#In the Shadow of the Midnight Sun | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

player042 · 3 months ago

Text

HER SUN, HIS MOON | kang dae-ho.

pairing: kang dae-ho (player 388) x reader

summary: opposites attract, they say, but absolutely no one could prepare you for the impact dae-ho would have in your life. requested here.

warning: pre squid game au, grumpy x sunshine dynamics, reader has personality similar to sae-byeok's, kinda colleagues to friends to lovers, heart-melting dae-ho being utterly smitten and protective, mention of fighting and blood, prepare for banter and love that feels like the perfect balance, and please enjoy ♥️

word count: 3.7k

Dae-ho and you were written in the stars. Not in words, but through a bond that neither time nor reason could break. As if the universe itself had signed a soul contract on your behalf, interlinking the two of you forever, one bright as the sun, the other dark as the night. Because you could think of no other explanation for how you and Dae-ho had found your way to each other.

For he and you were opposites in every conceivable way. He was golden hours spent laughing, and you were the quiet serenity of midnight. He was the light on a summer day, you were the shadow on a winter night. He was a golden retriever, bounding through life with enthusiasm and a need to love and be loved, while you were the black cat, aloof and deliberate, your affection hard-earned and fiercely given. He was the proverbial sunshine boyfriend, and you? The grumpy girlfriend, even if you'd never admit it aloud.

You still remembered the early days before you were together. Back then, you had avoided entanglements, thinking emotions were too unpredictable, too messy. Dae-ho, on the other hand, had been nothing but heart, an open book that practically had shouted his feelings with every glance, every action. Easygoing. Flirty. Compassionate. Gentle. Funny. Supportive. That's how he'd always been. You had worked at the same bookstore café as part-timers, making money on the side while studying at uni, and he had been the kind of coworker who brought in homemade snacks to share, who remembered the regulars' orders, who lit up every corner of the room just by being there

And you? You had preferred the quiet. You'd worked the closing shift to avoid the chaos, stocked the shelves in peace, and only spoke when absolutely necessary. Yet somehow, Dae-ho had decided you were his favorite person in the room.

Work had been slow that day, the kind of lazy afternoon where time seemed to drag. You had been in the back, sorting through new stock, when Dae-ho had appeared like a whirlwind of energy. As usual, he had brought his sunshine into the room, whistling a tune as he had sauntered over to where you had been crouched on the floor.

"Need a hand?" he asked, grinning as he leaned casually against the shelf. His eyes sparkled with that familiar mischievous glint that always made you wary.

"No," you said simply, focusing on the stack of books in front of you. "I'm fine."

"That's debatable," he replied, crouching down next to you. "You've been glaring at those books like they owe you money. Which, knowing you, isn't completely impossible."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "They're disorganized. It's irritating."

"I think you mean it's irresistible," he corrected, emphasizing the word as he tilted his head to get a better look at your face. "Because you're clearly putting all your energy into ignoring the most charming guy in the room."

You'd turned to him then, giving him a flat look. "Charming? You?"

His hand went to his chest, mock offense lighting up his features. "Ouch. That hurts. Right here." He tapped his heart, then flashed you an exaggerated pout. "You wound me."

"Good," you shot back, turning back to the books. "Maybe it'll teach you some humility."

He let out a soft laugh, his voice dipping lower. "Nah, I think I'll keep my ego intact, thanks. It's my best feature. Or… is it my smile? You've been staring at it a lot lately, so maybe I should ask you."

Your fingers froze on the book in your hand, and you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. He always knew exactly how to get under your skin, and worse, he lived for it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said smoothly, though your face betrayed you with the faintest hint of pink in your cheeks.

"Oh, come on," he teased, leaning in closer. "Don't play coy with me. I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."

You turned to glare at him, which only made him grin wider. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?" His voice was soft now, his gaze steady as he inched just a bit closer. "Because I'd bet my entire paycheck that you're thinking about how good I'd look kissing you right now."

You blinked, your heart skipping a beat at his boldness. But you weren't going to give him the satisfaction. "That's a terrible bet," you deadpanned with your best pokerface, setting the book aside. "You don't even make that much."

His laughter echoed in the small space, rich and full of delight. "See? That's exactly why you're my favorite."

"You're annoying," you retorted, standing up and dusting off your jeans.

"And yet, you keep me around." He stood as well, towering over you slightly. His boyish grin softened into something more genuine, his eyes lingering on yours. "Admit it, you'd miss me if I wasn't here."

You had rolled your eyes, "You wish."

"I do," he remarked, "And you love it," he winked at you before strolling off, whistling that same tune as before.

And damn it, you did love it.

No one understood it back then. This thing you two had. They still didn't understand. How could someone so effervescent, so outwardly bright, have chosen someone so reserved, so calculated? How could two people so different orbit each other with such ease? But honestly, they didn't need to understand. It was him and you that counted. Two sides of the same coin, perfectly balanced in your differences, inseparable in ways that defied explanation.

And so, it began, this undefined connection between you. Gradually, you found yourselves spending more and more time together. Dinners after work became a casual routine, and weekends often led to shared nights out at bars.

On one particular Saturday night, the bar you went to was packed; the air buzzing with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of a jukebox in the corner. It was one of those rare nights where you let yourself relax, even though relaxing wasn't exactly your forte. Of course, it helped that Dae-ho was there, his larger-than-life presence somehow managing to make you forget how crowded and loud the place was.

You were sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, while Dae-ho leaned against the counter beside you, a mischievous grin perpetually plastered on his face. He was in rare form all evening, tossing out jokes and one-liners, testing just how far he could push your usual stoic demeanor.

"Come on," he teased, nudging your arm gently. "I know, you're having fun. You're smiling. At least on the inside."

You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "I don't smile."

"Not true," he countered, wagging a finger at you. "You smiled that one time when I tripped on the stairs."

"That wasn't a smile," you clarified with absolutely no emotion in your face, "That was schadenfreude."

"Call it whatever you want," he replied with a wink. "It still counts."

Your lips twitched slightly at that, betraying a flicker of amusement you tried to hide. Of course, Dae-ho noticed instantly, pointing at you triumphantly.

"Aww, I'm growing on you."

"Like mold," you muttered, taking another sip of your drink to mask your expression.

Undeterred, he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "You know, I've been told I have a certain… effect on people. Charm, charisma, devastating good looks, take your pick."

"Is that what your sisters told you?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

His grin widened. "Ah, there's the sharp tongue I love. Keep it coming, baby."

"Stop calling me that," you grumbled, even as your stomach flipped at the nickname.

As the evening went on, the two of you fell into a rhythm of teasing and banter, your words volleying back and forth like it was second nature. The bustling crowd and occasional jostle of bodies around you became background noise as your attention fixated on each other. What you did notice, however, was how close he's got. His shoulder brushed yours, his warm breath tickling your ear as he spoke in that low, teasing tone.

"So," he said casually, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "how long are you going to keep pretending you don't like me?"

You snorted, leaning back slightly in an attempt to create some distance, not that it helped. "What makes you think I like you?"

"Your complete inability to look me in the eye when I do this," he explained, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture had been so smooth, so effortlessly intimate, it left you momentarily speechless.

"Is your ego always this big, or is it just me?" you managed to ask, though your voice had sounded weaker than you intended.

"Just you," he replied, his grin softening into something more genuine. "You bring out the best in me, moonbeam."

Before you could formulate a snappy retort, a commotion erupted behind you. Raised voices and curses cut through the background noise, drawing your attention to a group of men arguing near a table. One of them shoved another, and you instinctively tensed.

"Dae-ho," you hissed, elbowing him. "Something's happening."

"Huh?" He blinked, finally tearing his gaze away from you to glance in the direction of the chaos. "Oh. Looks like a fight."

"Yeah, thanks, Sherlock," you muttered, standing up as the tension escalated. One of the men pulled out a knife, waving it threateningly.

"Let's just get out of here," you grabbed Dae-ho's arm. But before you could pull him away, the fight spilled dangerously close to the bar.

Everything that happened next was a blur. The man with the knife lunged forward, clearly aiming for his opponent, but the latter ducked, and somehow, Dae-ho, who inexplicably stepped forward, took the hit instead.

"Shit!" you yelled, catching him as he stumbled back. The knife had grazed his side, leaving a shallow but nasty wound. Blood seeped through his shirt, and panic had gripped you.

"Dae-ho!" you exclaimed, your hands gripping his shoulders. "What the hell were you thinking?"

He winced, a crooked grin tugging at his lips despite the pain. "Guess I wasn't."

"No kidding," you snapped, grabbing a napkin from the bar to press against his wound. "Who gets stabbed because they're too busy flirting?"

"Is that… your way of admitting I'm hard to resist?" he asked, his voice strained but still tinged with humor.

You glared at him, though your heart was racing for entirely different reasons. "Shut up and sit down. You're bleeding."

"I've had worse," he said, but he sank obediently into a nearby chair, his hand covering yours as you applied pressure to his wound. "Besides, I couldn't let anything happen to you."

"I was fine," you muttered through gritted teeth. "You're the one who almost got killed because you can't stop playing knight in shining armor."

"Be honest," he said with a weak chuckle. "You'd really miss me if I wasn't around."

You froze at his words, remembering the last time, he's said them, your breath hitching. But this time, the thought of losing him, wasn't so far away. Momentarily, the noise of the bar faded, replaced by the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

"Don't be stupid," you said softly.

"I knew it! I do have an effect on you," he grinned triumphantly, "I'll take my victory now, thanks."

You rolled your eyes, but the faint tremble in your hands gave you away. "Just… try not to die, okay?"

His grin widened, despite the pain etched across his face. "If it means seeing you worried about me? Worth it."

As much as you wanted to deny it back then, he hadn't been wrong. You would miss him. And that had terrified you more than any knife ever could.

