and blue, but it filtered  the weight of fear and suffocation that they found in the city.

Now it was just background, a witness to the life they were building together.

Changbin sat down, pulling Seungmin close.

He rested his forehead against his boyfriend’s, breathing in the faint scent of him,  faintly soap, faintly autumn, faintly home.

It was a scent that had become a lifeline over the weeks, a tether to sanity and joy.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Changbin murmured, voice trembling slightly, though it carried no fear.

“I… I thought I’d never get to hold you like this again. Never get to… just be happy with you.”

Seungmin smiled, pressing a soft kiss to Changbin’s temple.

“I know. I thought the same. But we made it. We fought for it, even when it hurt, even when the world tried to tear us apart. And now… now we get to just… be us.”

The words felt heavy, anchoring, but also freeing.

Changbin’s heart felt like it might burst with relief and love.

He reached up, cupping Seungmin’s face fully in his hands, thumbs brushing along his cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I’ve never stopped. And I… I don’t want to stop. Ever.”

Seungmin’s eyes glistened, a mix of unshed tears and quiet laughter.

“I know,” he replied, pressing his forehead against Changbin’s.

“And I love you too. I’ve always loved you. More than I can say. And now… now we can finally just… be together.”

They stayed like that for a long while, hearts beating in quiet unison, hands entwined, foreheads touching.

The cold wind tried to creep through their jackets, but neither cared.

It could not touch the warmth between them, the careful rebuilding of trust, the healing of months spent apart and broken.

Days passed, and with the steady rhythm of the town, their lives began to settle into something simple, comforting, and full.

Changbin enrolled fully into the local high school, blending into the routine while still holding tightly to Seungmin’s hand in the hallways, sneaking smiles, brushing shoulders, and sharing small, intimate moments that reminded them both of everything they had survived.

Evenings became their sacred time.

They would walk along the beach, share meals from local vendors, sit quietly under the dim evening sun,  lights reflected in the water, and sometimes just hold each other, letting the silence speak all the words they didn’t need to say.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Changbin allowed himself to laugh without guilt.

To smile without fear.

To love without reservation.

Seungmin, for his part, became his anchor.

He was patient, tender, and unrelenting in his care, letting Changbin heal at his own pace while reminding him constantly, through soft touches, quiet reassurances, and gentle teasing, that they were no longer just survivors of a brutal summer.

They were a couple, a team, and a home for each other.

One late afternoon, as the sun set behind the gray skyline, they sat on the edge of the pier, legs dangling over the water.

Changbin leaned against Seungmin, feeling the steady press of his warmth and the faint heartbeat beneath his chest.

“I never thought we’d get here,” Changbin said, voice low and tremulous.

“Not after everything… not after my parents, the city, the breakup… everything.”

Seungmin pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“I know. But we did. And it’s ours. All of it. This… us… it’s ours. No one can take it away.”

Changbin smiled, a tear escaping, but it was no longer a tear of fear or despair.

It was a tear of relief, of gratitude, of the quiet, deep happiness he had never thought he deserved.

“I’m never letting go,” Seungmin whispered, tightening his hold on Changbin’s hand.

“Nor I,” Changbin replied, leaning up to press a soft kiss to Seungmin’s lips.

Gentle, tender, full of months of longing and unspoken words, the kiss held everything, apology, love, fear, hope.

It was messy, imperfect, but entirely theirs.

They pulled back slightly, foreheads touching, breaths mingling, hands intertwined, and for a long while, they simply existed like that, two people who had been broken by the world and healed by each other.

And in that moment, the polluted sky, the chill in the air, and the distant hum of the city all faded away.

There was only them.

Only warmth.

Only love.

Only home.

The final weeks of the school year passed quietly, but beautifully.

They walked to school together, studied in small cafes, explored the town’s hidden corners, and laughed without fear.

There were still moments of hesitation, of caution, reminders of what they had endured.

But every touch, every glance, every shared smile built the bridge between past pain and present happiness.

Changbin no longer feared the city, nor the world, nor losing Seungmin.

Every day, he proved to himself that love could survive neglect, distance, fear, and cruelty.

That love could endure, thrive, and heal.

And at his side, Seungmin’s soft laughter and steady presence became a constant, an anchor, a home, a reminder of everything worth fighting for.

When summer had ended, they had feared loss.

When the storm had passed, they had feared the aftermath.

But now, with autumn settling over the town, they had something even stronger than summer.

Something lasting.

Something real.

Somewhere where the tide falls.

And together, they walked forward, hand in hand, into the quiet beauty of the days to come.

Chapter Text

The tide had begun its slow retreat, leaving small pools of water scattered across the sand, reflecting the golden light of the late afternoon sun.

The gentle roar of the ocean mingled with the distant calls of seagulls, and a cool breeze carried the faint scent of salt and wildflowers.

Changbin stood barefoot at the water’s edge, toes sinking into the wet sand.

His high school graduation cap and gown were long gone, replaced by the crisp, simple uniform of Jisung’s flower shop.

He had finally earned a permanent position there, taking care of arrangements, deliveries, and everything that came with running a small, cherished business.

It wasn’t a city job, not the kind his parents would have wanted for him, but it was his.

And it was here.

His eyes drifted along the curve of the shoreline, half-expecting to see Seungmin running toward him, hair tousled by the wind, that familiar easy smile lighting up his face.

Seungmin still had a year left of high school, a year full of classes, homework, and afternoons spent at the beach.

Changbin had a year of work, of responsibilities, of careful planning, but whenever he thought of Seungmin, all of it seemed small, insignificant.

He smiled faintly, lifting his gaze to the horizon.

Meet me where the tide falls, he whispered to himself, a private echo of all the memories, all the moments they had shared here.

The beach had always been theirs, where laughter had mingled with salty air, where tears had been shed, and where love had quietly, painfully, and stubbornly grown.

From the corner of his eye, Changbin spotted movement:

Seungmin walking along the sand, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, looking completely unaware of the weight of the coming summer months.

His heart caught in his chest, a mixture of relief, longing, and something else, hope.

Changbin exhaled, steadying himself.

He had worked hard to build this life, to carve a space where they could exist without fear.

He might be older, wiser in ways he never wanted to know, but at the center of everything remained the same:

Seungmin, laughing too loudly, walking too quickly, somehow completely and utterly himself.

The tide glimmered, reflecting the last light of the day.

Changbin took a careful step forward into the shallow water, letting the cool waves curl around his ankles.

“Here,” he murmured, turning toward Seungmin,

“this is where I’ll be. Meet me here, whenever you can.”

And for the first time in a long while, he believed that no matter how far the tide pulled them apart, they would always find each other where it falls.