Your relationship had always been a slow burn, like embers catching fire after months of waiting for the perfect conditions. On that rainy Saturday night, after the chaos at the bar, you found yourself driving Dae-ho to the hospital, his side patched up with hastily wrapped gauze that barely held back the bleeding. He sat in the passenger seat, uncharacteristically quiet, his usual energy dampened by the pain and the rain drumming on the windshield.

"You didn't have to do this," he muttered after a while, his head leaning back against the seat.

"Of course I did," you replied without looking at him, your knuckles tight around the steering wheel. "I wasn't going to let you bleed out in some alley."

He chuckled faintly, the sound tinged with both amusement and exhaustion. "You've got a funny way of showing you care."

You ignored him, keeping your focus on the road, though your heart clenched at the way his voice sounded weaker than usual.

At the hospital, you stayed with him through the stitches, arms crossed over your chest as he cracked half-hearted jokes to distract himself from the needle. When the nurse asked if you were his girlfriend, you didn't bother to deny it, instead rolling your eyes and muttering, "Just patch him up, will you?"

By the time you were finally helping him to his apartment, the rain had turned into a steady downpour. He leaned on you as you guided him up the stairs, his weight a reminder of how fragile this moment felt despite the humor he tried to inject into it.

As you reached the cover of his apartment's awning, you let out a breath, finally releasing your grip on his arm. The warm glow of the entryway light cast over the two of you, highlighting the faint smirk tugging at his lips despite everything.

"I've got to say," he began, leaning heavily against the doorframe, "I think this is the longest you've ever willingly spent with me. Kind of feels like progress."

You shot him a look, but there was no real heat behind it. "You're an idiot," you said, shaking your head. "Why do you always make everything a joke?"

"Because someone's gotta balance us out," he quipped, though his grin faltered as he studied your face. "You're always so serious, moonbeam."

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the sound of rain filling the silence. He tilted his head slightly, as if debating whether to push further. Then, in a softer tone, he said, "Why do you act like you don't care when I know you do?"

His question caught you off guard, the vulnerability in his voice digging into the walls you'd carefully built around yourself. You looked away, the words forming in your throat before you could stop them. "Because caring about people… it hurts. And I've had enough of that."

Silence stretched between you again, heavier this time. When you finally looked at him, the teasing glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something deeper, something that made your chest tighten.

"You don't have to be scared of me," he said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I don't get it," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

"Don't get what?"

"You. Why you're always so nice to me."

He tilted his head as he studied you through the rain. "Because you're worth it," he said simply as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, his voice soft but certain. "And because I like you."

The words caught you off guard, your heart skipping a beat. You could only stare at him, the rain a gentle soundtrack to the weight of his confession.

"Say something, moonbeam," he teased, his grin crooked but genuine.

The rawness of his words, the way he had said them like a promise, made something inside you snap. Before you could second-guess yourself, you stepped closer, your hands reaching for his collar. You kissed him, tentative at first, your lips brushing against his like you were testing the waters. He froze, clearly surprised, but only for a short moment. Then his hands were on your waist, steadying you as he kissed you back with a tenderness that belied his usual boldness.

The warmth of his lips, the faint taste of blood and rain, made your head spin. It wasn't rushed or frantic, it was slow, deliberate, like he didn't want to miss a single second of it. When you pulled back, his eyes searched yours, his expression soft but unreadable.

"That's a good start," he murmured, his fingers brushing a raindrop from your cheek.

And that was the night everything shifted.

Even now, years later, as you sat curled up on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, that kiss lingered in your memory, replaying in these quiet moments like a favorite song. You hadn't realized it then, but that kiss had marked the beginning of a life you'd never imagined for yourself, a life with him. You were lazily scrolling through your phone, as the smell of coffee wafted from the kitchen, a comforting scent that told you Dae-ho was busy doing something, blending with the faint hum of his voice as he moved about.

You smiled to yourself, tracing the worn fabric of the hoodie with your fingertips.

"Babe," his voice called from the kitchen, teasing and light, pulling you from your thoughts, "if I bring you coffee in bed, does that make me husband material, or is it too early for that kind of promotion?"

You snorted, setting your phone down as you stretched. "You've gotta stop campaigning so hard, Dae-ho. It's getting desperate."

He appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs of steaming coffee and wearing the kind of grin that made your stomach flip. "Desperate? Honey, this is a demonstration of premium boyfriend services." He crossed the room, setting the mugs on the coffee table before flopping down next to you.

"Premium?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "You didn't even bring toast."

He gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "Are you doubting the quality of my care and devotion?"

"I'm just saying," you replied with a smirk, "a little effort wouldn't kill you."

"Oh, you want effort?" he teased, leaning over you, his face suddenly much closer than you anticipated. His arm stretched over the back of the couch, caging you in just slightly. "Name it, and it's yours."

You stared at him, biting your lip to keep from laughing. "Okay. Toast. I want toast."

He narrowed his eyes playfully, tilting his head. "You sure about that? Not, I don't know, me? Because I'm sitting right here."

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed as he leaned closer, the playful glint in his eyes softening into something warmer. "You're still annoying," you said under your breath, trying to sound in-fact annoyed, but your voice betrayed you, coming out softer than you intended.

"And you're adorable," he shot back, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I think we're even."

The warmth of his breath lingered on your skin as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand slid down to your waist, tugging you closer until your legs were tangled together, his thumb idly tracing circles over the fabric of your hoodie.

"You look good in my clothes," he murmured, his voice dipping lower. "Almost too good. How am I supposed to let you out of this apartment now?"

You couldn't stop the small laugh that bubbled up, even as your heart raced. "Who said I was going anywhere?"

His grin widened at your response, and before you could say anything else, he turned you with a swift motion, settling you on top of him so that your legs straddled his hips. The shift left you breathless, your bare thighs brushing against his sides as his hands splayed firmly on your waist, holding you in place.

"Good," he said, his voice lower now, a little rougher around the edges. His dark eyes held yours, their usual playfulness tempered with something deeper, something that made your stomach flutter. "Because I can't get enough of you."

His words sent a shiver down your spine. He tilted his head back slightly, his thumb tracing absent patterns along your hip. "You, moonbeam," he murmured, his gaze intense. "You're addicting. Like I'm craving something I can't ever stop wanting."

You felt your breath hitch, your heart thudding in your chest. You tried to compose yourself, to play it cool, but the way he looked at you made it impossible to be unaffected. Instead, you leaned forward slightly, letting your hands rest on his chest. "Dae-ho," you softly said his name the way you knew it drove him crazy, "You keep talking like that, and I might think you're the romantic one in this relationship."

His lips quirked into a smirk, but his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you even closer. "Don't think. Know. And I'll keep proving it until you never question it again."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound blending with the warmth of his presence. "You're setting the bar pretty high for yourself, you know."

He shrugged, his hands never leaving your waist, "That just means I have to keep finding ways to spoil you."

In that moment, the world outside disappeared, leaving just the two of you tangled together. His hands slowly slid down to your thighs now, his thumbs brushing over your skin, while his gaze never left yours. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, and his arms circled back around you, holding you impossibly close as though you might vanish if he didn't.

"I told you," he murmured against your lips. "Addicting."

"I know," you said softly, capturing his lips in another slow kiss. "And that's why I love you."

His boyish grin returned against your lips, softer this time, "I love you, too. But I'm still not getting up for toast."

You burst out laughing, and he pulled you even tighter against him, his chuckle rumbling through his chest as he pressed a kiss against your jaw. Right then and there, everything felt right, like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you. You smiled, letting yourself melt into him, and you thought to yourself that this was where you were meant to be. Not because he was your sun or you were his moon, but because together, you created something whole.

Something timeless.

Something infinite.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

1K notes · View notes

abyssyby · 24 days ago

Text

where shadows rest

— he’s sorry. it happens again. you tell him to count his days. he does. every single one.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: part 2 to the blanket war! a lover, yes very much so, but sylus is also a formidable opponent. and a grump when you spoil his games. enjoy! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | more fluff, overdramatic!reader, overdramatic!sylus, evening grumpies & morning cuddles ++ some suggestive intimate touching

He’s sorry.

He’s sorry, he said, and like a fool, you believed it would never happen again. But he never said it wouldn’t did he? He said other things— more with his body than his words that day— but the promise of never making that mistake again was egregiously omitted from that… conversation.

You wake in his arms once more, head on his bicep, his bottom lip resting just at your hairline. His breath coming out in puffs through his nose, tickling the baby hairs on the top of your head.

You press forward, seeking more of his warmth. Preferring it today over the sun’s. He reacts accordingly, crowding you closer to his chest and relaxing against your body even more.

You remember this time. Hazy, but the resentment is there. Heavy evidence rests in his phone, awaiting his discovery, and you seethe in silence until then. Or at least you try to, specially when he starts to stir. Starts to run his fingers up and down your spine. Putty under his hands. No better than the tendrils of smoke he commands with his power.

He asks, “What did I do?” and you’re caught off guard at the heaviness in his tone. Aside from the ragged texture and the deeper than usual timbre of his voice, he sounds so disturbed that he’d upset you this early.

You almost don’t mention it. You stall, though. “How did you…?”

“You aren’t kissing me.” he murmurs, sleep laden and heavy as cold oil. Heated fingerprints leave shivering gooseflesh in their wake as they trickle down your arm to grasp your hand. Your palm is guided to his neck, across like he’s cutting through. “Your usual appetite is… suppressed. I can only assume it’s my doing.”

A kiss is placed on his adam’s apple to appease him. To prove his smartass wrong. He only chuckles and shakes his head, “Talk to me, angel.”

“I don’t remember.” you half-lie. Your midnight excursions are usually forgotten by morning, hence why you send the videos. The irritation never follows you past sunrise, and he’s left unscathed no matter how atrocious (not really) his actions against you were.

His foot glides up between your ankles, his knee between your thighs. You yelp at the contact, and his brows raise. “I get it.” he drawls.

Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “What?”

“I’ve done it again.” he sighs, though he doesn’t sound too disappointed in himself. Before you can push more, he stretches his arm back to the nightstand to grab his phone. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he scrolls to your messages and—as expected— a barrage of verbally abusive texts greet him.

Beloved: SULUS!!!nN I fant belive u ?? ill haev ur head!!

“See.” he murmurs against the back of your head, the sound resonating in your skull. You’ve turned to face his phone as well, back to his chest to see. The video plays when he’s blinked the sleep away.

You’re there again, of course, who else could it be. The menace that you are, a gremlin in his goddess divine’s body. Sleep mused hair, his button-up shirt hanging off one shoulder, disoriented and bleary eyed, trying your hardest to squint through the harsh flash of the front camera.

“Sylus!” you whisper through gritted teeth. Behind you, he’s splayed out on the bed, starfished with the corners of the blanket so meticulously tucked beneath his large body.

You say nothing else when your circle him with the camera facing you, too distressed to flip the point of view. The front camera would face him every few times when you’re tugging at the edges, and fully when you set it down on the nightstand to yank hard on the edge under his feet. “Are you kidding me?”

You don’t recall this part present time, but you crawl on top of him and splay out your body on his back, lips to his ear. The microphone catches the faintest of whispers of: “Sylus, the blanket.” “Sylus, sylus, please. It’s so cold.”

Which he answers with: “I love you.” and “Come here” but he makes no movement to let you in.

Your final action on him is to ruffle his hair and slap his shoulder— he groans, “oww.”

You take the camera again, furious now, and point to it— to him. “Count your days!”

And he’s chuckling again. You should be proud that you make him laugh so easily, the cynic he is.

The pillow you grip to throw at his head is pinned to the bed with his hand, preventing the attack from happening. “Ah-ah,” he chides. “We’ve done that before.”

“Oh, so you’re not a fan of reruns?” you scoff.

He beams, fully awake now. Admiring your fire that rivals the sky’s so early in his day. “I’m a fan of these videos, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s like a morning report.”

A different tactic then, you aim your fingers to his sides and he twitches as if he’d been electrocuted.

“Not enough riches to take for yourself, so you take—” You bite back a grin as he yelps, a delightful sound. “—my half!”

He’s giggly again. And you love it, you love him so much, he’s just so annoying. Fingers intertwine with yours in an effort to sedate your poking, hating this more than the pillow whacking. “How else am I going to get my favorite show on?”

“My suffering is entertainment?!” you shriek, climbing him to get leverage— he loves this part, really— and wrestling his arms back with all your might.

“Everything you do is amusing to me,” he grins, a challenge. A push towards the edge. He finds the satisfaction at the twisted emotion on your face, and slackens his arms. The force of your own strength snaps you to his chest while your arms are incapacitated by his own pinning them to your sides in a bear hug.

And again, because he is, he kisses your bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

But this time, you hmph indignantly and he is forced (delighted) to make it up to you in more convincing ways.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The flash is your friend at this point. Pupils dilated in the dark shrink as the light emerges from your phone. If you were on the same side, you’d say you’d look like a cave diver. He’d say, “What’s a cave diver?”

“Night three.” You mutter tiredly, in bed this time, on your side. Like you’d just reached out to your nightstand without a second thought.

You are shivering, curled in on yourself like a helpless animal in the throes of winter. Your back is pressed against the hunk of a man that is Sylus, warm inside his insulated cannoli.

You sigh, turning to face the giant worm the love of your life has metamorphosed into overnight. “Your promises are empty, your love isn’t real.” You spit, but the tone in your voice doesn’t match the venom of your words.

“I—“ you gasp, mid-monologue and the camera is jostled. The creature bests you, and in an instant you are engulfed by more than just the warmth of your missing blanket.

The camera falls conveniently on you pillow, at an angle that catches you in the corner of the video in a headlock. Sylus’s bicep secure around your chest, your chin rests in the crook of his elbow and his hair overwhelms half your face.

His lips brush your neck when he speaks, low and half-conscious. “M’sorry.”

And you’re gone.

The phone falls. The video auto-sends as soon as the time limit is up, and it catches you drifting off to sleep in his embrace.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

It’s a game when on the morning of night three, you receive a video at work.

Sy (Fruit Ltd. Co. Intl.): Whats this now…?

Glancing around, you stuff your ear pieces in to watch it. The contact name change from "my love" to what popped up on your phone in broad daylight is handy when he does this. Annoying, but you can't stop the flutter of your heart when he sends you texts out of the blue to remind you he thinks about you.

When the coast is clear, the video plays.

“Morning three hundred seventy-nine.” his voice like burning gravel rings in your ears. His one eye is open while the right still struggles to in the dim light.

He extends his arm, zooming out of his face and ushering in the image of your own sleeping figure, slope of your nose pressed into the muscles of his neck and fingers clasped on his shirt.

“Consorting with the enemy, sweetie? That’s not very righteous of you.” cocky. he sounds so cocky you want to punch him in the mouth (with your mouth).

He brushes the hair from your face and kisses your forehead. “I am counting my days.”

The video ends just as you hear yourself say, “huh?”

You text back,

Beloved: BLOCKED.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Footsteps around his bedroom are as melodic as the vinyls on his record player. Sylus listens as they keep a steady beat, stutter, shuffle and go fast, hesitate and go slow. Your soft voice talking yourself through your routine accompanies the beat as a soft melody.

His eyes skim over the book he reads, but his senses are attuned to you. Finally, when you finish your pre-bed routine, you return to his side. Where you belong.

Captivated by the narrative he was reading, he trusts you to slip into your place under his arm on your own so he can feel your weight on his side and follow the cycle of your breathing with his own.

But this time you take an extra step at fixing something by your pillow. And he is a creature of habit. Curious, he peeks, and scowls at what he sees. “What is that?”

You startle at the harsh tone. “It’s for emergencies.”

The book slams shut. He’s turning to face you fully now. Disgust drips off the word. “Emergencies?”

“I can’t keep waking you when you hog,” your shrug. it wasnt practical at all, to keep blowing up such a non-issue.

“Yes you can.” he says. And when you don’t look at him, he bends at the waist to reach you. He takes your chin in his fingers and turns your face to him— to see him being sincere. Softly, he states, “Beloved, you can.”

But you cant. He’s just getting into the groove of a normal circadian rhythm and thats all youve ever wanted from him. Already, the darkness beneath his eyes have reduced thanks to… well, you. “It’s okay, Sylus.”

And like a child, like a cat, like a grumpy, spoiled, crime syndicate, he grabs the blanket and throws it behind him. Off the bed. Away from you. You blink at his petulance.

“Sylus!”

Arms tackle you to the bed, one hand supporting your head and neck— careful of being too rough. He grumbles something incoherent, loose sounds of disapproval and irritation seeping through. “Separate blankets— on my bed? our bed?— don’t need that— what’s wrong with your head?”

Half of his body is enough to render you motionless as he pulls the covers over you both and shuts the lights off with his evol. He presumes his position as big spoon, burying his nose behind your ear and murmuring a grumpy “Goodnight.”

You giggle in the silence when all is said and done, and turn to kiss whatever part of him you can reach from your benumbed state.

He doesn’t hog that night. In fact, doesn’t even let go.

A warm furnace in his own right. You drown in affection… and your own sweat. Who would have guessed that contingency measures would finally bring an end your cold wars— at least for the foreseeable future.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading!

530 notes · View notes

allergic-to-four-leaf-clovers · 1 year ago

Text

BOOK TIME BOOK TIME BOOK TIME

I LOVE BOOKS!!!!!!!

#i havent read all of these btw #these are from like. the past few years #i havent read uhh the binding / rangers apprentice 4 / goldenhand / the odyssey #i kinds gave up with shadow and bone / interview with the vampire cuz i kinda lost my spark with them #twilight is the only series ive ever finished lmao #oh yeah midnight sun did have a red cover but i took the covers off since i preferred it without it #idk why the text is white #anyhow i love books

6 notes · View notes

leaderwonim · 3 months ago

Text

THE WORLD NEVER ENDED | JACK HUGHES

pairing. jack hughes x fem!reader (ft. platonic quinn & luke hughes x fem!reader + male!oc x fem!reader)

genre. childhood best friends to lovers, ANGST, fluff, hurt to comfort, reader & jack are both 18-19 in this!

synopsis: Y/N and Jack Hughes have been inseparable since childhood, spending every summer at his family’s lake house—until his hockey career takes off and leaves her behind. As Jack’s life moves forward and Y/N tries to do the same, the distance between them grows in ways neither of them expected. But when their paths cross again at a breaking point, they’re forced to confront everything they never said and the feelings that never really went away.

The lake house never changes. It still smells like pine and sunscreen, the same old dock creaking under your feet, the same late summer breeze curling through the trees. But this time, you’re the only one here.

You let the beer bottle dangle from your fingers, the glass sweating against your palm as you stare at the still water. It’s late. Too late to be out here alone, and your mom would probably kill you if she found out you were underage drinking, but you’ve been doing this since you were kids—sneaking down to the dock past midnight, toes dipping into the water, whispering about everything and nothing at all.

Except this time, Jack isn’t here. Not really. Not anymore.

The last time you saw him was months ago, after another whirlwind season, after Team USA, after everything. He’d come back, same easy smile, same stupidly messy hair, same Jack. And yet, he wasn’t.

He moved too fast, talked too much about things you weren’t a part of, laughed at jokes from teammates you didn’t know. He had an entire life outside of this town, this lake, this dock. A life that didn’t include you.

It wasn’t his fault though, you couldn’t blame Jack for being excited about this whole new chapter in his life, not when he’s worked his ass off so he could secure a spot in the NHL in the future.

You took a shaky breath, watching as the wind blew the waters back and forth, your thought raced with Jack, Jack, Jack. It wasn’t anything new; you had been in love with him since you had learned what the word love even was, when Ellen and your mom teased you two endlessly after your eighth birthday, declaring that you’d two get married when you were older.

And then he left, at age fourteen to go train at some hockey camp over the summer and you started seeing him less and less. Then he left again for USA Hockey, and all that was left of him was the little times he’d pop up on your screen for a FaceTime, or a quick selfie.

You never told him that it felt like the world had ended whenever he left.

❥

The first time you met Jack Hughes, he was seven years old, standing knee-deep in the lake, grinning like he had owned the world.

“You scared to jump in?” he teases, squinting up at you from where he’s splashing around.

You cross your arms, standing barefoot on the dock, the sun burning hot against your skin. “I just don’t wanna get my hair wet.”

Jack laughs like you just said the funniest thing in the world, and before you can react, he launches a handful of water in your direction. It splashes against your legs, cool and shocking, and you gasp.

“You jerk!” you shriek, but Jack’s already laughing, already diving into the water, swimming just far enough out of reach that you can’t get him back.

You don’t know it then, but that’s how it starts.

The Hughes family’s lake house becomes your second home. Your parents are close friends with Ellen and Jim, and summers are spent tangled in sunburns, mosquito bites, and the smell of bonfires. Jack, being just a few months older, quickly becomes your shadow—or maybe you become his.

You race bikes down dirt paths, climb trees until your hands are covered in splinters, and stay up late whispering under blanket forts in the Hughes’ living room, trying not to wake Luke and Quinn.

“You think we’ll still be best friends when we’re older?” you ask one night, voice sleepy, cheek smushed against your arm.

Jack frowns at you, like you just said something ridiculous. “Duh. Who else am I supposed to hang out with? My brothers?”

You grin brightly, shoving him. “You promise?”

He holds out his pinky. “Promise.”

And that’s that.

As you both get older, things don’t really change. Not at first.

Winters are spent at the Hughes’ house in Michigan, watching Jack skate for hours at the rink, your fingers numb from gripping a hot chocolate too tight. Summers are still for the lake house, where the days blur together in a haze of sun, water, and laughter.

Jack is your best friend. The one who sneaks you extra s’mores when the adults say no. The one who ties your skates when your fingers are too cold. The one who always picks you first for street hockey, even when Luke complains about it. The one who knows everything about you.

And you know everything about him, too.

That he gets grumpy when he’s hungry. That he has to listen to music before every game, or else he feels off. That he’s already dreaming about the NHL, about Team USA, about everything that seems so far away but somehow already feels like it’s coming too fast.

You don’t realize when things do start changing.

Maybe it’s when Jack turns fourteen and starts spending more time away at tournaments. Maybe it’s when you turn fourteen and realize your heart speeds up whenever he looks at you a certain way.

Maybe it’s the summer you turn fifteen and see him talking to a girl from town, and something ugly coils in your stomach. You don’t say anything, though. You can’t.

Jack is your best friend. That’s all. Even if you wish it wasn’t.

When Jack is sixteen, everything does change.

It’s the Fourth of July. The lake house is packed, fireworks already popping in the distance. You and Jack sneak away from the party like you always do, climbing onto the dock and lying side by side, watching the sky.

“You excited for the USA team?” you ask, your voice light, like the thought of him leaving doesn’t make your chest ache.

Jack turns his head to look at you. “Yeah,” he says. “Kinda nervous, though.”

You smile a little, the same smile that had reassured Jack every time he saw it. “You’ll be fine.”

He shifts closer, his arm brushing yours. “You think so?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “You’re Jack Hughes.”

He laughs, but it’s softer this time, almost hesitant. The air between you feels different, thicker, heavier. His fingers twitch on the dock beside yours, and for a second, you swear he’s about to reach for your hand.

But then he exhales sharply, sits up. “We should get back.”

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You stare at the fireworks exploding in the sky, feeling like something inside you is breaking.

Jack leaves for Team USA at the end of the summer.

And you don’t know it yet, but nothing will ever be the same again.

❥

At first, you still talk all the time. He calls after practices, FaceTimes you from hotel rooms, sends you stupid selfies from road trips. And for a while, it almost feels normal. Almost.

But then the calls get shorter. The messages come slower.

You see his name on headlines, hear people at school talking about him like he’s some distant star instead of the boy you grew up with. And suddenly, he feels… far away.

Not just in distance. In everything.

And then one day, you realize you don’t remember the last time he called.

You don’t text him, either. You figured he was too busy anyways—too busy with hockey, with interviews, too busy for you.

His absence leaves a hollow space inside you, one you don’t know how to fill. So you try.

That’s how you end up with him.

Aiden West. Star quarterback. Tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy smile and dimples that should make your heart flutter.

You meet at a party—one you only went to because your friends dragged you out of your house, tired of you spending your nights holed up in your room, pretending you weren’t waiting for a text that never came.

Aidan’s nice. He’s funny. He buys you drinks and calls you baby and kisses you like he means it.

You tell yourself this is good. That this is what you need.

But when he holds your hand, it doesn’t feel the same. When he kisses you, you don’t melt the way you think you should. And when you close your eyes, it’s not Aidan you see.

It’s Jack. Always Jack.

Quinn comes home in December.

You’re not expecting to see him, not really. Ever since he was drafted, he spent all his time in Vancouver, busy with his own life, his own team. But one night, you walk into the Hughes’ house, and there he is, sprawled on the couch like he never left.

“Quinn?” you blink.

He smirks, sitting up. “Hey, kid.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway. “You’re, like, a few years older than me. I’m not a kid.”

“You’ll always be a kid to me,” he teases, but then his expression softens. “How’ve you been?”

You shrug. “Good.”

He gives you a look, like he can see right through you. Because of course he can.

Quinn has always been quieter than Jack, more observant. He was the one who bandaged your scraped knees when you and Jack were too reckless, the one who ruffled your hair when you had a bad day, the one who watched you grow up and somehow always knew what you were feeling before you even said it.

And right now, you can tell he knows you’re lying.

“You still talk to Jack?” he asks casually.

You stiffen. “Not really.”

Quinn nods, like that’s what he expected. “He’s been busy.”

“I know,” you say quickly, too quickly. “It’s fine.”

He studies you for a moment. Then, his eyebrows furrow. “You dating that football guy?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. Kinda.”

Quinn tilts his head, his expression unreadable. “You like him?”

You swallow. “He’s… nice.”

Quinn leans back, crossing his arms. “You know, I’ve seen you happy before.”

You furrow your brows. “And?”

“And that’s not what you look like right now.”

The words hit deeper than you want them to. You look away, staring at your hands.

Quinn sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. If you like the guy, great. But don’t force something that isn’t real just because—” He pauses.

You glance up. “Just because what?”

Quinn meets your eyes, and for the first time, his voice is gentle. “Just because Jack hurt you.”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t say anything. You don’t know what to say.

Because he’s right. And maybe that’s the worst part of all.

❥

Aidan is kind when he breaks up with you.

That almost makes it worse.

You can tell he’s been thinking about it for a while. The way he exhales before he starts speaking, the way his hands stay tucked into the pocket of his hoodie like he’s afraid if he moves too much, you’ll see how much this is bothering him.

“You’re not really here, Y/N,” he says, voice steady but laced with something bitter, something tired.

You don’t argue, because you know he’s right.

He sighs, shaking his head. “I like you. I really do. But I deserve someone who looks at me like I’m the only one they’re thinking about.”

Your stomach twists.

“Aidan—”

“It’s fine,” he cuts in, forcing a small smile. “I knew. I think I always did.” He swallows, glancing away before meeting your eyes again. “It was never gonna be me, was it?”

You want to tell him you tried. That you wanted to feel something more, something real. But the truth is, no matter how hard you tried, he was never Jack.

And that was never fair to him.

So instead, you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He nods, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “Yeah. Me too.”

A few days pass, and you still feel hollow, like you’re floating through life without really being in it.

You don’t know why you still go to the Hughes’ house. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s because it still feels like home, even when things don’t feel the same anymore.

Maybe it’s because, deep down, you just need someone who knows you.

Luke opens the door, and before you can even say anything, his face twists in concern.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

You pause. “What?”

Luke steps aside to let you in, closing the door behind you. “You have your sad face on.”

You frown. “Luke Hughes, I do not have a—”

“You totally do,” he interrupts, flopping onto the couch. He gestures for you to sit next to him, and after a moment, you do.

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “Quinn told me everything.”

You freeze. “Everything?”

Luke gives you a knowing look. “Yeah. And I’m not an idiot, Y/N. I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at Jack since we were kids.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Luke sighs, leaning back against the couch. “Look, I know he messed up. Jack is kind of known for that. And I know you’re hurt. But…” He hesitates. “You still love him, don’t you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Luke—”

“Just be honest,” he says gently.

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

Luke nods like he already knew that was coming. Then he pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out to you.

You frown. “What’s this?”

“Tickets,” he says simply.

You blink. “Tickets?”

“To Jack’s game against Finland.” His voice is casual, but there’s something behind it—something careful, like he knows he’s walking a fine line. “I was gonna go, but I think you should instead.”

Your heart stops.

“Luke…”

“Don’t overthink it,” he says quickly. “Just go. See him. Talk to him.”

You stare at the tickets in his hand, your pulse pounding in your ears.

This is a choice. A chance.

And to be completely honest, you aren’t sure if you’re ready.

❥

You end up deciding not to go until the last minute.

The plane ticket burns in your hands, Luke’s voice echoing in your head: Just go. See him. Talk to him.

So you do. You land in Finland, stomach in knots, trying not to think about what you’ll even say to him. If he’ll even want to see you.

But then the game happens. And Jack loses.

The scoreboard tells you everything—3-2, Finland. A brutal, heartbreaking end.

Jack stays on the ice, shoulders hunched, wiping his face as the Finnish players celebrate around him. You can see the way he’s blinking rapidly, how hard he’s trying to hold it together.

It doesn’t work.

By the time he’s in the tunnel for postgame interviews, it’s like the weight of everything finally crashes over him. The cameras capture everything; his red-rimmed eyes, the way his lips tremble when he speaks, the way his voice wavers when he says, “I feel like I let everyone down.”

Your heart cracks wide open. You don’t think. You just go.

You push through the lingering crowd, through the halls of the arena, heart racing. And then—there he is.

Jack is leaning against the wall, head bowed, gripping a water bottle so tightly his knuckles are white. His shoulders shake slightly, like he’s trying to get a grip, but he’s losing the battle.

You inhale sharply, willing yourself forward.

“Jack.”

His head snaps up, eyes widening. And for a second, he just stares.

Like he doesn’t believe you’re real.

“Y/N?” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

You nod, stepping closer. But before you can say anything else, Jack clears his throat and quickly swipes at his face, straightening up like he’s trying to compose himself.

Then he blurts out, “How’s Aidan?”

You freeze.

Jack lets out a broken laugh, looking down. “Quinn told me you had a boyfriend,” he mutters, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I—uh, I’m happy for you. You deserve that.”

You swallow hard, your chest tightening. “Jack—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, still not looking at you. “I always wanted you to be happy.”

He sniffles, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. He looks exhausted. Worn down in a way you’ve never seen before.

And suddenly, it’s too much.

The space between you. The months of silence. The fact that he still doesn’t know the truth.

You move before you can stop yourself, closing the gap and wrapping your arms around him.

Jack stiffens, sucking in a sharp breath.

But then—slowly, so slowly—it’s like something inside him gives in.

His hands grip your back, his face pressing into your shoulder, and he melts.

You feel his shaky exhale against your neck. The way his fingers curl into the jersey you’re wearing with his name on the back, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel whole again.

“I don’t—” Jack’s voice cracks. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Your throat tightens. “Then don’t. Just just let me be here.”

Jack exhales shakily, nodding against you. “Okay.”

Despite your reassurance, he still feels like he’s falling.

The weight of the loss, the pressure, the expectations, it’s all crashing over him, relentless and suffocating. But in the middle of it all, there’s you.

And when you pull back slightly, just enough to look at him, he realizes you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your hands stay on his face, thumbs brushing against his damp skin, and there’s something in your expression, something soft and certain that makes his chest ache.

Then you move closer, tilting your head, and suddenly, suddenly—your lips press against his.

Jack stills.

Then, all at once, he melts into you.

His hands slide to your waist, gripping onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him standing. Your lips are soft, warm, familiar, but new at the same time, like something that was always supposed to happen but never did.

It feels like breathing again. Like finally getting it right.

But then, Jack realizes and he blinks, something clicking in his mind as he pulls back abruptly, still holding onto you but panting slightly.

“Wait,” he says, voice hoarse. “Aidan.”

You shake your head quickly. “We broke up.”

His brows furrow. “What?”

You exhale, your hands sliding from his face to his wrists, squeezing lightly. “Jack, I tried to move on. I tried so hard.” Your voice wavers. “But it was never him. It was always you.”

Jack’s lips part slightly, his breath hitching.

Then, suddenly, he laughs—a broken, disbelieving sound before his face crumples, his eyes shining again.

And just like that, he’s crying.

He presses his forehead against yours, squeezing his eyes shut as his grip on your waist tightens.

“You have no idea how bad I wanted you to say that,” he whispers, his voice shaking.

You smile softly, brushing his hair back. “I think I do.”

Jack lets out a shaky exhale, his hands fisting the fabric of your jersey, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. But you don’t.

Because after everything—after the distance, the silence, the missed chances—you’re still here.

He sniffles, pulling you into another tight hug, burying his face in your shoulder.

❥

Later, when the chaos dies down and the arena empties, you end up in Jack’s car.

The heater hums softly, filling the silence, the city lights casting faint shadows across the dashboard.

Jack sits in the driver’s seat, head tilted against the headrest, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. You’re next to him, legs curled up on the seat, leaning against his shoulder.

It’s quiet.

Not awkward. Not heavy. Just comfortable.

Jack sighs, nudging his cheek against your hair. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

You smile faintly, reaching for his hand. “Me neither.”

He squeezes your fingers, his grip warm and sure. “I thought I lost you.”

You shake your head, squeezing back. “You never did.”

Jack exhales, his body relaxing against yours, and for the first time in a long time, hfeels whole again.

❥

The lake house feels the same the next summer.

The scent of pine and sunscreen still lingers in the air, the dock still creaks under your feet, and the water still glistens under the late afternoon sun. But this time, Jack is here. And this time, he’s yours.

He had turned freshly nineteen last month, but still was the same annoying boy you had known since you were seven.

You sit on the old wooden dock, legs stretched out, the warm breeze tangling your hair. Jack is lying beside you, one arm draped lazily over his forehead, his other hand resting on your knee, tracing absentminded patterns over your skin.

It’s quiet, just the sound of the water lapping against the shore and the occasional laughter from inside the house, where Quinn and Luke are probably chirping each other over something stupid.

Jack sighs, turning his head to look at you. “I missed this.”

You smile, threading your fingers through his. “Me too.”

He studies you for a moment, his eyes soft, warm, completely yours. Then, without a word, he tugs you down so you’re lying next to him, your head resting on his chest.

“You know,” he muses, fingers trailing up and down your back, “last summer, I thought I’d never get this back.”

You inhale slowly, letting his heartbeat ground you. “Me too.”

Jack tilts his head, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “But we made it.”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. “Yeah,” you whisper, smiling. “We did.”

He grins, the kind that makes your heart skip a beat, then flips you onto your back, hovering over you with that look—the one that reminds you he’s still the same Jack, the same boy who used to splash you in the lake, who used to steal your s’mores when you weren’t looking, who used to be your best friend before he was everything.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Luke’s voice echoes from the house, and you both groan.

Jack turns his head, scowling. “Luke, I swear—”

Quinn’s voice cuts in. “Let them be, Luke. They suffered enough.”

You laugh as Jack rolls his eyes. “I hate that he’s right.”

You shake your head, pulling Jack back down. “Just kiss me already.”

He smirks. “Gladly.”

And as his lips meet yours, the sun dips below the horizon and the lake glistens around you, making you realize everything is exactly the way it’s meant to be.

It isn’t until Luke pretends to fake barf that Jack removes himself away from you, opting to chase down his little brother.

“Boys, am I right?” Quinn says, giving you a grin.

You wrap your arms around him, never feeling as whole as you did now.

953 notes · View notes

archivegyu · 22 days ago

Text

masterlist

the softest silence

“anyways, don’t be a stranger” (scott street)

There's a photo in a silver frame on Seungcheol's desk.

It's not particularly striking, no grand event captured, no posed smiles. Just a snapshot from a summer long gone. Three people squeezed into the frame: you, with a sunflower tucked behind your ear, laughing so hard your eyes are nearly closed, the petals casting delicate shadows across your cheekbone. Jeonghan, cheeks puffed in mock offense, his arm flung over your shoulder, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your sleeve like he's afraid to hold too tight. And Seungcheol, in the middle, caught mid-laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkled, like the sound had startled even him. A moment of pure, unguarded joy frozen in time.

It's a photo no one meant to take. A moment no one meant to keep. And yet, it sits there, dustless, untouched. As if time itself had decided it should stay. The silver frame catching the morning light that filters through the half-drawn blinds of his office, creating a small constellation of reflections against the wall.

You still remember that day. Not because of the picture, but because of the way the sun hit Jeonghan's hair when he turned to call your name, golden light threading through strands that seemed to absorb the warmth itself. Because of the way Seungcheol looked at the both of you when you weren't looking, eyes soft and wondering, like he couldn't quite believe the three of you had found each other in this vast, indifferent universe. Because you didn't know, then, that it would be the beginning of something beautiful.

And quietly, quietly tragic.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You met Jeonghan when you were fifteen, on a Tuesday that had started like any other. Gray skies threatening rain, the weight of textbooks in your arms, the familiar knot of anxiety that came with being the new face in the hallway. The classroom smelled of chalk dust and floor polish, and you'd chosen a seat by the window, hoping the cloudy light might make you less visible somehow.

He was the first person to talk to you in your new school, sliding into the empty desk beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never doubted his welcome anywhere. Sitting next to you in math class and offering half of his chocolate chip cookie like it was some kind of peace treaty, breaking it with careful fingers that somehow knew exactly where to snap it for equal parts.

"Fresh-baked this morning," he'd said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "My mom's secret recipe. Well, not actually secret. She got it off the back of the chocolate chip bag, but we pretend it's a family heirloom."

The cookie was still warm, slightly gooey in the center. You'd taken it hesitantly, not quite understanding the easy way he'd decided to include you.

He never really gave you a choice. He just started existing in your life, like a bookmark slipped between pages. There one day and never gone after, marking something important without drawing attention to itself.

"I'm Yoon Jeonghan," he'd said with a grin that seemed to know something you didn't. "And you're my best friend now. Sorry, I don't make the rules."

You had laughed, not knowing how true it would become. Not understanding that some people come into your life with the quiet certainty of seasons changing. Inevitable, necessary, transformative.

Jeonghan was relentless in his affection. He called you at midnight just to tell you dumb jokes that he'd clearly rehearsed, his voice going slightly higher when he reached the punchline. He left sticky notes in your locker with bad puns and little doodles, stick figures with exaggerated features that somehow always looked like the teachers he was mocking. He dragged you into his chaos without warning. Impromptu trips to the convenience store during lunch, elaborate pranks on classmates that never crossed into cruelty, study sessions that devolved into philosophical debates about which cereal mascot would win in a fight.

But he also knew when to be still. He was there when your mom got sick, when the hospital visits became routine and the smell of antiseptic clung to your clothes even after washing. When you missed three weeks of school, he brought you handwritten notes. His messy scrawl somehow more comforting than the typed assignments other classmates had sent. When you needed someone to sit beside you in silence and just be there, he would arrive with a bag of your favorite snacks and a deck of cards, never pushing you to talk, never making you feel like your silence was a burden.

He never asked for anything in return. Never made you feel indebted for the way he held your world together when it threatened to come apart. It was just what friends did, he'd say, as if everyone had the capacity for the brand of loyalty he offered so effortlessly.

And then, two years later, he introduced you to Seungcheol.

It was at a house party Jeonghan had forced you to attend—his words, not yours. The living room was too warm, bodies pressed together in the limited space, music loud enough to feel in your chest but not quite loud enough to drown out the anxiety of social interaction. You were standing awkwardly by the snack table, calculating how much longer you needed to stay before you could politely leave, when he dragged someone over, his hand firm around the wrist of a boy you'd never seen before.

"This is Seungcheol," he said proudly, the way one might present a particularly impressive science project. "He's the only person I know who's more responsible than me. So naturally, I think he should take care of you when I'm not around."

The boy, Seungcheol, had looked momentarily embarrassed, a flush rising from his neck to his cheeks. But then he'd laughed softly, the sound barely audible over the thrum of the bass, and extended his hand. His fingers were slightly calloused, warm against your palm.

"It's nice to meet you," he said, his voice deeper than you'd expected, resonant in a way that made you want to hear more of it. "Jeonghan talks about you all the time. I was starting to think you might be imaginary."

You hadn't expected to fall for him. Not really. But there was something about the way he listened when you spoke, head slightly tilted, eyes never wandering from your face, as if every word you said deserved his complete attention. Something about the way he remembered the little things you said in passing. How you mentioned offhandedly that you loved tteokbokki from that one street vendor near the station, only to have him appear at your door weeks later with a container of it after you'd had a particularly rough day. Something about the way he stood slightly behind you in crowded spaces, quietly protective, never overbearing. A presence that said: I am here if you need me, but I trust you to navigate your own way.

He was the kind of safe that didn't feel suffocating. A quiet strength that reminded you of old trees, roots deep and branches steady even in the strongest winds.

But you were Jeonghan's best friend. And Seungcheol was Jeonghan's.

So you stayed quiet.

So did he.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The three of you became something of a unit. A trinity that others in your social circle recognized and accepted without question: where one went, the others followed, like planets locked in each other's gravitational pull.

Seungcheol drove the both of you home after late-night hangouts, always stopping for convenience store ramen. The fluorescent lights would cast strange shadows on your faces as you huddled around the small table outside, steam rising from your bowls, the night air cool against your skin. Jeonghan would sing badly in the passenger seat while you and Seungcheol harmonized just to annoy him, the three of you laughing until your ribs ached when he'd dramatically cover his ears and threaten to walk home.

Sometimes, Mingyu and Seokmin would tag along, stuffing themselves into the backseat, yelling over each other about snacks and playlists. Mingyu always insisting they needed more protein, Seokmin arguing just as passionately for sweeter options. The car would feel smaller then, warmer with the press of shoulders and knees, the windows fogging slightly with collective breath and laughter.

There were sleepovers where you all ended up on the floor of Jeonghan's apartment. A mess of blankets and pillows in the living room, the television casting blue light over your tired faces as you talked until sunrise. Seungcheol on one side of you, Jeonghan on the other, both too warm, too close, too familiar. Their breathing eventually evening out into sleep while you remained awake, hyperaware of every point of contact: Seungcheol's arm brushing yours, Jeonghan's head somehow ending up on your shoulder. And in those moments, you'd lie awake and wonder what it meant that your heart beat differently for each of them. A steady, warm rhythm for Seungcheol that felt like coming home; a quicksilver flutter for Jeonghan that felt like chasing something you couldn't quite name.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

One night, during your final year of high school, the three of you ended up on the roof of Jeonghan's apartment building. It was autumn, the air crisp but not yet biting, and you'd brought blankets to wrap around yourselves as you looked up at the few stars visible through the city's light pollution.

"We should make a pact," Jeonghan had said suddenly, his voice soft in the darkness. "That no matter where we end up after graduation, we'll always find our way back to each other."

Seungcheol had chuckled, the sound warm in the cool night. "You make it sound like we're going to war, not college."

"Same thing," Jeonghan had replied, bumping his shoulder against Seungcheol's. "People change. They find new friends, new priorities. I just don't want..."

He'd trailed off, and you'd turned to look at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. His profile was sharp against the night sky, eyes reflecting the distant city lights.

"Want what?" you'd prompted gently.

He'd shrugged, a forced casualness that didn't quite mask the tension in his shoulders. "I don't want to lose this. Us."

Seungcheol had reached over then, his hand finding Jeonghan's in the dark, squeezing once. "You won't."

You'd watched their hands, the easy comfort they offered each other, and felt something twist in your chest—not jealousy, exactly, but a sense of being witness to something intimate and unspoken.

"Promise?" Jeonghan had asked, looking not at you but at Seungcheol, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of traffic.

Seungcheol had nodded, his expression serious in the half-light. "Promise."

You'd reached over then, placing your hand over theirs, completing the circle. "We promise," you'd said, speaking for all three of you, not yet understanding the complexity of what you were vowing to preserve.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Years passed. High school faded into college. The texture of your friendship changed with distance and time. No longer the constant presence in each other's daily lives, but something that had to be maintained with intention, with effort. You drifted, came back together, drifted again like tides. But you always found your way back: birthdays, holidays, lazy Sundays that turned into movie marathons in whoever's apartment was cleanest that week.

And always, always, Jeonghan teasing.

"Still single?" he'd ask with a smirk, nudging Seungcheol as you all sat around a table at your favorite barbecue place, the smell of grilling meat and sizzling garlic filling the air between you.

"Still annoying?" Seungcheol would fire back, expertly flipping the meat without looking away from Jeonghan's challenging grin.

And you'd roll your eyes, but part of you ached, because they felt like puzzle pieces you'd never quite fit between. Their friendship had a shorthand, a history that predated you. Sometimes you'd catch them exchanging glances that seemed to contain entire conversations, and you'd wonder what it was like to know someone so completely, to be known that way in return.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

But one spring, it shifted.

Jeonghan got busy.

New job at a design agency that required late nights and early mornings, new apartment across the city that made spontaneous visits less practical, less time for the comfortable routine the three of you had established. His absence created a space, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, you and Seungcheol began to fill it with something new.

You and Seungcheol started spending more time together, just the two of you. It wasn't planned, not consciously. He helped you move into your new place, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs without complaint, assembling furniture with patient precision long after you'd given up on deciphering the instructions. You helped him pick out a birthday gift for Jeonghan, wandering through stores for hours until you found a vintage film camera that made Seungcheol's eyes light up with recognition

"He's been talking about this model for months," he'd said, his excitement infectious.

You had dinner. Once. A casual thing after settling into your new place, too tired to go home but too hungry to sleep. A small restaurant with mismatched chairs and dim lighting, where Seungcheol ordered for both of you because you were too exhausted to make decisions, and somehow he got exactly what you would have chosen for yourself.

Then again. This time planned, deliberate, a text from Seungcheol asking if you wanted to try that new place that had opened near your apartment, the one with the fusion menu everyone was talking about. You'd said yes without hesitation, ignoring the flutter in your stomach as you changed outfits three times before he arrived.

And then… again. Each time the conversation flowing more easily, the silences more comfortable, the moments of accidental touch lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

And one day, under the soft golden haze of dusk, Seungcheol kissed you.

It wasn't planned. You were walking back from a late afternoon movie, the streets bathed in that magical hour when the sun seems to paint everything in honeyed light. You had made a dumb joke about the film's predictable ending, and he laughed, really laughed, the way he used to back in high school. Uninhibited and genuine, and something cracked open between you. He stopped walking, turned to face you, his expression shifting into something serious and tender and terrified all at once.

He looked at you like he had been holding his breath for years.

"I shouldn't have waited this long," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, one hand coming up to cup your face, thumb brushing softly across your cheekbone.

You never asked what that meant. Whether he was referring to weeks of dancing around each other or years of quiet longing. You just kissed him back, standing in the middle of the sidewalk as the world continued around you, strangers passing by, oblivious to the way your universe had just realigned itself.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The relationship was slow and quiet and gentle. There were no fireworks, no chaos. None of the dramatic declarations of love you'd seen in movies or read in books. Just small things: coffee in the morning made exactly how you liked it, hand squeezes in public that said "I'm here" without words, late-night walks with no destination, just the comfort of shared silence and understanding.

It felt inevitable, like something that had been waiting patiently in the wings of your life, ready to step forward when the time was right.

The rest of your friends found out quickly. You swore Soonyoung had been waiting for it, the way his eyes widened in exaggerated shock before his face split into a knowing grin when you and Seungcheol showed up to a group dinner holding hands.

"Took you long enough," he said, grinning as he pulled out a chair for you. "I've had a bet going with Seokmin since second year of university."

You'd blushed, but Seungcheol had just laughed, his arm secure around your waist, a quiet pride in the way he stood beside you, as if finally allowed to show something he'd hidden for too long.

Even Jeonghan smiled, teasing as ever when you told him. Though you noticed he'd been the last to know, an unusual oversight that neither you nor Seungcheol had acknowledged.

"Guess I was your cupid, huh?" he'd said, raising his glass in a mock toast, lounging across from you in the café where you'd arranged to meet, his hair longer now, tied back loosely at the nape of his neck. "I always knew you two were weirdly in sync."

But sometimes, you'd catch him watching. Just for a second, expression unreadable, a flicker of something in his eyes before he'd blink and it would vanish, replaced by his usual mischievous glint.

You chalked it up to nostalgia. To the natural melancholy of seeing childhood friendships evolve, reshape themselves around new dynamics. To the bittersweet recognition that things would never be quite the same again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Two years into your relationship with Seungcheol, you found yourself alone with Jeonghan for the first time in months. He'd been traveling for work—Tokyo, Seoul, New York—his social media a blur of skylines and coffee shops in different cities. But he was home now, just for a week, and had invited you over to see his new photographs.

His apartment was exactly as you'd expected: organized chaos, walls covered in prints and postcards, surfaces cluttered with books and camera equipment. It smelled like him. Sandalwood and coffee and something slightly citrusy that you'd never been able to identify.

"So," he said, pouring you a glass of wine as you settled onto his couch, "when's the wedding?"

You nearly choked on your first sip. "What?"

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Come on. You've been together for what, two years now? That's practically married in Seungcheol-time. He's never dated anyone longer than six months before you."

You set your glass down carefully, studying Jeonghan's face. "We haven't really talked about it," you said truthfully. "We're good where we are."

Jeonghan hummed noncommittally, taking a long sip of his own wine. "He'll ask, you know. He's been saving for a ring since last Christmas."

Your heart skipped. "How do you know that?"

He shrugged, a casual gesture that didn't quite match the intensity of his gaze. "He tells me things. Some things, anyway."

There was something in his tone, not bitter, but not entirely at peace either. A complexity you couldn't quite untangle.

"Are you okay with it?" you asked suddenly, surprising yourself with the question. "With us, I mean."

Jeonghan looked at you then, really looked at you, his eyes searching yours for something you couldn't name. For a moment, you thought you saw a flash of raw emotion. Pain or longing or something in between. Before his expression settled into a gentle smile.

"I want you both to be happy," he said simply. "And you make each other happy. So yes, I'm okay with it."

He raised his glass, tapping it lightly against yours. "To the people I love most in this world finding each other," he said, his voice steady but soft, like a confession.

You clinked your glass against his, a weight lifting from shoulders you hadn't realized were tense. "Thank you," you said, meaning it more than he could know.

"Just promise me one thing," he added, setting his glass down and leaning forward slightly.

"Anything."

"Don't make me wear one of those awful groomsmen suits. I look terrible in pastels."

You laughed, the tension broken, and the conversation moved on. But later, as you were leaving, Jeonghan hugged you tighter than usual, his face buried briefly in your shoulder.

"Take care of him," he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it. "He deserves someone who sees all of him."

Before you could ask what he meant, he'd pulled away, his familiar grin back in place as he waved you off.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The wedding was in early spring, under cherry blossoms that scattered pale petals like snow whenever the breeze stirred.

A day soaked in sunlight and soft winds. The sky bloomed like watercolor: pinks, golds, and a gentle blue that looked like it had been painted just for the two of you. The venue was simple. An outdoor garden with rows of white chairs and an arch twined with flowers and greenery. Nothing extravagant, nothing that called for attention. Just like your love: quiet, steady, true.

Jeonghan stood beside Seungcheol before the ceremony, both in tailored suits that made them look older, more serious than you were used to seeing them. Through the partially open door of the preparation room, you caught glimpses of them: Jeonghan adjusting Seungcheol's tie with practiced fingers, their heads bent close in conversation, a moment of intimacy that made you pause, not wanting to intrude.

"You're shaking," Jeonghan said, his tone light as he smoothed the fabric of Seungcheol's lapel, fingers lingering just a moment too long.

Seungcheol exhaled, a shaky breath that betrayed his nerves. "You think I'm doing the right thing?"

There was a beat of silence—just long enough for something unspoken to pass between them, a current you could feel even from where you stood, unseen.

Jeonghan paused. Smiled. A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes but tried valiantly nonetheless. "You're doing the only thing that's ever made sense to you." he said, voice steady despite the slight tension in his shoulders.

He meant it. God, he meant it. The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, even as something in his expression flickered. A shadow passing too quickly to identify, gone before it could fully form.

You stepped away then, not wanting to witness more of a moment that wasn't meant for you. Your wedding coordinator found you minutes later, ushering you into position for your entrance, fussing with the train of your dress, the placement of flowers in your hair.

You walked down the aisle, and the world held its breath.

Seungcheol looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever waited for, his eyes bright with unshed tears, his smile trembling slightly at the edges. Jeonghan stood to the side, hands in front of him, heart beating slow and loud in his chest, you couldn't hear it, of course, but somehow you knew, could see it in the careful way he held himself, as if afraid to disturb the air around him.

He watched your vows. Watched Seungcheol tear up when you called him your safest place, your harbor in every storm. Watched as you slipped rings onto each other's fingers, promises made tangible in precious metal.

He laughed with the crowd when the officiant made a gentle joke. Toasted with the rest of them at the reception, glass raised high, smile fixed firmly in place.

And when it was his turn to speak, he stepped forward, raised his glass, and said:

"To the people who taught me what real love looks like. Not just the loud kind, but the quiet kind. The kind that doesn't ask for anything back."

His voice was steady, but something in it made the room fall silent, everyone leaning in slightly, drawn by the raw emotion barely contained in his measured words.

He looked at Seungcheol then, eyes soft in a way that made your breath catch.

"And to the ones who stay… no matter how much it hurts."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Most of the guests smiled, moved by what they perceived as a poetic tribute to marriage's endurance through difficulties. You smiled too, touched by his eloquence, by the depth of feeling in his toast.

Seungcheol's smile faltered for just a second. A barely perceptible crack in his joyful composure, a flash of something like recognition crossing his features before he recovered, raising his glass in acknowledgment.

No one noticed.

Except Jeonghan.

Who had seen everything, always.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Years later. The seasons had softened. Summer easing into autumn, passions settling into comfortable routines.

Your house has grown quieter. The parties less frequent, the messes smaller. You and Seungcheol had fallen into the gentle rhythm of long-term love. The kind of relationship where you could read each other's moods in the set of shoulders, the pace of breathing. Love settled differently after a few years, less like fire, more like gravity. Comfortable, warm. Something that didn't need to be named every day to be known.

You still had Jeonghan over sometimes. Not as often as before. He traveled more now—Tokyo with its neon glow that he captured in stunning night photography, Berlin where he claimed the coffee was better than anywhere else, sometimes just vanished for weeks at a time to go "find himself" in cities that didn't ask questions. But he always came back. Always found his way to your door with gifts from distant places and stories that seemed half-true at best.

This time, he brought orange wine and a new camera, sleek and vintage, another addition to his growing collection. Said he missed your cooking, though you both knew he was the better chef among the three of you. It was his way of saying he missed you, missed this, the comfort of familiar faces and shared history.

The rest of the boys came too, a reunion that filled your home with noise and laughter after months of relative quiet. Minghao and Mingyu yelling over the charcoal in the backyard, arguing about the proper way to grill meat as if their lives depended on it. Soonyoung trying to teach your dog a dance move, the poor animal looking thoroughly confused as he demonstrated what he swore was the next viral TikTok trend. Seungkwan and Hansol screaming in protest as Chan suggested yet another bizarre drinking game he'd learned from his coworkers. It was chaos. It was comfort. It was everything you'd always wanted to keep; This family you'd built, piece by piece, person by person.

You were inside plating dessert, a cake that had taken you hours to perfect, layers of chocolate and cream that you hoped would impress even Mingyu, who had become something of a food snob since starting culinary school. The kitchen was warm from the oven, the open window letting in the sounds of laughter from the backyard.

Jeonghan came in, slipping past the others and settling onto the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh. He looked tired, you noticed, not the kind of tired that came from a long day, but the bone-deep exhaustion that accumulated over years. Still beautiful, still quick to smile, but there was a heaviness to him that hadn't been there in your younger days.

Seungcheol stood at the sink, rinsing glasses, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms wet with soapy water. "You still collect film cameras?" he asked, glancing at the one slung around Jeonghan's neck, the strap worn and fraying slightly from constant use.

Jeonghan nodded, spinning it in his hands, fingers tracing the familiar contours. "They're the only way I remember things right," he said, a note of wistfulness in his voice.

Seungcheol chuckled, the sound low and warm in the quiet kitchen. "You? Forget? Mr. 'I still remember what everyone wore to the first day of high school'?"

Jeonghan smiled. Not quite sad. Not quite anything. An expression that existed in the spaces between defined emotions. "Sometimes the things you remember aren't the ones you want to."

That gave Seungcheol pause. His hands stilled in the soapy water, a glass held motionless as he turned to look at Jeonghan, something unspoken passing between them.

The conversation moved on. You returned from the dining room, handed Jeonghan a slice of cake. He teased you about the uneven icing, the slight tilt of the top layer. You smacked his arm playfully, defending your creation. Everything was normal.

But something about that moment, those words, stuck. A splinter too small to remove but large enough to feel with every movement.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It wasn't until much later that Seungcheol understood.

The evening was winding down. Mingyu and Seokmin had volunteered to drive the more inebriated members of the group home. Joshua and Jeonghan were deep in conversation on the back porch, their voices a soft murmur carried occasionally through the open window. You were showing Hansol and Seungkwan the renovations you'd made to the guest bedroom, their enthusiastic commentary echoing down the hallway.

Seungcheol was in the garage, rummaging through old boxes, trying to find the extra bulbs for the patio lights that had mysteriously stopped working halfway through the evening. The garage was cluttered. Not messy, but full of the accumulated possessions of a life built together: holiday decorations, camping equipment used once a year, tools that Seungcheol insisted were essential despite your never having seen him use them.

The evening sun had already started dipping low, casting gold through the open doorway. Dust floated in the beams as he pushed aside old photo frames and tangled extension cords, the air thick with the scent of cardboard and faintly musty fabric.

Then he saw it. An old, worn photo album, tucked under a pile of forgotten board games. The cover was faded blue fabric, corners frayed from years of handling. He recognized it instantly. Jeonghan had made it years ago, back when the three of you were still inseparable, your lives woven tightly into each other's days. A graduation gift, he'd called it, though it had arrived months after the ceremony.

Seungcheol sat on the step leading up to the house, flipping it open with careful fingers. The binding creaked slightly, pages stiff from disuse.

Page after page, his smile grew: beach trips with sunburnt cheeks and wind-tangled hair, ice cream dripping down wrists in the summer heat. Movie nights on the couch, all of you piled together under blankets, faces illuminated by the blue glow of the television. Jeonghan's questionable bleached phase that had lasted exactly three weeks before he'd admitted defeat and returned to his natural color. Birthdays, holidays, ordinary Tuesday afternoons that had somehow warranted documentation.

A history, not just of events, but of feeling. Of belonging.

And near the back, tucked into the spine, was a single polaroid. Slightly faded, edges curling. Not inserted into the album proper but hidden, as if meant to be found only by someone who knew where to look.

Just Jeonghan and Seungcheol. Sitting on a rooftop; the one from Jeonghan's old apartment, the city sprawled out below them, lights beginning to flicker on as dusk settled. The photo wasn't posed. Just a moment caught by someone passing by, you, probably, though Seungcheol couldn't remember the specific occasion. He was laughing at something off-camera, head tilted back, eyes nearly closed in genuine mirth.

Jeonghan wasn't looking at the camera.

He was looking at him.

Looking at Seungcheol with an expression so raw, so unguarded, that it felt almost intrusive to see it now, years later, preserved in chemical and paper.

And in that stillness, something lodged in Seungcheol's chest. A realization that had perhaps always been there, dormant, waiting to be acknowledged.

Because it wasn't how you looked at Seungcheol. It wasn't how Jeonghan looked at you. It was how Jeonghan looked at him.

The quiet admiration. The ache tucked carefully into the curve of his smile. That same expression Seungcheol wore the first time he realized he loved you.

Everything shifted.

Memories he hadn't questioned suddenly glowed in new light. The way Jeonghan lingered after game nights, finding reasons to stay just a little longer when everyone else had gone. The way he stood beside Seungcheol during your wedding with his hands too still and eyes too calm, a perfect best man except for the slight tremor in his voice during his toast. The trips abroad that always coincided with your anniversaries, the gifts that were always exactly what Seungcheol needed but had never mentioned wanting.

It had never been about you. It was never about you. It was always him.

"Found the bulbs!" your voice called from behind, pulling Seungcheol out of it. You stepped into the garage, brushing your hands on your shorts. "Finally. They were in the kitchen drawer with the batteries, which makes absolutely no sense, but there they are."

You saw the album in his lap. And then the photo, still held between his fingers. "Oh," you murmured, crouching beside him, your shoulder warm against his. "That's from the old rooftop place, right? The one near the station. Before they turned it into those expensive apartments."

He nodded slowly, fingers still touching the edge of the photo, as if afraid it might disappear if he let go.

You looked at him, then back at the picture. A quiet beat passed. Then you reached out, taking the photo from his hand.

"I'll ask Jeonghan if he remembers this," you said gently, perceiving but not acknowledging the shift in your husband's demeanor. "He's upstairs, I think. Said something about borrowing a book from the office."

You didn't wait for an answer. Just leaned over, pressed a soft kiss to his temple, and headed back inside, leaving him with the album and the weight of understanding.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Later that night, the house was quiet.

The others had long gone home, the remnants of a loud evening now settled into silence. Empty plates still scattered across the kitchen counter, half-empty bottles of wine waiting to be corked, the lingering scent of charcoal and laughter hanging in the air. The living room, hours earlier filled with boisterous voices and overlapping stories, now stood in hushed reverence to the night. You had gone to bed after handing Jeonghan the photo, your footsteps fading up the stairs, leaving behind a trail of soft goodnights.

Seungcheol found himself wandering through the quiet house, turning off forgotten lamps, straightening cushions, his mind racing with revelations he couldn't quite process. Each object he touched seemed weighted with new meaning; the mugs Jeonghan always used when he visited, the blanket he'd gifted them three Christmases ago, the collection of polaroids magnetized to the refrigerator. Years of friendship suddenly illuminated by a different light.

He paused when he spotted movement on the balcony through the glass door. A silhouette against the city lights.

Jeonghan was there.

He always lingered.

Cross-legged in the deck chair, beer in hand, gaze unfocused on the skyline. The soft hush of traffic below mingled with distant sirens and the occasional laughter from a neighboring balcony. A breeze smelling faintly of summer rain. The kind of night that hummed with what's left unsaid. His hair, longer now than it had been in their youth, swayed gently, catching moonlight in silver strands.

Seungcheol slid the door open, the sound causing Jeonghan to tilt his head slightly, acknowledging his presence without turning.

"You're still here," Seungcheol said, his voice barely rising above the ambient sounds of the night.

Jeonghan didn't look over. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd steal the view a little longer." He took a slow sip from his bottle, his fingers wrapped around it with familiar ease. "Besides, the city looks different from this side of town. Prettier somehow."

Seungcheol sat across from him, the wicker chair creaking under his weight. Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable, just full, like a book with too many pages to read in one sitting.

Then Jeonghan spoke, voice quieter than usual, almost lost in the night breeze. "She showed it to me. The photo."

Seungcheol's chest tightened, a familiar ache now seen through new understanding. He watched Jeonghan's profile, searching for signs he might have missed all these years. "I found it earlier," he said, because there was no point pretending. "Didn't remember it until I saw it again."

Jeonghan let out a breath that seemed to carry years. "Neither did I. Funny how time makes you forget the things you thought you'd carry forever." He traced the rim of the bottle absently, eyes still fixed on some distant point in the cityscape. "And then suddenly, there it is again. Like it never left."

Seungcheol hesitated, words forming and dissolving on his tongue before he finally spoke. "The way you looked at me in it…"

Jeonghan finally turned to him. And for the first time in years, he didn't hide behind teasing smiles or deflecting jokes. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, now held only quiet resignation. "I know."

The words hung there between them, suspended in the balcony air. No denial. No dodge. Just the truth, quiet and steady as a heartbeat.

Seungcheol looked down, his fingers curling against his knees, memories reshuffling themselves in his mind. Every late-night conversation. Every lingering glance. Every time Jeonghan had stepped back, stepped aside, stepped away.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" he asked, the question barely audible above the distant traffic.

"Because you loved her," Jeonghan said simply, his smile small but genuine. "And she loves you. And I wasn't going to be the reason something good broke." He looked back out at the city, the lights reflecting in his eyes. "Some things are worth protecting, even from yourself."

Seungcheol swallowed thickly, his throat tight with words he couldn't form. "You should've told me."

"And what would that have changed?" Jeonghan asked, with the gentlest smile, no trace of bitterness in his voice. "Would you have chosen differently?"

He didn't ask it accusingly. He wasn't trying to wound.

Just… wondering.

Seungcheol didn't answer. The night air filled with possibilities never explored, paths never taken, words never spoken.

Because maybe he wouldn't have.

Maybe he still would've found his way to you.

Maybe Jeonghan still would've stayed by his side, all the same.

"I meant it" Jeonghan said suddenly, softer now, eyes tracing the skyline with practiced care. "When I introduced you two. I thought you'd be good together. And I was right." He paused, taking another sip of his beer, his throat working as he swallowed. "You balance each other. Always have."

He turned then, meeting Seungcheol's gaze with the kind of directness they hadn't shared in years. "You're happy, right? With her?"

Seungcheol nodded slowly, the truth coming easily despite the complexity of the moment. "I am."

Jeonghan smiled, and this time it reached his eyes; warm, genuine, and tinged with something that looked almost like relief. "Then that's all I ever wanted."

He stood then, stretching his arms like he wasn't carrying a lifetime between his ribs, like the conversation hadn't exposed something both of them had spent years carefully avoiding. "I'll crash on the couch. Early flight tomorrow," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Milan this time. Fashion week. Lots of pretentious people." He laughed softly, almost to himself.

Seungcheol didn't stop him.

Didn't ask him to stay.

But as Jeonghan reached the door, he spoke once more, his voice steady. "Hannie."

Jeonghan paused, hand on the door handle, but didn't turn around.

"Thank you," Seungcheol said simply. For what, he didn't specify. For stepping aside, for keeping the secret, for remaining their friend despite everything, for all the years of quiet sacrifice.

Jeonghan's shoulders tensed briefly before relaxing. Without turning, he nodded once and slipped back inside, leaving Seungcheol alone with the night and all its unspoken truths.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

That night, Seungcheol climbed into bed beside you. You stirred faintly, curling closer in the darkness, your hand brushing his chest in your sleep, fingers instinctively seeking the familiar warmth of him. The sheets rustled softly as he settled, your breathing a gentle rhythm against the quiet of the night.

He stared at the ceiling, watching shadows from passing cars slide across it like silent ghosts.

He thought of Jeonghan.

Alone on the couch.

A photo in his pocket.

A thousand miles behind his smile.

And he did nothing.

Said nothing.

Because you didn't know.

And Jeonghan… Jeonghan would never let you know.

He closed his eyes, listening to the soft cadence of your breathing, feeling the gentle weight of your arm across his middle. In the darkness, he allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, a different path.

One where he had seen, had known, had understood the look in Jeonghan's eyes years ago.

But the thought dissolved as quickly as it formed. Because here, in this bed, in this life, with you. This was his choice. This was his love. And even knowing what he now knew, he wouldn't change it.

So he pressed a kiss to your forehead and let sleep find him, certain in the knowledge that tomorrow, Jeonghan would be gone again. Off to another city, another adventure, but that he would always return. Because that was the promise they had made without words: to stay, to remain, to preserve this fragile, beautiful thing they had built together, even if it meant carrying quiet heartaches no one else could see.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

So the next time they saw each other, everything appeared the same.

The inside jokes flowing easily between them. The playful teasing about Jeonghan's latest hair color and Seungcheol's growing collection of dad jokes. The way Seungcheol passed Jeonghan his drink without needing to ask, already knowing exactly how he liked it. Two ice cubes, a splash more than the usual pour. The comfortable silence as they sat side by side on the porch swing, watching the neighborhood children chase fireflies across the lawn.

To anyone watching; to you, to their friends, to the world.

Nothing had changed.

But in the moments between laughter, something in their eyes lingered. Just for a breath. A silent acknowledgment, a shared secret held carefully between them like something precious and fragile.

Not regret.

Just memory.

And perhaps, in those quiet moments, a different kind of love than either had expected. One built not on possession or fulfillment, but on the quiet dignity of knowing and being known, of choosing to remain despite everything left unsaid.

Because sometimes, love lives quietly. Between heartbeats, across the years, woven into all the words they never found the courage to say. And sometimes, the softest silence speaks the loudest truth of all.

483 notes · View notes